Philip J Bradbury was born early in his life and started writing stories as he emerged into the world ... no, actually, he didn't start till after his 40th birthday and, to date has written 18 author-managed books - novels, novellettes, short stories, flash fiction, songs and non-fiction books to help you change your road-blocks into starting-blocks.
Philip J Bradbury
This to you, oh Adam, my beautiful man
I sing this sweet song, a lullaby to wake
You slumber ‘neath Eve with apples to feed
Is toxic to soul and the core’s not seeds
But eyes of the snake, uncoiling and mute
I whispered to ears and breathed through minds
But grasping a world of paper and gold
Is your chosen demise; forgetting, forgetting, forgetting
The Last Stand Down
Podcast now available
I rewrote The Last Stand Down as a screenplay - with Jeff Milne of Brisbane Podcasting Centre - and we recorded a podcast with 38 voice actors. The podcast is available at https://www.thepodcastradio.co.uk/post/all-the-way-from-australia-the-last-stand-down
The pot called the kettle black
The kettle said nothing
And that was that
THE PEACE POEM
Philip J Bradbury
The last 4,000 years,the next 1,000 and living into that
A soul will quietly weep for a time but will not stay silent. You’d better listen to the silent screaming of your soul for if you heed it not, your emptiness will grow and gnaw at what is left of your being. This screaming soul will be heard in the dis-ease in your heart, in the accidents and illnesses you have, in the unhappy relationships you encounter, your financial problems, addictions and in that great emptiness you desperately seek to fill. It can be frightening but the moment you hear the screaming of your soul is the moment you are on the new path to your own fulfilment, wisdom, peace and inspiration. If you are listening, you are starting to seek in the right place – that place within from where the screaming comes. Your answers come from the place of the screaming. The place of your greatest pain is the place of your greatest healing. Stop, listen and panic no more, for your own salvation is at hand and healing can be instant, instantaneous, painless and oh so joyful – if you choose it to be so.
97 97-Word Stories
She knew, as she stepped from the train, this had been the wrong decision. She succumbed to his embrace and that love feeling didn’t burst from her stomach. It was flat. He stepped back to admire her and she smelled stale cigarettes under mint … the cigarettes he’d promised he’d given up.
She was pleased she’d come for how else would she know, at home, surrounded by indecision? Only by stepping out, taking a chance, did she know for sure.
Purchasing a return ticket she felt his sadness and none of hers – only relief at clarity’s arrival.
Getting your mind and life back on track ... after leaving behind expectations and oughtism
People often ask how they can have peace of mind, or how they can have a peaceful mind. The answer is that it is not possible – there is no such thing as a peaceful mind. The only thing that is peaceful is the state of no-mind, the mind that is without thoughts.
Ponder on this for a moment:
You are observing a crowd of people on a street corner. What is that crowd? Is it a thing or a process? If half of the people leave, will there still be a crowd? If another half of that leave will it still be a crowd? If all leave, except one person, is it still a crowd? So what constitutes a crowd – 2, 3, 10, 20 people? And when all the people leave, where will the crowd go?
Obviously, the crowd went nowhere because it does not exist. It is not a thing, it is a process, made up of the gathering of a number of people.
So it is with our mind – it is like the crowd and only exists by virtue of the thoughts that flow through it.
53 53-Word Stories
I keep missing my father. But my kind neighbour, who has experience in these things, has been teaching me how to keep my emotions steady, to focus properly, to stay calm and to breathe evenly. So, next time my dad hits my mum I, with my neighbour’s new pistol, won’t miss my father.
Short stories galore
Once upon a time there was a Great White Hunter, in pith hat and safari suit, exploring the jungles of Africa. Ahead of him were his jungle boys, slashing a path with their machetes and, behind were his porters, carrying all his necessary supplies. He had been exploring thus for many months – no white man had ever been so deep into the jungle – when, suddenly, they came upon a clearing. In the middle of this clearing was a massive bull elephant, lying on its side, recently killed. Beside it was a little native man, arms akimbo, one foot on the elephant, obviously proud of his kill.
“My gosh, did you kill this elephant?” asked the Great White Hunter, astonished.
“Yep,” said the little native man, smiling hugely.
“But how did you do it?” asked the Great White Hunter, no less astonished.
“With my club,” said the little native man.
“Might I see this club?” asked the Great White Hunter, intrigued.
“Oh, there's about twelve of us,” said the little native man.
Nothing we ever achieve is done alone. No statesman, no Olympic athlete, no successful businessman, no great artist ever did it alone.
FEARFUL? READ PEACE
Poems for peace and chuckles
There was a feisty old chap called Clause
Who made thousands of toys, just because
His name was Santa
And he loved to banter
Then made a thousand, thousand more, without pause
There was weary old chap named Clause
Who made thousands of toys, just because
He longed to sit by the fire
To give up, to retire
But Mrs wanted him out, so he made a few more without pause
There was a knackered old man named Clause
Who made thousands of toys, without pause
He had lots of moans
Arthritis got his bones
Children got no toys and that’s the cause