http://slow.writerscafe.org/AdamStevenson The original writings of author Adam, the Grub Street Lodger en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776116821 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 A daft picture book. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/1163913/ n Which a Marriage is Planned Just in time, with True Reflections on that Happy State from One who has Never Known it. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/999959/ Finding Yourself - on public transport. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/998409/ Once, the fair came to Cambridge and Midsummer Common was littered with old chip wrappers, toffee apple sticks, caravans and rickety looking rides.     There were many rides, and most of them were designed to make you feel sick. Not wishing to throw up, me and Gordon had a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/997409/ Somewhere in my head Dickens and Shakespeare were squaring up.     The challenge had been brewing for some time. Shakespeare said that he was the best writer. People quoted him more and his plays were never off the stage. Dickens thought he was the best writer. His work had nev.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/997407/ I saw another beautiful woman waiting for the tube.    She had long red hair and wore a very short grey skirt and thick grey tights that protruded from it. She mimed along to whatever was on her white headphones. It looked like a happy song. Her eyes were big and hazel. She seemed.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/997403/ When the motor industry died, the factories subsisted on mime.     Imaginary wheels were mimed onto imaginary axels. Imaginary bodies were sprayed with imaginary paint. Imaginary cars were loaded on real lorries where they were sold in real showrooms for imaginary money. The wo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/997400/ Debbie hates Laurie.     Laurie is irresponsible. She runs across every road she can if she gets the chance, if she could she would live off sweets until she was fat, sick and spotty, she says whatever is in her head to strangers without stopping to think.    &.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/997398/ I saw her at the bus stop by the Chinese fish and chip shop.    She was beautiful. She was tidy. She was clean. She had an actual style, an actual dress sense. She stood as if she knew it too.  I’m not impressive. I’m slouch-shouldered. I dress from the floor. I lik.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/997395/  Macready Flood looked at the rest of his body.     “Don’t the rest of you leave me,” he said, but it was too late. His nose was already running. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/997393/ Macready Flood woke up to find that his hands had run away.     He didn’t realise this is what they had done at first, until he saw a note on his desk.           ‘We have run away,’ the note said, ‘we don’t like what you .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/997392/    It was about 13.7 billion years since the point of potential exploded and sent unfathomable amounts of molecules in all directions, 8.9 billion years since some of the molecules cooled into a solid ball, 600 million years since some of those molecules became living organisms, 400 m.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/997072/ A collection of mini-stories in the style of Daniil Kharms. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/997071/ A sequel to 'Picking Dandelions', the brother's response. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/996669/ A sentimental poem about a little girl picking flowers for her sick mum. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/996668/ In which we regret the pride of a scholar, the low horizons of a young lady and the unfortunate result of their meeting. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/996361/ On the Essence of a Book and This Book in Particular. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/996340/ An attempt to write a vigorous and exciting Eighteenth Century novel, today. Sidney mistakenly believes he is the finest poet to lay ink on paper. He moves to London to make his fortune. Poor him. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AdamStevenson/996335/