N. P. Ryan

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All About Medusa

Hatred of Masks vs The Medusa Protocol

September 20, 2020September 20, 2020 / N. P. Ryan / Leave a comment

Literally everywhere the discussion is not simply about masks (which is most comfortable/matches the colour of my eyes best, etc), but more so those refusing to wear them.

Looking at all the Continue reading →

Welcome to Weston: A Hitchhiker’s Guide to Quicksand and Curses

June 23, 2019November 12, 2020 / N. P. Ryan / Leave a comment

Weston-super-Mare is located on the South West coast of England, twenty-two miles from Bristol. Once a glorious Victorian seaside resort, more recently host to Banksy’s Dismaland, it has unique ways and customs found nowhere else in the West Country region, regardless of how dark and deep into it one is willing to go.

Continue reading →

Small Town Conspiracy

October 27, 2018September 15, 2020 / N. P. Ryan / Leave a comment

The Medusa Protocol, Book One, Wish You Were Her, Chapter One:

 

Her . . .  Her . . . Consumed by thoughts of Her – skin, breath, carbon.

“You’ve been got by the ol’ curse,” he said. Continue reading →

All Along the Watchtowers

October 27, 2018September 15, 2020 / N. P. Ryan / Leave a comment

Welcome to a world of anxiety, anger and insecurity; a place where Abandonment Issues rule the day unknown.

Whether a first time visitor or previous—maybe even current—resident, The Medusa Protocol hopes to show as much as relate and commiserate.

Continue reading →

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Drinking in a dingy bar by the sea, crumpled postcard from Her and World’s Biggest Ray Zero for company; then the son of a starts saying I’m cursed. Praise Be to lighting-up another smoke. Inhale, taste a foul brand: the Hex She put on me. Promised Heaven, delivered a dive nightclub Hell. Thank the Lord for liquor loving hot chicks. Though nothing compares to how it’ll feel catching up with Her.

Wanted a quick bit of business and gone. Bath had other ideas. First, battered and left for dead after a hundred heart-breaking truths. Then a Police Chief with a saggy old treasure chest of secrets to keep needs a scapegoat. Dumps me in the middle of corruption so deep it eases through bone to suck greedy at marrow. With every gun pointing my way, Hell, not even He’s gonna get me outta this one.

Recent Posts: N. P. Ryan

Uncle Sam’s on Mars

Uncle Sam’s on Mars

Some possibly tongue in cheek thoughts on those celebrating the latest invasion of Mars.

Smokin’

Smokin’

Following on from Fern Stone’s last guest post, where misogyny was taken to task, the poem that ‘started’ it all.

Big dreams and worst nightmares

Big dreams and worst nightmares

More Poetry for Pandemics, including thoughts on things that scared me when a kid

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