Aspirations from the Darkside

I've Moved!

2009-12-29T12:00:00.000-08:00

A New Year calls for a New Start, so I have moved my blog to:

http://akashasavage.blogspot.com/

....so, remember to change your link to me, or click on my link to the right.

Come and find me....I'm waiting.....

HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

2009-12-27T11:21:00.000-08:00

What was your best pressie?

Mine was the latest copy of the Writers' & Artists' Yearbook that my hubby gets for me every Christmas. It always gives me that much needed kick-up-the-backside to start my writing year afresh.

(....closely follwed by the Dita Von Teese calendar I got from my daughter. Yes. I have a girlcrush for this sexy burlesque stripper...ssshhh... )

Coming out from Under The Dome!

2009-12-20T12:16:00.000-08:00

Phew!!

What a hectic few weeks these past ones have been, but I have emerged unscathed at last from the horrors of a christmas-yet-to-be. I think working in a school must be one of the most busiest, stressful, time-consuming places to be at this time of year.
My head is still buzzing with the Nativity, carols, cards to make and glue, wall displays to create, and noisy classroom parties; all sprinkled heavily with a dusting of excited, hyper-active children! For four weeks I have barely had time to open my emails, let alone do anything productive in the writing field.

I did however manage to finish Under The Dome, so here - as promised - is my thoughts on Stephen King's latest offering:

The story is set in Maine, in a small township called Chester's Mill. One morning the residents of Chester's Mill wake up to find the town - and immediate surrounding countryside - trapped beneath an invisible barrier; a dome which rises thousands of feet up into the sky, and sinks thousands of feet down below the ground. No-one can get in, and no-one can get out. Before many hours have passed the residents of the town have already started to divide into Good and Bad. As the story trundles on it seems as if the Bad may very well take over the town, for their numbers are many; the Good have maybe two dozen in their ranks...but the Good have something the Bad do not: they believe they know what is causing their town to be held captive beneath this huge invisible barrier. The question is this - can they free the town from the confines of The Dome before the Bad rule the town with cruel dictatorship?
You will have to find that out for yourself.
I am not going to give away the ending here!
I will say this however: I did not think this one of King's finest novels; I am an avid reader of all SK's work, but found Under The Dome lacking the sparkle of his other books. There was something missing. The book itself boasts almost 900 pages and the story never falters from page to page, there is never a dull moment, but still I found myself able to put the book down - especially during the first 300 pages or so. It seemed to take me a good third of my way through the book before I started to care about the people in it.
Stephen King is well known for his tongue-in-cheek approach to horror, but here he seemed to take that a tad too far. I didn't like the way that nearly everybody in the story had a nickname - this started to annoy me after a while, and having read - and loved - The Stand, Under The Dome seemed like a distant relative of that epic tome: even The Chef, the villain of the piece, was a poor man's version of Trashcan Man from The Stand.
But. Having said all that I did enjoy the journey it took me on. The ending was a tiny bit lame, but the story came to a conclusion that I'm sure many of us have pondered on at some stage in our lives.
I would like to know your views on Under The Dome if I've not put you off reading it!

I will be back!

2009-11-22T06:48:00.000-08:00

Hang in there folks, I will be posting again very soon, but I'm a bit bulimic at the moment: gorging myself on the words of Stephen King's new novel, then forcing myself to spew up the words of my own piece de resistance.

Bon appetite!

The King is Back!!

2009-11-11T07:36:00.000-08:00

Yay!!!

The BEST THING in the world happened today - at least I think so anyway!

Stephen King's new book hit the shelves and in my lunch break I bought a copy.

Under The Dome is almost 900 pages in length.

Yummy Yummy!!

I will let you know what I think of it as soon as I reach the last page....

Random Musing #2

2009-11-08T11:30:00.000-08:00

'Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.' Oscar Wilde.

Oh.
My.
God.
As most of you know by now, I work in a school. Last week one of our teachers was off sick for three days. Each day a different supply teacher came in to take the class.
On Fridays the children have been learning about the history of the English monarchy. This week the lesson planned was all about how George VI came to be King after his brother Edward stepped down from the throne.
Just before the lesson began, the supply teacher came to me, lesson plans in hand, and asked me if I would help her. She wanted to know what the word abdicate meant and why did King George have the roman numeral VI after his name.
I was flabbergasted to say the least.
She was a qualified teacher in her thirties (although, admittedly, she was Australian!), surely as such she should know the meaning of abdicate and why King George VI was the sixth King George!
What chance do the children of today have?

Happy Samhain.

2009-11-01T08:16:00.000-08:00

October 31

They came for her just before midnight.
The darkened sky stained orange by the burning torches clutched in their calloused work-worn hands. Voices unified as one. Chanting: ...burn the witch...burn the witch...burn the witch....
For a time she couldn't move, paralysed by her fear, then of a sudden she sprang into action, grey skirts and petticoats swirling around her legs. Her eyes darted frantically, looking in every direction at once, hunting for somewhere to hide. But there was nowhere. Her dwelling was too small. She knew if she made a run for it, a mad dash into the woods, they would see her.
She was trapped.
Hastily she doused the candles, the smell of wax and smoke permeated the air like a musk. Above her fireplace, suspended from the beams, was a wooden rack. It was here she hung her herbs to dry, and it was here now she scrambled, balancing precariously on her table as she wriggled her body into the shadows between ceiling and thin boards.
The whole rack creaked as it took her weight. She prayed through trembling lips that it would hold, that it wouldn't tip her to the floor like a corpse.
She froze.
The chanting had stopped.
Her door burst open. It hit the wall with a thud and rebounded with a groan of warped wood.
Her breath caught in her throat.
A huge dark figure was standing in the doorway: a black shadow silhouetted against the orange firelight without. It was the village blacksmith. A mean looking forging iron hung down from his right fist.
His eyes glinted white as he eyed up the single-roomed dwelling.
He grunted: "She's not here. The bitch must have heard us coming."
Other voices joined his: "The wood! She must be hiding in the wood!"
And they were gone. As swiftly as they had come.
She waited until the orange had left the sky. Until the last of the footfalls had faded to a whisper. Then, and only then, she slipped from her hiding place.
She gasped. A sharp intake of thin breath.
A small girl, no more than seven or eight years old, was standing just over the threshold.
She knew the child. Only two days ago she had removed a splinter of green poisoned wood from the girl's finger, soothed it with the salve she always kept in the pocket of her petticoat.
She smiled.
She was safe.
She held out a hand towards the child.
The girl held her gaze for two whole seconds, then turned on her tiny heels and stepped out into the night. Her voice belied her size: "She's here. The witch is here. Come back. Come back. The witch is here."
A cry of triumph exploded from the trees in a blaze of orange flames.

Two weeks ago when I was at school, one of the children came up to me and asked why we celebrated Halloween? What was it all about?
I was stumped. I sort of knew the reason. Vaguely. But not in any great detail. So the pair of us went to the nearest computer and hit google.
I was fascinated with all the facts me and my ten year old sidekick found out.
I will share -
2,000 years ago Ireland, Great Britain and France, celebrated their New Year not on January 1, but on November 1. This day marked the end of summer and the harvest, and the beginning of the dark, cold, harshness of winter. It was a time of year that was often associated with human death and sacrifices. It was believed that on the eve of the New Year: Oct 31st, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred; overlapped. It was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth for one night only(this is where I became interested!). During this time the evil spirits would cause all sort of damage to crops and animals, but also, it was thought, that these spirits made it easier for the Druids and Celts to predict the future; gifts were given for 'good' prophecies (Trick or Treat!).

To commemorate October 31st, New Year's Eve - which was then known as Samhain (pronounced sow-in) - huge sacred bonfires were built, where the people gathered to burn crops, animals, and witches, as sacrifices (gifts) to the Celtic deities.

During this celebration the people often wore costumes, typically consisting of animal heads and skins, and attempted to tell each others fortunes. When the celebrations were over, they re-lit their hearth fires (which they had extinguished earlier that evening), from the sacred bonfire, to help protect them during the coming winter months.

By the 800s, the influence of Christianity had spread into the Celtic lands. November 1 was declared All Saints' Day. A time to honor saints and martyrs. It is believed that the pope of the day was attempting to replace the old Celtic festival of the dead with a related, but church-sanctioned holiday. The celebration became known as All-hallows (Alholowmesse meaning All Saints' Day in Middle English), thus the day before became known as All-hallows Eve, and eventually Halloween. It was still celebrated with big bonfires, but now the people dressed up as saints, angels and devils.

Thus ends my lesson for today.

Happy Samhain!

...a random musing....

2009-10-21T08:33:00.000-07:00

This morning as I was driving my daughter to the train station, we came across a solitary work boot - a Doc Marten type - lying abandoned in the middle of the road. This is not the first time I have noticed single items of discarded footwear.
Where do they come from?
Does the owner not notice as one of their shoes/boots/trainers fly off?
I have visions of people getting some sort of a shock, and being scared right out of their shoes, and then running off, limping and unbalanced down the road!
...just a random musing...

A quick footnote....

2009-10-18T08:56:00.000-07:00

I must apologise for my lack of blog activity of late: there are various reasons for this. Firstly, a very close aunt of mine unexpectedly died just over a week ago and all of my family are in a state of semi-shock. My Aunt Mose was a lovely lady and I will really miss her; over the last few days I've been feeling a bit numb and haven't been in the right frame of mind for writing. Today is the first time I've sat at my laptop since her death, but I am determined to get back into the swing of things again this week.
But that is not the only reason I've not posted lately. Three weeks ago I was invited, along with a handful of other local writers, to the launch evening of an annual arts event. It took place in a local pub - always a good place to get a bunch of writers together! We were informed that there was a sum of £700 up for grabs. Last year it went to the performing arts, the year before to artists, this year it has been decided that the bursary will go to a writer of poetry or prose. I am going to enter the section for novelists. I have to produce the first two chapters of a work in progress and a synopsis of my book; so this is exactly what I've been concentrating on.
Phew...I never expected writing a synopsis could be so hard!
Anyway, the thing's done now and I will be sending it off in the next couple of days.
And lastly, I have been spending every spare second of my free time working on my novel, Bathory.
I promise my next post won't take so long in coming or be so brief!

Pipped at the Post!

2009-10-07T13:03:00.001-07:00

I have been through a vast range of emotions just lately...and still can't quite decide how I feel! Let me explain. One of my all time favourite books is Dracula by Bram Stoker, so you can imagine my delight when I discovered that a direct descendant of Stoker had written a sequel - Dracula: the Un-Dead. This sequel is based on notes that Bram himself had made. Unfortunately, the Irish writer died before he could pen this second book about the Prince of Darkness. Enter Dacre Stoker. He finished the job Bram had started, with a little help from historian Ian Holt.
Three days ago I bought the book.
I settled down in my comfy armchair, legs tucked up beneath me, to have a good read.
All was well for the first couple of chapters, but then who should enter the pages?
Who indeed!
Someone I knew very, very well.
Erzsebet Bathory, the Countess Nadasdy.
Now, for those of you who don't already know, this is the evil villainess that I have been writing about for the past eighteen months(if not more!). I have researched her, and researched her, until I know the Countess better than she knows herself. I am on the fourth - and hopefully final - draft of my book. I am hoping to send my MS off to publishers at the beginning of the new year.
She is MY baby! Mine!!
Now I've been pipped at the post.
Grrrr!!
Obviously my story and Dacre Stoker's story are very different from each other, but some of the facts are the same. Some of the methods Bathory uses in both stories are the same; based as they are on real happenings.
Mmmm....
First I was angry, frustrated. I felt like all the time I'd spent writing my book was wasted. I could only speak in words of one syllable (most of these words began with f and ended in k!).
Anger turned to irritation. Dacre has twisted many of the true facts surrounding the Countess, whereas I have stayed true to the truth!
Irritation gradually, reluctantly, turned to admiration. Dracula: The Un-Dead is a good read.
But now I think I have reached a better place.
Now I am thinking that readers who enjoy this novel by Dacre Stoker may want to read more about Erzsebet Bathory...and I can provide them with this.
So perhaps it's not too bad after all.......

...and now for a bit of culture.

2009-09-27T07:26:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to see a play performed in the majestic setting of Rochester Cathedral. The play: Ancient Stones, Stories Untold was written by writer Alis Hawkins, a dear friend of mine: there was no way on earth I was going to miss out on this performance; especially as Rochester is a mere forty minute drive away from my home town.
Alis has done herself proud.
Ancient Stories was a promenade performance. The six part play took place in various areas of the cathedral, the audience followed where the players led. And they not only led us around the beautiful greystone building but also through the history of the Church. It was a fascinating journey, thoughtfully written and excellently preformed. And God must have been looking down on Alis that day: the weather was sunny and bright, lending the outside scene true autumnal atmosphere.

The city of Rochester is one of my favourite places in Kent. It is not an overpowering pretentious city, but rather a large friendly town. The narrow cobbled streets are lined with the most wonderful mixture of antique shops, art galleries and craft shops. I spent an hour...or two.....or three......just wandering, window-shopping, before getting back in my little red car and driving home.

You can visit Alis at her blog Hawkins Bizarre. She is listed on my blog links. Eyes right....

Mass Murder!!

2009-09-16T12:52:00.000-07:00

I have just done the hardest thing I have ever done and am physically and mentally shattered!!

I want to enter one of my short stories: The Root Of All Evil, into a competition. The only trouble is the word count must not exceed 2000, and my story hits about the 4000 mark. Not good.

So. I have just spent the last four hours - yes, four long headachey coffee-fuelled hours - culling 2000 words from my story. Talk about killing your darlings...this was more like mass murder!

But I've done it. And, although it hurts me to admit it, the story is now much punchier.

Next step...send it off...

Oxfam or Bust!

2009-09-15T07:43:00.002-07:00

While I was waiting for my computer to link to the internet - which seems to take longer and longer each day! - I found myself browsing through my recent copy of Writers' Forum magazine. For the second time I came across a small feature on books donated to charity shops. This was the top ten of Oxfam's most donated books:

1 Dan Brown
2 John Grisham
3 Ian Rankin
4 Danielle Steel
5 Helen Fielding
6 Stephen king
7 JK Rowling
8 Catherine Cookson
9 Patricia Cornwell
10 Mills & Boon

I was quite suprised to say the least. I know not all of these authors may be our own personal favourites, but none the less they are all, without exception, popular writers. Now I don't know about you, but when I buy a book I love, I want to re-read it and re-read it and re-read it 'til the words have practically faded from the pages. There is no way I would hand over these books to a charity shop (I can just about part with them short term to let a friend read them, and then the said friend has to be a very very close friend indeed). The only time I would give a book away is if it were really badly written or had no story line to catch my attention.

But perhaps I'm a sad case...

Savage by name, savage by nature....

2009-09-06T11:25:00.000-07:00

Aaron Polson over at his blog 'The Other Aaron', set us all a challenge that had in turn been passed on to him.
I thought I would give it a go. It sounded like fun.

From a bookcase I've had to pick out one book whose author's last name starts with each letter of my own last name. (If there are no books by an author whose last name starts with a particular letter, go to the next letter.) I haven't been allowed to use the same author twice.
Then I've had to post the first sentence of each book, along with author's name and the book title.

Didn't work to well with the name Savage; I had no A V or E authors!!

So....

S ~ What was the worst thing you've ever done? I won't tell you that, but I'll tell you the worst thing that ever happened to me...the most dreadful thing...
Ghost Story by Peter Straub

A(B) ~ It was morning, and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach

V(W) ~ Read a book with a baby, why do that?
How To Help Your Child To Read And Write by Dr Dominic Wyse

A(B) ~ Robert Langdon awoke slowly.
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown

G ~ The night before he went to London, Richard Mayhew was not enjoying himself.
Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

E(F) ~ What I warn you to remember is that I am a detective.
In The Woods by Tana French.

Over to you......

Reality check.

2009-09-02T01:46:00.000-07:00

During the last few days I have had to doff my writer's hat and don my teacher's hat, hence the lack of blog activity. I am back to school on Tuesday, and in typical me fashion, have left all my planning etc until the very last minute! I've had to spend my last few precious days at home not at my laptop creating, but at my desk putting together work for the little darlings I will be returning to next week. And before that I have to sit through two whole days of 'staff training', on ICT no less...my favourite subject. Not. I will be officially brain-dead before the weekend rolls along.

Think of me.

I will back with a more inspiring post soon....

Setting the Scene.

2009-08-20T06:15:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I'm reading a book I find that my mind links up the novel's characters to real live people. I have recently read The Likeness by Tana French - an excellent second novel by an excellent new writer - one of the main characters - Rafe, metamorphosised in my head into the actor Richard. E. Grant, and once there wouldn't go away. Whenever I read Stephen King's IT, my mind voices Pennywise the clown with Jack Nicholson. This happens to me time and time again.

I am finding this is also true with my writing, although in a more preordained way.

The 'hero' of my novel Bathory is a slim man in his thirties with dark eyes and unruly brown hair, in my mind's eye he is Orlando Bloom. I have a picture of said Mister Bloom pinned to my story board to keep his image true in my head (also young Orlando is quite pleasing to the eye when writing tries my brain!!). On my board I also have a print of Erzsebet Bathory herself and the ruins of her castle in Slovakia, plus a couple of photos of ravens - these big black birds make frequent visits in my story. There are also various pictures of the moon in various stages of its cycle. I have a calendar of 2006; that's when my novel is set, and a calendar of Slovakia in 1610; that's when Bathory was entombed. But my biggest attention to detail is my fictitious village of Parish.

I live on the Island of Sheppey...which contrary to some people does really exist!...and as I know the island so well I decided that's where I would set my novel, so I made up the tiny village of Parish, which is nestled neatly between Leysdown and Harty (places that really exist), and overlooks the sea. To keep Parish fresh in my mind I have drawn a map, detailing every street, shop and postbox...I do not want myself or my characters getting lost as they wander about the village.

I sometimes wonder if this is a bit too obsessive?

How do you keep characters and place fresh in your minds?

Good vs Evil

2009-08-09T13:39:00.000-07:00

Rachel scrolled through the menu on her phone until she came to the Calls Received listing. She pressed down on the small grey button. The mobile's screen bleeped into life, glowing green. three numbers appeared: 666.
Rachel dropped the phone as if it were red hot, it bounced against her knee before hitting the floor of the car with a dull thud.
666. The Devil's number.
She stared down at the phone. It looked so insignificant lying amidst the dust and grit: no bigger than the compact mirror she carried in her bag, yet at this moment it seemed to carry the weight of her entire life within its fragile plastic casing. Her hand shook as she picked it up, without giving herself time to think she pressed the number six.
Three times.
It was answered immediately.
"Hello Rachel," said the Devil. "I thought you'd see sense and ring me back."
"What do you want?"
He chuckled. "All in good time. All in good time. Did you ring the hospital?"
"Yes."
"Good girl. I was right wasn't I? The life force of your son has almost evaporated, what a pity. He's a good-looking chap isn't he Rachel? And so young. How old is he? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? I've lost count you know. Ah well, we'd best get down to business." He laughed. "Hell and fury wait for no man."
"What business?" Even as she spoke the words, Rachel wished she could snatch them back, leave them unsaid...then maybe all this would go away: Harry would still he alive and well; she would find herself back in the office chatting with Claire and Emma.
But the Devil interrupted her. "What business? Why, surely you know by now? Who I take and who I don't of course. You or your son. It's your call."
Rachel opened her lips to speak. The words: You can't be serious? ready to fall from her mouth. But she knew he was serious. Deadly serious. This was no joke.
It was her call. Hers alone.
Her mind turned again to Harry. Harry her beloved son; her only child. Harry who had been her soul mate since his father had left them nine years ago. Harry who would be twenty-six on his next birthday. Harry. There was nothing she wouldn't do for him.
There was no choice.
"Take me." Rachel was surprised by just how calm her voice sounded, as if she were making small talk with a colleague, not bartering with the Devil.
And I'm frightened, she thought. Oh yes, she was frightened...very frightened.
The Devil laughed. "Thank you ta nicely."
The line went dead.
He was gone.

Excerpt from Calling 666 by Akasha Savage.

Everyone likes a good baddie - if you'll excuse the oxymoron - the list is endless:
Rhett Butler. Freddy Kruger. Frankinstein's monster. Dracula. Hannibal Lecter....

But do you like creating them for your stories?

I love it: I would much rather be writing about a villain than a hero?

The more I write about The Bloody Countess: Erzsebet Bathory, the more I grow to like her. It's all about empathy I think; recognising the little traits of evil that lurk in us all.

hehehe...she cackles!!

To Sin is to Procrastinate.

2009-08-01T10:32:00.000-07:00

What is it about writers that we never seem to actually want to write?
Is this a requirement of an author that no-one told me about?
Do writers have a creative gene or two missing?

For years beyond mention I have wanted to have enough time to indulge in the luxury of putting pen to paper, or in my case fingers to keyboard. Now I have re-jiggled my life and found myself great chunks of time in which to write I do everything to get out of it. Although, it's not so much the physical act of writing that I shy away from: once I'm sat at my laptop and start tapping away I'm off; no, it's the thought of writing I shy away from - I can always find something more interesting to do. Email...facebook...twitter...blog...text a friend...make a coffee...stroke the dog...watch paint dry....the list is endless.

Yet when I am genuinely busy all I want to do is write and I go around like a bear with a sore head!

Anyone out there know any tips on how to trick your body into sitting at that laptop?

There's nothing to fear but fear itself.

2009-07-25T09:49:00.000-07:00

I have just finished reading HAUNTED HEART: The life and Times of Stephen King by Lisa Rogak. It was okay. A lot of what Rogak wrote was nothing new. I think King himself had already revealed a fair bit about himself in his own book: On Writing, and he did it in a much more entertaining way. Love him or hate him (I love him), there is no denying King is still one of the best story-tellers of our time, and his writing skill is up there with the best. Rogak's talent lacks something. Her writing was not punchy enough for me, there was no originality, no obvious flair to her prose. It just read like a drone in my brain. But it did make me think about my own fears. The things that scare the crap out of me. Rogak reels off a whole list of fears that spook the King of Spookville himself. These included:
the dark, snakes, rats, spiders, squishy things, psychotherapy, deformity, closed-in spaces, death, and so on and so on....

So what scares me?

I don't mean just the normal everyday sort of scares: a spider in the bath, a creak in the night, the sound of a footfall behind me in a dark lane. These are all rational fears. I mean real fears, totally irrational and bowel-loosening fears, the sort of fears that come straight out of a book. . .a horror book. . .a Stephen King book.

Here are a few of the things that scare the crap out of me:

Ventriloquist Dummies ~ When we were younger my sister had one of these horrible inhuman things given to her for christmas one year. It spooked me right out with its glassy eyes and its inane toothy smile. I was always waiting for it to wink at me, or grin, or twitch a finger. I was so certain it would come to life one night and murder us all in our beds! I still hate the things now.

Empty Motorbike Helmets ~ Yeah, I know how weird this one sounds! My husband has always had motorbikes and I love them: the bigger, the faster; the better. I have no fear whatsoever of riding on the back of them at the speed of light. It's the skid lids I have a problem with. I simply can not have the crash hats anywhere I can see them when we're not actually wearing them; and the visors have to be shut down and the crash hats turned away from me. I have a real fear that one day I will see a maggot covered skeleton head looking out at me from the helmet!! And...on this note...my hubby has just bought himself one of the helmets with the blacked out visor. Him wearing that, and looking at me, scares the crap out of me too. I need to see it's him in there!

Someone Grabbing My Ankle From Beneath My Bed ~ When I was about eight I had to go into hospital for a few days to have a minor operation on one of my eyes (that was enough to scare me for a start). For years afterwards - and the odd occasion now as it goes - I had this real dread that a doctor in a white coat was hiding under my bed while I was asleep, waiting his chance to grab my ankle and inject a lethal poison into me. Even now I will never sleep with a foot dangling over the edge of the mattress.

I have a few more personal fears up my sleeve - clowns, robots, attic trap-doors, graveyards, dead people sitting in the back of my car at night while I'm driving - but I will leave them all for another day; just incase you're all starting to think I'm really crazy by now!! But then, I can't be the only one.

Can I?

What scares the bejesus out of you?

A Brief Interlude

2009-07-23T12:10:00.000-07:00

Over the next few weeks you must forgive me if my blog entries slow down a tad.
As most of you know, I work in a school, and the schools are now shut for summer - hoorah!! I have six weeks - six honest-to-god weeks - to write. I have already settled down into a daily routine, and after going for a brisk mid-day walk, I retire to my writing space and tap away to my heart's delight, stopping only for a quick bite to eat at about six o' clock and to let the family know I still exist, and then carry on into the night.

Pure unadulterated bliss.

Book Review: CUT SHORT by LEIGH RUSSELL

2009-07-07T11:23:00.000-07:00

I have just finished reading the debut novel of new writer Leigh Russell. Cut Short is a tightly woven psychological crime thriller. The story introduces us, the reader, to DI Geraldine Steel; a women who likes to do things her own way, a trait that doesn't always endear Steel to her boss DCI Kathryn Gordon. When the body of a young woman is found, strangled, in the local park, DI Steel is put on the case to catch the killer dubbed The Woolsmarsh Strangler. What follows is a tense hunt. The action gains momentum from page to page, culminating in a satisfying ending.

If I have one criticism about the novel, it is this: I wanted to learn more about DI Geraldine Steel. I wanted a deeper glimpse into her personal life. To learn more about what makes her tick. Steel comes across as a woman who knows her own mind, a woman who likes to make her own decisions. Leigh Russell lets us into DI Steel's work life fully, nothing hidden. I felt that when Geraldine Steel entered her more personal life, the door was somewhat closed to us. I would like to have seen more of the softness behind the steel. Perhaps that is to come...

Although crime fiction is not a genre I usually read,the plot was easy to follow and the characters realistic. I found Cut Short enjoyable and look forward to catching up with DI Geraldine Steel again.

You can order Cut Short through amazon.co.uk.

Find Leigh Russell at leighrussell.blogspot.com

Testing the Water.

2009-06-29T13:19:00.000-07:00

For a while now I haven't sent off any of my short stories into the great oblivion of the publishing world; mainly because I have been concentrating on drafting and re-drafting my novel, but also because I was getting a bit fed up and disheartened by the rejections I was constantly receiving. It made no difference how many times I told myself that even the Great Ones: Stephen King, J K Rowling etcetera etcetera, all got their fair share of rejections before hitting the Big Time. I still felt a bit of a failure and stopped sending things off, especially when I would receive comments from magazines such as 'quality writing, should have no trouble finding a market for your work'. So why didn't they publish the perishing thing?
Anyway, I've decided to start sending my work off again. I am going to try and send something off at least once a month. The first piece I have sent off - just two days ago - was a story I wrote about five years back and have always been proud of, called 'Mackenzie's Cottage'. A company called Rebel Books are producing an anthology for 2010. it will be a collection of supernatural tales, aimed at teenagers and young adults, so I thought I would give it a go. If successful I receive a free copy of the book and a share in any royalties. Plus, my name will get out there. The deadline isn't until November of this year...so quite a time to wait yet, but what have I got to lose.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.....

An Unnecessary Necessity.

2009-06-15T12:20:00.000-07:00

I have just started on the fourth and - hopefully - final draft of my novel: Bathory. I want to think that I will be in a position to send it forth into the big bad world sometime at the beginning of 2010 (if time, work and life will allow); I will confess to being just a tad scared at the prospect. After all, it's my baby, and I've nursed it, and humoured it, for the last two years.

But I do have a bit of a dilemma. And this is it.....

I have written a prologue which takes the reader back into the dark barbaric years of the 16th century. I love this piece of writing. It is full of smoky gothic atmosphere. It sets the scene for the rest of the book which takes place in the here and now; the twenty-first century. But? Is it really necessary? The answer is no. Does the story make sense without it? The answer is yes, perfect sense.

Mmmmm.....

I know there are a lot of publishers out there who dislike The Prologue. Who think it is a waste of space; why not just start at Chapter One and have done with it?
I obviously want to give my book every sporting chance to appeal. So do I leave off the prologue?

On the other hand, doffing my writer's hat and donning my reader's hat, I love prologues (and epilogues come to that).

So what do I do?

I know you can't please all of the people all of the time, but I don't want to displease a few of the people a little of the time. Especially when those people may hold my future life as a writer in their ink-stained hands.

So, you can see the dilemma I'm in.

Do you like to read a novel with a prologue, or do you just want to jump, feet first, into the story?

Who the Dickens.........?

2009-06-08T13:20:00.000-07:00

This week I nearly hyper-ventilated!! More than once!!!

On my way to work each morning I tune into the local radio station: Invicta FM. And each morning I listen to the show's quiz; Thousand Pound Minute. Every morning someone can phone in and have a go at answering ten questions in one minute; if they get all ten answers correct within the time limit, they win one thousand pounds - can't be bad. The questions range from general knowledge, to national headlines, to facts about Kent...the county we live in.

In my car, driving along, joining in, I usually get around seven to eight right.

On this particular morning I was flabbergasted!

The woman on the phone - Sarah from Folkestone - was doing okay. I think she'd answered nine out of the ten questions, and by my reckoning she was on to a winner. And then she was asked who wrote the story A Christmas Carol.
She didn't know.
She actually didn't know.
I was screaming at the radio Charles Dickens! Charles Dickens! How can you not know it's Charles Dickens? Everybody knows it's Charles Dickens!
That's when I started my first case of hyper-ventilation!
I couldn't believe Sarah from Folkestone didn't know the answer.
I thought the whole world and his wife knew the answer?
Oh how very wrong I was....
During dinner break, in the staff room, I threw the question into the air. Only about fifty percent of my colleagues knew the answer...and they're teachers! What hope do the kids they teach have?
But it got worse...
At home that evening I asked my hubby. He paused. He stammered. He thought about it -but he didn't know!! And he reads all the time (obviously not Dickens!).
I am married to a man that doesn't know that Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol. Shock! Horror!
Finally I turned to my fifteen year old daughter.
'Oh I know,' She said. 'It's some man...you know that man...can't quite remember his name...'
'He wrote Oliver Twist,' I said helpfully. 'And Great Expectations.'
'Ahh...' she replied. 'Charles Dickens.'
Bless her.
Charles Dickens indeed.

What is the world coming too.....?
...Shakespeare?
.......Shakespeare who?

...and now for a bit of culture!!

2009-05-31T13:34:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday evening me and my daughter went to see Girls Aloud at Wembley Arena, London. It was utterly brilliant. The girls put on an excellent show; very girly, glittery and entertaining. We both thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Promise I made, promise I made,
Starting to fade, starting to fade....

I know, not very gothic, but still a lot of fun!

To Dan Brown or not to Dan Brown....

2009-05-21T11:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening I went to the cinema to see Angels and Demons starring Tom Hanks. I was a bit dubious about seeing this movie as I am a big Dan Brown fan; Angels and Demons is by far my favourite of all his novels. But the film didn't disappoint. Okay, it didn't stick exactly to the book - what film ever does? - but it stuck enough to the storyline to satisfy me and, I'm sure, countless other Brown fans.

If indeed you are a Dan Brown fan....

Many are not.

But why?

I think his books well written, fast paced (which I love) with brilliant storylines, and thoroughly researched.

The added bonus of this recent movie, is, that it is perfectly easy to understand - even if you've not read the book. I don't think the same can be said for the Da Vinci Code. I enjoyed this film too, but my hubby and daughter (neither of whom had read the novels) found this first film confusing, but they both loved watching Angels and Demons. Hubby said it was the best film he'd seen in ages. We did come out of the cinema feeling as if we'd had our money's worth for once.

So? What do you think of Dan Brown? Do you love him or hate him?

Either way, his books are earning him cash!

Back to the World of the Blogger!

2009-05-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

For any of you that's been wondering where I've been for the last few weeks, I will explain.

About a month ago I had a 'heated debate' with Orange; my internet provider, consequently, they 'terminated' my contract! I have finally set up a new contract with BT, but it took time, patience (which I haven't got a lot of when it comes to automated services and robotic disembodied voices), and a myriad of phone calls.

But here I am, back again.

One good thing that came out of me not being able to go online every five minutes, is, I got a lot of writing done on my novel. It's surprising how much more free time I found on my hands when I couldn't link to the internet; infact I hardly missed it.
My daughter on the other hand...well...you would have thought I'd chopped off a part of her body!!! She couldn't Facebook, MSN or surf the web; end of the world stuff!
I thought she was going to have a nervous breakdown.

But as from today, we're up and running again.

Can't quite work out if that's good or bad.....

A Time to read.....

2009-04-18T10:07:00.000-07:00

Over at Hawkins Bizarre, Alis has picked up a time theme. Here's my contribution to the same:

What time to do find the best time to read?
I read any time, any place, anywhere. I always carry a book with me wherever I go - you never know when you may have a spare five minutes to fill; the doctor's waiting room, stuck in a traffic jam, waiting for teenage daughters to get ready....
Every night, in bed, I HAVE to read before I can go to sleep, even if it's just for ten minutes or so (although usually it's much much longer), and twice a week I relax in a bath with my book and a glass of wine (or a mug of hot chocolate depending on my mood). I have been known to spend up to two hours this way!

What are you spending time reading right now?
At the moment I am re-reading Bram Stoker's Dracula; I am hard at work on writing my own vampire novel and just felt I needed to get into the mood. I have recently finished reading Stephen King's epic Dark Tower series; the story tells of a mammoth quest taken by Roland of Gilead, the last true gunslinger. Roland's tale is told in seven books, most of them huge door-stopping volumes: something I could really get my teeth into. I felt bereft when it came to an end.

What's the best story with time in the title you've read?
The Time Machine by H.G.Wells. It amazes me each time I read it how so adavanced in his outlook was this great story-teller.

What is your favourite time (as in era) to read stories based in?
Mmmm...this is a hard one. I quite like reading stories set around about the 1930's - 1950's, during and after the Second World War. That time always seems nostalgic and romantic to me. But I also really like stories set in America from about the 1950's onwards.

What book could you read time and time again?
This list is endless! There are many books I do indeed read time and time again. Here are a few:
Every single one of Stephen King's books. I just constantly read them over and over and over and over and over again.
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.
Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts.
Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman.
The Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice.
A Few Kind Words and a Loaded Gun by Noel 'Razor' Smith.

What book has been your biggest waste of time?
None.
I do not have enough time in my life to waste on books I do not enjoy. If I am not engrossed in a book by the time I have read fifty pages or so, I cast it aside.

What big book would you recommend others to read?
Without a doubt it would be Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. This book was a pure impulse buy - something I rarely do. I was in Waterstones one afternoon and decided to buy three books by three authors I had never heard of, Shantaram was one of them.
The story is loosely based on the author's own experiences during the early '80s. Gregory David Roberts is an armed robber and heroin addict, he escapes from an Australian prison and makes his way to India, where he lives for a while in a Mombai slum. He sets up a free health clinic to help the poor, but also joins the mafia. Gregory David Roberts is such an excellent story-teller that in turn he made me laugh and made me cry. I urge anyone to read this book. It does not disappoint.

What's your favourite read of all time?
This is such a difficult question to answer; I have many, many favourites, but if I were on a desert island and could take only one book with me I think it would have to be The Talisman by Stehen King.

A Glimpse Through My Eyes.

2009-04-06T13:43:00.000-07:00

The wind when it comes, comes with a vengeance; rattles fence panels, buffets tree-tops and sets the wind-chime on the old wooden shed dancing - the shed itself creaks and groans in protest. Like a ship upon a raging sea.
Up in the loft I feel safe. Safe and secure.
Snug as a bug in a rug.
Rain hits the window-glass; blown into diagonal streaks of silver by the wind.
I peer out through my reflection, into the night.
Clouds scud infront of the moon; play peek-a-boo with the ghostlike orb. A Horror Story Moon.
Trees rustle. Somewhere, someone's, gate blows open. Shut. Open. Shut. The sound lonely. Melancholy.
A dog barks. Once. And then falls silent.
I wish I could see the sea, feel the spray as angry waves smash against unforgiving rocks. The sea as black as the night itself, a dark moving mirror of ink.
A call from below breaks into my reverie. My daughter. I step away from the window back into the real world of TV, bath and bed.
But for a moment I had been as one with the night.

On the Merry-Go-Round of Life.

2009-03-08T10:37:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, just once in a blue moon, I wish the world would stop spinning for half an hour or so and allow me to step off and catch my breath; I seem to be going through a more-than-usual hectic period at the moment.

The last week of March is our school's annual Book Week, and as the Book Worker there it is up to me and me alone to arrange competitions, activities, author visits and the dressing up day (I am going as Bellatrix from the Harry Potter books). All this takes time and brain cells!! - not to mention an endless round of phone calls.

Then we (or rather I) am decorating our loft. We had said room converted about fifteen years ago and I have always coveted the airy space in the clouds, but, at the time it was used as a bedroom for my two young boys. The years moved on and those boys became men with houses of their own. Then it was the turn of my daughter to have a fairy-tale attic bedroom in the heavens; all pink feather boas, twinkly lights and dream-catchers! Finally, at long last, she'd had enough of living in the eaves and moved into one of the 'normal' bedrooms. Now the loft is mine all mine!! (Cue cackling laughter.)

I am creating my very own writing space. . .and what fun I'm having. It's almost finished and when it is I'm sure I will pen my masterpiece! We'll have to wait and see.

So, all of the above, is my way of saying I may be a bit lax on the ole blogging front for a while, but to quote the infamous words of The Terminator : I'll be back!

Hostages in the basement of my mind.

2009-02-19T05:24:00.000-08:00

One of the best things about being a writer (at least I think so anyway) is having the ability to see others in a completely different light from the norm; putting a spin on their overwise mundane, everyday, actions. I often find myself looking at someone: a child; a lone adult; a group of teenagers, and concocting a tale of the abnormal around them, making them the starplayer in one of my little yarns. Sometimes one of these individuals stands out and I take them hostage; locking them away in the dusty basement of my mind, until such times as I need them to inhabit one of my make believe worlds.

Here are a few examples of people I have got locked away in my basement at present -

Three weeks ago, as I was driving to work, I passed a row of tall town houses that are known to the locals as Shrimp Terrace. All these dwellings are made from a pinkish brown brick (hence the name) and are three storeys high, fronted by magnificent old-fashioned bow windows, and steep stone steps that lead up to their front doors. Unfortunately, through the years, this part of our town has deteriorated somewhat. Most of these houses are now rented by junkies and people of ill-repute. The buildings themselves are in a state of dis-repair. I think it so sad; once they must have been a glory to behold.
On this particular morning, the pavements glistened with a heavy frost and the sky was laden with the promise of snow.
As I drove by Shrimp Terrace I looked up.
A man was standing at one of the front doors at the top of his own climb of steps. A tall gaunt man with dishevelled grey hair. He was smoking a cigarette. Despite the cold his feet were bare. He was hopping from foot to foot. All he had on, as far as I could see, was a tatty blue faded dressing gown tied at his waist. His breath was coming out in misty plumes of air. In his free hand he was holding a dog's lead - the sort that extend out seemingly for miles - and the lead was trailing all the way down to the pavement far below. On the end was a small white and brown terrier. Sniffing around and doing his business.
Then I was past, driving on up the road.
The man stayed in my head all day - now he is in my basement.
Waiting.

Then there is the lady with the dead bird.
This one was noticed by my daughter.
We were heading along the motorway last summer: me driving my little yellow Nissan Micra; my daughter sitting next to me listening to her MP3 player. Suddenly my daughter sits up. "Gross," she said. "Mum look."
A middle-aged woman had pulled over onto the hard shoulder, was standing at the rear of her car, the boot of which was open. In her hand, she held by its feet, a large dead bird. Being in an upside down position, the creature's big wings were hanging down, wide and open.
I agreed with my daughter; it looked pretty gross.
Was the woman putting the bird into, or taking it out of her car?
We had speeded past before we could tell.
Into my basement she went.

Then there is the elderly lady with the milk bottles.
This one cracked me up for days.
Again I was on my way to work, this time on a sunny spring morning. It was quite early. I was driving along a narrow one-way sreet when I spied an old lady, easily in her eighties, open her front door and look up and down the street. Satisfied there was nobody about, she sneaked along to her neighbour's front doorstep, picked up the two bottles of milk there, and sneaked back into her own house. Shutting the door behind her.
How I grinned.
Into my basement she went.

Someone, somewhere, said: There's naught as queer as folk.

How right they are.

Keep It In the Family!

2009-02-08T08:03:00.000-08:00

My fifteen year old daughter had to write a short story for her English GCSE.
Here's what she came up with:

THE VOICE

It was back.
After six years it was back.
Panic stopped me in my tracks.
I thought it had gone for good. Clearly not. There was no way it could be anything - or anyone - else. The voice was back.
I first heard it when I was a small child no more than four years old. A faint whispering in the background of my mind. A constant companion to the games I played, the television I watched, the songs I sang. It lulled me to sleep. It called me awake.
I thought everyone else had one too. A natural thing. Like breathing.
I was fifteen when I realised I was wrong.
Ryan Woodstock was the boy all the girls fancied. You know the type; tall, dark and handsome. This day I had just finished PE and was hurrying through the school towards me English class. I was suddenly aware of two people in front of me: Ryan and his mate, Harry Dean. They were talking, completely unaware of my presence just a few feet behind them.
"Yeah, she said she heard voices. How weird is that?" This was Ryan. I edged a bit closer. "It was all in this article, in one of my mum's magazines. This woman reckoned she'd heard voices in her head all her life. Telling her to do things. Steal things when she went shopping. Push people if they got in her way. Now she's been put into a funny farm - for nutters - coz she went crazy."
Harry chuckled.
"She went into this shopping centre with a knife," continued Ryan. "Went up to random people and gently pressed the blade against their throats, giggling away. It was found out later that she'd slit the throats of her pet cats and buried them in her garden."
"Gross." Said Harry.
"Yeah - imagine that - hearing voices. well weird or what?"
That scared me. As soon as I got home that day I made my mum book me an appointment with our doctor: I said I needed something for my bad period pains. The next afternoon I was facing Dr Lucas across his desk.
Dr Lucas had been our family doctor for years. He'd known me as a baby, a small child, and now as a teenager. But he'd never known about my 'problem'. My voice.
So I told him.
"I'm not crazy though," I said. "It never tells me to do things, just sort of chatters away in the background."
"Mm."
"It's quite nice really. I never feel lonely. I thought everyone had one. A voice." I paused. "You don't believe me do you? You think I'm making it all up."
"No, I don't think you're making it up, I just think you're stressed." The doctor glanced at the computer screen before him. "I see you're fifteen." He looked at me. "You've exams coming up haven't you? GCSE's."
I nodded.
"I think this is your body's way of coping with the stress of your heavy load of school work." He pulled a small white pad towards him. "I'll write you out a prescription for some anti-depressants. Mild ones of course. Take two, twice a day."
He hadn't been listening. Not really.
I took the prescription and left.
Later in my bedroom I shook out two of the small round pills into my hand. They looked tiny and inoffensive. It wouldn't hurt to take them - would it? They might even make the voice go away.
But as I lifted my hand to my mouth, I began to shake uncontrollably; from the inside out. The pills danced on my palm then spilt to the bedroom carpet.
For the first time I heard the voice shout. A single word that echoed around the inside of my skull. Bouncing off the bony walls.
"Stop!"
Four times I tried to take those pills. In the end I gave up.
I hid the bottle at the back of my underwear drawer. Away from my mother's prying eyes.
It was two weeks later that I tried agin.
The voice had been driving me crazy all day: chattering and chattering non-stop in the background. Ever since the evening I had tried taking the anti-depressants, its tone had changed, grown more agressive. This time I was determined to stop it once and for all.
My mum and dad were both still at work when I let myself into the house. all was still and quiet. I kicked off my shoes, plonked my bag onto the sofa, took an unopened carton of orange juice out of the fridge and went upstairs to my bedroom.
The small brown bottle was still where I had left it. I knew two pills would not be enough to quieten the voice. In a daze I tipped the entire contents into my hand. I expected something - some force - to stop me, but this time nothing did. One after one I popped the pills into my mouth, washing them down with orange juice. Almost straight away I felt dizzy. A feeling of confusion, relief and regret washed over me.
I passed out.
I was in hospital for three days. I refused to tell anybody why I had done what I did. In truth, I hardly knew myself. But the voice had gone. Finally the voice had gone. I thought it had gone for good.
But now it was back.
After six years it was back.
I'd had a good day - up until now - shopping. Spending my first ever wages. As I'd walked through the multi-storey car park, loaded down with carrier bags, looking for my car - the voice had come back.
It wasn't happy. For the first time it was controlling my thoughts, my actions.
Now, as I stood on the top floor of the multi-storey car park, I shut my eyes.
Something led me to the edge. Something with an angry little voice said: "Do it."
I giggled.

THE END.

The 'Write' Place.

2009-01-24T08:42:00.000-08:00

'O! It's nice to get up in the morning, but it's nicer to stay in bed.'

During week days my favourite place to write is in bed: in the evening, after a long soak in a hot bubble-filled bath, here I let my mind begin to drift into my writing and go over what I will be working on next. Over the years I have tried writing in various places around the house, but I found most of them wanting.

I started off stationed at the kitchen table. We have a huge oaken kitchen table, ideal for spreading dictionaries, thesaurus', research folders, books and so forth, across. The only trouble is, our kitchen is right next door to our lounge. All the while I was writing (or trying to write!), I could hear the television gabbling on in the background, or snatches of conversation between my daughter and my husband. I have found out the hard way that I need peace and quiet surrounding me when I work.

So then I put up a makeshift table in the 'dog's room'. This is a small extension - more lean-to than conservatory - where our dog, Wolfie, sleeps at night. It always has a fine wiff of canine about it that no end of incense sticks or perfumed candles will eradicate! And...as I found out...is bloody freezing in the winter, even with the heater on full blast. No wonder Wolfie grows a coat like a bear during the cold months! I, on the other hand, wrapped myself in thick sweaters, scarf and fingerless gloves, and still sat there shivering.

So I then bought a battered second-hand computer table and placed it on our small narrow landing (that is where I am sitting now) and positioned our family computer on it. A few years back we converted our roomy attic into a loft bedroom, a proper little wooden staircase leads up to it. It is under this staircase that the computer now sits. Not a good idea: If I move my head too much I whack it against the bottom of the staircase; the landing is very very narrow, and sitting at the computer takes up its complete width, therefore whenever my daughter wants to go into or out of her bedroom (which seems every five minutes when I'm sitting at the desk!!), I have to get up, move my chair, and let her pass by. If I refuse to move - because I'm having a creative flow - lots of huffing and puffing ensues!

So finally I splashed out on a laptop - oh what bliss! I now take myself to bed, spread all the tools of my trade across the duvet and tap away to my little hearts content; warm, comfortable and quiet - apart from our cat, Poppy, curled up at my feet, purring.

The one draw back is having to put everything away when my hubby comes to bed!!

The Root of All Evil #2. (Part Two)

2009-01-06T13:08:00.000-08:00

Night had fallen with a vengeance by the time Elaine stepped off the train at Queenborough Station. As she stood watching the last of the carriages roll past, she repositioned the bag on her shoulder. It was heavy and uncomfortable. The money had filled it to the point of bursting, there hadn't even been room for her book. She clutched that now in her hand.
She didn't relish the thought of the long walk home, all the way to the bottom of Rushenden Road; to make matters worse it had started to spit and spot with rain.
Get a taxi then.
Huh. She wished she could, but she didn't get paid until Friday, and that was still two days away...
She stopped. Of course she could get a taxi.
She had all the money in the world.

There was one lone taxi cab in the ranks just beyond the station. As Elaine approached, the driver, a fat balding man with a handlebar moustache and a roll-up cigarette dripping tobacco clamped between his lips, wound down the driver's side window and popped out his head. "Need a ride love?"
"Yes please."
"Hop in then."
She grimaced to herself in the dark; gone were the days when the driver got out to open the door for his fare then. She started to walk round the car to reach the passenger side, then stopped. she glanced at the driver. He was bent forward, head down, fiddling with something at the dashboard. Quickly, Elaine placed her book on the ground, slipped the bag from her shoulder and unfastened the zip. She reached in, drew out a ten pound note and stuffed it into her coat pocket, re-shouldered the bag and retrieved her book. The driver was none the wiser. She got in the car with a grin, set the bag at her feet, and put on the seat belt.
"Where to love?"
"Bottom of Rushenden Road please. By the shops."
"Right you are."
The drive took literally five minutes, if that. The taxi driver talked non-stop all the way, the cigarette between his lips bounced merrily up and down all the while, accompanying his words. Tobacco rained down on his lap. After the first few seconds Elaine tuned him out.

"'Ere we are then love. That'll be two squid fifty please."
Elaine frowned. "Is that all?"
The driver laughed a laugh throaty with nicotine. The tip of his roll-up winked in the dark. "I can make it more if you want."
Elaine drew the ten pound note out of her pocket and handed it over. "Keep the change."
"You sure love? Seven fifty's one hell of a tip - although I can't believe I've actually just said that."
"I want you to have it." Elaine wrapped her slim cool hand for a moment around the driver's big meaty one. "Keep it. It's fine. Really."
"Bless you love. Take care now - it's a nasty night out there."
"I will."
She opened the door and got out, then quickly side-stepped as a young lad on a bike zipped passed on her left, narrowly missing getting swiped by the opening door.
"Bloody hooligan," said the driver. "Look at him - hasn't even got any poxy lights on that thing. Frigging pratt. Oops - sorry love."
Elaine grinned and retrieved her bag. "That's okay. Night."
"G'night."
Elaine waited until the taxi cab had pulled away, then turned and headed towards the welcoming lights of Prabu's Paper Shop. She needed a pint of milk, and she might as well pick up the evening paper while she was about it.
She was halfway across the forecourt when the sound of screeching brakes rent the air, followed by the loud scrunch of crashing metal and the tinkle of breaking glass.
Elaine turned, her heart in her throat.
The taxi had mounted the pavement and smashed into a lampost, one of the old-fashioned concrete kinds. In the sickly yellow light spilling down, Elaine could plainly see inside the car.
The taxi-driver was slumped, unmoving, over the steering wheel. Thick blood, inky in the darkness, was seeping from a gash on his forehead. His cigarette, unbelievingly, was still balanced on his bottom lip. Above him the windscreen was dented and frosted from the impact with his skull.
Beneath the front bumper of the taxi, mangled beyond recognition, was the same bike that had whizzed passed Elaine just moments earlier. One wheel still lazily turned; clicking eerily in the silence.
The only sign of the boy was the steadily growing pool of blood beneath the taxi's crumpled bonnet.
Elaine jumped as a hand fell onto her shoulder. It was Prabu. The small Pakistani
had been drawn out of his shop by the sound of the collision. The whites of his eyes glistened moist in the half-light. "What's happened Missis Elaine?"
But she couldn't speak. Couldn't drag her gaze away from the taxi cab.
I was in that, she thought. I was in that. I was in that. The words circled crazily round and around inside her head.
Already people were running towards the scene. She recognized old Mrs Mackenzie wrapped in her dressing gown; curlers in her hair. Mr Evans was standing by his garden gate, talking on his mobile phone. His shadow stretched before him, long and thin in the lamplight.
"Come Missis Elaine. Come into my shop. Away from this catastrophes."
"It's okay. I'm fine. Really. I just need to go home. It's been a long day." She started to walk away, back towards the street. Then stopped.
Milk. she needed milk.
She paused only once on her way back across the forecourt. Just long enough to pull a five pound note out of her bag.

The sirens woke her up.
She felt confused, disoriented; at first thinking the mournful wailing must be linked with the earlier accident. Then her mind cohered, and she remembered that all the signs of the wreckage had been cleared away hours ago.
This was something new then.
She lay where she was, loath to move, the comforting weight of Bocelli on her feet, the blue light of the (ambulance?...fire-engine?...police car?) pulsing against her bedroom walls, until curiosity got the better of her for the second time that day. She swept the bedcovers aside.
She padded barefooted to the window and draw back the curtains.
Prabu's Paper Shop was on fire. The whole sky glowed orange from the blaze. Without giving herself time to think, Elaine grabbed up her robe and ran from the house.

They had all been killed. Prabu, his wife, and their two young children. Asphyxiated in their sleep, said the fireman. Burnt to death in their beds.

Elaine sat at her kitchen table, an untouched mug of coffee beside her, the environmentally-friendly Accessorize bag before her; money spilling from its guts.
She had been sitting in the same position for over an hour, clenched fists supporting her chin, sooty shadows beneath her (haunted?) eyes, staring at the money. And she had come to a conclusion.
The money was evil. Cursed.
That was why the man on the train had wanted rid of it.
She had paid the taxi-driver with it, and the taxi driver - and the boy, don't forget the boy - had died.
She had paid Prabu with it, and Prabu - and his family - had died.
She sat for another half an hour before rising to her feet, opening her cutlery drawer and taking out the scissors.
Elaine Randolf sat back down at her kitchen table and began to cut the money up into tiny pieces.

Excerpt from The Daily News dated 22.11.2008:

Terry Woodley from Sheppey had an early Christmas present this year. The thirty-seven year old refuse collector from Kent discovered a black bin liner stuffed with cut up five and ten pound notes while emptying the skips in his local area. The police have confirmed that the money is neither fake or stolen. They have also confirmed that if Mr Woodley can piece the money back together, the Bank of England will exchange it for pristine notes.
Mr Woodley is said to be considering this option.

THE END

The Root of All Evil #2

2008-12-30T07:39:00.000-08:00

The smell followed the man onto the train, a sharp metallic odour that clung to his body as intimately as his own shadow. A black smell edged with silver.
Elaine Randolf, who was sitting in one of the window seats reading a book, glanced up, disturbed by his arrival, and peered out at the man from beneath the heavy fall of her fringe. A druggie, was her initial thought. Just my luck. Closely followed by: He smells how that Charlie Brown character (Pig-Pen?) looks.
The man stood just inside the doorway. An expression of indecision on his face as he looked first to the right, then to the left, eyeing up the carriage; empty apart from Elaine.
He was slightly taller than the norm. Lean. His dark hair parted in the middle and falling to his jawline in lank rats tails; a couple of wayward strands hung across his face. He was dressed in a black donkey jacket and jeans, scuffed work boots on his feet. In his right hand he was holding a navy blue sports holdall, a white Nike tick on its side. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. And if he had, thought Elaine, then by all appearances he had slept in his clothes.
But it was the man's eyes that caught her attention.
They were tainted with confusion. Troubled.
Haunted.
There was no other word to describe them. Elaine had come across the word countless times in the books she read so avidly...but had never thought it could be applied so fittingly to someone that lived in the 'real' world. How wrong she'd been.
This stranger's eyes were haunted, and if she had to hazard a guess, she would guess the ghosts that did the haunting were mean ones, with sharp claws and even sharper teeth. In the same instant she realized what the smell was. It was fear. The stench of human fear. And as the man began to walk towards her - following the path of his dark haunted eyes - she knew her own eyes had grown big and wide. Saucer eyes. She dropped her gaze back to the book on her lap, and prayed silently. Please God let him pass me by. Please don't let him sit near me.
But of course she knew it was only in stories that prayers got answered, so of course, just as she knew he would, the man stopped at her shoulder. His voice was dog-weary when he spoke. Spent. "That seat taken?"
Without lifting her eyes - her saucer eyes - from the pages of her book, Elaine shook her head; not trusting herself to speak.
The man sank down into the seat opposite her, his bent knees inches from her own. From behind the fall of her fringe she saw him drop the sports bag to the floor and kick it with the backs of his heels until it was half hidden beneath his seat. The bag nestled between a couple of stubbed out cigarette ends and an empty paper Coke-a-Cola cup; a bent straw poking up through the plastic lid.
A heavy silence descended, broken only by the whine of the train as it picked up speed.
Elaine stared down at her book, pretending to read, but all the meaning had gone out of the words. After barely two minutes had passed she could resist it no longer, and looked up.
The man had relaxed back against his seat, eyes closed. His forearms rested on his lap, his hands - swaying slightly from the motion of the train - hung down loosely between his thighs. His breathing was slow and heavy. Now that his eyes were shut, all expression had slipped from his face, and Elaine was surprised to realize he was younger than she had at first supposed. He appeared no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. Just a couple of years younger than herself. What on earth could have happened to this dark young stranger to have troubled him so deeply? Well, she guessed that was a question she would never know the answer to.
She gave a breathy little sigh and relaxed back against her own seat, staring out of the window at the passing scenery. Dusk had fallen and all outside was drab and grey. She would be glad to get home to a mug of coffee and her cat, Bocelli. Only two more stops to go. She let her mind drift, lose itself in the labyrinth of her thoughts, only to have her reverie broken minutes later by the train coming to a halt at the first of those two stops. Sittingbourne.
The man opposite her sat up straight as the train came to a standstill. He run a hand through his hair, making it stick up for a moment in crazy spikes before the weight of it once more pulled it down around his face. Without further ado he leapt to his feet - jarring hard against Elaine's knees as he did so - and headed for the doorway. Elaine watched him go, rubbing at her bruised legs.
A young man with the pressure of the world on his shoulders.
She frowned.
Something was wrong with the picture of him leaving the train. Something was missing.
His bag.
She leant forward, grabbed hold of the handles and pulled the holdall towards her, rising to her feet at the same time. She flopped back down. The bag was heavier than she'd expected. What did he have in there? The crown jewels? Her frown deepened. She pushed the thought hurriedly away and got back to her feet.
The young man was just stepping down onto the platform. He still had one foot on the train and one hand was still gripping the metal pole beside the doorway, when she called out.
"Hey - you forgot your bag."
The man froze.
In ultra slow motion he turned towards her. If Elaine had thought his eyes were haunted before, she had been mistaken. They were not haunted. They were possessed.
Possessed by the undead spirits themselves. As she watched, the man's face drained of colour, leaving his skin a ashen corpselike grey. He started to shake his head, small barely perceptible movements at first, then stronger and faster. His lips formed the shape of one word - No. The word seemed to spur him into action. He scrambled from the train, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste, regained his balance, and set off along the platform at a shambling run. He did not look back once.
Elaine stood in the aisle of the empty carriage with the stranger's bag in her hand and watched him go.
Her eyes were once again as big and round as saucers.

She was five minutes away from her own stop when Elaine decided to open the bag.
It hadn't been an easy decision to make, but in the end good old human curiosity had taken over and made the decision for her. She reached across, grasped the small metal tag of the zipper between her thumb and forefinger and pulled it open.
The bag was stuffed with money.
Five and ten pound notes.
Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe.
She quickly zipped the bag up again, fingers shaking now and her heart hammering against her chest. From the fiery heat radiating from her face, she knew she had gone bright red.
"Oh.My.God." She said aloud.
Where the hell had it all come from?
Stolen. It must be stolen. That's why the young man had wanted rid of it. The police were most probably hot on his heels. Following right now.
Elaine actually turned her head and looked back over her shoulder, certain she would see a burly police officer striding up the aisle towards her, handcuffs extended, truncheon raised - did the police even carry truncheons these days? - but all that stared back at her were row upon row of empty seats.
She'd have to hand it in. as soon as she got off the train she'd have to hand it in.
She shook her head.
That was no good. They'd ask questions...and her fingerprints would be all over the holdall by now.
Besides - said a sneaky inner voice - apart from the guy, who knows you've got it?
Elaine felt her face grow warmer still.
She couldn't.
Could she?
Of course you could. Some of it at least. Test the water. Spend a bit. See what happens.
Elaine shook her head again, but not so vehemently this time.
Maybe she could.
Test the water.
So to speak.
But the bag? The police might be looking for the bag.
Swap it then.
Elaine looked across at her own bag sitting next to her on the other side of the seat; a big roomy cloth bag, one she'd bought from Accessorize so she'd no need to use environmentally-damaging carrier bags. It looked plenty big enough.
If you're going to do it, you need to do it quick. Your stop's coming up.
Elaine didn't need to be told twice.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

The One With Ross, Chandler, Joey, Monica, Rachel and Phoebe!

2008-12-15T09:51:00.000-08:00

'It is the worst solitude, to have no true friendships.'
Francis Bacon.

...and now for something from my lighter side...

Two years ago for her birthday, I bought my daughter the complete ten series boxset of that ever-popular american sitcom: Friends. Katy had been badgering me for weeks to get it for her, so at last I gave in. I had never seen a single episode, and quite frankly didn't understand what all the fuss was about.
But I do now!
From the day she received her birthday present, my daughter began to badger me again. This time to watch the DVDs with her. Up until a few weeks ago I resisted, saying I didn't want to watch 'that load of rubbish'.
Now I know what all the fuss was about. To quote the infamous Janice: 'Oh.My.God.'
How excellent is it!
I absolutely love it!
We are nearing the end of the series (Rachel has just told Ross she's pregnant with his baby) and I can't get enough of it. I so want Ross and Rachel to get back together again - no, shhh, don't tell me! - but I also don't want the episodes to finish; watching it makes me laugh so much I can't see for crying!!

So, which Friend are you most like? And which one do you fancy?

I am definitely a Phoebe...and I wouldn't kick Ross out of bed!!

How YOU doing?

The Root of all Evil.

2008-12-04T11:34:00.000-08:00

'Money can't buy friends, but you get a better class of enemy.'
Spike Milligan

As I was driving to work the other morning through torrential rain - my windscreen wipers going nineteen to the dozen, trying their utmost to cope with the downpour - I turned on the radio; just in time to catch the nine o' clock news. One of the featured stories caught my attention and I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

A postman (I can't remember from which part of the country...I want to say up north)
came across a wad of ten pound and twenty pound notes stuffed into a litter bin. The notes had all be cut up into thousands of tiny pieces; so small you couldn't make out the serial numbers. The postman, an honest chap, reported his findings to the police. After further investigation it was discovered that there was approximately ten thousand pounds (TEN THOUSAND POUNDS!!) in mutilated notes. And it was not fake.
The postman was told that if he could piece the notes together the Bank of England would exchange them for pristine cash.

That got me thinking....

What had led someone to cut up all those notes: they weren't shreaded, they were cut into tiny pieces with scissors; how long must that have taken?...why would they do that in the first place?...and would the postman have enough patience to piece the notes together again...would you?

Mmmm...I can feel a story coming on....

So?.....do you believe in ghosts?...

2008-11-23T04:53:00.000-08:00

'It is wonderful that five thousand years have now elapsed since the creation of the world and still it is undecided whether or not there has ever been an instance of the spirit of any person appearing after death. All argument is against it; but all belief is for it.'
Samuel Johnson.

What follows is a true account of an event that happened to me fifteen years ago...

On July 18 1993 - on my own birthday - I gave birth to the daughter I had always yearned for. A plump pink screaming bundle of happiness that weighed in at 7lbs 12ozs. I was overjoyed - as was my hubby - we both had two sons from previous relationships: a girl made our family complete. That day we looked at each other with smiles on our lips, joy in our hearts, and tears streaming down our faces.
My new daughter was my pride and joy; I couldn't put her down.
Of course she slept in our room, her cream painted cot pulled close to my side of the bed, all I need do in the night to check she was okay was reach out my hand and grasp her plump little fist in my own. I could hear her breath, quiet as an angel's, next to me. Hear every tiny whimper and moan.
One night when my daughter was almost three months old I awoke in the early hours. Pale wintery moonlight flooded the bedroom, casting strange shadows on the walls. Beside me I could hear the regular breathing of my husband, feel his body warm and solid next to my own. My daughter was asleep. She'd wriggled onto her tummy and was noisily sucking her thumb, her small head turned my way. I smiled with a contented sigh, was about to close my eyes and surrender to sleep once more, when I became aware of a presence.
Standing at the foot of the cot, his dark shadow falling across the blankets, was a man; a tall dark figure staring down at my daughter. He was dressed in an old-style long coat; somehow I knew this was a dusty faded brown, although the moonlight had bleached the world of colour, and on his head he wore a battered felt hat, a bit like a top hat but not quite. He didn't move, or speak, or look at me in anyway. Just stood there silent and still.
I tried to move but found myself pinned down as if under a great weight. I could not move my head, or blink my eyes. Beside me I could still feel the solid warmth of my husband, hear his breathing.
But I was not afraid.
Somehow I knew this stranger held no threat, meant no harm. After a while I must have drifted off to sleep, for the next thing I knew my daughter was crying for her morning feed.
Even now, many years later, I can recall every single detail of that night with clarity. I know it was not a dream.
Three years ago my mother came across some old sepia photographs of her mother's; my grandma's. One of them was 'my stranger'. He was wearing the identical clothes that he had been wearing on the night he came to our bedroom, and was standing infront of a wooden veranda before a log cabin. All my mother knows of this man is that he is some distant relative that emigrated to America after World War II.
So?...do you believe in ghosts?....

Number 3 Cutters Lane

2008-11-09T05:39:00.000-08:00

The house woke up.
It was hungry: there was a deep hollow rumbling in its dusty foundations; it hadn't eaten for fifteen years. But that was fine, food was coming.
With a groan from its age-old timbers the house settled back on its haunches.
And waited...

The house was breathing.
They had only been here two days, but Scarlett knew the house was breathing.
If she stood really still and watched the walls, she could see them moving; barely discernible but moving all the same.
Slowly.
...in...out...in...out...inhale...exhale...inhale...exhale...
When she put her hands flat against the wall it yielded slightly beneath her palms. Like skin. Warm skin.
Scarlett knew if she told Roy he would laugh, mock her, tell her she had been reading too many dark tales by Stephen King, been watching too many late night horror movies.
but later that night - lying in bed, cool pale moonlight soaking the room - she heard its heartbeat.
It was alive.

A des res - the ad had said.
Needs slight work - the man on the phone had said - not been lived in for years; crying out for a family.
Don't be put off by appearances - the estate agant had said - loads of potential; for the right person.
They had fallen in love with the place.
Just like that.
One month later they had packed their life, their kids, their dog, their two cats, and Colin the hamster, into a big blue removal van and moved into Number 3 Cutters Lane.
And now, with boxes still cluttering the hall, and clothes still stuffed into dustbin bags, Scarlett knew the house was breathing.
She could hear its heartbeat.
And hair was growing in the bathroom.
It was alive.

The hair was black.
Thick black stubble pushing its way through the plaster in the corner where the bathroom ceiling met the wall. At first she had thought it was mould clinging to the damp surface, but as Scarlett began to scrub at the black patch, she had realised it was hair; a five o' clock shadow. She narrowed her eyes, leant in towards the corner.
Upstairs could be heard the bang, bang, bang of a hammer: Roy was hanging a shelf in their bedroom.
The banging stopped.
Running footsteps thudded across the floor above.
Then: "Scarlett! Scarlett come here!"
Scarlett took the stairs two at a time.

It was bleeding.
A single drop of dark red blood had seeped out of the nail hole; was running down the wall in a straight unwavering streak.
Roy's face had drained of colour. Scarlett noticed his hands were shaking. His voice was unsteady when he spoke. "What the hell is it?"
"It's the house. It's alive." Panic fluttered in her chest. "Where're the children?"
"In the den, watching a film."
Scarlett was gone before Roy's words had left his lips.
He tossed the hammer to the floor and followed.
The house smirked, licked its lips.
They were too late.

The den was empty.
Empty of children.
Buster, their dog was cowering in a corner, whimpering. Mindy, their tabby cat, hissed as Scarlett burst into the room, flew behind the sofa.
On the small portable TV an angry Shrek was shouting at Donkey.
Scarlett turned on her heels and charged back out of the room, narrowly missing Roy who had just charged in. She started to yell at the top of her voice.
"Milly! Marcus! Where are you? Answer me! Milly! Marcus! Where are you?"
But they had gone.
After a while Scarlett realised Roy had gone too.

The house burped.
The woman had given it heartburn. She hadn't been easy to digest. But bit by bit the discomfort was fading. Its full belly was making it sleeply.
After a time it slept...

THE END.

THRILL THE WORLD!!

2008-10-26T09:51:00.000-07:00

For those of you who are eagerly awaiting another dark tale from yours truly, I would just like you to know I am penning another yarn as we speak! The reason for the delay is that just recently I have been spending some time writing my novel...and any of you out there in the great wide bloggersphere who also write, will know that trying to run a family, keep a job, update a blog, and write the all time best-seller(!!)is not an easy combination to hold together.

Also...I have been busy rehearsing to Thrill The World!!

Each year, around about this time, a global event is held to see how many people worldwide can dance the zombie dance from Michael Jackson's hit song Thriller, all at the same time on the same day. And the date this year was 25 October. 101 of us here on the Isle of Sheppey in Kent, England, got together dressed as zombies and did just that!
What a funky spooky time we all had! I will hopefully be posting some photos of our event in the not too distant future. Altogether, worldwide, approx 4,000 zombies danced the dance. To learn more visit www.thrilltheworld.com

TTFN

Bethnal Green # 2

2008-10-13T13:02:00.000-07:00

There were thirty incubas being liberated that day. Thirty tired used forty-year old woman that had more than earned their liberation. We were herded into a single carriage of an antiquated train, a train that was still - much to my astonished delight - powered by electricity; as a child I had seen pictures of these old vehicles, had not known they still existed. To be riding in one now seemed a welcome treat.
I stepped through the carriage doorway with a smile playing on my lips. All around me the other women were talking, laughing, joking. The air hummed with a festive holiday feel, but for a moment I hesitated. I had expected the train to smell old - musty perhaps - yet a strong clinical odour wafted around us; an odour of disinfectant I recognised from my regular visits to the medical unit. And beneath that a sweet sour smell I also recognised. Human vomit.
I turned to the woman standing beside me: "Can you smell that?" I said.
The woman raised her eyebrows, looked at me, the surprise of such a question evident on her face. "Disinfectant?"
"No. Not that. Another smell?" I paused. "Vomit."
The woman shook her head. "I can only smell disinfectant. Perhaps someone was travel sick."
Perhaps." She was probably right, but as I took my place by one of the windows, the first thin thread of unease squirmed in my stomach. I looked out through the glass at the enforcers on the platform. There were maybe a dozen all told, standing watching us. Arms folded. Dark eyes glinting. More than one was wearing a knowing smirk on his cruel face. My thread of uneasy tightened - knotted - then my attention was averted by the sudden hiss of the train doors sliding shut. Seconds later this was followed by the double clunk of what sounded like bolts shooting home.
Why would they lock us in?
More importantly - why were there no enforcers in the carriage with us?
With a shunt the train moved off. We had only been travelling a short while when a robotic disembodied voice drifted through the air above us: "This is your driver speaking. Welcome aboard the Liberation Express. Your journey will take approximately forty minutes and will terminate at Bethnal Green. Please make yourself comfortable during this time. Thank you."
A few of the other passengers had given a small cheer at the driver's words, and many others were chattering happily to whomever would listen.
I sighed and rested my head back against the seat. The trouble with me was I had spent way too long being distrustful of others. I had forgotten how to relax. All that was now in the past. I was heading to Bethnal Green and liberation.
I closed my eyes and sank back into the seat.

The motion of the train slowing down filtered into my dreams and I awoke with a start. For a moment my mind was befuddled, the last sticky strands of sleep clinging to my thoughts like cobwebs. Then I remembered.
Bethnal Green.
Had we arrived?
Minda?
Would my friend be waiting at the station as she had promised?
Even as this thought surfaced I became aware of the heavy silence that had fallen over the carriage; all the women were staring out through the dirty glass of the train's windows. Staring at the platform. I too looked.
The station was deserted. The windows of the ticket office boarded up. Clumps of coarse thin grass erupted through the cracks that had formed long ago on the neglected platform. A lone magpie perched on one of the blue metal litter bins, studying us with cool detachment.
The train gave a gentle shudder and came to a halt.
For a moment there was just silence. Into that silence came a muted hissss
of sound. We all turned as one.
Above our heads, through the small individual air-blowers, something was seeping into the carriage.

They waited a full hour, then gas masks strapped to their grim faces, the medics unlocked the door and stepped into the carriage. Wordlessly, in autopilot, they went from woman to woman; checking pulses, listening for heartbeats. When they were satisfied that all signs of life had been extinguished, they began to remove the bodies from the train.

Bethnal Green

2008-10-01T13:01:00.000-07:00

14 February 3009. My fortieth birthday. It dawned dull, grey and dismal. Just like any other winter's day. The sky, one of those skies that hang so low it almost seems if you stand on tippy-toes and stretch up, up, up with your arms, you could touch it with the very ends of your straining fingers. The air so cold, so sharp, it drifts from your mouth in a haze of silver moisture.
That was my birthday.
On the outside.
On the inside, under my skin, in my mind, the day burst into life with a flash and dazzle of sunlight. Fluffy white clouds danced around the edges. Minda had told me once, that long ago, the 14 February had been a time of celebration; a time when people who were free to love and form relationships, exchanged gifts and kisses. I was never quite sure where my friend got these snippets of information from, and was even less sure how true they were. But this one I had kept close to my chest. It gave my birthday a special significance. And on this, my fortieth birthday - my liberation day, the day I had been longing for through all the endless dreary weary days of my existence - it was all the more important.
I was an incuba, had been for as long as I could remember, as had been my mother, and her mother before her, and her mother, and her mother, and so on and so on, right back to the early years of the twenty-first century. All the way back to the time of the Domination. I suppose I can pride myself - if there is such a thing as pride in my position in life - that I had done my job well. I had produced fifteen live spawnlings: all from good healthy bloodlines; my studs had always been fit, young and from good stock. I knew that all of my spawnlings - even the females - had been used for a higher level of work than myself. For this I was glad. Especially for the females. There is no work so degrading, so soul-destroying, as being an incuba. If it hadn't been for Minda, I think I would have lost my mind years ago. the last few weeks without her had been a struggle.
Minda had reached her own liberation day two months earlier. I couldn't wait to meet with her again in Bethnal Green. What a pair of liberation girls we would be.
Bethnal Green.
By now she would know the truth of the place. Minda had always pictured it as a vast expanse of rolling meadows under a clear blue sunny sky. Cosy beam-fronted cottages in which we could live out the rest of our days, far from the cruel reach of the enforcers.
As for me, I didn't much care. Anything was better than the here and now.
After Minda had been liberated, I had been allowed to have our housing pod to myself. The enforcers obviously thought there was no point pairing me up with a new incuba. After all, I too would be gone soon. For the first time in years they had left me alone. They had taken their privileges elsewhere.
To be an enforcer to an incuba had it's perks. For them. The great strapping ugly brutes of men, with their great throbbing ugly organs of manhood, were allowed to pair with us, as and when they would. As long as the incuba involved was not with spawnling, we could be used as often as the enforcers so wished. All enforcers were castrated as soon as they agreed to take on this much sought after position within the Domini.
I was lucky than most. After twenty-five years of producing spawnlings my body had succumb to age and time. My thin breasts hung saggy and low, the loose skin of my stomach was criss-crossed with stretch marks.
There were not many who sought their privileges with me.
It was Minda I had felt for. Even after producing twelve spawnling, her body had remained firm and plump. There had been nights when three or four enforcers had taken it in turns to pair with her.
I had lain in the next cot, face to the wall, fingers in my ears, trying to block out her pain.
And then there were the times they had brought us our studs: leading the younger fitter men to our cots; watching with their thirsty eyes as our pairings took place; fondling their own engorged organs in their huge calloused hands.
How I hated the enforcers. Hated them with a passion.
Every day we were forced to go about naked - only being given a loose-fitting gown when it was our turn to visit the washing bay or the medical unit - all the while their greedy pig like eyes were on us. Watching our every move.
But enough of these dark thoughts. It was my fortieth birthday. My liberation day. Nothing was going to spoil that. Not even the enforcers.
At some stage in the night a clean soft gown had been placed on the foot of my cot, and I now shrugged it on over my head. Our usual gowns were a dirty faded grey colour, this one was a dazzling snow white.
I smiled.
The sliding door to my housing pod hissed open and my enforcer stepped in. Without a word he took me by the arm and led me from the cell......

I'm Back!

2008-09-08T12:49:00.000-07:00

Somehow during the summer break I was persuaded to join a community writing project that is taking place in my local area. It is all to do with our sense of well-being and how we achieve it. During the course of the next few weeks, we each have to interview people who live locally and find out their views on the subject, and how they personally maintain a feeling of well-being. The first task all members of the group were set, was to write an autobiographical or biograpical piece. Here's mine....

When it was suggested that the theme to write about this month was on 'well-being', something inside me blanched. The subject seemed too complex, too serious, and way too personal. Of course it didn't have to be personal; I could just as easily write a factual piece explaining what I thought well-being meant to others and what, in the day to day running of their lives, gave them a sense of well-being; how it affected what they did; how they interacted with others. But I didn't feel comfortable with that. It felt too cold. Too impersonal. My writing has to come from the heart.
Plus, I wasn't altogether sure what the definition of 'well-being' meant. Was it purely our health? Our contentment? Our state of mind? The environment we live in? Or a mixture of all these things?
So - just as I thought I would have to - I looked deep down into the dark and dusty basement of my mind...I'm not altogether sure I like what I found lurking in the shadows, but I'll share my findings with you none the less.
The first thing that I discovered about myself is that the basis, the foundation if you like, of my own personal sense of well-being, is built on a thick layer of selfishness.
It's all about me.
Evelyn Waugh is quoted as saying: 'I can't quite explain it, but I don't believe one can ever be unhappy for long provided one does just exactly what one wants to, when one wants to.'
The more I read and re-read these words, the more I agree with them; I only seem to be truly content, truly happy, when I am doing whatever it is I want to do in the particular moment of time I have chosen to do it in.
But does this make me selfish?
After all, if I am happy, contented, at peace with my inner self, then I am liable to be much more approachable and tolerant towards others. So surely this is a good thing.
Then we come to the bricks on top of my foundation of selfishness. These are made up of the company I keep, the people I surround myself with.
I have never been one to suffer fools gladly - this I know. I do not like to be surrounded by people I deem to be foolish.
So, to keep my sanity, my sense of well-being if you like, I tend to cull the people from my life who threaten my contentment. Life's too short to be bothered with company that frustrates me, that ruffle my feathers of well-being. I am quite an anti-social person at heart: I am never lonely or bored when I am in my own company. I never feel more relaxed, more content, more at ease in my mind, body and soul, then when I am alone. When I feel depressed, sad, or just generally fed up with life; being on my own, listening to my music in a quiet room filled with the soft aroma of scented candles, instantly restores my feeling of well-being.
I am lucky in the sense that I am a fairly laid-back person. I wear my heart on my sleeve. Everyone knows where they stand with me: when I'm angry I shout; when I'm happy I laugh; when I'm sad I cry. I don't tend to brood or sulk - not for long anyway - and I think this contributes a lot to my contentedness. It would seem to me that people who hide their feelings deep within themselves, keep them locked away like hard cold lumps of stone, must be truly discontented. I would not beable to function with this heavy inner burden. I infuse my life with friends that make me feel good, and rid myself of those that don't.
Does that make me callous as well as selfish?
Finally, but most importantly - to me at least - is the environment I live in. We've already established that I like peace, quiet and solitude. I would not flourish well amid noise and bustle. Living in the centre of a town, or even in a busy street with houses on either side, and to front and back, invading my much-needed privacy, I would simply wilt and fade. My sense of well-being would be torn to tatters. I need to be able to see space and sky. I need to feel like I am, to a certain extent free; that I am not part of the scurrying rat-race that pushes us forever forward with ever increasing speed.
Living on Sheppey, never more than a five minute drive away from where the vastness of the sky meets the vastness of the sea, is a huge bonus to me. Watching the motion of the waves, hearing them lap at the shingle, restores my sense of well-being far more quickly than any tonic or remedy ever could.
And of course, within that environment are the my family and close friends. These people are extremely important to me and important to my sense of well-being. I am not the sort of person who particularly cares what anyone thinks of me. I will do what I want, and say what I want, regardless of the fact it could unpset others...except to those I hold dear. I like to think I am a loyal, trustworthy daughter, sister, mother, wife and friend. And I expect this in return. To be out of sorts with any of my family or close friends is probably the one thing that affects my happiness the most. These people are the crown, the roof, of my contentedness.
My inner peace
My sanity.
My sense of well-being.

School's Out!!

2008-07-24T04:49:00.001-07:00

Hooray! Hooray!
It's a Holi- holiday.
With lots of fun for everyone.
Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

Just to let you know that I will be taking a break from the bloggersphere until September.
School broke up for the summer yesterday, and I am going to be busy, busy, busy with summery things for the next few weeks. We started off this weekend, with a trip to the Royal Opera House in Convent Garden, London. Me and my daughter, Katy,and my sister, Lisa, went to see the opera La Boheme. It was excellent. We then went for a slow wander around Convent Garden itself. I love the place. It's full of buskers, mime artists, colourful market stalls selling a wide array of exotic and not so exotic fare, and lovely open-air coffee shops.
In August, we are all off to EuroDisney, Paris. We have been twice before and love it, so we can't wait to be there again.
...and of course I want to spend some time writing my novel now there's no work to intervene.
See you all in September!

What's in a Name?

2008-07-07T13:10:00.000-07:00

I recently read an article in the Writers' Forum Magazine about how important it is to choose the right names for the fictional characters we write about, and it got me thinking about how I chose the names for the people in my novel-in-progress.
My villain of the piece was easy. She was a real life countess who ruled her lands with a heart of steel. Erzsebet (Elizabeth) Bathory. I didn't even think about changing her name. It suited an evil vampiress more than any name I could make up, so it stayed.
My hero was a bit more tricky. I wanted a simple plain english name, but one that, I hoped, would be memorable. I decided to call my hero Adam. After all he was the first man I had created for a full-length novel, so what was more fitting than the name of the first man God created? When it came to giving him a surname, I remembered the novels I had read by Susan Howatch. Ms Howatch had always used the place names from the areas she set her stories in. So out came my tattered old map of Kent, and there I found the name Pevensey Bay. So Adam Pevensey was born.
The names of my lesser characters were no less important to me, and I sometimes found myself stumped for hours...days...weeks, until I could come up with a name I would be happy with. As all you writers out there know, we have to live with these names for months at a time, so they must be ones we feel comfortable with.
When I think of my favourite books by my favourite authors I realise they are alive with wonderful names. Scarlett O' Hara. David Copperfield. Philip Pirrip. Pennywise the Clown. Jane Eyre. Demelza Poldark. Skin Kadash...the list goes on and on.
So, how important are your characters names to you? And how do you go about naming them.....?

A Comic Moment!

2008-06-30T13:50:00.000-07:00

This month's theme for the Sheppey Women Writers' Group had to be a true account of something funny that has happened in our lives. The other ladies in the group said I was NOT to write a dark fantasy moment (!?), so this is my contribution....

ANYONE FOR BADMINTON

This is the tale of my two boys, Ben and Billy-Joe.
Of how they played on a summer's day many moons ago.
Ben was six and Billy five, both young and full of fun,
They laughed, they fought, they larked about beneath the mid-day sun.
Billy had a grand idea: "Let's play Badminton," he said.
Ben jumped for joy upon the spot and nodded his blonde head.
Up the garden path they ran, flew in at the back door.
"Rackets mum!" they shouted. "Cockleshuttles!" they implored.
Grinning widely at their glee, I led them to the shed,
Dreading cobwebs, spiders, bugs falling on my head
I groped about in all the clutter, hunting for the toys.
Behind me in the garden stood my impatient boys.
Out came rackets, blue and old, two tatty shuttlecocks,
"But where's the net?" cried Billy, yanking up his sleepy socks.
"We haven't got a net," I said. "This piece of string will do."
I tied it 'cross the garden, knotted round a tree or two.
Contented with their home-made court, I left them to their fun,
Telling them as I went indoors: "Lunch will be at one."
Their happy screams and high-pitched shrieks drifted to the kitchen.
I giggled softly to myself as their meal I was afixing.
At one o' clock upon the dot, I called them in for dinner.
Ben threw his racket to the ground, declared the was the winner.
He ran up the garden to the house, as quick as he was able,
Seconds later he was tucking in, seated at the table.
Billy too, was wanting food; dropped his racket the ground.
He started running up the garden, but then without a sound,
He flew straight backwards in the air, as if pushed by hands unseen.
And landed flat upon his back, prostrate upon the green.
I started chuckling at the sight; it really looked so funny,
The makeshift net had vanished in the light so bright and sunny.
There was no sign of the white string, around the trees trunks knotted.
And so to his surprise, young Bill had almost been garrotted!
Did I rush to my son's side? Kneel down next to where he lay?
To give a hug, to give a kiss, to check he was okay?
No.
I just collapsed in fits of laughter, tears running down my cheeks.
Infact it made me laugh out loud for weeks and weeks and weeks.
Many years since then have passed, the memory still stays strong,
I only have to picture it and I'm laughing all day long!

I've been tagged!

2008-06-21T09:07:00.000-07:00

Vesper - Chick with a Quill - has tagged me, so here goes.... (I would just like to add though - god knows what's happened to the layout of my blog post. I've tried fiddling about with it but this is the best I can do. Must be a gremlin in the works!)

What was I doing 10 years ago?
Mmm...I've got to think about this one. My daughter would have been five years old so I think at that time I was working as a mobile beautician; giving clients facials, manicures, pedicures and 'doing' wedding make-up. I think I was driving around in a beat up old Mazda. My two sons, Ben and Billy, would have been in their mid-teens, so I was most probably running them backwards and forwards like their own personal taxi-driver. I wasn't stuck into my writing in a 'big' way, but I was producing the odd short story or two even then.

Five things on my 'to-do' list for today.
Today is Saturday. I try not to do too much on a Saturday!
1 MUST do some housework (boring!). I work all week so by the time the weekend
arrives my little house is a tip!
2 MUST spend at least a couple of hours on my novel.
3 Up-date my blog. I never seem to have enough time in the week anymore, so this
has become a Saturday job.
4 Prepare for my writers group meeting this coming Tuesday.
5 De-flea & de-worm our two cats, Popsicle & Jezebel, and our dog, Wolfie...not
very exciting I know!

What I would do if I were a billionaire.

1 Give up the Day Job and concentrate on my writing.
2 Buy myself the latest TVR and my hubby a super-duper big motorbike.
3 Tour America on above motorbike...dropping in on Stephen King for tea!
4 Hire Andrea Bocelli to sing for me and me alone.
5 Go for a flight with the Red Arrows RAF display team.
6 Buy an old gothic castle or church to live in.
7 Pay for my daughter, Katy, to go to the best drama school possible so she can
realise her dream of becoming a Hollywood Actress and meet, then marry Orlando
Bloom!!

Three bad habits I've got.

1 I talk WAY too much and never listen to what people are saying! To quote comedian
Billy Connolly: I'm like a broken old radio - always on transmit and never on
receive!
2 I drive FAR too fast!! I've been stopped twice, if it happens again I will have my
licence taken away!!! Paul, my hubby, says I drive like a rally driver!!
3 I spend money (usually on clothes) like it's going out of fashion...unfortunately
my daughter has picked up this habit too!!

Snacks I enjoy.

1 Top of the list has to be chocolate!
2 Chocolate!!
3 Mmmm...chocolate!!!

The last five books I've read.

1 My cousin Rachel by Daphne du Maurier
2 American Gods by Neil Gaiman
3 21st Century Ghosts by Joe Hill
4 The Moon and the Sixpence by Somerset Maugham
5 Hard Times by Charles Dickens

Five jobs I've had.

1 Mobile Beautician.
2 Riding Instructor at a home for the mentally ill.
3 Dog Walker.
4 Carer of the Elderly.
5 Books Development Manager at a Primary School.

Five places I've lived.
I've spent my whole life on the Isle of Sheppey in Kent, this includes:
1 Queenborough - where I lived from birth 'til about 2 or three years
old. This is a place too small to really be called a town, it is by a local
harbour and we lived in a terraced house in North Road.
2 Sheerness - this is the main town on Sheppey and is right by the sea front. It is
a popular place, even today, for Londoners to come on holiday. Again we lived in a
terraced house with a small backyard. But it was a step up from Queenborough.

3 Minster - we moved here when I was ten years old and my sister, Lisa, six. Minster
is supposedly the 'posh' end of the island. My dad had a good job by now, so my
parents bought a large old detached property with approx 3/4 of an acre of garden.
Our house was opposite a farm and I soon made friends with the young girl there,
Jane. We are still friends to this day. It was here that I started riding lessons
and ended up with my own horses. It was the ideal place to grow up in.
4 Sheerness (again!) - I moved back into town when I married my first husband, but
after the freedom of the open countryside I hated it. We soon bought our own place
in...
5 Minster - this is where I still live today with my hubby, Paul. We own a quaint
terraced cottage in the rural part of Sheppey. I love my little home, and my
parents have recently sold their big house and moved just three doors up the road
from me.

Well, that's me done. Now I am going to tag:

Alis at Hawkin's Bizarre
Bill Cameron
Leigh Russell

2008-05-28T03:26:00.000-07:00

THE TWIN: part 2

Auntie Nessa arrived at two o'clock on the dot.
Although it had stopped raining about an hour ago, the wind was still keen. Sophie's hair had been whipped up into a mass of unruly golden curls, they were fluffed out all around her little pink face. Her cheeks were red and shiny. She looked like one of the heavenly cherubs in the illustrations from my Sunday School prayer book.
Mother had asked me to open the front door to my aunt and my cousin. She was in the kitchen putting the kettle on for a cup of coffee.
Jessica was hovering about at the top of the stairs. All that could be seen of her was the toes of her scuffed brown sandals.
After giving me an obligatory peck on the cheek, and telling Sophie to be a good girl, my aunt disappeared into the kitchen. Leaving Sophie alone with me...and Jessica.
A sound behind me made me turn. My twin was making her slow way down the stairs. Jessica's eyes were fixed on Sophie's face. My sister had changed into her favourite red jumper and an old pair of faded jeans. I knew what this meant. She wanted to go outside. I turned back to Sophie. "Do you want to go for a walk?"
Sophie shook her head. Baby blue eyes wide. Rosebud mouth firm. Ringlets dancing. "It's cold," she said. "And wet."
"No it's not." I pointed out of our small hallway window. "Look, the rain's stopped. The sun's trying to come out."
"It's too cold."
I eyed up her flimsy summer dress. "I'll lend you a cardie." Before Sophie could reply I raced upstairs, shrugged into my Cookie Monster sweatshirt, grabbed up a cream kitted cardigan from my bedroom floor, and raced back down. Taking the stairs two at a time.
Jessica was nowhere insight.
I guessed she'd got fed up with waiting and gone outside.

I was right.
Jessica was marching through the five acre field behind our house. Heedless of the strong wind blowing in from the sea. Arms swinging by her sides. I knew where she was heading.
I grabbed Sophie's hand, it felt small and cold in my own.
"Come on." I said, pitching my words loud to be heard above the wind. I gave my cousin a gentle tug to get her moving.
"Where are we going?" Sophie's voice bounced in time with the rhythm of our steps.
I grinned. "Down to the beach."
Sophie jerked my hand, trying to bring me to a halt. "Mummy said I'm not to go down there. It's dangerous."
"No it's not. Come on." This time the tug I gave her was not so gentle. Tears sprang to her china blue eyes. "Mummy said I'm not to go near the cliffs. Not after what happened to..."
"Sssh." I said. "Your mummy's just being silly. Nothing happened. Come on." I tightened my grip on Sophie's hand and frogmarched her along. I could just make out Jessica starting to descend the narrow rocky pathway that led down to the shingle. "Come on." I said again. "We're getting left behind."
Battling against the wind I pulled Sophie across the field. The long coarse grass whipped at my bare legs. I began to wish I'd put my jeans on too. But Jessica had always been the smart one. The one with all the ideas. The one who had always got the praise. Even when we were tiny children, it had been Jessica with her springy black curls and big dark eyes that had received all the attention.
Even then I had hated her.
Even as a tiny child I had made plans against her.
Sophie was crying full out now. Her cherub face all red and bloated. She was trying to pull her hand from my grip, but I held her fast and firm. We stumbled together down the cliff path, and fell together in a tangled heap at the bottom. My knees stung as they hit the broken shells and pebbles. Sea spray blew into my face.
I jerked Sophie to her feet.
In front of us yawned the mouth of Hade's Bottom. Already baby waves were lapping at its edges.
I dragged Sophie across the shingle, our feet crunching, and into the cool darkness of the cave.
Last summer, while I had been exploring alone, I had discovered the shaft: a round jagged opening hidden between two upright rocks. I had tossed down a pebble. Listened with my head cocked, breath held, as the smooth grey stone had spiralled down, down, down, occasionally bouncing off the sides as it fell.
There had been no sound of it hitting the bottom.
After that I had learnt patience. Abided my time. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to lure my twin into the cave.
Two months ago that time had come.
It was funny, but now me and my sister got along just fine, just like...well, just like two peas in a pod.
I started to sing my favourite hymn as I pulled Sophie deeper into Hade's Bottom.
"All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful..." I pushed Sophie down the shaft. "...the Lord God made them all."
By the time me and my dead sister were walking back up to the clifftop, hand in hand, Sophie's screams had stopped.

THE END

Writers' Group

2008-05-04T13:07:00.000-07:00

I run the local writers group. The SWWG (The Sheppey Womens Writers Group). We meet once a month on a Tuesday evening. Recently, we've started to take it in turns to think of a theme we can write about before the next meeting. The theme for May is childhood. This is my offering so far...

Jessica was sitting in her favourite place, on the window seat in my bedroom. Jessica's bedroom was bigger than mine, but mine had the best view. My twin's room overlooked the front of the house: the garden; the road; the field beyond. Mine overlooked the cliffs. If you craned your neck to the left, pushed your nose right up against the glass, you could just make out Hade's Bottom.
Most days it annoyed me. The way Jessica flounced into my room - without even knocking - and plonked herself down on the window seat, as if it were her indisputable right to do so. Today I wasn't bothered. I was glad of her company, surly as it was.
I was sprawled on the floor on my tummy, trying to complete a seemingly impossible jigsaw puzzle. I hated jigsaw puzzles. But I was bored. It had been raining for most of the morning and I had lost interest in my book.
I glanced at my sister.
Jessica sat half turned away from me, legs tucked up beneath her slender body. Pale face in profile. Her dark, almost black curls, outlined in a halo of daylight. She was very pretty, my sister. She had inherited the strong Irish features and colouring of our father.
I hadn't.
My colouring was an insipid mixture of mother's mouse brown hair and father's Celtic skin. I always looked ill. Peaky. Even though Jessica and I were twins (I was the eldest by six minutes), Jessica always looked so much older than our twelve years. So much more alive. Which was ironic really. All things considered.
Jessica must have felt my gaze on her. She turned to face me and poked out her tongue, crossing her cobalt blue eyes at the same time. I grinned. Screwed up my nose in retaliation. The next instant we both directed our gaze towards my shut bedroom door: brisk footsteps could be heard trip-trapping up the stairs.
Jessica put her finger to her lips and closed the gingham curtain that was draped around the window seat with a dramatic whoosh of fabric. Hiding herself from view.
There was a sharp rap on the door.
"Amelia?" It was our mother. "Are you in there? Can I come in?"
I threw a glance in Jessica's direction. Her body was a vague shadow behind the curtain.
"What do you want" I said.
The door opened and my mother stepped through.
She had always been a small woman, petite I suppose you'd call her, but since the incident two months ago she had become frail. Like a bird. As if her bones were hollow and might snap at any moment. Violet shadows encircled her eyes.
"Amelia, I've just got off the phone from Auntie Nessa. She's coming round this afternoon. She asked if she could bring Sophie. I said she could. I know Sophie's a bit young...but I thought...I didn't think you'd mind."
I shook my head. I didn't mind a bit. But Jessica would. She hated our cousin Sophie. Jessica said Sophie reminded her of one of those old-fashioned china dolls: all gold ringlets, baby blue eyes and rosebud mouth.
Jessica said she could as soon as slap Sophie round the face as look at her.
"Good. That's settled then." I watched mother's eyes flicker towards the window seat. She opened he mouth as if about to speak, then changed her mind and walked out of my room, pulling the door closed behind her.
Hearing the click of the latch sliding into place, Jessica swept aside the curtain.
Her face was set and grim. Her dark eyes gleamed with anger. Without so much as a glance in my direction she stomped from my room, back taut and rigid.
I heaved a huge sigh. turned back to my jigsaw.

TO BE CONTINUED...

I've Been Tagged!

2008-04-27T08:08:00.000-07:00

Alis Hawkins of Hawkins Bizarre has tagged me. I have to write six random things about myself and then tag six more victims! I was tagged in exactly this way a few months ago, so will try not to repeat myself! Here goes...

RANDOM FACT NUMBER ONE: I f**king hate the photograph I've posted of myself on this blog. It makes me look old, grey, boring and ancient...I don't actually think I'm any of these!? I don't know why I haven't changed it before now, or indeed why I put it here in the first place. So...watch this space...changes are afoot...

RANDOM FACT NUMBER TWO: I am a closet Goth. One day I will come out!!

RANDOM FACT NUMBER THREE: When I was sixteen I went on holiday with my friend Jackie.
We went into a nearby town one evening for a meal, and I made her do a runner with me before we'd paid the bill....I've felt guilty eversince! (Although I'm not entire sure if it's because we didn't pay for the food, or because I made my friend, who is the quiet sensitive type, do a runner with me.)

RANDOM FACT NUMBER FOUR: I know how to break in horses (not sure if that's actually interesting...but I thought it pretty random!).

RANDOM FACT NUMBER FIVE: My hubby is Deputy Second Coxswain of the local RNLI Lifeboat. An unsung hero.

RANDOM FACT NUMBER SIX: I long...oh so very much...to own a metallic purple TVR....MMMMMMmmmmmm.....

Well that's me sorted!

Now I am going to tag six others. They are:

Bill Cameron.
Leigh Russell.
Monique.
Taffiny.
Vesper.
Elena.

The rules are as follows:

Link to the person that tagged you - ie me.
Post the rules on your blog.
Write six random things about youself in a blog post.
Tag six people.
Let each person know they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their post.
Let the tagger know when your entry is posted.

Good Luck!

2008-04-20T05:36:00.000-07:00

SEVEN SINS OF LOVE

Seething, writhing anger which eats into the bone.
Dark, pulsating greyness that wants you for its own.
Rolling waves of thunder that won't leave you alone.
This is love.

Watchful eyes of envy; spitting shards of green glass.
A tight and painful smile; a face behind a mask.
Hot nauseating lava erupting in your heart.
This is love.

Swollen, throbbing heartbeat; full yet wanting more.
Kneeling down before him; begging on the floor.
Yellow pus of gluttony trickling from a sore.
This is love.

White wishes in a moonlit sky, high above the city.
A gnawing, biting hunger filled with hope and pity.
Cruel words that whip and burn, consume fragile dignity.
This is love.

Lustful fires ever burning in the valley of your heart.
A shrouding heat that lingers, tearing you apart.
Carnal deeds that never falter, suffocating from the start.
This is love.

Bitter pride in looks and statue. Venus cast in stone.
Cupid with his arrow; his kiss for you alone.
Silver mirror images that chill you to the bone.
This is love.

Slothful days of milk and honey, dripping oh so sweet.
Golden rays of sunshine where earth and heaven meet.
Red hot passion sizzling; lying at his feet.
This is love.

And at last....short, but not so sweet...

2008-04-13T08:01:00.000-07:00

THE PHOTOGRAPH: Part 2

Kate woke at four in the morning, desperate for a wee. Moonlight bathed the room, lending it an unknown quality. As she swung her legs off the bed, she glanced up. Propped on the mantlepiece, against the clock, was the photograph.
Kate froze, heart pounding.
I ripped it up. I know I ripped it up.
She couldn't have imagined it. Could she?
On legs that felt weak and trembly, she walked across the room. Her fingers shook as she picked up the photo.
The moon in the picture sat high in the sky, bleaching the flat scene silver. The figure had almost reached the lane. In one hand it (he?) held something long and black. To Kate's untarined eye it looked suspiciously like a shotgun.
Big. With two barrels.
A scream lodged in Kate's throat.
She must be going insane. What other answer could there be? Torn photographs simply did not repair themselves.
She had been under a lot of pressure lately: her mother's death; the funeral arrangements; the house to sort.
That must be it.
She was tired, stressed, her mind was playing tricks. She must have only imagined ripping the picture up. She must have propped it up on the mantlepiece herself.
...but the figure? A voice inside her head whispered. What about the figure?
Through the open bedroom window came the sound of the gate creaking back on its hinges.
Kate's head whipped round in the direction of the noise. Eyes wide. Heart thumping.
She gulped in her throat, the small sound loud in the stillness of the room. Hardly daring to look she forced her eyes back to the photo.
The figure was gone.
The gate at the bottom of the photograph stood open.
Somewhere downstairs a window smahed.
Seconds later the sound of footsteps could be heard climbing the stairs.

THE END

2008-03-31T11:07:00.000-07:00

I was inspired to write this after reading Stephen King's short story The Road Virus Heads North.

THE PHOTOGRAPH

The envelope was pushed right to the back of the bureau drawer. A plain brown manilla envelope. Sealed. Across the flap in block capitals someone had written: DO NOT OPEN. The words were underlined. Twice. So of course Kate opened it. Inside was a single black and white photograph depicting a view.

Kate studied it for a few moments, a vertical frown line between her brows, then walked into the hall and climbed the stairs. On the landing she paused, undecided, then strode over to the door opposite, pushing it wide.

Beyond was the master bedroom; the bedroom in which Kate's mother had breathed her last just six days ago. Medicine bottles and jars of pills still stood on the bedside cabinet like minature sentry guards. The faint smell of Olbus Oil hung in the air. Kate walked across to the window and dragged one of the heavy velvet drapes to the side with a swish of fabric, setting the brass rings clattering on the curtain pole.

She peered through the glass, nose almost touching the pane. Just as she had thought. It was the same view.

From her vantage point Kate could see most of the front garden, neat and tidy and laid to lawn. Flower borders, barren now in mid-winter, edged the grass. A paved stone path meandered to a wooden gate that was flanked on either side by a low white-washed picket fence. Beyond the fence was the lane, beyond the lane the fields. Fields which rose steeply. Stretching away until they met the copse that divided the ground from the sky. As Kate watched, a lone black crow broke out of the trees and flew across the evening sky, wings beating lazily. Heading north.

The view in the photograph was identical. Although none of the garden could be seen, the white-washed fence - gate just off centre - ran along the bottom of the photo, along the top ran the copse. In fact (and surely this was nothing but coinicidence?), there was a tiny black dot hovering above the trees that could have been a bird.

Kate squinted her eyes, brought the picture closer to her face. Yes, it was definitely a bird. Heading north...

Kate jumped as the phone in the hall downstairs started to ring. The photograph slipped from her fingers and drifted to the floor. It landed face down on the carpet.

* * *

It was Tom. Her husband. "Hiya hon, just thought I'd see how you're doing?"

Kate grinned. "I'm doing fine," she said. "But Jesus Tommy, I didn't realise my mum had so much crap."

Tom laughed. "Like mother, like daughter."

"Ha. Ha. Tell you what though, I've found this really strange old photograph."

"Yeah? Like strange how?"

"I don't know. It just gives me the creeps...ouch!" Kate held the phone away from her head as static screeched down the line. When the noise receded Kate put the handset back to her ear. "Tom?" She was answered by the hum of an empty line.

A beep sounded behind her. Her mobile. Kate grabbed it up. A message: lost u on landline. r u cumin home tonite. tom.

Kate hesitated.

Suddenly she wanted to be home. Badly. Night was drawing in, lending the cottage shadows she'd never noticed before when her mother was alive. As much as she didn't want to admit it - even to herself - that photo had given her the willies. She shook her head. Stupid. She stabbed a reply: think I'll stay here...still lots to do. See You tomorrow. Kate x

She was standing by the window that looked out onto the back garden. Her own ghostlike reflection stared back at her from the night blackened glass. Face pale.

Kate gave herself a mental shake and once more ascended the stairs. She felt weary, dog tired. She would lie down on her mother's bed for a few minutes. Restore her energy.

Her gaze fell on the photograph as soon as she entered the bedroom. She walked over, bent down, picked it up.

Just as night had fallen outside, so it had in the photo: moonlight flooded the scene. The bird above the copse was long gone...but a shape could be seen stepping out from the shadows of the trees. Frozen in mid-stride.

Goosebumps prickled Kate's arms. Without allowing herself time to think she ripped the photograph in two, then in two again, throwing the four pieces into the small wicker bin that stood next to her mother's dressing table.

She lay down on the bed.

Within seconds she was asleep.

TO BE CONTINUED....

Dear Fellow Bloggers!

2008-03-27T12:19:00.000-07:00

I wanted to let you all know that I am still blogging, but for a while I may not be posting quite so often; sadly my real world is having to take precedence over my virtual world.
As some of you know I work in a Primary School Library, and next week (31st March) is our annual Book Week, in which I am in complete control(Ahhh!!): arranging author visits, competitions and a Character Dressing Up Day. This is taking up quite a bit of my time. Plus, I also run the local Writers' Group and this time of year is when we hold an exhibition of our work in a couple of the Public Libraries, so again, I am busy organising this. Plus, and this is a BIG plus, I really want to get stuck into the second draft of my novel. I promised myself that I would have this completed, all dry and dusted, by the end of this year, but the way I'm going (slowly...oh so slowly!) it will be 2009 soon and I'll still have nothing to show for it.
So please bear with me and still pay me the odd visit cos I will still be around.

:D

Calling 666

2008-03-14T03:47:00.000-07:00

Her phone started to ring just as Rachel joined the A249 heading south. She glanced over her shoulder. Damn. Her phone was in her bag, her bag was in the back. Still lying in the same place she had chucked it moments earlier, before settling into the driver's seat for the thirty minute haul to Medway Hospital. Her stomach churned at the thought of the hospital, the hospital in which her son was fighting for his life. One minute she had been at work chatting away to Clare and Emma, the next she was speeding along the dual carriageway, heading towards her comatose son.

Rachel had warned him about the dangers of motorbikes: Death Machines, she had told him. That's all they are. Death Machines.

Don't be silly mum, Harry had said. They're only as dangerous as the people that ride them. I'll be careful.

Where had being careful put him? In the intensive care unit of the local hospital, that was where.

Tears welled up in Rachel's eyes, clouding her vision. She took her foot off the accelerator a fraction. In the back of the car the phone was still ringing. It might be the hospital.

Rachel slowed down some more, gripped the steering wheel in her right hand and stretched her left arm out awkwardly behind her. She groped blindly about, fingers skimming across the empty seat. Nothing.

Risking another quick glance other her shoulder, she saw that the bag was mere millimetres away from her hand. She stretched the teeniest bit further and managed to grasp the strap between the tips of two fingers. She dragged the bag towards her. Seconds later Rachel had the phone to her ear, balanced between her shoulder and her jawline. "Hello?"

"Hello Rachel." It was a man's voice. An unfamiliar man's voice.

Rachel frowned. "Who is this please?"

"Oh," said the voice, "you'll find out soon enough." A chuckle.

Rachel sighed. "Look. I don't mean to be rude, but I've got no time for this. Tell me who you are and want you want. I really am in the most terrible hurry."

"Yes. I know." Said the man. "And it won't make the slightest iota of difference...no matter how terrible your hurry...he'll still be dead before you get there."

"What are you talking about?" Rachel glanced into the rear view mirror. Her own eyes stared back at her. Dark and haunted. The eyes of a stranger.

"Tut. Tut. Rachel. Don't play the ignoramus with me, it doesn't become you. You know exactly what I'm talking about." A pause. "By my calculations he has fifteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds left. Precisely. Believe me, I'm never wrong."

"Who are you?"

"Call the hospital. See if I'm right. Then call me back. You'll know my number. TTFN. Ta ta for now."

The line clicked and went dead.

Rachel leant back against the headrest, phone still to her ear, her Nissan Micra still doing fifty along the dual carriageway. Tyres humming. The words of the stranger echoed in her head. Fifteen minutes and thirty- eight seconds. Precisely. Followed by: Who was that?

A blue reflectorised road sign loomed up on her left. P for Parking. Rachel tossed her phone to one side and clicked down the indicator. She pulled into the lay-by and brought her car to a halt inches from the grass verge. Fot a few moments she just sat there: hands clasped loosely on the steering wheel; eyes wide, staring straight ahead. Unfocused.

Something in her peripheral vision caught her attention and she turned her head, letting her gaze drop to her wing mirror.

A motorbike was approaching from behind. Fast. Headlight blazing. It thundered passed her car with a roar of exhilaration and speed. A dazzle of sunlight reflected from the rider's visor, winked off the bike's chrome. Then it was gone. The smell of burning ozone left hanging in its wake.

An image of Harry gate-crashed into Rachel's thoughts. Harry lying in a crumpled heap. A pool of blood around his head. Motorbike on its side, smashed beyond repair, one wheel lazily turning. Flashing lights staining the scene a cold uncaring blue. Sirens wailing like banshees.

...fifteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Precisely...

Less than that now.

Rachel snatched up her phone and stabbed at the buttons. It was answered on the third ring: "Medway Hospital. Which department please?"

Whan Rachel tried to speak all that came out was a small dry croak. She cleared her throat. "Intensive care."

"Hold on please. I'll put you through."

A series of disjointed clicks and squawks floated down the line. Rachel found herself tapping the fingers of her free hand against the steering wheel: Come on...come on...

She jumped as a brisk no nonsense female voice spoke in her ear. "Intensive care."

"Hello. My son. Harry?...Harry Cruickshank? I was just wondering...?"

"Mrs Cruickshank?..." Rachel's heart sank. She knew what was coming; the other woman's voice had softened considerably. "...is that you?"

"Yes."

"Ahh. Mrs Cruickshank. We were about to call you. It's not good news I'm afraid. The devil has given your son a thorough examination and..."

A shiver of ice run down Rachel's spine. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, Doctor De'ville has given Harry a thorough examination. He thinks you should aim to get here as soon as possible. We don't hold out much hope. I'm sorry."

Rachel slumped back in the driver's seat, the hand holding the phone fell to her lap.

The devil...she had said the devil.

Rachel shook her head. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. There was no such thing as the devil. It was just her mind playing tricks. It was hardly surprising. Her son was in hospital, dying, and some crackpot thought it funny to ring her and make some sick joke about it. Rachel lifted her hand to toss the mobile to one side. She stopped. But how did he know about Harry? How did he know her name? Her number?

Rachel frowned. She massaged her temples. The beginnings of a headache was gathering behind her eyes.

...call me back...you'll know my number..."

Without preamble Rachel scrolled through the phone's menu until she came to the Calls Received listings. She pressed down on the small grey button. The mobile's screen bleeped into life, glowing green. Three numbers appeared: 666.

Rachel dropped the phone as if it were red hot. It bounced against her knee before hitting the floor with a dull thud.

666. The number of the Devil.

She stared down at the phone. It looked so insignificant lying amidst the dust and bits of grit; no bigger than the compact mirror she also carried in her bag, yet at this moment it carried the weight of her entire life within its fragile plastic casing. Her hand shook as she picked it up, without giving herself time to think she pressed the number six. Three times.

It was answered immediately.

"Hello Rachel," said the Devil in his honey smooth voice. "I thought you'd see sense."

"What do you want?"

He chuckled. "All in good time. All in good time. Did you ring the hospital?"

"Yes."

"There's my best girl. I was right, was I not? The life of your dear boy has almost been extinguished. What a pity. He's a good-looking lad, isn't he Rachel? A mother's delight. And so young. How old is he? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? I've lost all count you know." A sigh. "Ah well, we'd better get down to business." He chuckled. "Time and tide wait for no man."

"What business?" Even before the words left her lips, Rachel wished she could snatch them back, leave them unsaid...then maybe all of this would go away: Harry would still be alive and well, she would find herself back in the office chatting to Clare and Emma.

But the Devil interrupted her. Answered her question. "Why, who I take and who I don't of course. You or your son. It's your call."

Rachel opened her mouth to speak. The words: You can't be serious ready to drop from her lips. But she knew he was serious. Very serious. This was no joke.

It was her call. Hers alone.

Her mind turned again to Harry. Harry her beloved son. Her only child. Harry who had been her soul-mate since his father had left them ten years ago. Harry who would be twenty-six on his next birthday. Harry who still had his whole life ahead of him. Harry.

There was no choice.

"Me." Rachel was surprised at just how calm her voice sounded, as if she were making small talk with a friend, not bartering with the devil incarnate...because she know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that's what he was. "Take me." And I'm frightened, she thought. Oh yes, she was frightened...very frightened.

The Devil laughed. "Thank you ta nicely," he said. "TTFN." And he was gone. The line went dead.

Rachel squeezed her eyes shut as the tears came flooding down her face. She opened the car door and stepped out into the afternoon. Despite the sunshine, a bitter March wind stung her wet cheeks. She shivered. She lifted the hand that was still clutching the slim black cell phone high into the air. With as much force as she could muster she hauled the mobile from her. It seemed to spin through the air in slow motion before turning a couple of somersaults and dropping like a stone to the ground, landing slap bang in the middle of the dual carriageway.

It broke in two as it hit the tarmac, then was shattered completely under the wheels of a speeding people-carrier. A small pale face peered out of the vehicle's back window. For a micro-second a pair of dark eyes locked with Rachel's. Then were gone.

Tears still streaming down her cheeks, Rachel got back in her car. Slammed the door, started the engine.

Harry had always taken the mickey out of her bright yellow Nissan Micra. He'd said it reminded him of Noddy's car.

Cheers Big Ears, she'd always replied.

Rachel pulled away from the grass verge. She wiped a hand over her wet face and steered the car back onto the A249.

The driver of the articulated lorry didn't even have a chance to hit his brakes as the yellow car pulled out right in front of him.

From the lorry's rearview mirror a small red devil was dangling. A little wicked smile painted on it's little plastic face,

THE END

2008-03-03T12:28:00.000-08:00

When I was thirteen - many moons ago - I stumbled across a debut novel by a new young writer. The novel was Carrie, the writer Stephen King. Since then, through all the years in between, I have been one of King's Constant Readers. I have every single one of his novels. Many I have read, read and re-read. My favourites I have literally read to pieces. I am on my third copy of IT...and that's pretty tatty these days. If I have any complaint to make about the King of Horror, it is simply this: he doesn't write fast enough to feed my hunger for his books. I am ever on the look out for another author to satisfy my taste. James Herbert does it to a degree, and I love the work of Dickens. But still I find them wanting...
And then, through my wanderings in the blogging world, I stumbled across another debut novel by another new writer, and was again hooked like I haven't been since my first reading of Carrie.
The novel is Lost Dog, the writer Bill Cameron.
Lost Dog I suppose, is first and foremost a murder mystery - this is not my usual choice of book, I am a horror fan through and through - but...Bill writes with such flair, in a style I love, that I have already read Lost Dog three times. And there is a dark edge to the story that pleases the dark side in me. I am not going to give the plot away - instead I urge you to buy the book, you won't be disappointed - but below you will find two of my favourite extracts from the novel. Enjoy.

'It was dark, too dark to see more than an indistinct hump where she lay. He pulled off his gloves, reached out and felt her calf, her thigh, her skin. Still warm, barely. He stroked her legs and felt himself tremble in the darkness. What would they do with her? Would they understand what had happened? Why it had to happen? He felt his eyes water. Go home, Jake. But he couldn't just yet. He wanted to lie down next to her for just a little while.
Except that would be really frigging stupid. He shook his head sharply and used the sleeve of his coat to smudge any fingerprints on her bare skin. He knew from TV that fingerprints didn't last long on skin, but you couldn't be too careful. He cast about and found a couple sheets of newspaper tossed up against the tube by the wind, carefully spread them across her. Couldn't have said why. Not like she wouldn't be found anyway. Hell, he wanted her to be found. He stood, thrust his hands into his pockets. Turned away.
Long walk home. Way too late for a bus, but that would have been stupid anyway, him covered in blood. He kept to shadows, dodged headlights. Took the Steel Bridge across the river, dropped her wallet mid-span. Kept the cash. He didn't think about her, concentrated instead on not being seen. He started to feel a little proud of himself, really, gliding like a ghost through the sleeping city. If anyone saw him, they'd wonder if he were real. Heh.
It wasn't till he was home, halfway through the laundry and feeling especially slick, that he realised he'd left his fucking gloves on the ground next to her dead body.'

'The door opened and Peter looked up. Kadash stood framed in the doorway. For a moment, he didn't speak, and Peter was struck by the unsettling feeling that Kadash had somehow changed in the intervening moments since he went out. He seemed shrunken somehow, his face drawn. "I need you to come with me," Kadash said quietly. He waved his hand vaguely through the door.
"Why? What's happened?"
"Mulvaney and Owen have gone ahead. They're probably in their cars by now. Susan told me to bring you with me." Kadash took a long slow breath, didn't meet Peter's gaze. "I tell ya," he muttered to no one, "I think I could use a butt about now."
"Wait a minute!" Peter said, his voice rising to meet the disquiet in his chest. "What the hell happened?" He leaned forward in his chair, realization struck him. "It's Ruby Jane, isn't it?" he said. "That guy came back."
Kadash gazed at Peter for a long moment, then nodded sharply. "I ain't the right person for this," he said in an abrupt rush. "I never been good at this. That's part of why I work with Susan. She knows how to say the right thing - just lets me hang back and do police work. But she told me she thought you'd gotten most comfortable with me, so I should be the one that broke the news. Jesus. I'm sorry."
Peter pushed himself roughly out of his chair. Kadash looked momentarily alarmed, the expression surprisingly out of place on the detective's craggy face. The cherry patch on his neck fluttered almost imperceptibly. "She's not dead," Kadash said quickly. Then his voice softened. "She's not dead. But I have to tell you, she's in pretty bad shape. She took a button in the gut. They've got her at Emanuel."
"Oh, Jesus," Peter whispered.
"Listen," Kadash said quietly, his voice constricted, yet edged with sympathy. "Emanuel has one of the best trauma units in the whole goddamn country. They know what they're doing there, okay?"
Peter heard a hollow rushing sound in his ears. "We should have stayed. We should have brought her with us. God, you saw that guy-"
"Listen, she asked the paramedics if we could bring you to the hospital. Mulvaney and Owen are on their way there now. She wants you to come."
Peter stood paralyzed. Inexplicably, the crack on the wall caught his attention. It seemed to swell and widen, and for an unsettling instant he peered into black depths and imagined himself falling. He felt himself start to sway.
Kadash reached out with his right hand and caught his arm. "Peter," he said softly. "Peter...She wants you to come." '

2008-02-24T07:17:00.000-08:00

Now for a bit of light entertainment.....

GIRLS' NIGHT OUT

Cindy stubbed her cigarette out in the small metal ashtray, then looked across the canteen table to where Jen sat opposite. "You can count me out," she said.
"Why?" Jen raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "It'll be a laugh."
"Yeah, sure. I don't think Nick would see it quite that way. He'd go mad."
"He'll only go mad if he finds out, and I've no intention of telling him...have you?"
Cindy sighed, relaxed back in the moulded plastic chair and folded her arms across her chest. She glanced around the canteen. Lunch break was almost over and people were filtering out.
She bit her bottom lip.
Jen was right...it would be a laugh...
Seeing the expression of indecision on Cindy's face, Jen grinned. "Suzy's going."
Cindy scoffed. "And that's suppose to sway me?" she said. "If Nick knew I was going to spend an evening in the company of Floozy Suzy Sinclair, let alone go where we're planning on going...well...he'd probably leave me. And," she added, "I'm only half joking."
"So? That a yes then? Shall I tell Suzy to get three tickets?"
Cindy nodded. "Yeah, I guess. You only live once after all...just don't tell Nick."
"Attagirl," said Jen. "My lips are sealed."

Later that night Cindy stood in the bedroom doorway.
Nick was standing with his back towards her. She watched with appreciative eyes as her husband peeled off his clothes. In the soft glow cast by the bedside lamp his naked skin looked smooth and ethereal. Cindy's eyes alighted on the strawberry-coloured birthmark on Nick's left shoulder. She smiled. It always reminded her of the shape of Ireland. A little pink bear. She walked over and dropped a kiss in the rough location of Dublin.
Nick turned to her, a smile playing on his own lips. "What was that for?"
"No reason."
"Cindy Lewis," he said, holding her at arms length. "I have been married to you long enough to know when you're after something."
Cindy grinned and stuck her hands in the air. "Guilty as charged milord."
Nick took off his watch, set it down next to the alarm clock. "So?" he said. "Out with it."
"Well, Jen at work...you know?...Jen Adams?"
Nick nodded. "Yes, I know Jen. Tall girl, glasses, brown curly hair."
"That's the one. Well. She's got these tickets for a show at some pub on Tuesday night...a live band I think...she asked me to go with her, on account that she's just split up with her boyfriend. I don't think it's going to be a late night. And as it's your pool night, I'll only be stuck here on my own anyway..."
"Okay. Okay." Nick interrupted. "I get the picture."
"You don't mind?"
"What's there to mind? As you said, I'll be out anyway." Nick paused. "Suzy's not going is she?"
Cindy's stomach performed a slow barrel roll. "No," she lied. "Suzy's not going."
"Good," said Nick. "I can't stand that woman, she's a right flirt." He bent forward and dropped a kiss on the tip of Cindy's nose. "You deserve a night out."
Cindy grinned. "But I enjoy a night in best." She pulled Nick down onto the bed and switched off the light.

The Feather and Bat was crowded as Suzy, Jen and Cindy stepped through its doors.
Suzy glanced at her watch. "There's still a good twenty minutes before it starts. Time enough for a drink. Follow me."
The three women pushed their way towards the bar, Cindy bringing up the rear. She gave the pub a quick once over, checking for anyone she knew. Even though The Feather and Bat was fifteen miles from their home town, she still felt nervous and edgy. She was beginning to wish she had never agreed to come.
"Penny for them?"
Cindy jumped.
"It's okay you know," said Jen. "He'll never find out."
"Who?"
Jen snorted. "Nick of course. He's written all over your face. Just relax, enjoy. It's only a bit of harmless fun."
Hearing these words, Suzy turned round. "What is? What's only a bit of harmless fun?"
"This," said Jen. "Ole worry guts here is afraid Nick will find out and tell her off for being a naughty girl."
Cindy frowned. "Jen!"
"I don't know how you put up with Mister Ice Cold Alex," remarked Suzy. "I'd soon tell him where to get off if he was my guy."
"God job he's not you guy then isn't it?" bristled Cindy. "There is such a thing as mutual respect you know."
"Yeah? That why you're here then is it?"
"Hey, hey," said Jen. "Cool it. We're all friends aren't we?"
"Sure we are." Suzy grinned and punched Cindy playfully on the arm. "What's your poison? I'm paying."

When the overhead lights dimmed twenty minutes later a loud cheer went up in the pub. All eyes turned to the make-shift stage.
Through the half light Cindy could just make out two broad-shouldered male figures. They were standing with their backs towards the audience. Both had their fisted hands placed on their hips. Legs straight and apart. Both were clothed in nothing more than tight leather trousers.
At the exact same time the men turned their heads to the left and the rich strains of Hot Chocolate's I believe in Miracles drifted through the air.
The lights went up.
Cindy narrowed her eyes and brought a hand up to her mouth.
At first she thought it was a tattoo, but as the lights brightened even more, she ralised she was wrong.
The man on the right, the man with short dark hair, had a birthmark on his left shoulder. A strawberry-coloured birthmark.
A strawberry-coloured birthmark in the shape of Ireland.

THE END

The Kimberley: Part 4

2008-02-10T12:22:00.000-08:00

Grandad Tom decided that we should stay in our bolt-hole for eight weeks; to me it seemed like a life-time. For the first few days I sank into a deep depression - probably not helped by our diet of chocolate bars and crisps - and always seemed to be crying or on the verge of crying.
Grandad Tom kept himself busy. On that first morning he fumbled around in the dark until he had found eight industrial flashlights complete with batteries. He then announced to the world at large(namely me): "Let there be light!" and switched on one of the torches. I was momentarily blinded by its brightness.
In a far corner of the storeroom, hidden from view by the metal shelving, he dug a primitive latrine.
Day after day he struggled to keep our lives as normal as possible. He gave me small chores to do. Small things to keep my mind occupied. On the fourth morning he asked me to sort out the pile of old books under the bunks.
That's when I found my salvation.
The third book I pulled out was a heavy hard-backed tome. The deep maroon covers stained and warped with years. Embossed on the front in gold lettering was the legend: A History of Flight by W.D.Browning. Each page was also edged in gold, and a narrow black silk ribbon was attached to the spine: to be used as a book mark.
It was the epitome of all I loved; the written word and flight.
I opened it up with something resembling awe.
On the flyleaf somebody had scribed in ink. To my darling daughter Kimberley on her sixteenth birthday. May all your dreams have wings. Mother.
I turned the page and from that moment on I was lost: lost in the legend of Icarus and how he had flown to close to the sun; lost in the conclusions of Roger Bacon, an english monk, who discovered that air could support a craft in much the same way as the sea could support a boat; lost in the complex drawings of Leonardo Da Vinci's intricate flying machines; lost in the trials and tribulations of brothers, Wilbur and Orville Wright; lost in the adventures and disappearance of Amelia Earhart; lost in it all. Lost, lost, lost. Until one day Grandad Tom found me again and I had to step out from the pages of the book. Step back into the real world once more.

All that happened fifteen years ago.
By some miracle, some quirk of fate, me and Grandad Tom survived the worst halocaust the world had ever known. When we stepped out of that storeroom a decade and a half ago, it was to a nuclear winter: everywhere shrouded in ice and snow. But we coped. We pulled through. Us and a handful of other people, we set to work to put our lives back on track. It was an uphill struggle, a continual steep climb, but we never gave up. Through it all I nurtured my dream of becoming a pilot.
Three years ago myself and Grandad Tom returned to Andersen's, we walked through the ruins without a word passing between us; memories in our eyes. It was the planes that upset me the most, bent and buckled beyond recognition. It was then that the first tiny seeds of an idea began to grow in my mind. To anchor themselves with fragile tenuous roots.
If I truly wanted to realise my dream, then my dream would have to turn into reality.
The very next day I started to put my dream down on paper.
When push comes to shove, it's amazing what can be achieved.
Sitting on the grass bank now, my back leaning up against the building behind me, I watch my grandad slowly make his way up the hill towards me. I smile. We have been through so much together, me and Grandad Tom, and this is the pinnacle of it all.
My grandad sees me and waves a hand in greeting. "Hello Davey lad. All set?"
I nod and get to my feet.
Grandad Tom comes to a halt about ten feet away from the hangar. "Come on then lad. What are you waiting for?"
With a wide grin on my face I fling open the double doors. Inside is my dream. I bend down and remove the chocks. Grandad Tom takes up his position. With a heave-ho we trundle the small two-seater plane out into the early morning sunshine.
The Kimberley.
May all your dreams have wings.

THE END

The Kimberley: Part 3

2008-02-06T10:52:00.000-08:00

After the bright glare of the summer morning the area beyond the doorway seemed as black as night. Boxes and crates swam into my vision as my eyes adjusted themselves to the dim interior. I was my grandad's shadow as he stepped over the threshold; it was like entering a cool dark cave.
Grandad Tom turned towards me. "It's the canteen's storeroom," he said, answering my unspoken question. "Through there..." he pointed towards the back of the building, towards a smaller wooden door that was set into the wall, "...is another store room. It used to be the air raid shelter during the Second World War, when Andersen's was a munitions factory. I thought..." But before he could finish his sentence our whole world lit up, just as if Someone in the Great Above had flicked on a 1,000 watt light bulb. I actually staggered backwards and fell to the floor, eyes screwed up tight.
Grandad Tom swore and slammed the storeroom door shut with a bang.
For long seconds there was only the silence. Even the siren had stopped.
When Grandad Tom spoke his voice was old. "Davey? Are you all right son?"
I nodded and clambered to my feet, opening my eyes. A white after-glare, just as you get from a camera's flash, obscured my vision.
"Grandad?" I said, my words a mouse whisper. "What's happening?" But in my heart I knew.
"Not now Davey. Later. Right now we need to get busy." He nodded towards the door at the back of the storeroom. "Open that door and see if the light still works, there's a pull cord just to the left as you go in, and mind the step."
The light did work. A single bare bulb in the centre of the low-beamed ceiling. It shone with an aeaemic yellow glow. Inside the doorway six narrow wooden steps descended down to a dirt floor.
It was like stepping back in time.
The room was long and narrow. All along the left hand wall ran an array of metal shelving. This shelving was stacked to over-flowing. There seemed to be everything stored there, from reams of computer paper to work overalls to toilet rolls.
But it was the right hand side of the room that caught my attention.
Screwed to the brickwork were four simple wooden bunk beds: two at the top, two at the bottom. Under one of the lower bunks, covered in a thick layer of dust, squatted a cracked chamber pot. Beside the pot was a pile of books, mildewed and forgotten.
"Davey." My grandad's voice dragged me out of the past and back into the present. "Davey lad...help me get these into the back room."
Grandad Tom had stacked up box after box of Kit-Kats, Twixs, Mars Bars and crisps, piling them at the top of the steps. He indicated that he wanted me to carry them down into the inner storeroom. I nodded, and while I busied myself doing this, my grandad started hauling down bottle after bottle of mineral water.
I was on my third trip, arms filled with cartons, when the ground started to tremble. It was only slight at first, so much so, that I actually thought I was imagining it, but as it gained in momentum and was joined by an angry rumbling noise not unlike that of distant thunder, I knew it was for real.
All the colour drained out of Grandad Tom's face until his skin was as grey as his hair. He speeded up. Snatching hold of bottle after bottle after bottle, dashing down the six narrow steps, dumping them on the ground, then leaping up the steps for more. I followed suit, going into auto-pilot, grabbing up boxes and cartons, heedless now of their contents, and hurling them down the steps.
The whole world lurched violently sideways.
I was flung roughly down the steps. Landed with a thud on the floor: the breath knocked out of me.
Above us the door slammed shut. The bulb on the ceiling went out with a chink. Leaving us in total darkness.
I began to cry.
Instantly Grandad Tom's arms wrapped around my body, hugging me close. I snuggled into his chest, clinging to him like a limpet in the dark.
My grandad rested his head on the top of my own, and I knew he was crying too.
How long we sat there, huddled together, our tears mingling. I do not know.
Our waiting had began.

TO BE CONTINUED....

The Kimberley: Part 2

2008-02-01T10:49:00.000-08:00

Everyone always says they remember exactly what they were doing, the day the media announced that Princess Diana had been killed in a car crash.
I now know what they mean.
When the four minute siren sounded I was standing in front of the vending machine in Andersen's canteen, deliberating whether I should buy a can of Coke or a can of Dr Peppers. Grandad Tom was standing next to me, holding a polystrene cup under the hot chocolate nozzle, pushing it against the lever, watching the rich scalding liquid gush out.
I will never forget the way Grandad Tom lifted his head at the sound of the siren, the way his eyes narrowed into slits, the way he muttered something under his breath, something unintelligible.
I will take that memory to my grave.
"What is it Grandad Tom? I said. "Is it the fire alarm? Is something on fire?"
When my grandad didn't answer me straight away, I thought he hadn't heard my question. I was just about to speak again, repeat myself, when Grandad Tom turned to face me. There was a look in his eyes that I had never seen there before, a look that started a million butterflies soaring and diving in my stomach.
"No son...it's not the fire alarm."
"Then what is it? What is it Grandad Tom?"
My grandad dropped to his haunches before me, he placed his hands on the tops of my arms. His fingers felt as cold as ice through the thin fabric of my sweatshirt. He looked into my eyes. I looked back into his. My mother once told me that you can see deep into a person's soul through their eyes. For the first time ever, I believed her. I could see my grandad's soul reflected clearly in the dark orbs of his pupils. It was a soul in torment.
"Davey," he said. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
I nodded. Didn't he know I already trusted him implicitly? That I would follow him into the fiery depths of hell if that were where he should lead?
"Good lad." He said. "Now listen. I think we're in touble...bad trouble. We need to get out of this building and into safer shelter, and we need to do it quickly, understand?"
I nodded again. A heavy frown settled between my eyebrows and my mouth tightened into a thin hard line.
Without further ado, my grandad took my hand and pulled me out of the canteen.

As we raced across the gravel through the humid July heat, the sound of the siren chased us, nipping at out heels. My grandad kept snatching furtive glances up at the sky and I tried to follow his gaze, wanting to know what he was searching for. As a result twice I almost fell to my knees, after that I began to concentrate on trying to match my grandad's giant-size strides. Never before in all my life had I seen my grandad fazed, his feathers ruffled, but that morning he dragged me across those grounds in sheer panic. Blue eyes wild and rolling.
We came to a skidding halt beside a low sprawling sandstone building. Grandad Tom released the death grip on my hand, grasped the latch of the metal door before us and pushed it open.

TO BE CONTINUED...

2008-01-26T09:33:00.000-08:00

The Kimberley: Part 1

The world ended on a Sunday.
Sunday 18 July 2026, 10:37am, to be precise. It's ironic if you think about it; God took six days to create the world...mankind took less than one to destroy it. But sometimes fate shuffles the cards and deals out a winning hand. It dealt me one that Sunday, me and Grandad Tom both. I was just eleven years old, Grandad Tom, fifty-two.
Grandad Tom worked as a security guard for Andersen's Aerotronics...and boy was he proud of the fact, the way he went on you would have thought he owned the company. Not that I minded, not really. You see I loved my maternal grandfather wholeheartedly, more than my parents even - not that I'd ever tell them that of course - my mum and dad were just...well...my mum and dad, but Grandad Tom, he was special. It was from him that I had inherited my love of planes. Many a time when I was young my grandad had driven me in his battered old blue Volvo Estate, right up to the perimeter fence of Andersen's, and peered with me through the chainlink fencing at the disused planes that were scattered around the grounds. I always felt a melancholy sort of sadness in my heart when I looked at them. They reminded me of mighty birds with clipped wings. Birds that would much rather be up in the clouds riding the thermals, not trapped down on the tarmac.
"Grandad Tom?" I said one Saturday afternoon as I was staring through the fencing. Fingers curled around the chainlink.
"Yes Davey?"
"Do you think you'd be able to take me into work with you one weekend? I'd love to see the planes close up?" With my forehead still pressed against the fence, I gave my grandad a long slow sideways look; slidey-eyes my mum always called it.
Grandad Tom turned to me, smiled and ruffled my hair. "Well," he said. "I'd have to clear it with Charlie Mason first, he's head of security...but I can't see it being a problem."
It wasn't.
Our Sunday morning trips into Andersen's soon became a ritual. Without either Grandad Tom or myself being aware of it, our fates became irrevocably sealed together.

At the time, I thought that Sunday in July started off much the same as all the Sundays that had gone before. Looking back now, through the mists of an age long passed, I can see I was wrong. Nothing about that Sunday fifteen years ago was the same as the ones that had preceded it.
My grandad was a stickler for punctuality; each Sunday morning he brought his old Volvo to a halt outside our house at 8:45am on the dot. Not a second before nor a second after. He would honk his horn once to let me know he was there, then would sit with the engine running; fingers tapping on the steering wheel. Waiting.
Not that Sunday though. That Sunday Grandad Tom leapt out of his car like a thing possessed as soon as it stopped. Trotted up our driveway with an agility that belied his years, waving a newspaper over his head. Eyes spitting blue fire.
"Wendy! Jeff! have you seen the news?" Grandad Tom burst into our kitchen like a mini tornado, flung the newspaper down onto the breakfast table. "Just look! Just look at what those bloody Russians have done now, them and their machiavellian leader Knollmiller."
Those 'bloody' Russians had declared war.
My mum burst into tears. My dad sat down so hard in his chair he spilt coffee all over the tablecloth.
I just carried on tying my shoelaces. War doesn't carry quite the same weight when you're eleven years old.
Later, as me and Grandad Tom drove away from the house, I twisted round in my seat and waved goodbye to my parents. They were standing side by side on our front door step. The early morning sunshine danced upon my mum's auburn hair, transforming it into living flame. Her cheeks still glistened with tears. My dad had his arm wrapped loosely around her waist, holding her to him.
I never saw either of them again.
The Russians declared war on the stroke of midnight, Saturday 17th July 2026. On Sunday 18th July, at 10:37am precisely, they blew up the world. The world we had all taken for granted. The world to which we had all grown accustomed.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

I'm Proud to be a Swampie!

2008-01-19T11:13:00.000-08:00

On her blog, Random Acts of Unkindness, ello raised the challenge for anyone to list 7 Interesting Facts about the area they live in. So here goes.....

FACT 1: I have lived all my life on the Isle of Sheppey, a small island tucked away in the south-eastern corner of England, a mere 50 miles from London. The island measures barely 9 miles wide by 11 miles long, and is mostly comprised of marshland on which flocks of sheep have gazed since time out of mind - hence the island's name. Because of the acres of swampy marshland, the islanders have been given the nickname of Swampies...of which I am one!
The island is linked to mainland Kent by The Sheppey Crossing, a gracefully arching bridge that spans the water of The Swale below. Because of its close proximity to London, during the summer months the islands two seaside towns: Sheerness and Leysdown are 'swamped' by Londoners.

FACT 2: Eastchurch Village is the island's smallest and quaintest village, a slice of days gone by. Centuries ago the village used to be owned by a family of nobility: the de Shurlands. They commissioned a magnificent manor house to be built which overlooked Eastchurch. King Henry VIII and his young wife Anne Boleyn often spent time at Shurland Hall, and spent part of their honeymoon there. Unfortunately today the Hall stands in ruins.

FACT 3: The vilage of Eastchurch also boasted an aerodrome. And the Wright Brothers, Wilbur and Orville, the first pioneers of flight, would often come here to test fly their planes. The aerodrome is still in use today for privately owned air craft. Often in the summer we have light craft flying in the skies above our garden.

FACT 4: Sheppey is the home to three prisons. Standford Hill, a Category D prison, stands on the site of an old Royal Air Force station. It holds about 464 inmates. Elmley Prison is a Category C prison with 240 inmates. Swaleside is a high security Category B prison, and holds up to 775 prisoners, most of which are serving life sentences. Many well-known infamous prisoners have and still do serve time in Swaleside. Many a time we've been woken at night by helicopters searchlights; hunting for escaped prisoners!

FACT 5: In 1944, the USS Richard Montgomery, a liberty ship carrying 6,127 tons of explosives, run aground on a sandbank just two miles off the coast of Sheppey. The ship broke its back and could not be moved in fear of detonating the explosives. And there she still lies...explosives and all. Her masts poke up above the water, and are visible from most of Sheppey's beaches. It is supposed that if she ever does blow sky high, then Sheppey will go with her. But who knows. Each year the ship is inspected by safety officers, who check the condition of the hull and its cargo. Up to date everything seems A OK, but if I suddenly stop writing my blog, you will know what has happened!

FACT 6: Approximately twenty years ago, an awful man kept lions, tigers and pumas in his back garden on Sheppey. He was eventually caught out and fined, but not before he had let his animals free to roam the island. Luckily, all of the big cats were caught...except one puma. Over the years there have been various sightings of a big black cat in different areas of Sheppey, but it is all just hearsay. No one has ever managed to take a photo of the animal. So? Is it fact or legend? No one knows.

FACT 7: The author Charles Dickens often visited Sheppey. He always stayed in the same inn: Prospect Villa. Just across the road from the inn was a small shop with a bow window. It is this shop that was his inspiration for his novel The Old Curiosity Shop.

I hope you have enjoyed this brief insight to my homeplace.
Does anyone else want a go?

Apologies if some of you have read this before, but I'm re-blogging some of the stuff that was lost when my original blog crashed.

2008-01-13T09:27:00.000-08:00

A Kiss In The Dark.

He called me to the window in the darkness of the night.
Beyond, the moon was glowing a translucent silver white.
His fingers danced upon the glass, his nails they scratched the pane,
He leant towards the window, gently whispering my name.
My nightgown billowed round me, stirred by a chilling draught,
Through the window glass between us I heard a micking laugh.
My bare feet glided forward, with a will no longer mine,
I knew he craved to drink my blood: a full red-bodied wine.
A scream rose, then died upon my lips; instead I asked him in.
With a flourish of his silk-lined cloak and on his face a grin,
He pulled the window open and floated passed the sill,
Until he stood before me: so tall and dark and still.
His eyes were full of hunger, a lust for me alone.
He smiled a sharp-fanged smile, that chilled my very bone.
Yet suddenly within my heart dark longing filled my soul,
When he wrapped his arms around me, my sanity he stole.
I pressed myself against him, my body one with his,
I closed my eyes upon my life and waited for his kiss.

2008-01-06T06:10:00.000-08:00

PC WAYNE WINTERBOTTOM: Part 2

PC Wayne Winterbottom sat me on the ledge, then came and lowered himself down beside me. He didn't say a word. Just sat there silently staring straight ahead. Hands lying loosely on his bent knees, legs dangling over the edge. Brave really.

After about ten minutes my crying dried up into funny little hicupping sounds. I couldn't remember the last time I had cried like that. I hadn't cried when my mother died of cancer at just twenty-eight years of age, or when my father was killed five years later in a car crash. I hadn't cried when my first wife left me for another man, or when my second wife left me for another woman. I hadn't cried when my fiancee aborted our first baby two years ago,or when my beautiful seven week old daughter had died of a cot death three days ago. In fact, looking back, I hadn't cried since my dog, Mister Bojangles, had been put down when I was nine years old.

Hell of a long time not to cry.

I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my jacket. Surreal huh? Here was I, sitting on a cold concrete ledge, tens of feet up in the air, cuffing snot onto the sleeve of my expensive grey three-piece suit.

So? Said Pc Wayne Winterbottom. What's this all about?

I physically jolted. I had forgotten about the young policeman sitting there quietly next to me.

I gave a huge sigh and shook my head.

I dunno, I said. Everything is just too much...just too goddam much.

Like what? Asked PC Wayne Winterbottom.

So I told him. Just like that. I told him about my mother, her suffering, how she wouldn't let myself, or my brother Pete, see her right at the end. I told him how my father had gone out on my thirteenth birthday, to get a take-away from the local chinese restaurant, and had been killed on the way back. I told him how my first wife had been sleeping with my best mate for eighteen months behind my back, then had packed her bags and moved in with him. I told him how my second wife had been having an affair with her female yoga instructor for three months, before packing her bags and moving in with her. I told him how my fiancee had aborted our baby, my son, without even telling me, because she hadn't wanted to be a mother just then. Finally I told him how I'd woken up three days ago and gone in to give my seven week old daughter, my beautiful little Jennifer Ann, a peck on the cheek before work, and had found her dead in her cot.

I told PC Wayne Winterbottom everything, leaving nothing out. As I spoke, filling in every tiny detail, I felt something heavy in my body begin to melt. All my life I had carried around this big grey lump of rock. Sitting there, recalling every event in turn, was like taking a pickaxe to that rock, chipping away at it until there was nothing left but a pile of dust.

One puff of wind would be enough to blow it all away.

PC Wayne Winterbottom sat silently beside me. Listening. When I had finished he looked up and his eyes were grave as he spoke.

He told me his wife had just left him. She was eight months pregnant with their first child. She said she'd had enough of the police force interfering with their life. She wanted out. She'd gone back home to her parents. He'd tried everything within his power to get her back, but she was having none of it. Right from the start his in-laws had never liked him. He wasn't good enough for their daughter.

PC Wayne Winterbottom turned to me, his young face old.

He told me he was in terrible debt with his bank. I wouldn't believe how much. There was no way he would ever be able to pay back all the money he owed. Not on his wages.

I tried to interrupt him, let him know that, hey, I was a bank manager; there were ways and means around these things. But he wasn't listening. He just sat there, turning his wedding ring round and round on his finger.

The wind had got up since I had first come out on the ledge and I was getting cold. Expensive my suit may well be, warm it was not. I'd changed my mind. I didn't want to die. Not today. More than anything I wanted to get back to my wife. She was grieving over the loss of our daughter too. She needed me.

I got to my feet, clutching hold of the safety barrier as a strong gust of wind buffeted against my body. I twisted round awkwardly on the narrow ledge, put out my hand to help PC Wayne Winterbottom to his feet.

The ledge was empty.

Down below someone began to scream...

THE END

PC Wayne Winterbottom is one of the very first short stories I wrote and was proud of. It's a bit predictable, but I still like it!

2008-01-03T09:36:00.000-08:00

PC WAYNE WINTERBOTTOM

A fair-sized crowd gathered to watch me die.

This didn't surprise me. I believe we all possess a sadistic streak. In some of us it's buried deep down, so deep that the carrier is not even aware it's there. In others, such as myself, it's near the surface, just under the skin, so that the slightest scratch is enough to bring it out. Even now, in this so called civilised world we live in, I am positive a public execution would draw a decent audience, and I'm more than certain that if a couple of murderers were put in with a couple of lions, it would be a sell out.

Anyhow, agree with me or not, a fair-sized crowd gathered to watch me die.

It didn't take long for the word to get around that some loony was on top of the city's multi-storey car park, and it looked as if he were getting ready to jump.
Well, loony or not, I was up there, and I was getting ready to jump.

Time and time again, I've heard people who don't know any different, calling others who commit suicide, cowards. They're all wrong. Believe me. It takes a lot of raw courage and will-power to climb onto a ledge, god knows how many feet from the ground, and stand there looking down at the pavement far below. Somehow, in a perverse sort of way, it made me feel quite godlike. For the first time ever I was in total control of my own destiny. I felt exhilarated. As a rush of adrenalin surged through me I felt all the hairs on my body stand on end as if charged with electricity.

The time had come.

I spread my arms wide, took a deep breath, shut my eyes. I lifted my foot to step away from the building.

That's when I heard the shout over my shoulder. For a second I felt suspended in mid-air, just like one of those silly cartoon characters, then my arms circled crazily backwards and I crashed against the metal railing behind me, banging my head.

A policeman was standing just the other side of the safety barrier. A young policeman. With acne.

What on earth are you trying to do? I said. Give me a frigging heart attack? You could have killed me. I laughed. Even to my own ears it sounded like a madman laughing.

The policeman frowned. What's your name?

If you give me yours, I said, like a tetchy kid at school swapping football cards. I'll give you mine.

Wayne Winterbottom, he said. PC Wayne Winterbottom.

There was I, a forty-three year old bank manager on the brink of taking my own life, and the police force had sent a kid called Wayne Winterbottom to save me from damnation. A kid with acne. I started to laugh again.

I wish you wouldn't do that,he said.

I frowned. What?

Keep laughing like that.

I shrugged, got to my feet, rubbed the back of my head; I had hit it a good one when I had fallen backwards. One step and I was at the edge again. I leant forward and peered down. PC Wayne Winterbottom must have thought this was IT. He lunged across the safety barrier and grabbed hold of my jacket, pulling me towards him. I heard something rip. Then we were inches apart, his face in front of mine. I could feel his moist breath warm on my skin. A faint hint of juicy fruit chewing gum.

I burst into tears.

...TO BE CONTINUED...

A Very Happy Christmas and a Boozy New Year. Will be back in 2008!

2007-12-23T02:34:00.000-08:00

2007-12-17T11:30:00.000-08:00

BOVVER BOOTS: Part 6 (For parts 1, 2, 3, 4 & 5 scroll down)

Tom Murray was late. He had promised to take his girlfriend, Laura, to the cinema, and he was late. His bloody boss had kept him in the office 'til six o' clock and the film started at seven-thirty, He still had to get home and grab something to eat.

Tom stopped in his tracks as he came to the top of Quarry Road. He didn't usually go that way, it was a piss-hole of a place, but if he remembered rightly there was a take-away about halfway down; he could get himself a curry.

Tom turned into Quarry Road. As he walked passed Cathy's Cast-offs, the second-hand shop on the corner, he glanced in the window. His reflection looked back at him; a tall dark-haired twenty-something.

He grinned.

That's when he saw the boots. Black leather Doc Martens: toes slightly scuffed; laces frayed at the ends.

Tom stepped nearer the glass.

Doc Martens. They would be just the ticket for on his motorbike. He noticed a small square of white card poking up out of one of the boots.

Size 10, it read. £5.

Tom's grin widened. Just his size.

He marched over to the door and grasped the handle.

THE END.

2007-12-13T11:26:00.000-08:00

BOVVER BOOTS: Part 5 (for parts 1, 2, 3 & 4 scroll down)

For long seconds nothing moved. Not myself, not the boots, not the young man. My heart was pulsating fit to burst, every beat shaking my entire body and pounding like a death knell in my ears.

And then everything happened at once.

The young man spun round on his heels, obviously meaning to make a dash for it, but the Doc Martens forestalled him. One boot lurched itself with breakneck speed between the fleeing man's feet and tripped him up. The youth dropped with a bone-cracking thud to his knees. The knife clattered away into the shadows. The second boot reversed direction slightly then flew forward faster than ever and kicked the man on the backside, hard, knocking him face down onto the ground. The youth's nose crunched on the concrete. Blood, dark as ink in the night, gushed from his nostrils.

I watched as the man put his hands, palms down, on the ground each side of his chest, to push himself up. Immediately the boots were on him. Stamping down on his fingers, grinding the digits under their thick rubber soles. The youth screamed in agony. He lifted his head and looked at me, his eyes full of pleading. One of the boots, sensing the movement, lunged along his prostrate body and kicked the man full in the face, shattering his already broken nose.

The screams of the youth reached new heights, rebounding off the alley walls until I could bear it no longer. I turned my head away, pressed my fingers in my ears until all I could make out was a muffled drone. How long I sat there, hunched up, I don't know, but eventually I realised that the droning had stopped. I removed my fingers, turning back round. What I saw caught the breath in my throat.

The young man was still lying on the ground: face down; motionless. A large pool of blood surrounded his head. The Doc Martens were standing neatly side by side. Heels together, toes slightly apart. Black leather wet and glistening.

I closed my eyes and ran both my hands through my hair.

Jesus.

Jesus-fucking-christ.

I froze.

Something was approaching me. Something was walking towards me with slow measured steps.

I snapped open my eyes.

The boots stopped about three feet away: heels together, toes slightly apart.

I made a soft mewing noise deep in the back of my throat and pushed myself further up against the wall.

The boots stood silent. Unmoving. Then all of a sudden they clicked their heels sharply together in a Germanic salute, pivoted round, and marched off down the alley, back towards Quarry Road.

I watched the boots until the darkness had swallowed them up, listened until their clump clump had faded away to nothing. Only then did I move. I got stiffly to my feet, my head still throbbing from where I had whacked it against the brickwork. I rubbed my jaw and winced out loud as my fingers encountered a hard sore lump.

Against my better judgement I walked across to the young man and looked down. There was no telling if he was dead or alive, and I had no inclination whatsoever to touch his battered bloodied body.

I glanced up and down the alley, stepped over the discarded carrier bag, and headed for home and Maeve.

TO BE CONTINUED......

2007-12-09T06:15:00.000-08:00

BOVVER BOOTS: Part 4 (for parts 1, 2, & 3 scroll down)

My heart beat shifted up tempo until it was trip-trapping along rapidly, my whole body throbbing in time with its rhythm.

I dragged my eyes away from the youth's face and glanced towards the end of the alley, the Radshaw end. It looked a thousand miles away. I narrowed my gaze, debating whether to make a sudden dash for it.

The young man punched me. Hard and square on the jaw.

My teeth clamped down on my tongue and the coppery taste of blood flooded my mouth. I staggered backwards, completely taken by surprise. I went down - much to my shame -like the proverbial ton of bricks, whacking the back of my head against the wall as I did so. My arms shot up in the air and I landed with a back-jarring thud on the ground. Just before my vision misted over I caught sight of the carrier bag containing my boots go somersaulting through the air, then my head was filled with exploding white stars, and I blacked out.

I came to gradually.

Off to my left I could hear the rustling of the carrier bag. I pulled myself into a sitting position - my lower back screaming in agony - and slumped up against the wall. The rustling continued. My assailant was obviously seeing if there was anything worth stealing. Well, I thought spitefully, he was out of luck. The boots would be far too small for him. He was certainly no size eight.

I opened my eyes.

The young man hadn't moved. He was still towering over me: glaring down; his face full of menacing purpose. A tiny metallic click sounded in his right hand and suddenly he was holding a six-inch double-edged knife. The silver blade glimmered in the dusky half-light. I knew without a doubt that the youth wouldn't hesitate to use it. To stab me for the measly thirty or forty pounds I had in my wallet, and I would breath my last in this godforsaken hellhole, surrounded by the reek of dog-piss.

Something moved beside us in the dark.

The young man's gaze shifted that way. I watched his eyes open wide, his jaw drop. "What the fuck...?"

Curious, I turned my head.

The boots, the Doc Martens, were standing neatly side by side: heels together; toes slightly apart.

My heart began to trip-trap in my chest again. Something wasn't right here. I had seen the carrier bag go flying through the air. There was no way the boots could have fallen out and landed like that: tidily, together, the right way up.

A heavy feeling of foreboding fell like lead to the very pit of my stomach.

With slow measured steps the boots started to walk; they approached the youth.

The young man narrowed his eyes, cocked his head to one side. An expression of almost comic disbelief came over his face. He took one hesitant step backwards, then another, and another. The boots kept coming. Unhurried. Steady. Intent.

Three feet away from the youth, they stopped.

TO BE CONTINUED....

2007-12-05T10:50:00.000-08:00

BOVVER BOOTS: Part 3 (for parts 1 & 2 scroll down)

While I had been in the shop, dusk had deepened into night. The overhead streetlamps had blinked on and cold fragile light bathed the pavement. I stood in the shelter of the doorway, loath to step out into the darkness. The sound of a door opening across the road and then banging shut again, made me turn in that direction. I watched as a solitary figure detached itself from the shadows and began to stroll down the street, the burning tip of a cigarette glowing like a single red eye.

I sighed, my breath hanging like a mist before my face, and stepped out of the doorway. I turned my collar up about my ears; the night had grown cold. with the carrier bag rustling at my side, I started for home.

Quarry Road was a dead end. The houses culminating into a small block of garages situated around an asphalt parking area. Most of the garage doors, the ones that were actually pulled down at any rate, were covered in graffiti. The ones that stood open were filled with rubbish: discarded refrigerators and washing machines; battered cardboard boxes overflowing with household junk; mouldy threadbare carpets.

I don't think any of those garages housed a car.

Behind the garage block run a narrow alleyway, this alleyway linked Quarry Road with Radshaw Street: the street where I lived. As I stepped around the back of the garages I wrinkled my nose. The stench of dog piss and a smell not unlike that of rotten cabbages hung heavy in the air. I quickened my pace as soon as I stepped away from the comforting glow of the streetlamps; not wanting to be in this dark hellhole more than was absolutely necessary. My footfalls echoed above my head, reverberating off the high brick walls that flanked me on either side.

Although I could still hear the faint hum of traffic from the High Street, and somewhere nearer at hand a dog barked, I felt isolated. Far from civilization. Vulnerable.

I had taken no more than a dozen steps when I sensed someone was behind me, following silently in my wake.

At first I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid. It was just my imagination working overtime. That walking alone down this dingy unlighted alleyway was giving me the heebie-jeebies. Of course there was no-one there. If I cared to take a look over my shoulder all I would see was the empty passageway stretching away behind me.

But I didn't care to. I wasn't quite brave enough for that. So instead I speeded up.

There was no mistaking the sound of scuffling feet as whoever was behind me speeded up too.

I gulped nervously in my throat. My heart started to beat a steady tattoo in my chest and adrenalin coursed through my body, making me feel curiously light-headed. I bit the inside of my lip, not certain what to do next. Should I slow down and let whoever was behind me overtake? Or should I pretend everything was tickety-boo and just carry on walking, as if I didn't have a care in the world? Or should I...

The person behind me coughed. A small discreet cough. "Hey, mister? You got a light?"

So immense was my relief that I actually laughed out loud. I half turned to face the man that had spoken. "No. I'm sorry. I don't smoke."

The words died a sudden death on my lips.

The young man behind me was tall; his pale white face hovering before me like a ghost in the dark. Dangling from his lips was a cigarette - a lighted cigarette. As I watched he carefully removed it from his mouth, formed his lips into a tight little 'O' and blew out a steady stream of smoke. All the while staring at me with his dark sombre eyes.

I knew I was in trouble.

TO BE CONTINUED....

2007-12-01T12:48:00.000-08:00

BOVVER BOOTS: Part 2 (for part 1 scroll down)

The interior of the shop seemed unnaturally bright after the dusk outside, and smelt as only second-hand shops can: that musty odour of clothes over-worn; books over-read; records over-played. The elderly female shop assistant placed the Doc Martens down on the counter between us.

They stood silently side by side. Heels together, toes slightly apart.

Waiting.

The woman was wearing a pair of bifocal glasses that were perched rather precariously on the end of her thin bony nose. She tilted her head down, studying me from beneath almost non-existent grey eyebrows. "Size eight you say?"

I nodded, then watched as the shop assistant picked up one of the boots and examined its chunky rubber sole. "Seems like your in luck." She lifted her gaze, her rheumy pale eyes meeting mine. "Size eight they are."

I grinned. "How much do you want for them?"

"You know-" the woman said, ignoring my question, "-it's rather peculiar - but I could have sworn I sold these boots just over a week ago - to a plump gentleman. He said they would be ideal for his work." She paused. "He was a bricklayer I think," her brows knit together. "Or was it a plasterer?" The woman's eyes glazed over for the briefest of moments, then she shrugged. "Oh well, that's neither here nor there. How much? Five pounds. take them or leave them."

"I'll take them."

The woman gave a curt little nod, dropped the Doc Martens into a blue and white striped carrier-bag, at the same time taking from my hand the five pound note I was holding out to her.

At the door I stopped, my fingers resting lightly on the handle. i turned round to bid the woman good-bye. The words of farewell dried up in my throat.

The elderly shop assistant was staring over the top of her glasses. Staring down at the bag by my side.

The look of puzzlement back on her face.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

Here we go again....

2007-11-28T09:39:00.000-08:00

BOVVER BOOTS: Part 1

The boots caught my eye as I hurried home from work on Friday evening. They were standing neatly side by side in the window of Cathy's Cast-Offs; the second-hand shop on the corner of Quarry Road. Black leather Doctor Martens: toes slightly scuffed, laces frayed at the ends. Ordinarily I wouldn't have noticed them, because ordinarily I wouldn't have been walking home along this particular side-street. But tonight I had been held up at work, and Quarry Road was my quickest route home. Maeve hated me being late in for my evening meal, and I didn't want to experience the Wrath of Maeve...oh no.

I usually avoided Quarry Road like the plague. It was a narrow dismal street lined with narrow dismal houses, the doors of which opened directly onto the pavement. The only two shops were Cathy's Cast-Offs as you entered the road, and a seedy-looking Chinese take-away about halfway down.

Usually I took the 'scenic' route home: up Mustard Hill, along Jackson Avenue, and out onto the old railway embankment road. But that took almost thirty minutes of my time, so tonight, running late as I was, I opted for Quarry Road. I was more daunted by the thought of my wife's anger than I was by the prospect of venturing into the gloomy side-street.

As I walked passed the second-hand shop I glanced at my reflection in the window. A slightly over-weight, grey-haired, middle-aged man looked back at me. He'd been looking back at me for years now, following me faithfully from shop window to shop window, studying me intently with his serious dark eyes. I'm not altogether sure what he'd done with the carefree young man that used to shadow me. Taken him hostage no doubt...he looked the sort.

I grinned.

The middle-aged man grinned back, and through my own ghostlike reflection the boots swam into focus.

Doctor Martens.

I stepped nearer the glass.

I could remember a time when all I had worn were Doc Martens; polished 'til they gleamed. Of course that was in the good ole days, the days before I had met Maeve. She had soon weaned me away from 'those great clod-hopping things'.

Now I wore sensible shoes. Black lace up shoes. Grown-up people's shoes.

Normal shoes.

A sudden wave of nostalgia swept over me, so powerful it brought a salty lump to my throat.

I had loved my Doc Martens...how sad was that?

I turned away from the shop-front to resume my walk home but had taken no more than two or three steps when something, some impulse, made me look back over my shoulder. Back towards the window.

The boots were staring at me.

I narrowed my eyes.

Don't be so stupid, I reasoned with myself. Boots can't see, let only stare.

But the more I looked at the boots, the more they seemed to be scrutinising me. Mocking me from behind the safety of the fly-specked glass.

Come and buy us, they seemed to whisper. You know you want to.

I frowned.

Did I?...Did I want to buy them?

My frown disappeared as I grinned.

Of course I did. I could imagine myself sneaking the boots home in a brown paper bag, hiding them deep in the darkness at the very back of my wardrobe, putting them on when Maeve was out. Clod-hopping around the house to my heart's delight.

And why shouldn't I? I was forty-eight years old for Christ's sake. Surely I was entitled to buy a pair of second-hand boots if I wanted to...without having to hide them in the wardrobe.

My grin widened to almost manic proportions as I marched up to the door of Cathy's Cast-Offs and grasped the handle.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

This story was placed third in a Short story Competition.

2007-11-24T05:18:00.001-08:00

My mother used to say: If you wish upon the first star that appears at night, whatever you wish for will always come true.
I believed her once. But she's been cold in her grave now for nigh on thirty years. Me? well, I've become a grumpy old cynic, one who no longer believes in magic.
When does that happen exactly?
I don't recall going to bed one night believing in magic, in fairies, then waking up the next morning, thinking: Ha! Today's the day I Grow Up. Today's the day I don't believe in Once Upon A Time anymore, I don't believe in Happily Ever After.
No...it doesn't work like that.
It creeps up on you all unawares: bit by bit; stealthily; leaving you dry and arid like a desert.
The day after my mother died back in 1976, I tried again. I went out in the back garden as dusk was gathering, hugged my thin cardigan to my body - inadequate protection against the chill November air - and stared wide-eyed up into the darkness...waiting.
I stood there for fifteen minutes, teeth chattering. The neighbour's Jack Russell yapping at me from the other side of the fence. She came out once, Old Mary, to tell Trixie to stop making all that noise, then saw me standing in the shadows and hurried back indoors. Probably to tell her Bill that the death of my mother had addled my brain - why else would I be standing in the dark, in nightie and cardie, on a cold winter's night.
Anyway, I wished on that first star - the pole star I believe it's called - but my mother stayed dead: taken before her time. All I succeeded in doing was catch a chill which laid me up in bed for three days. Doctor Harker said it was a combination of stress, depression and under-eating. Bah...what do doctors know? I was up and about again within a week.
Lately I've felt the urge again. To wish upon a star. I think my mother, God bless her, got it wrong. I don't think it is the first star you wish on. No, I think it's the last...the very last star that appears in the night sky. After all, any-ole-body can easily spot the first star: there's nothing special about that. But the last star...ahh...now there's a completely different kettle of fish.
You try it.
You have to be a dedicated star-gazer to spot the very last star that winks into existence among the millions and trillions of other white twinkling dots.
Two weeks I've been trying. Two weeks I've been watching...waiting. When I eventually spot that last star...then I know my wish will come true.
The trouble is, my wish has changed. I no longer want my mother to become mortal once more; the days without her no longer pain me.
I am old myself now: old and tired of life.
Now I wish for the knight of death to carry me away on his ebony black stallion.
My mother was wrong.
I must keep searching for that final star....

Getting Personal....

2007-11-22T09:33:00.000-08:00

Rules of the tagging game:

Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.

Share seven random or weird things about yourself.

Tag seven random people at the end of your blog.

Let each person know they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

She of little brain has tagged me from the one acre wood, here are seven things about me:

1, My real name is Debi Sands, but I didn't think this suited a horror/fantasy writer, so Akasha Savage was born. The name Akasha comes from Anne Rice's novel Queen of the Damned, and Savage was my Grandmother's maiden name.

2, When I was younger I used to be a Kiss-o-gram girl!

3, I would love to be transported to the Artic and left (just for half an hour), so I could sit on a snowy rock and listen to the roar of the silence.

4, I am a complete speed freak. I used to have horses and would push them to the limit all the time. My hubby has a huge black motorbike,I love riding on the back of it: the faster the better. For my 40th birthday (five years ago) I had a two hour flying lesson...just brilliant.

5, I have three major things I want to do before I die: have a book published, own a TVR, and meet my hero Stephen King.

6, I am in love with Johnny Depp...but then which female isn't?

7, Every single time I watch Ghost or Beaches I cry. I don't mean a gentle weep. I sob my eyes out. But my favourite film is Jaws.

You've been tagged:

Hawkins Bizarre
Flawed Diamonds
Random Acts of Kindness
Tales at Twilight

2007-11-14T10:20:00.000-08:00

MACKENZIE'S COTTAGE: Part 5 (scroll down for parts 1,2,3 & 4)

I jumped as Marty nudged me in the back.

I twisted round to face him. His emerald eyes were glassy with fear. He shouted something at me and pointed to the floor, his words drowned out by the inhuman shriek that reverberated around the small passage. Following his shaking finger with my eyes, I looked down at the bare boards beside the staircase.

A crack, no wider than an inch, was snaking its way with ever increasing speed across the floor. As it gathered momentum, travelling faster and faster, it opened wider and wider. Edges sharp and jagged like teeth. Something wet and and liver-coloured pulsated just beneath the surface, and I realised seconds too late that the crack was heading straight towards Johnny.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and bellowed.

"JOHNEEEE!"

But it was impossible. The scream of the splitting timber was too loud.

Lightning flashed, and whether it was this or some deep-buried sixth sense rearing its head, but Johnny looked down. His face seemed to melt, elongate, the colour blanching from his skin leaving him with a pasty grey pallor, his eyes dark as coals. He grabbed at the doorframe and actually raised himself up on tip-toe as the crack ran between his feet, as if this would somehow elevate him from the floor.

The crack stopped at the threshold of the cottage.

Heavy ringing silence fell over us like a shroud, even the wind seemed to have lost its strength. Then with an unbelievable explosion of sound the crack widened. Johnny's legs spread further and further apart, until his buttocks were hovering just inches over the gaping hole beneath him. A huge tongue, glistening and wet, slowly unfurled like a snake from the crack. When its tip was about four feet up in the air, it froze, almost as if it were listening. Concentrating. It whipped round sharply to the left and with frightening speed the tongue wrapped itself around Johnny's torso.

Johnny screamed. The cords on his neck bulged, ugly and red. He let go of the doorframe, clenched his fists and in a wild frenzy started to punch at the tongue, an involuntary shriek of disgust bursting from his lips every time his knuckles sank into the dark liver-coloured flesh, spraying moisture.

"UGH! PETE HELP ME! UGH! MARTY! MARTEEE! UGH! GET THIS FUCKING THING OFF ME! UGH! PLEEESE HELP ME!"

But we didn't help. We couldn't. We just sat there paralysed on the stairs, watching as the giant tongue squeezed the life out of our friend. Listening as Johnny's screams echoed around the cottage. Watching as the tongue dragged him crying and struggling into the dusty mouth of the crack. Watching as the jagged wooden teeth snapped closed with a resounding slap of timber.

Johnny was gone.

I don't know how long me and Marty sat there, speechless, staring at the empty floor before us as if Johnny would suddenly appear again, like magic. It felt like hours, but was probably only minutes. My jaw was aching where I had my teeth clenched so tightly together, my knuckles were bone white from gripping the step beneath me so hard.

"Shit." Marty said. His voice small and strained.

I nodded, too frightened to open my mouth and answer incase the scream that was bubbling up inside me burst forth. I knew if I started to scream I wouldn't stop.

Marty began to cry. But he was laughing as well. Huge sobs of body-shaking laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I stared ahead in silence, out of the open doorway, out into the darkening afternoon. Out into freedom. I let my gaze drop to the floor, measuring the distance from the bottom of the stairs to the threshold. It was barely four feet. No distance at all really. A mere forty-eight inches at the most.

"We can jump it," I said. I wasn't aware I had spoken out loud until Marty turned towards me. He cuffed snot from his noise, wiped a hand across his eyes. "Huh?" he said. "Jump what?"

"That," I said, standing up on the bottom step. "We can jump it...easy. I bet we can jump from here to the door easy, without putting our feet down once."

Marty shook his head, eyes wild. "No. I don't think so. No way. No. No way. You saw what that...that...thing...did to Johnny."

"Yeah, but we won't have to put our feet down, touch the floor. It won't know." I paused, looked deep into Marty's green eyes. "What else do you suggest? Sit here until the stairs open up and swallow us too?"

Mart sighed - a huge sigh of disheartenment. He nodded. "Okay."

The bottom step was just wide enough for the two of us to stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Marty slipped his hand into mine, it felt ice cold but I clutched it gratefully.

"After three." I said.

Marty nodded.

"One.....two.....three."

We jumped.

THE END

2007-11-11T07:18:00.000-08:00

MACKENZIE'S COTTAGE: Part 4 (for parts 1,2 & 3 scroll down)

The storm seemed a lot worse in the wood; a continuous roar was coming from the trees, and bits of old twigs and grit swirled all around us.

"Which way?" I yelled back over my shoulder.

"Not sure." Johnny yelled back.

I stopped in my tracks. Dead.

Johnny collided into my back. Marty into Johnny.

I turned round to face them. To face Johnny.

"What do you mean?...not sure."

"I mean, I'm not sure. I've not been in here anymore than you have...but it must be that way," he pointed off to the right. "I'm certain the orchard's over there someplace."

Marty had been standing beside us, rubbing his brow where he had banged it hard against the back of Johnny's head. He stepped forward. "I don't think that's right Johnny," he said. "I think the orchard is more that way." He pointed to the left.

"Great." I said.

Lightning flashed, for a few seconds the trees around us stood out in bright sharp-edged relief before skulking back into the darkness. Johnny's eyes grew wide and he said something, but the words were lost in the loud clap of thunder that cracked above our heads.

I followed his gaze.

At first I could see nothing, the wind was blowing the dust into my eyes, blurring my vision.

Then I saw it.

Mackenzie's Cottage.

It sat in the middle of a small clearing: more of a shack than a cottage really. Its walls were crafted from wood. Black roofing-felt, ripped from its fastenings, flapped at the guttering. Dull windows: broken and dirty. The front door lay flat on the ground, torn from its hinges.

I heard a sharp intake of breath beside me. Marty.

That's when the rain decided to fall. Huge drenching drops, ice cold. Drops as big as fifty-pence pieces and just as hard. Before we could blink more than twice the three of us were soaked from head to toe. My tee-shirt clung to me like an extra layer of skin and my jeans tightened up around my legs.

"Cosmic." I muttered. So much for beating the storm home.

Johnny turned to face me.

"There's only one thing to do," he shouted over the howl of the wind. "Shelter in the cottage 'til the storm dies down."

I shook my head. "Uh huh! No way Johnny. No frigging way." But I might as well have saved my breath, Johnny didn't even wait for an answer. He darted off across the clearing and the next second was swallowed up by the dark gaping doorway.

I turned to Marty.

He glanced at me, glanced at the cottage, shrugged, and followed Johnny, leaving me standing on my own in the wind and rain. Surrounded by the roaring trees. Roaring trees that at any moment might vomit up the shuffling hump-backed ghost of Algernon Mackenzie. His one good eye fixed on my face.

I bolted, my feet hardly touching the ground. As I burst in over the threshold, Johhny grinned. He was leaning against the wall beside the door, smoking the last of our cigarettes. "Nice of you to join us," he said. Smug.

"I do not think this is a good idea." I scanned the dim passage. "Not a good idea at all."

Marty was sitting on the small narrow staircase directly opposite the doorway. Shivering. Green eyes wide in his pale face, ginger hair plastered to his scalp. He looked as edgy as I felt.

"Aw, come on Pete," said Johnny. "We'd have got soaked if we'd stayed out there."

I gave a sharp derogative laugh. "Oh? Right? Like we're not already?" I tugged my sodden tee-shirt away from my chest and then let it go again. It slapped back against my skin with a cold squelching sound. I walked across to Marty.

"Budge over." I said.

Marty bum-shuffled up a couple of steps and I sat down in his place; three stairs up from the bottom, my feet resting on the first tread.

Over by the door Johnny was staring out at the storm. I noticed the container of bait he had been carrying tossed to the floor. The lid had come off and a few of the ragworm had crawled out. They pooled together in a writhing heap on the bare boards. One or two fell through a knothole into the darkness beneath. But no, that wasn't right. They weren't falling. They were being sucked in, much as someone would suck in spaghetti. I frowned.

Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. With it came the ear-splitting scream of splintering timber. A tree must have been struck and felled. I covered my ears with my hands as the noise swelled to an unbearable crescendo. The step I was sitting on began to vibrate and I realised that the sound wasn't coming from outside at all.

It was coming from inside the cottage.

TO BE CONTINUED....

2007-11-07T12:20:00.000-08:00

MACKENZIE'S COTTAGE: Part 3 (for parts 1 & 2 scroll down)

We'd been sitting on the riverbank for maybe two hours, not so much fishing as drowning worms, and smoking a handful of Bensons that Johnny had managed to liberate from his old man's work bag, when Marty happened to glance at the sky.

"Shit," he said. "Where'd that come from?"

"Huh?" I lifted my head.

"Oh great," said Johnny. "Looks like we're in for a soaking."

On the far side of the river the sky had taken on an ugly bruised appearance. As we watched lightning zig-zagged to the ground and the sound of thunder rumbled to us. I was suddenly aware of how still the afternoon had become. The light playful breeze that had been blowing across the water had gone, leaving the air heavy and opressive. Not a bird sang. Not a blade of grass moved. The gathering thunderheads were drifting our way.

Johnny leapt to his feet, grabbed up his fishing rod and began reeling in the line. Me and Marty did likewise.

Lightning flashed again, instantly followed by a loud crack of thunder.

Johnny tossed his rod over his shoulder and snatched up our plastic container of bait. He looked at me, his eyes dark beneath the brim of his cap.

"If we go through the woods," he said, "we could be home in twenty minutes...if we run."

My heart missed a beat then kick-started faster than ever. "I don't know Johnny..."

"We'll be soaked if we go by the road." Johnny turned to Marty. "What do you say? We'll be soaked if we go by the road."

Marty raked a hand through his hair, making it stand up in crazy ginger spikes. He flicked a glance in my direction. Shrugged.

I looked up at the sky.

The thunderclouds were a lot closer and already big fat drops of rain were beginning to fall on the far side of the river, plopping as they hit the water.

Johnny was right. I knew it and he knew it, and if we ran fast enough it would only take twenty minutes.

At the most.

Twenty minutes in Mackenzies Wood.

Another flash of lightning lit up the darkening afternoon and the stillness broke with a loud clap of thunder. The wind came from nowhere, whipping towards us across the river, bringing with it the metallic smell of burning ozone. Trees, silent only minutes before, rustled above our heads. Dust blew up from the sun-baked ground, stinging our eyes.

That decided me.

"Come on, " I shouted above the wind. "What are you waiting for?"

Without giving myself time to think I charged headlong into Mackenzie's Wood.

Johnny and Marty not far behind.

TO BE CONTINUED....

2007-11-04T09:54:00.000-08:00

MACKENZIE'S COTTAGE (part two - scroll down for part one.)

Of course neither Johnny, Marty or me, believed in ghosts - but we still took the longer route round to Spindle's Creek...just in case. Even at fifteen our parents' threats echoed in our ears.

All of us village kids had been weaned on the threat of Old Man Mackenzie. He was the bogeyman of Parish. If we dared to stay out late: Old Man Mackenzie would get us. If we dared to bunk off school: Old Man Mackenzie would get us. If we dared to answer our mothers back...yep, you've got it...Old Man Mackenzie would get us. Never mind that he'd been dead and buried long before any of us were even so much as a twinkle in our fathers' eyes.

According to Mrs Rowbottom who worked in the Eight 'til Late grocery store (and if you wanted to know anything about anything, she was the one to ask), Algernon Mackenzie had been a loner who had kept himself to himself. He had never married and had built himself a log cabin in the very heart of the wood; the wood that had been in the Mackenzie's family for generations.

Algernon Mackenzie had been a crotchety old man (so sayeth Mrs Rowbottom), with a glass eye and a humped back. Madness was rife in his blood. In the summer of 1985 a passing backpacker had got lost in the woods and had stumbled upon Mackenzie's Cottage. He had knocked on the door to ask for directions. Getting no answer the young man had ventured inside. Old Man Mackenzie...or what was left of him...had been lying in a pool of his own congealing blood just across the threshold. A dense cloud of black flies buzzing possessively around his body.

"That hiker fella found his way out of those woods quick enough then," said Mrs Rowbottom, holding us youngsters with a steady gaze. "I was here, right behind this very counter, when he came charging into town. Rusty Gillespie, the chief constable at the time, later told me that Old Algernon looked as if he'd been eaten alive - by a bear or such like - great chunks of his body had been bitten clear away. Course there's no such creatures around here. Wasn't then...isn't now. Right to this very day nobody knows for sure what went on up in those woods. Death by misadventure was printed on Old Algernon's certificate." She paused. Fixed us with her pale grey eyes. "You keep out of those woods. It's no place for children."

We had all nodded solemnly. Our eyes big in our small faces.

And that's why we chose, every time without fail, to take the long way round to Spindle's Creek.

But today, even the shadow of Old Man Mackenzie seemed like nothing more than smoke on the breeze.

...TO BE CONTINUED...

Gone Fishing.....

2007-11-02T09:22:00.000-07:00

MACKENZIE'S COTTAGE (part one).

It was Johnny's idea to go fishing in Spindle's Creek. It was also Johnny's idea to take the short cut back home through Mackenzie's wood. And it was Johnny's idea to shelter in Mackenzie's Cottage when the weather broke. The first idea was a good one, the second idea a bad one, and the third idea...well, the third idea was the last idea Johnny ever had.

We were at one with the world that summer: Johnny, Marty and me. I know that sounds trite but it was true. we had all reached and passed our fifteenth birthdays so considered ourselves more adult than child, and the summer was proving to be a fine one. School had let out two weeks earlier and we were determined to enjoy the long awaited freedom that lay uncharted before us.

'Youth is wasted on the young,' proclaimed Oscar Wilde, via Mrs Morris our Engliah teacher on the last day of term. Far be it for me to contradict such a great man, but I think old Oscar got that one well and truly wrong. Youth was most certainly not wasted by either Johnny, Marty or myself. Not that summer anyway. We lived our lives to the full, each and every day.

As we strolled along the road that led out of Parish, fishing rods slung over our shoulders, Johnny thumbed his baseball cap back on his forehead and began to whistle into the cloudless blue sky. It was that kind of a day.

On the outskirts of the village we passed St. Michael's: our school. Mr Townsend, the caretaker, was cutting grass. He raised a hand in greeting. We all waved back. Smiling. Happy and carefree.

Spindle's Creek lay just beyond the village. There were two routes we could take, both of which led us down to the riverside. The first, the way we were going now, took just over an hour. It meant walking a couple of miles along Bosun's way: the main road out of Parish, and then branching off to the right and walking another three or four miles down Spindle's Lane until we arrived at the cool shady banks of the creek.

The alternative was to go through Mackenzie's Wood.

The way through the wood was barely two miles. You entered the trees at the back of Randall's Orchard and popped out twenty minutes later at the bottom of Spindle's Lane. Right beside the water.

But we didn't go that way.

Ever.

The wood was said to be haunted by the ghost of Old Man Mackenzie himself.

...TO BE CONTINUED...