Author: Suzanne Conboy-Hill

UncategorizedLeave a comment

Time to wrap up the science blog?

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

I have another blog; actually there’s a small flotilla of them due to special interest like literacy and interviewing for decisional capacity and the discovery that each module of the fine art course requires its own. It’s a blog zoo and it has a successful breeding programme. But there’s a particular one that served a purpose at its inception by separating my science identity from my more, what shall we say, relaxed? persona and which, now I’ve been out of that world long enough to have lost contact with any direct expertise, is getting little attention. I haven’t lost interest in … Continue reading Time to wrap up the science blog?

Rate this:

not being first fishLeave a comment

Getting all sheepish at the Basement

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

Joining the flock at The Basement93 today, and giving those cats a run for their money, Her Royal Woolliness of the House of the Red Wellies. The print is from an original pencil drawing coloured digitally in Rebelle software made by Escapemotions. Her Woolliness appeared originally in Not Being First Fish and other diary dramas as an adjunct to a Michael Fish anecdote (obviously), and if the wind’s in the right direction, there’ll be a copy nearby for a browse and possibly for sale. Several other illustrations are also available as prints so if you see one in the book … Continue reading Getting all sheepish at the Basement

Rate this:

Fat Mo, let me tell you a story, not being first fishLeave a comment

‘Tis the season

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

Somehow, normal time – the sort that plods predictably slowly during tedious meetings and gallops along through anything enjoyable – ties itself in knots come November. October is October – sensible and operating within the rules, as is most of November. Too early to think of Christmas so I don’t. Next thing I know we’ve been through a wormhole and here we are heading down a temporal waterslide to the last posting day for second class and no chance of parking in town without a scrap. To add to the mayhem, I started a Fine Art degree in October and … Continue reading ‘Tis the season

Rate this:

Black Cat Stories: hard to home and just as likely to honk in your shoe as purr in your faceLeave a comment

Promotion

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

Fliss compressed her short, squat, frame further into the burned out hollow of the hull, shoving Hennessey’s evacuated carcass aside and flicking indeterminate debris casually off her weapons harness. She holed up to consider strategy. Fliss was a soldier; a grunt on the peri-solar defence ring where killing aliens, not caring platitudes, got you through a shift. She looked down at her uniform, or what passed for one after this morning’s skirmish, and scraped off the residue it had collected from the blast that took out her unit’s communications array. Most of her squad had gone with it and some … Continue reading Promotion

Rate this:

Black Cat Stories: hard to home and just as likely to honk in your shoe as purr in your faceLeave a comment

Five Shades for Greg 

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

I pulled him closer, my hands almost greedily devouring his body. I had to get this right. I had to make these darned things fit around the bulging muscles of his arms and, oh my, the bulging muscles in his thighs. I would think about his bulging manhood later, right now I had to concentrate like I’d never concentrated before. I pressed my lips together into a hard line and rolled my eyes. It was going to be hard, very hard – and that was a promise! I smothered a smirk. ‘Stand up, Greg,’ I ordered. It felt very nice … Continue reading Five Shades for Greg 

Rate this:

Black Cat Stories: hard to home and just as likely to honk in your shoe as purr in your faceLeave a comment

Dissolution

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

The threads bend back on themselves, sweeping through time, dipping into tiny pockets of experience and breathing out again into the emptiness. The artist whose threads they are and whose speck of life has held them together asks the scientist ‘What is this?’ and ‘Where is it going?’ But the scientist keeps her counsel. Tugging on theoretical principle and marshalling empirical evidence, she is silent. It will come right, there will be an algorithm. The threads gather pace, gather new threads; hundreds, thousands, billions, and weave themselves together around the hundreds, thousands, billions of dreamers and thinkers and existers and … Continue reading Dissolution

Rate this: