Nice to see you.

''They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes,
Within a dream.''

2014 Pushcart Prize nominee. (more)

Many stories and poems published worldwide.
My work is raw and from experience and observations.


First look cover - New book - Pseudo Eyes

New book - Pseudo Eyes

First look cover 

Early Version

The idea is that she (representing people) has stars in her eyes and is so captivated by the promise of the dream, that she neglects to notice the chaos and danger behind her.

The original title was Stars in their eyes, Glow on the Ceiling. The premise being that the stars turned out to be the fake kind that glow on a kid's bedroom ceiling. (The idea actually came to me while singing my daughter to sleep. She has those fluorescent stars about her room).

The title remained until around March 2017. It was far too long. Hopefully the title as it is combined with the image conveys the message. If not, as long as it entices in some way, I'll be happy.

As for the image, I wasn't entirely happy with her look. So the final image her expression is changed somewhat. Which you'll be able to see soon. And in colour.

What do you think? Does it convey that notion?

Coming soon
Feel Good Quotes

After another horrific terrorist event, it's time to offer something positive.
I'll be doing a series of 'up' poetry/quotations.

5th Anniversary - In Pictures


I do like this shot. Looks natural. Totally setup of course. My step-daughter took it with a digital SLR.


Had a fantastic night as MC'd by Jack Peck

Jack Peck

Hazzy Bee

Hazzy Bee

Original cover - that never saw the light of day

At Travis Little's Book signing in England. What a guy.

The box arrives

Many years in the making. Not the book, the publication.
(I know, it's a horrible shot...)

My fifteen minutes. 

Alas all the copies are gone now, so if you have one, you never know...
(I may yet make an ebook available).

This was a little flyer I added with the book.

The writing of Bottomless River 


A novella 

Anthony J. Langford 

The initial draft of Bottomless River was hand written on a train going to and from work over several days in 2006. It was simply a short story then. I tend to get enthused about most things I write, but I let them sit for a while before typing them up and begin the redrafting process. It’s then that I can determine whether it’s any good or not.
I liked the story. It was personal and there was something emotional and raw about it. I spent more time on it and it grew. I let my partner read it and she liked it, and she is quite critical of my writing. She pushed me to get it out there. I searched around for somewhere to publish it but it was too long to qualify as a short story and too short for a novel. Most publishers don’t print novellas, for reasons unknown. You’re guess is as good as mine. Perhaps the cost of printing them makes them expensive and they don’t believe that people will invest in something with a limited amount of pages. I disagree. I think in this time strapped age that they’re due for a major comeback. (A novella is usually between 10,000 and 40,000 words). Some famous writers wrote novellas, including Franz Kafka, Albert Camus and Fyodor  Dostoyevsky. Did you know that Animal Farm, Dr. Jeykll and Mr Hyde, The Old Man and the Sea, Breakfast at Tiffany's and Of Mice and Men were all novellas?
Every year I would give Bottomless River another draft until finally in 2011 I came across Ginninderra Press. I gave it one last polish and submitted it in May. A month later they came back with a yes. And it’s taken a further 11 months to get it released.
A long genesis for a little book with a big heart.

Dinosaurs to the Moon - An original 90's video available first time

History of Earth

Pre internet so footage was sourced from several doco's recorded on vhs, and the tv reception was not great. 

It's essentially a very big story in five minutes. I quite like the way it turned out, quality aside, the editing holds up as does the wonderful music of Phillip Glass.

If you like it, please Share. The more the merrier!
(I'll be sharing more older videos in time plus new ones too).

More Videos.

Coming soon, 
First look cover of Pseudo Eyes
Plus Feel Good Quotes

Take care!

Second sight


I knew that it would happen

I just knew it

I had a feeling

I long suspected

I lost track

Fell off the rails

Fell off the bandwagon

Joined the posse

In the hunt

For salvation

Which always arrives

As scripted

Just not

In real life.

The Premonition by Michael Vincent Manalo 

More Poetry 

Innocence - Cut down


Fist to our chests
At the pointlessness
Little parts
Run through

Little voices
Too swift to cry
Premature for goodbyes

Clutch our babies tonight.


for the victims of the manchester massacre.

photo may 17- ajl

(I've put this compiled version together so you can easily copy and share it should you wish).

The Worst Director of All Time

Famous After Death

Edward D. Wood Jnr

The Worst Director of All Time

Poor old Ed Wood. Died of alcoholism at 54. Broke. With a look of pure terror on his face, according to his wife Cathy, who found him in bed. It was 1978.

Ed Wood with real life girlfriend Dolores Fuller in Glen or Glenda
(she later became a famous songwriter).

20 years prior he made Plan 9 from Outer Space. It was barely seen. For good reason. Lower than low budget. Terrible acting. Shaky sets. Unintentionally hilarious dialogue. Silly story. Something about aliens bringing back the dead. Or something. I have the poster in my bedroom. Above my head. Quite creepy now that I think about it. 

Scene from Plan 9

Thanks to the advent of late night movies, Plan 9 and it's director found themselves lauded in the late seventies. Not long before he died, Ed knew of his new found infamy, but it was all too late. He died in poverty, having not long being evicted from his apartment.

He made a string of bad films, mostly sci-fi except for the truly bizarre (and kind of wonderful) Glen or Glenda, about a cross-dresser, based on Ed Wood himself. (Apparently wore a bra when he parachuted during WWII). It was very bold material for 1953. Made in only a few days on next to nothing, Ed had managed to become friends with an old, frail and drug addicted Bela Lugosi, a horror has been. He appears in the film. His last screen performances were with Ed. Their friendship appears quite touching.

Bela Lugosi in Glen or Glenda

The mythology of Ed Wood grew after his death, culminating in several books and a feature film.
If you don't know his story, I suggest you watch Ed Wood, the 1994 Tim Burton biopic. It's fantastic. One of my favourite films. As a fledgling film maker at the time, I could truly relate to Ed's struggle. Not to the cross dressing, but each to their own. 

Young & dashing
Johnny Depp as Ed

He made eight feature films, a bunch of shorts and wrote a lot of cheap, trashy novels, some pumped out (so to speak) in days. People love Ed Wood now, but not so at the time. One suspects there's been a lot of Ed Woods over the years. He just happens to be the most famous one.

Later years

Edward D. Wood Jnr 1924-1978

More on Ed's films

Purged - Tenth Anniversary of First Published Story

My stories couldn't be more different nowadays. 
But back in 2007...

My (very short) story The Purger was published online in May '07. It feels a lot longer than that.

My first actual publication was in the Murchison Primary School newspaper (pretty certain it's long been defunct), when I was eight. (The year? Please don't spoil it). It was for a limerick. I won a chocolate bar. I still remember that chocolate. It was a block with different flavour liquid inside varying squares. Crowning achievement? It made me proud.

Surprisingly, that very short 2007 story is still online, in an archive form.

The Purger

The site is still running too. Pop in. Read. Write. Submit. Support. Have fun.


If you can't be bothered to click away, here it is:

The Purger

Yakob³ was a traditional flesh chemist. He was proficient, but not because he enjoyed helping others. He didn't care about flesh people. They could not afford biomechanical enhancements and were therefore, sub-standard. Flesh disgusted him.

What he treasured was the purification of the individual. It was his prescriptions which purged patients of their impurities. Converts came to him every day to cleanse the tiny evils that dot the interior, like specks of old cancer. It was Yakob³'s dream to purge the entire Starbase. He was no fool. Nearly half of the population were without biomech aides. It would take him a lifetime, but with every case, he garnered new pleasures.

He had discovered that with so many flesh verminpassing through his confined business, impurities would find their way into the circulation. Minimising his oxygen intake had proven to be unsuccessful. By the end of each day, his thought processes had begun to decay. He would rush home and seal himself into his pristine cublica, circulating a purifying concoction of his own design. From there he began the ritual of cleansing. He would follow it with a dose of proto-pellets and in most cases, this would see him true until rejuvenation.

Nevertheless, he would dream of extraordinary filth. Transported to a dark world, stumbling naked and dirty through mountains of rubbish; toothless flesh people slithered on piles of effluent and decaying tissue. Toxic rain sizzled on his skin. Jets of vomit fell from his stinking orifice. He sank into the slush until he was submerged where multitudes of hungry parasites sucked the meat from his bones...


When Yakob³ woke before First Call, he was trembling, withdrawing. He sprang into action. He barely arrived at the sanitiser before the structo-organisms could drain his glands. Afterwards came extraordinary relief — a euphoria, almost sexual — a throwback to sapien days. He cleansed his smooth and hairless body for an hour. He dressed, ate, and with the greatest relief, once again felt purged.

Everyone should feel this way. He'd purge them all. He had only just begun.

He opened the business, fantasising about new conquests for the day.

Minutes later, a clownish figure strolled in, targeting him. It beamed a toothy, decaying scrawl: 'Death to biomechs!'

Yakob³ was more confused than alarmed.

The clown raised a handmade tool, jagged, and slammed it into the sinews between Yakob³'s shoulder and neck. As it withdrew, blood and bio fluid gushed.

Yakob³ staggered. The tool came down into his body again, and again.

'Release the flesh!' The clown scrambled for freedom.
Yakob³ stumbled to Central Terminal. He sat. He vomited.

Onlookers converged.
His body liquids ran — murky and multitudinous. He defecated. He urinated. He had become the flesh mountain of his nightmares. His head swam. Colours seeped into luminous white. It was oddly soothing. He felt almost…tranquil. Almost.

An inner voice, a throwback sapien voice, spoke truths. He had been wrong. Bioenhancements were the stuff of pollution. The flesh was meant to be free.
At last, he was truly purged.

Not the sort of thing I write much anymore, but there it is.

Three of my seven Novels would be considered sci-fi and one fantasy. 
I guess never say never. 

More Stories

C o m i n g S o o n

Pseudo Stars

A Collection of Short Stories

Anthony J. Langford

Insecure / Helpless

John Cavacas Photography

Much of my poetry comes from a place deep within, (you rarely see me writing about birds and landscapes for example) and I'm not ashamed to lay open my raw emotions, revealing a somewhat fragile state.
(Genetics? Upbringing? Nothing so simple?)

Many of us are, but some are better at masking it than others.

Unknown source

So here it is.
A poem from 2012 that has never been published. 
(like the bulk of my poetry. Not rejected per se, merely not submitted)

Add to Check Out

My Holier than thou has dropped
Scattered from my persona
I’ve given up on the Defence
(A dilapidated fence)
And pretence.

I’m an empty casket
Waiting for a body
I’m nothing new
But a rusted freight train
Barelling towards the shed
Without any goods.

If only the cargo could be loaded
In a way to allow
An event unfamiliar
A complete special offer
A surprise package
Without fabricated trimmings.

I’m weary of my shell
Is there not an Option Two?
Purchase and Check out
Without Checking out.

An enduring sigh
Even knowing why.

Notre Dame 1934

Poetry has sometimes helped me in bouts of depression. Well, I like to think so.
I can look at it, analyse it, and hopefully then put it behind me. Not always successful of course. That's life.

How do you vent?

More Poetry.

Next post, a trip down Memory Lane.

Coming Soon,

Some good news.
A new video.
An anniversary.

Always open for suggestions. Please help me out by sharing the work. It's the only way to reach others. And I'm a terrible salesman.

Have a great week.


Helpless Lost

I put this meme together so if you like it, please share it around.

I love this quote. It has probably never been more topical, (the phone obsessed drones) though they may have said the same thing when cars took over horses, or the television over radio. As we become more reliant on computers and soon driver-less cars, are we in danger of becoming redundant? Helpless? Lost?

The quote is from Dr. Keller's first professionally published science fiction story, "The Revolt of the Pedestrians". It was published in Amazing Stories in 1928.

It seems Keller (48 at time of this story) was a controversial figure. He was far right ideologically. He was also a trained psychologist. Despite his late start and some unflattering opinions regarding his writing style, he was quite inventive and had many publications before dying forty years later in 1966.

Was Keller wrong?

What is the state of technology today? 
Our we way off track?
Where is it heading? 
Does anyone care?
Would it matter if we did?

Freaky World War 1 motifs

I told you guys that those are MY sticks!

Those who can't do, Review

Those who can’t Poo, Review.

Blocked up and Bitter.
Too many rejections and not enough of the other.

A cacophony of coilers in the caustic conjectures
A gust of hot air, made solid
A tangible fillet of flatulence.

It’s like the stamp without the adhesive
The spit without the polish
The torch without the blow
It’s the hard, cold truth
Of One.

It’s an intellectual Island
Devoid of inhabitants.
It’s a pure same-seeks-same hanker
For another Wanker.

Tsk Tsk
It has to be said
It must be honest
Yet a dash of acerbic spice
And venomous cattiness
Is the required juice
The necessary ingredients
For this snooty serving
Though turgid on the tummy
And it barricades the bowels
The Holier than thou must Exult!
Let’s face it...
Those who can’t do,

Summed up
With the infamous last line
The crème de la crap…

It’s a one equals one
All for the frustration of…

I can’t Poo.

Future reviewer

I thought of posting an actual coiler as these toffs really give me the shits. 
Alas, too much toilet humour can give one stomach cramps.

More Satire Bytes.


Someone moved the goal posts

It’s a long, long way

Up a gravely gradient

To the smooth summit

Of consideration.

Blame the sky

For consistently narrowing

Around one insignificant

Destiny forged object.

Art by Christian Breitkreutz

I based this poem on the notion that we create our own destinies, often putting them out of reach, dreams to pursue, goals to aspire to and judge our success and failure upon it. When we don't reach it, we blame the universe, anything or anyone but ourselves, who placed us in this unrealistic predicament in the first place. 

Famous After Death - Anne Frank

Needless to say you know the story, so I'll aim to present a few perhaps uncommon facts about this amazing young girl.

Had she not been left to die in Bergen-Belsen she could still be alive. 
As of March 2017, she would be 87 years old.

Anne was born in Frankfurt, making her a German. She moved to the Netherlands at the age of four due to the anti Jewish sentiments of the times, especially given that the Nazi's had come to power.

Anne went to a Montessori school in Amsterdam (unlike her sister) and showed an aptitude for reading and writing. 

Her diary was actually an autograph book, bought by her father just a few days before they went into hiding, after Anne had pointed it out to him in a shop window. It was a present for her thirteenth birthday.

She believed her writing was a gift from God and wanted to become a journalist. Failing that she wished to 'write for herself.'  

She was somewhat of a feminist.  "I need to have something besides a husband and children to devote myself to! ..."


"I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those I've never met. I want to go on living even after my death!"

In hiding Anne mentioned her contempt for her mother, often clashing. She was much closer to her father.

Her last diary entry was on the 1st of August, 1944. The family was uncovered three days later.

Half of the people who arrived in the camp that day were gassed immediately, including all children under 15. Anne had just turned 15 and was one of the youngest to be spared. 

Anne's mother Edith died in a concentration camp in 1945 from starvation, approximately a month before Anne and her nineteen year old sister Margot. 

The original Dutch publication in 1947 translates to The Secret Annex. When it was published in English five years later, it was called The Diary of a Young Girl. 

The unabridged version of her diary was finally published in 1995. It described Anne's confusion over sex and childbirth and even described her own genitalia, an aspect which upset some schools in the US who demanded to use the censored version instead.

Her father Otto remarried in 1953 to a neighbour from Amsterdam and a fellow Auschwitz survivor. The woman's daughter had known Anne. Otto died in 1980, aged 81. 

An asteroid that was discovered in 1942 was named 5535 Annefrank in 1995 in her honour.

"I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart."

More Famous after Death