Tom Railin - The Last Hearth and Haven: 2025

Wednesday, 24 December 2025

Christmas Eve Thoughts - Not Good.

As 2025 begins its weary demise to make way for the new year waiting in the wings to take over and flex in all its glory, this year is not going quietly, and will be remembered for many things, most of which are not going to be fond memories or good ones.

The cold hard truth is that 2025 has been an utter shit-show on so many levels - peace now a rare commodity, rising crime, ongoing loss of life, uncontrolled immigration, soaring prices of food, fuel, huge taxes, mainstream media lies and propaganda, and governments who no longer hide their allegiance to the globalist elites and pushing their agendas.

That is only a few off the top of my head. There is so much more that 2025 will be renowned for in the history records - assuming they aren't purged to order by the elites?

Take fuel - I see price hikes jumping up and down weekly; two pence here, three pence there (UK money), drops by the same amount, but always stays within the same margin. There was a time that should petrol prices in Britain go up by a single penny it made front page news in the papers. Now we're so conditioned that the yo-yo fuel prices don't even register or raise an eyebrow.

Love.

Four letters, one syllable, one word, yet a lifetime of pleasure, pain, joy, sadness, laughter, and tears.

Elusive and mercurial, it has the texture of a dream barely remembered, and can weigh heavier on your heart than anything imaginable.
In turns, it can lift and crush. Move you to song—or tears.

Never found when sought, yet like the wolf hunting its prey in a snow-covered forest, it tracks you down mercilessly when you least expect it, and when you’re least prepared.

Rejected Micro Fiction - I Give You: "The Book".

Suggestion: Enhance the atmosphere by listening to the embedded track as you read.

~ The Book ~

"If you want it, reach out and take it," the vicar ripped open his shirt, glistening sweat caught in shafts of half-light cutting through the smoky gloom. His hands trembled, breath wavering as a scream, desperate for freedom, clawed at the back of his throat.

The dark mass hovered over the bodies of his family, tiny wet tearing sounds punctuating the bloated silence. Two fiery orbs eased through the shapeless mass of darkness and smoke, fixing on him.

"Is it this you fear?" The vicar ripped off his dog collar, letting it fall to the floor.

The fiery orbs briefly followed the falling collar, then snapped up, ensnaring the man of God in their burning, hungry stare.

Invisible in Plain View.

Invisible in plain view kind of makes sense if you think about it. If truly invisible, you could be in plain sight, just invisible to those present.

This is how I see myself – and I’m sure many others see themselves this way too, though not aware of it. To clarify, at work people see me: my colleagues and the patients. Difficult to miss.

But here is the plain truth – they do not see the true me. They see what I allow; the rest I guard jealously and protectively, something I have nurtured and honed since my early days of junior school. In later life, working in various aspects of security only added more layers to the unseen armour I wear.

As for work colleagues, and by extension, those close enough to be considered friends, they see me with two sets of eyes – one set sees what I want them to see, and the other sees what they want to see: the superimposed personality they presume I am.

The Shark of Cardiff Bay.

"Have you ever killed someone?" The gaze accompanying the question was intently scrutinising, laced with the subtle chaos of whatever he'd taken before our arrival. Yet, there still lurked the predatory instinct, a glint, of one used to intimidating others, and enjoying their fear.

I sat on the leather-bound sofa, my instincts screaming to move, to evade and vacate. I didn't answer immediately, but instead returned the gaze and held it. "Not yet," was my answer.

A grin split the black guy's face immediately, white teeth flashing. The sound he made as he laughed put me in mind of a cross between an asthmatic and a hissing snake. Apparently my reply satisfied him, as he began rolling himself a spliff behind the kitchen breakfast bar of his open-plan apartment.

Every so often, he'd look at me from under his brows, eyes locking on me each time. He'd giggle quietly, with a slight shake of his head. My companion stood with his back to us both, babbling on about nothing in particular, making mugs of tea on the far side of the kitchen. Quietly observing it became apparent my companion was familiar with the place - his hands knew exactly where everything was, and not once did he ask the owner how to find the milk, sugar, tea or mugs. Clearly both men had a comfortable rapport - supplier and user.

Short Story Submission Update.

Back in October (20th) I posted to announce I was entering my first Short Story Submission.

The platform of choice was Fracturedlit, and part of that process was roughly a three month waiting period in order to find out if your submission had made the cut or not.

Well, I can say right now, as of December 15th 2025, my submission did not make the cut. As gutted as I am, I shouldn't be surprised. The wealth of writing talent out there in the big, wide world is phenomenal. I'm just not one of them.

Onwards and upwards. I have a second, longer piece in the pipeline for submission. This time the piece is dark fantasy, something I wrote back in 2011. Now comes the task of scouring the right platforms with which to aim my story at.

I know this isn't a very exciting post, and I apologise, but I had to bring October 20th's post to conclusion.

Now for something musical.

I leave you with my 'happy song', by The Mavericks - "Dance The Night Away".

Sunday, 14 December 2025

Chapter 11 - Kicking Arse.

My arse has been getting a good kicking, and in many ways, left me feeling battered and bruised - metaphorically. And the individual responsible? Chapter 11 of the novel I'm working on. Five pages in, and already it feels like I'm trying to grip a slithering eel, all the while making sure I'm not bitten.

I'll hold my hands up and admit, it's my fault. Not much of a planner, as the majority of what I write flies straight off the top of my head, pumped out by my imagination.

Already I'm aware I have wires crossed regarding certain plot tags, locations and character traits. And that's the 'kicking' I'm receiving. Basically, I'm being taught a valuable lesson in the writing process as a whole. It's as if I've been trying to scratch my nose with my elbow, and someone ambles up, takes my hand and places it to my nose.

Duh.

Upcoming Blog Name Change – Notification Post

Over time, Life in the Blogoverse has evolved — not by grand design, but by wandering where the writing naturally wanted to go.

Because of that (and after a bit of thought, coffee, and mild overthinking), the blog will soon be changing its name to:

The Last Hearth and Haven

The change is planned for 24th December 2025.

When it happens, to return to the blog you will need to use the follow change of address (URL):

thelasthearthandhaven.blogspot.com

Plenty will stay the same — why fix what isn't broken.

The writing will remain personal and curious. There will still be exploration, humour, and the odd raised eyebrow. Music outros will still set the mood for your listening pleasure, and my unique visual thumbnails will continue to do their own distinctive thing. This isn’t a retreat into slippers and silence — it’s simply a better name for what this place has already become.

And My Next Post Will Be...?

For my next proper post I thought it would be interesting to throw the post topic out to you, the reader.

So you now have the opportunity to request your favourite blog post topic - it could be anecdotal, fitness, online gaming, poetry, film, short story... the choice is yours by request.

Should no request be forthcoming, then I'll go with my gut and post something dredged up from the depths of my mind.

That's it for tonight, all that's left for me to do is drop in a musical selection for your listening pleasure.

Here's a classic song by Sam & Dave - "Soul Man" (Extended Remix). Enjoy.

Wednesday, 10 December 2025

Five Months In... Still No 'Hello'?

I returned to my blog back in August of this year. There was intention behind it - some redressing, the proverbial lick of paint here and there, and the deliberate donning of my pen name. A new coat in which to traverse the blogoverse. It was time to familiarise myself with the feel of it, and like anything new, it needed to be broken in gently for comfort, and in the process, time to hang my given name on the coat rack - something I addressed on Friday 4th December's post.

Five months in, and visitors to my blogoverse have been few, but I'm glad to report, steady - of which, I'm ever so grateful. At least now I know my blog is out there and discoverable, and not wallowing in the digital doldrums.

Switching names, both the blog and my own was a calculated risk... but it felt right. At least to me. Inadvertent traffic has dropped to almost nothing. Gone are the days of crawlers, bots and random accidental searches, inflated the viewing numbers into the hundreds.

Training Day.

Looking over past posts it became apparent I hadn't posted a training routine for a while, so time I corrected my slight overlook.

A few things to bear in mind with regards to my sessions - I put them together to accommodate my age, body-type, training ability and pre-existing injuries and limitations (as in an abundance of procrastination - amazing how much house work you can suddenly become enthusiastic when it's training day).

The following session, as with all past training sessions I've posted, are by no means written in stone - I'm not that bloody old - but seriously, if you fancy having a go, feel free to tweak, change and/or rearrange to suit. The insanely fit among you might even scoff at my session and blow it away as a 'warm up' routine. Should that be the case, good on you.

It goes without saying, a form of warm-up has taken place prior to the session below. But we all have our own ways of warming up, hence my omitting mine.

"Trash Islands": The Truth Behind the Pacific Ocean's Growing Garbage Patch.

A REVISITED POST FROM JULY 2013.

Today I felt I needed to post on a topic I touched upon back in 2013, which sadly didn't seem to get much traction. It's a topic that once looked into, does one of two things: rocks you to the core and drives a person to do something positive, or turns you away, either through sheer shock, disgust and disbelief - sadly, some folks choose a third route of action/reaction - to bury their heads and pretend the issue does not exist.

With the prevalent rise of waste, not only on land, but more worryingly, in our oceans, and private water companies within the UK not fulfilling their water treatment directives, and flushing more, and more raw sewage into our waterways, I thought now would be a time to revisit this post, and hopefully remind folks what a terrible thing we've done, and continue to do, against our planet, our oceans and Mother Nature.

If this does move you to do something, then talk to people, discuss, bring attention to this ongoing issue, maybe even show them this posting.

"If I Could Tell You" - by W. H. Auden.

As I write this, it's already getting dark outside, and the rain has been a persistent, steady downfall, its sound ever present in the background - an ideal setting for this beautifully narrated poem.

I stumbled across this late last night whilst browsing YouTube for music for future posts. I couldn't resist but to hit play - I'm so glad I did.

The narrator, Tom O'Bedlam - an alias, I've found out - has a wonderfully rich, warm, and textured voice that carries you along effortlessly. Fantastically soothing, with a dash of melancholy. Coupled with the hauntingly beautiful music by Jóhann Jóhannsson, entitled: 'Flight From The City', is wonderfully sublime, and so fitting.

Before I go further, I have to add: All Rights Reserved by the channel creator: John Cogs.

Clicking on any of the highlighted names will take you to those respective YouTube channels.

Now sit back, put your headphones on, hit play, close your eyes and enjoy the journey.

Thursday, 4 December 2025

From Mark Kelly to Tom Railin: Why I Blog Under a Pen Name.

It's 23:50hrs and I'm sat here tapping away at my keyboard in an effort to rationalise - and in some respects, remind myself - as to why I chose to post on my blog under the pen name of 'Tom Railin'.

Why do this? Primarily to remind myself it's my way of escaping the 'clone zone' on the internet - in terms of my birth name, 'Mark Kelly'. I also feel anyone arriving on my blog, be it intentionally (bless you for doing so), or accidentally (Please stay! I beg of you! Stay! - only pulling your leg.), deserve an explanation. Relax, I'm not laying low from any Law Enforcement or other Government body - but in today's social media climate within the UK, you never know?

So, back to my 'name clones' - below is a short list of the most popular 'Mark Kelly's' as revealed by the wonderful ChatGPT at my request. Hopefully this will highlight my dilemma:

Guild Wars Reforged: A Visual and Audio Refresh for the Beloved Original Classic.

So here I am, swearing, spitting and wanting to punch my monitor in utter frustration, just like a Gen Z's little brat child throwing a tantrum down a supermarket aisle filled with biscuits and sweets. Why?

People constantly typing and referring to the Guild Wars MMORPG as, “GW1”!? There is no such thing, you lunatics. Allow me to clarify.

Guild Wars was and IS the ORIGINAL game. Never touted as the first in a series or a sequel, and it certainly wasn’t meant to be suffixed with a ‘1’ — just as humans were never meant to declare redundant/useless pronouns in emails or on name tags.

GWs versus GWs2 — simple as that. Yet here we are, with people slapping a “1” on it like it clarifies something. It doesn’t. The second game, even though it lacked GvG (Guild vs Guild — the very reason the original was called Guild Wars), was suffixed with ‘2’ purely as lazy marketing: ride the success of the original without confusing the MMO crowd by giving it a unique name.

And it’s not just games — films, books, music, originals never needed a tacked-on “1.” Try it yourself: say your favourite classic movies, albums, or novels out loud with a “1” added, and you’ll hear how ridiculous it sounds. If you played the original, you know. If you didn’t… the original is still the original. It never needed a number.

Shadows, Silhouettes and Lights

As we wander through the years of our life there comes a time when your brain pauses. Questions slowly permeate to the surface of things never thought previously.

Existential concepts rise from their chair making their presence felt, whilst preconceptions, who had hogged the limelight for such a long time, now look nervously about before sitting down quietly.

Could it be considered an awakening? Possibly. Insecurity? Doubtful. Or is it just the veil slipping from your eyes exposing the view of the world around you, and of those moving through it - allowing a peek as to what it all means o you and the path upon which you've been blindly treading?

In my case I feel I view people more clearly now. Those of my past and those of my present. Those whom I have loved and lost, those incidentals passing through on their own trajectory as it crosses my own, and gone just as quickly. Or those who introduce themselves and settle down, whom you get to know, and over time meander to a different path, gradually fading from view. And the ones who stay.

Friday Micro-Fiction

JINK

Little Ben toddled into his parent's bedroom, sippy cup held in both hands, as he headed for his mother's side of the bed where she lay silent, eyes shut.

A slice of morning sunlight caressed the three-year-old's cherub-like cheeks as it filtered through the partially drawn curtains of the bay-fronted bedroom, illuminating tiny dust motes as they swirled with the toddler's eager padding footsteps.

Ben stopped at the bedside, gazing at his mother's pale face. He tentatively patted her hand as it lay upon the bed sheet, fingers partially curled as if holding something precious and fragile.

Raising his sippy cup, Ben carefully pressed the mouthpiece to his mother's ashen lips, as any three year old could, and said, "Mama jink," but the watered juice simply trickled from the corner of her mouth and down her cheek.

Ben didn't understand. The look of bewilderment and confusion etched into his little face crushed Ben's father's heart as he gently picked up his son hugging him tightly, tears running down his face.

"Mama's gone to heaven, Ben... no more wake up."

I leave you with the brilliant Lewis Capaldi and "Fade".

Monday, 17 November 2025

When the World Sleeps.

When the house sleeps and the streets lie still, midnight arrives like a tide, carrying memories I never outgrew. There is a strange kind of mysterious magic surrounding the midnight hour. On one hand it's the beginning of the new day, but on the other it's the dead of night.

Some regard it with superstition, others consider it the 'hour of magic', a crossroads between today and tomorrow. Although midnight wears the witching-hour badge in many old stories, the veil between midnight and 4 a.m. is often said to be thinnest, when the night is ‘up to no good.’

For me it is a place of calm and inner peace, when the rest of the household is settled and asleep. No disturbing TV noises, no traffic droning by, no dogs barking in the distance, and best of all, night's blanket of silence laid over a sleeping world.

Friday Rain, Dark and Dreary. What to do?

In the muted half-light allowed by the canvas of a grey palette, otherwise called the sky, the soft hiss of rain blown against my window vies for attention over the gurgling of running water flowing out of the downpipe from the roof guttering. Every so often an audible 'splat' of excess water hitting the garden paving stones below my window tells me one of two things: it's really chucking it down outside, or my guttering needs unblocking. I opt for a third reason - it's a combination of both.

Work at the clinic this morning was enjoyable. It's lovely to have people in for treatment who you find yourself aligning with on so many levels, and as a result, the conversation flows effortlessly, punctuated with laughter - which, during a sports massage session, when trigger pointing someone's piriformis, is no mean feat.

Memories from 1970's Childhood.

This morning, whilst brushing my teeth, and getting ready for work, my mind - for reasons unknown - tugged out a childhood memory from under the dusty covers of a seldom visited corner of my mind.

Oddly enough, it was a memory of one of the kids that lived in the same street, on the opposite side, about ten doors down.

We grew up in an area of Cardiff called Canton. The street itself - Hanover Street - was a Victorian terrace, one of hundreds. Built from red brick and limestone, each tiled porch's limestone arch was ornately carved, the inner walls of which had glazed tiles mid-height, then white-washed to where a central sconce secured a light operated from within the hallway inside the house behind the front door.

Grim Discovery.

November 2nd, 2025 - a mild, day, laden with heavy rain showers. My task is clear: empty the tumble dryer in the garage. Nice and simple.

As I approach the side entrance to the garage I see it. My heart sinks and I groan inwardly. A scene of devastation, an act of nature once more played out in our garden. I can't help but scour the rooftops and the sky above. I know it's pointless, yet I look anyway.

It's obviously fresh, the feathers are dry and still gathered where stripped. I lean in to get a closer look. No blood. So the Sparrow Hawk took its kill elsewhere in order to consume, but not before stripping the poor Sparrow of its feathers. The biggest frustration - I was sitting at my pc in the back room and have a perfect view of the kill zone.

What am I to do?

Premonition - Genuine? Self-fulfilling Prophecy, or pure Bunkum?

Hopefully by now, as you read this, you'll be familiar with the direction from which I come at you with my anecdotal accounts. Premonition, maybe? No, just teasing - but it is the topic for my today's post, and hopefully leave you with a morsel of food for thought.

Think of it as a peek behind a curtain of mystery previously ignored.

I'm going to give three different accounts - one and two definitely fall into the 'premonition' category, whilst the third is a bit, even to my mind, borderline. Once told, I think you'll understand why I feel it's validated in the telling.

Before moving forward, here is the definition, as offered by Google, as to what 'Premonition' is deemed as being:

pre·mo·ni·tion
noun \ˌprē-mə-ˈni-shən\

A presentiment of the future; a foreboding.
A warning in advance; a forewarning.

Scott Buckley - My New Discovery & Guilty Pleasure.

Back in the early days of blogging I would do a section I called 'Blog Spot', to highlight other bloggers, with an aim to share the love and hopefully drive new blog explorers their way.

Now, in 2025, I thought I'd do the same for this very talented composer of cinematic music for film, games and online media, Australian, Scott Buckley. I stumbled across this gentleman's music purely by accident - but was it? Or was it the Universe gently steering me to this beautiful event of serendipity?

Either way, I'm happy I did. For it's within the landscape of music that I tend to find a large portion of writing inspiration - it could be the catalyst for a scene, a piece of dialogue, even the formulation of a new character or interaction between characters.

The real beauty of it is, Scott Buckley has provided this wonderous music under the 'Creative Commons' copyright licence, which is a dream for fellow creatives, who wish to incorporate his music into their work - so long as appropriate credit is given to its original creator, Scott Buckley. I look forward to including more of his work for future posts.

Click HERE to be taken to Mr. Buckley's official website.

Below is a particularly beautiful piece entitled, "The Things That Keep Us Here" - Scott Buckley.

Monday, 20 October 2025

Short Story Submission - The First.

The title is slightly inaccurate, as the story I submitted is classified as a 'Micro' story — 400 words or under. If memory serves, mine clocks in at 303 words — a tadpole of a tale.

It was only after much deliberation, a fair bit of web searching, and eventually harnessing the speed of AI in the form of ChatGPT, that I opted for a site in the USA under the title of: Fracturedlit.
Clicking on the site name will take you to the website.

The downside is that once submitted the wait is up to three months to hear back. Sometimes you never hear back. A clear indication of your submission having failed. On a positive, it does state that there are times when submissions receive a quicker reply when successful. Though it seems a bit of a 'don't hold your breath' kind of deal.

My only course of action now is to forget it. I liken that to being told, "Ah, forget about Christmas coming, even though it's only four weeks away!" Fat chance of that. I'll just have to see if December brings any good news.

White Coat - Why is it There?

What I am about to impart took place over the last week, maybe a few days more; at the time of writing, today's date is Saturday 18th October 2025.

There is a routine to our homelife at the close of day - I'm the last to retire to bed, and the dogs will have followed my wife upstairs, Aldo in his basket, Chica on hers. Sometimes I'll watch something on one of the streaming platforms, and usually when I start getting drowsy I'll call it a night. I might clear the dishes if any have been left, then check all doors - front and back - are locked, before turning in for the night.

William Gibson - 'Neuromancer' 1984.

Without doubt, William Gibson's 1984 book, 'Neuromancer' is a seminal piece of science fiction. It gave the embryonic essence of early cyberpunk a jolt of definition. Gibson gave it a voice, combined with texture and a rhythm, capturing the elusiveness of hacker culture, corporate machinations and oppression, suffused with artificial intelligence on a level to make today's political elite AI concerns appear laughable.

In essence, Neuromancer turned an idea that had been juggled by many into a solid, grounded literary movement.

I discovered this novel late in life, and not too long ago. I had been reading a cyberpunk series by a different author, and although the writing was pretty good (in my opinion), the plot felt too cliched, tired and predictable, as did the setting.

So a quick question to ChatGPT (a bit ironic) for cyberpunk book recommendations, and 'Neuromancer' came out on top. The following day, my copy landed in the post from Amazon.

A Late Night Coffee, a Dark Window, and a Feeling I'll Never Forget.

It is said that in an urban environment most people are totally unaware that they are within several feet of a rat. But what if I suggest that most people are within mere feet of something darker - perhaps more sinister - than a rat. When darkness falls, and the deep shadows claim our gardens, something else comes exploring and investigating in the blackness?

A simple desire for a late night coffee, and an unnerving experience has left me asking that question.

LATE NIGHT COFFEE BREAK:

My first experience occurred when taking a break from the pc, the urge for coffee tugging at me. Looking to the clock it showed 2330hrs. The house was asleep, just me and the computer screen wide awake.

Heading down to the kitchen, I flip the light switch. The strip light hesitates, stammering 'bink, bink, bink', as it tries to fulfil its designated task. I move for a few seconds in a strobe-like effect as I open cupboards, grab my spoon and mug. Finally 'dink'. I have light. A glance up to my left to the wall clock above the kitchen window and sink, my eyes catch my reflection, the blackness outside mirrored back at me in the double glazing. Mug of milk in the microwave, timer set. I busy myself with washing up a few items in the sink.

Writing Progress Blocked – Now I Know Why.

Chapter eleven mocks me. I stare at it, it glares back, daring me to hit the keyboard. Quietly I control my breathing, eyes closed. Head bowed, I slowly look up. Chapter eleven sits there smugly, flipping me off, grinning.

I'm losing this one, I can tell. Turning off my pc, I concede another brutal encounter lost. Words and images swirl within my mind as I head out into the garden. The day is conducting its own tug of war between the scudding clouds and sunshine, an invigorating breeze bullies the flora of my garden.

Time to feed the birds, I guess. If the local Wood Pigeons could speak, they'd be tapping their feet in irritation, "Where the hell have you been? We've been waiting over an hour to be fed!" They regard me with their bobbing heads, eyes calculating my intentions. Knowing the sound of the shed key announces the imminent scattering of bird seed, the chicken-sized pigeons waddle down the roof ridge, eyes scrutinising my every move.

Planner vs Pantser: A Brief Personal Look at My Writing Process.

People who write within the sphere of storytelling, tend to do so in one of three ways, or methodologies. Not all writers share the same objectives or writing aims. For clarity, I will be talking specifically about fiction writers, not poets.

However, the writing of fiction has, within itself, multiple disciplines and formats, of which are listed below. Some writers have zero interest in creating a novel, but rather focus on short stories, whilst others prefer the faster, more dynamic flash fiction, and then you have those writing behemoths who aim for the epic, such as George R. R. Martin.

Writing Still - But What Happened to Blog Traffic?

Sitting on an ethereal beach on some far away island in the ocean of cyberspace everything is quiet.

Too quiet.

This is no calm before the storm. This feels more like the calm after the storm. The air is fresh, silent, almost otherworldly. Where once the horizon was alive with traffic and visitors aplenty with tales to share, now there is only a void.

On occasion I stroll along the cool white sand and down to the water's edge, my eyes staring fixedly out to the distant horizon. Is it hope? Is it foolishness? Or is it just reflection on better times for this island of mine?

So why do I write still? A voice in the emptiness. I suppose it is my way of keeping a fire burning on the sandy shore, hoping that maybe one day a passing ship might be drawn to it, and investigate. It is, I suppose, my message in a bottle. Where it lands, if at all, I just don't know, but the thought of "What if?" is enough to keep my hopes up.

So many other islands around me have succumbed to the ocean and now lie lost beneath its depths. A few still remain, but like all things, it is only a matter of time. Until that day, I choose to walk my island, patrol its shores, and keep it in good working order. But most of all, I'll keep my beach fire burning. Just in case.

Sit on the soft white sands next to my fire, as it crackles softly and the last embers rise into the dusky sky. Let Ólafur Arnalds – ‘Particles’ feat. Nanna Bryndis Hilmarsdottir wash over you, carrying the quiet of the shore, the patience of the tide… and the thought that, perhaps, someone, somewhere, might still hear this message.

Thursday, 25 September 2025

What's in a Name?

This blog has had a change of identities over the years.

It began as The DM's Screen, originally created as a place for my role-playing advice, hints and tips and anecdotal musings.

Later it became The Open Hearth, as an organic evolution arising from my discovery of the writing community within the Blogoverse, with the focus broadened beyond gaming into a wider mix of stories, reflections, and essays.

More recently, I realised my own name — Mark K — was blending into a crowd of other Mark K’s online (an astronaut, a nursing lecturer, even another writer), which caused confusion for readers and searchers alike.

So, in order to make things clearer — and to write under a name that’s easier to find and remember — I’m now publishing here as Tom Railin, a pen name I've held in the side lines for some time now. It'll be the same offerings, gaming advice and insights, life musings and anecdotal tales, mixed in with my usual snippets of tv/film and music choices.

Rest assured: it’s still the same blog, the same voice, and the same words you’ve been reading. Nothing else is changing, except the byline.

If you’ve bookmarked the old addresses or arrived here from a previous incarnation of the blog, welcome aboard — you’ve found the right place, and I look forward to having you as regular company.

Here's to fresh beginnings and goodbye to 'Mark K'.

As normal, I leave you with a piece of music I find enjoyable and fitting: Keane - "Somewhere Only We Know".

Monday, 22 September 2025

Blog Name Update.

Today's a quickie for two reasons:

1) To see if this receives any traffic.

2) If it does, to serve by way of explanation regarding the different name of my blog.

TRAFFIC:

Google is a pain in the butt. Plain and simple. Changing a blog name, on initial consideration seems like a straight forward process. But alas it falls into the same ball park as, "It'll only take five minutes to do." And we all know that the "five minute" analogy, in reality, means an hour or so of tight lipped cursing, keyboard thumping, hair pulling and an urge to place your fist through the screen in front of you.

Google Sitemaps is a monster when it decides it doesn't want to play nice. And for the last several days it has been acting like it's Godzilla. But, I have prevailed, and over the next 48 hours I'll keep an eye on things.

So, if I get any viewing number for this post, then I'm golden and can post as normal. If not, then this post will only serve as a timestamp to my computer's destruction as I throw it out of the window, followed by my screaming, "F**k you, Google!".

My Supernatural Encounters (not recommended for night reading).

Everyone has a story or two to tell when it comes to the 'supernatural' and the unexplained. I'm no exception. So for today's post I thought I'd re-tell my little exposure to a collection of strange events and happenings during my time living in the family home, an old Victorian-built terraced house in Canton, Cardiff.

As the title suggests, reading this at night, especially alone, and more so if you are of a nervous disposition when it comes to the dark of night and your imagination can run away with you, I wouldn't read this in bed or alone in the dark. Trust me.

Without further ado, let us proceed - and before we do, what you are about to read is not fiction, that I 100% guarantee... but these are my own personal experiences, actual or imagined - that's for you, the reader to decide. Though first, I'd like to set the mood by sharing another tune from my youth, going back to 1981: Japan and their song, 'Ghosts'.

My Day's Training - Staying Mobile.

Since returning to my blog I've been delving into Primal Movement as an addition to my usual training/exercise routines. Primarily I wanted something to reconnect myself with the freedom of movement as a unit.

I've noticed over the years a gradual diminishing of flexibility and range of motion which I can nail down to two specific reasons:

Failure to maintain flexibility routines, as previously acquired through Karate and Yoga.
Mechanical differences resulting from past surgical procedures, and soft tissue injuries, i.e. tearing.

Regarding surgery, the issue can arise from scar tissue adhesion, of which I've suffered and is not nice to experience - this is where the laying down of scar tissue results in one or more adjacent muscles actually becoming joined by said scar tissue, usually through the fascia (think of fascia like sausage skin and the muscle is the meat inside said skin. Fascia allows for free movement of muscles across and over each other during day-to-day functioning, i.e. walking, running, lifting, stretching, etc). Fascia not only coats every muscle, but there is an entire internal 'suit' of fascia covering the entire human musculature beneath the skin.

Rainy Days and Role Playing.

As I write this the rain falls steadily outside, occasionally throwing itself, almost petulantly, at my window, whilst the garden plants and bushes jiggle and sway wildly in the wind as if at some kind of botanical rave party only they can hear.

Lucky them.

Grey clouds, blustering wind and lashing rain on an early Autumnal day in September. Perfect role playing weather - or at least, that's the memory I have, delving back to a time when I first started out in the 'hobby', though I refer to it as a passion. For those reading this who were once rollers of the dice, or the controllers of the dice (yes, that means you GMs/DMs), then you'll understand what I mean when I refer to it as a 'passion'.

When you take your first tentative steps into the world of role playing games of the traditional paper & pencil kind it's a sensation loaded with both expectation and an anticipation of the unexpected.

Less is More.

No doubt you are familiar with that expression - "Less is More". But I was thinking about it from a different angle than the usual connotation.

The way I have started to look at it is this: less time in front of my PC is more time engaging with the real world. Less time on my iPad is more benefit to my posture, instead of craning my neck, causing my back to ache later in the day.

Less is more beneficial to the human condition. Less screen time reduces the exposure to blue light, which messes with the body's cortisol levels, which in turn reduces the quality of your sleep.

Up until recently I'd wake every morning with a dull headache, feeling fatigued as if I hadn't slept, and my body aching. I thought it was my pillow, and after several different types, nothing changed. I drank water before bed, taking into account dehydration, this just made me get up to pee more frequently during the night, interrupting my sleep. I listened to relaxing music before sleeping. Nothing.

Unexplainably Strange.

Ever had an encounter or experience that leaves you questioning your own reality, or your own senses?

For me there are two such stand-out moments of 2024 - one in the cold, wintery beginning of the year, and the second during the sunny Spring.

Both took place whilst I walked, Chica, one of our Spanish rescue dogs, along the footpath that runs parallel with the local river (River Ely) that cuts through Talbot Green and into Pontyclun. It's a lovely walk that takes you past houses at various points with a small field in between. Great for dog walkers, joggers, or folks taking a stroll.

#1: JANUARY 2024.

I was due in work for an early shift at the hospital starting at 0700hrs, and as my way when on an early shift, woke up at 0500hrs to take the dogs for their individual walks to start the day. I headed down towards the river path with Chica, her harness fitted with the usual reflective-flashing light strips, and my pocket torch fully charged.

We strolled past the row of houses that faced towards the river along the tarmac footpath, the trees and bushes to our right muting the sound of the flowing river at the bottom of the steep embankment, but even that didn't block the sound of the river's fast flowing caused by the previous night's rainfall.

Advice For New DMs/GMs - "Crits & Fumbles".

Much time has passed since last I posted on the topic of my one, true gaming love: traditional pencil & paper role playing games. In many ways this post is reconnecting to my original purpose for creating this blog back in March of 2011: to help, advice, guide and share with budding and novice Dungeon Masters and Games Masters alike - even seasoned DMs & GMs are most welcome, even players, because today's player is tomorrow's DM/GM.

On a personal note, it's been a couple of years now since I last touched the dice and hid behind the shield of a DM's screen, and yes, there are times I yearn to be there again. One obstacle, though - finding your player base. But I'll leave that for another day (or evening) and another post.

As the title states, I'll be going over the Critical Roll - "the Crit", and its counter-part, the Failed Roll - "the Fumble".

Sparrowhawk Confirmed.

This morning, Thursday 4th September, I trudged downstairs after waking, still half-asleep, and headed for the kitchen. Towels. I remembered I'd left towels in the tumble dryer, which is set-up in the garage. So off I go, and as I open the inner door leading to the utility room added to the back of our house - small, but double-glazed and good enough for storage of dog leads, coats, etc - I stop and stare.

What I initially thought was a rain-drenched Wood Pigeon, sat on our garden seat set-up, was in fact a Sparrowhawk. It was in the process of eating its morning kill, feathers strewn about its feet and the table upon which it feasted - rather ironic.

So it would seem my little feathered friend was not the victim of a Magpie as suspected, but of this Sparrowhawk.

I didn't disturb it, as it is nature doing what nature does, and I know some reading this might be of the opinion that I should have shooed it away, but the meal it was engaged in was beyond recognisable, and nothing would be gained.

Savage Garden: A Flightless Friend.

FEEDING THE FLOCK.

One momentary lapse of attention and a heart-breaking discovery.

Since the tail-end of 2024's Winter I began buying suet pellets, seed and dried mealworms in order to feed my garden bird visitors. My main aim was to help them prepare for the nesting season to follow in early 2025.

Like most people who live in an urban setting, garden birds are acknowledged but not really focused upon. They come, they go, they sometimes crap on your washing line full of clean clothes. Aside from that, they fill a silence with the musicality of nature. Some more than others.

The feeding 'table' of choice I decided would be the garage roof - low enough for me to place food adequately, but tall enough to give the birds confidence in feeding without the risk of predators from the ground.

Working with Dementia.

Yesterday - Thursday 28th August, 2025 - I worked an Early shift at my local Accident & Emergency department. My role is termed as a Bank Nurse, though I'm an Auxiliary, not a Qualified Nurse.

On the floor by 0700hrs after the hand-over, I was informed I'd be covering two areas. Nothing unusual there, but this day the department was short-staffed. I flitted about making sure things were in order, stock levels and the such, before things began getting busy as patients who had been there overnight would start waking and the buzzers started buzzing.

It was just after my return from break I encountered an elderly lady looking lost. My initial impression was she could be a relative seeking the way out. Not unusual, and happens frequently. People get easily disorientated.

I asked if I could help in any way. She smiled, and told me she was looking for her dog. "Okay," I replied, and gently steered her towards the main desk, to find out 'where her dog was'.

Why Do I Write?

Why do I write?

A question I've pondered many, many times, with equally many, many answers.

When distilled, its core reason: self-indulgence.

Such a simple premise, yet so loaded, that if it were a car the tyres would have blown from the immense weight.

But seriously, writing is so very self-indulgent.

Think about it, you have absolute and total control - from the weather, the time, location, the character or characters (which in itself is potentially boundless in regards what you can create). Basically, in essence, you are the ultimate creator. Your word is 'law'. You wield the power to create, destroy, make sun, rain, laughter, tears, joy, sadness. The list could be endless.

Yet... and here's the rub, you are also at the mercy of that which you create. Believe this or not, but characters can develop in ways that are both unexpected and surprising, WITHOUT your intent. Yes. It is a thing. Many writers will tell you such. Once you are in a flow state of writing and your muse is in tune with your creative flow, the words take on a life of their own, and before you realise what's happening you may have written a page or two, maybe three, and not even thought about it. It just flowed.

Writer's Block - A Real F**king Curse.

When I began dabbling with writing, going back to the 90's, it was as a result of my passion for the fantasy genre birthed out of my introduction to Dungeons & Dragons and the role playing game scene in general.

Undoubtedly it was a tap installed into my imagination, allowing me to turn it on to full flow and let the ideas run freely. And this they did for a very long time. During that time my role playing influences filtered through from games such as 'Traveller' (original spelling), from Games Workshop - back in the day when they were all about the games and not the money - 'Call of Cthulu', 'Warhammer Fantasy RPG', 'AD&D', 'Shadow Run', and last, but not least, my ultimate rpg love, the brilliantly simple, 'Dragon Warriors'.

I consumed books/novels in the various genres weekly, buying more and more, my imagination filling with new vistas, characters, scenarios, locations - basically everything a DM/GM needed in order to run their worlds for their rpg group. And that I did.

"But what if I wrote a story?" I asked myself. So I did. Poorly. But I wrote another, and another. All of them crap. Though to me it was an amazing sense of freedom. I wrote for myself. No-one ever read them, nor will they. For me, writing was having my own personal cinema in my head. Putting the words to paper fired up the screen of my imagination. It was wonderful.

A Long Time Passed...

As the title states, it has indeed been a long time passed since I last posted. I must confess, it's entirely down to me, my procrastinating mindset combined with a lacklustre imagination fuelled by a plethora of external - and some internal - conflicts, mini-dramas and distractions.

For that, I most humbly regret.

But here we are, early hours of Saturday, 23rd of August, 2025, and another epically uninspiring Summer has dragged its unimpressive arse closer to handing over the baton to a toe-tapping Autumn.

So, to catch up, let me think...

Wednesday, 24 December 2025

Saturday, 20 December 2025

Friday, 19 December 2025

Thursday, 18 December 2025

Tuesday, 16 December 2025

Monday, 15 December 2025

Sunday, 14 December 2025

Saturday, 13 December 2025

Over time, Life in the Blogoverse has evolved — not by grand design, but by wandering where the writing naturally wanted to go.

Thursday, 11 December 2025

Wednesday, 10 December 2025

Monday, 8 December 2025

Saturday, 6 December 2025

Friday, 5 December 2025

Thursday, 4 December 2025

Wednesday, 3 December 2025

Monday, 1 December 2025

Friday, 21 November 2025

Monday, 17 November 2025

Friday, 14 November 2025

Saturday, 8 November 2025

Monday, 3 November 2025

Wednesday, 29 October 2025

Saturday, 25 October 2025

Monday, 20 October 2025

Saturday, 18 October 2025

Wednesday, 15 October 2025

Monday, 13 October 2025

Friday, 10 October 2025

Wednesday, 8 October 2025

Sunday, 5 October 2025

Thursday, 25 September 2025

Monday, 22 September 2025

Friday, 19 September 2025

Thursday, 18 September 2025

Wednesday, 17 September 2025

Tuesday, 16 September 2025

Tuesday, 9 September 2025

Friday, 5 September 2025

Thursday, 4 September 2025

Saturday, 30 August 2025

Friday, 29 August 2025

Wednesday, 27 August 2025

Monday, 25 August 2025

Saturday, 23 August 2025