I’ve now published book number 2 on Kindle. A collection of short stories entitled ‘The Summer of 1970’. It’s free for five days from Sunday 17th January to Thursday 21st January. If you don’t own a Kindle you can also read it on your Smartphone, tablet or computer.
I have the app on my Smartphone and was surprised to learn how comfortable reading on the phone can be. I use it as a back up when I’m out in case I leave my Kindle at home.
Showing posts with label my short stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my short stories. Show all posts
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Monday, January 4, 2016
Thank you
Thank you to everyone who took the time to look at my book. I really hope that you enjoyed reading it. Hopefully I’ll be publishing a collection of my short stories soon...
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Why you should be afraid of Virginia Woolf
A few months ago I came across a book in a charity shop. I had three reasons to be pleased to find it: Firstly, that it was in English. Secondly, it covered the years 1915 – 1919, around the years of the First World War, a period which interests me a great deal and thirdly, it was the first volume of The Diary of Virginia Woolf.
I didn’t intend to start to read the book straight away as I had others in my ‘to read’ pile already. So I placed it on a shelf with some other books in the bedroom.
A couple of days later I noticed that some books had fallen over, so I straightened them up and thought no more about it. The next day the same happened – and the next. Virginia was always upright next to these books. So, smiling to myself I moved the books around. The following morning I discovered, not only the first books had fallen over but also the new neighbours to Virginia’s diary. Pretty soon no book on the shelves in the bedroom remained upright – except for one. Virginia was always triumphantly upright. In the end I grew tired of this game and left the books as they were.
It wasn’t until I bought some more books; including Earnest Hemmingway’s ‘A Farewell to Arms’ that I decided to tidy up shelves again. I placed the two unread books together.
It seems to have done the trick.
I didn’t intend to start to read the book straight away as I had others in my ‘to read’ pile already. So I placed it on a shelf with some other books in the bedroom.
A couple of days later I noticed that some books had fallen over, so I straightened them up and thought no more about it. The next day the same happened – and the next. Virginia was always upright next to these books. So, smiling to myself I moved the books around. The following morning I discovered, not only the first books had fallen over but also the new neighbours to Virginia’s diary. Pretty soon no book on the shelves in the bedroom remained upright – except for one. Virginia was always triumphantly upright. In the end I grew tired of this game and left the books as they were.
It wasn’t until I bought some more books; including Earnest Hemmingway’s ‘A Farewell to Arms’ that I decided to tidy up shelves again. I placed the two unread books together.
It seems to have done the trick.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The barn
The first time I saw the old barn that was to serve as our garage I was intrigued by it. Built of limestone a long time ago, the ivy covered walls were beginning to crumble away. Inside; the enormous beams that supported the roof sported the scars of ancient generations of woodworm.
The barn really captured my imagination. Everyone that visited the house that summer was invited to look around my barn and write a short story about it by the beginning of September. What a mistake that was – my inspiration flew out of the window.
Sometimes on a hot day, I would just go into the cool barn and look at the walls. I loved their creamy yellow colour, no stone was the same size or shape and looking closely, I could make out the faint traces of fossils. At the far end was the timber frame of what once had been a doorway. The floor had been concreted years ago and was showing more signs of wear than the ancient walls! Still no inspiration came to me.
I discovered that under the village the remains of a network of tunnels had been found in recent years. Where had the blocked up doorway led to? What kind of lives did the people live who had called the barn their own in the past?
I never did write that short story about the barn. The people who came and went through the now blocked up doorway, carried their secrets away with them.
The barn really captured my imagination. Everyone that visited the house that summer was invited to look around my barn and write a short story about it by the beginning of September. What a mistake that was – my inspiration flew out of the window.
Sometimes on a hot day, I would just go into the cool barn and look at the walls. I loved their creamy yellow colour, no stone was the same size or shape and looking closely, I could make out the faint traces of fossils. At the far end was the timber frame of what once had been a doorway. The floor had been concreted years ago and was showing more signs of wear than the ancient walls! Still no inspiration came to me.
I discovered that under the village the remains of a network of tunnels had been found in recent years. Where had the blocked up doorway led to? What kind of lives did the people live who had called the barn their own in the past?
I never did write that short story about the barn. The people who came and went through the now blocked up doorway, carried their secrets away with them.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Globetrotting Beefeater: Part 2
Part 1 is here
A few days later the beefeater heard the excited voices of children and was aware of the comfortable envelope being ripped open. He had arrived at his new home. He was placed on the refrigerator alongside a team of football (soccer) shirts and an ocean of fridge poetry.
At first the Beefeater was happy to sit on the fridge door and watch the comings and goings of the family. Sometimes he joined in with the games of football, sometimes he tried to read the poetry to himself. This way learnt some French words, but he didn’t understand all of the poems. He felt lonely despite his busy life. He wished that he had someone to talk too.
Time passed and sometimes our brave Beefeater was forgotten about. He slipped down to the bottom of the fridge, past all of the poetry and onto the floor. He was always found and dusted off before being put back at the top of the fridge. He couldn’t help thinking that no one really cared much about what happened to him…
One afternoon his life was to change forever. he was put back at the top of the fridge and joined by a real princess. She was pink with yellow hair and a golden crown. The Beefeater thought that she was the most beautiful magnet he had ever seen. From that day onwards she always watched him play football and they read poetry together all night long. He never ever felt lonely again.
A few days later the beefeater heard the excited voices of children and was aware of the comfortable envelope being ripped open. He had arrived at his new home. He was placed on the refrigerator alongside a team of football (soccer) shirts and an ocean of fridge poetry.
At first the Beefeater was happy to sit on the fridge door and watch the comings and goings of the family. Sometimes he joined in with the games of football, sometimes he tried to read the poetry to himself. This way learnt some French words, but he didn’t understand all of the poems. He felt lonely despite his busy life. He wished that he had someone to talk too.
Time passed and sometimes our brave Beefeater was forgotten about. He slipped down to the bottom of the fridge, past all of the poetry and onto the floor. He was always found and dusted off before being put back at the top of the fridge. He couldn’t help thinking that no one really cared much about what happened to him…
One afternoon his life was to change forever. he was put back at the top of the fridge and joined by a real princess. She was pink with yellow hair and a golden crown. The Beefeater thought that she was the most beautiful magnet he had ever seen. From that day onwards she always watched him play football and they read poetry together all night long. He never ever felt lonely again.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Globetrotting Beefeater: Part I
This one is a 'true' story....
Once upon a time there was a Beefeater. He was very smart indeed in his royal red uniform and on his back was a magnet. He lived on a shelf in a shop in London with lots of other Beefeaters waiting to be bought by tourists from all over the world.
One morning the Beefeater was sitting on the shelf watching the tourists looking around the shop, when all of a sudden he was picked up by a very nice lady from South Africa. The beefeater didn’t mind too much because he had several other Beefeaters for company when he was put into a paper bag. The Beefeater and his companions waited patiently in the dark wondering what would happen next.
They knew that they were being moved around because they had quite a bumpy ride and other things were put on top of their bag so they felt quite squashed. Then they were left in the quiet for a couple of days. They could hear the nice lady from South Africa from time to time coming and going but she didn’t seem to pay them much attention…
All of a sudden the Beefeaters felt their bag being moved around and they were placed in quite a soft place which smelt very pleasant. And then they felt the bumping of being carried around yet again. A few hours later the Beefeater felt a very strange sensation in his tummy and heard a very loud noise. Again, he didn’t mind too much because he had the other Beefeaters for company and they were very comfortable despite being squashed. After what seemed a long time the Beefeater felt the strange sensation in his tummy again and all went quiet.
The bumpy ride started again and then stopped. The Beefeaters whispered amongst themselves, they wondered what would happen next.
The beefeater didn’t know it, but it was after a couple of days that the nice lady from South Africa unpacked that particular suitcase. She wanted to send the presents she had bought in London to her friends that lived all over the world. When she came at last to our beefeater she picked him up and said:
“Parlez-vous francais?”
What could she mean? She popped him into a padded envelope which was very comfortable indeed. The Beefeater set off on his second journey in an airplane, but this time he was on his own. He felt cozy and safe, so he didn’t mind too much....
Friday, May 28, 2010
Where the children go
I think that we can say that Dom has left home for good now. Even when she stops studying in the summer, she’ll be off to Chicago meeting other psychologists and then she’s going off to the UK so that everyone can meet J-M and see how wonderful he is…
A couple of weekends ago they came home for a visit and I heard her say that it seems like she lived here in another life. It got me thinking:
Our children exist. Every moment of their lives still exist. We as children exist somewhere. What happens as they grow up is that they are replaced by an older model. I can prove it. Babies , of course are replaced more rapidly, they have “growth spurts” when they are replaced. If you are a parent do you remember wondering where toys had got to when your children were growing? They took them with them. The replacement didn’t need those toys. Just think about the socks, t-shirts, jeans, pyjamas which suddenly vanished into thin air. Another example is homework – it explains a lot, doesn’t it? Have a think now. What about the beloved teddy bear or soft toy? Where is it? See what I mean.
Next time you hear a mother bemoaning that her son seems to have gown centimetres overnight you’ll know why: He’s been replaced by a bigger one.
A couple of weekends ago they came home for a visit and I heard her say that it seems like she lived here in another life. It got me thinking:
Our children exist. Every moment of their lives still exist. We as children exist somewhere. What happens as they grow up is that they are replaced by an older model. I can prove it. Babies , of course are replaced more rapidly, they have “growth spurts” when they are replaced. If you are a parent do you remember wondering where toys had got to when your children were growing? They took them with them. The replacement didn’t need those toys. Just think about the socks, t-shirts, jeans, pyjamas which suddenly vanished into thin air. Another example is homework – it explains a lot, doesn’t it? Have a think now. What about the beloved teddy bear or soft toy? Where is it? See what I mean.
Next time you hear a mother bemoaning that her son seems to have gown centimetres overnight you’ll know why: He’s been replaced by a bigger one.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Sleep in the afternoon
Emily arrived a few minutes earlier that she should have for their walk. She let herself in and burst into Luke’s study like the sunshine from behind the clouds. He told her that he was nearly at the end of the chapter and asked if she would she mind waiting. She smiled and said “good”, went straight to the bookcase, took a book from the shelf , kicked off her sandals and settled herself on the chaise lounge to read.
Luke continued working until he heard a soft thud, her book had fallen onto the floor, she was asleep. He took this as a chance to really study Emily. He started the journey with her toes; they’d been painted bright pink, the pink of English seaside rock with writing though the middle – peppermint flavoured toes – he smiled. The varnish was slightly chipped. His ex wife would never have tolerated chipped varnish. With Emily it gave the message that she had better things to do than worry about her toe nails.
Next he studied her ankles, slightly bony and tanned. He couldn’t see her legs properly because of her jeans, but he could imagine them. Long and strong and slim, they seemed to got on forever. He wondered why she never wore a short skirt. Perhaps there was a scar?
Luke followed the line of her thigh and hips with his eyes. Her shirt was white and showed off well the start of a tan. He could see the outline of her breast moving gently as she breathed deeply in her sleep. Her long hair surrounded her shoulders almost as if she’d studiously arranged it, a cascade of reflections from the afternoon sun coming through the windows.
He reminded himself that this fascination in her was nonsense, they were supposed to be ‘just friends’. When he’d finished his chapter he started a new document and sketched what he saw in the only way - the best way - he knew, with words. His long slim fingers caressing the keys as if to coax them into producing the best words that they could. Emily stirred in her sleep, her hip gyrated ever so slightly and her toes curled. Her lips parted and as she sighed he could just see the tip of her pink tongue. She opened her eyes and adjusted to her surroundings.
“Sweet dream?” he asked her. She looked sleepy and flushed and smiled, avoiding his eyes.
He wondered if he’d ever know her well enough to ask her who she’d dreamt about that afternoon….
Luke continued working until he heard a soft thud, her book had fallen onto the floor, she was asleep. He took this as a chance to really study Emily. He started the journey with her toes; they’d been painted bright pink, the pink of English seaside rock with writing though the middle – peppermint flavoured toes – he smiled. The varnish was slightly chipped. His ex wife would never have tolerated chipped varnish. With Emily it gave the message that she had better things to do than worry about her toe nails.
Next he studied her ankles, slightly bony and tanned. He couldn’t see her legs properly because of her jeans, but he could imagine them. Long and strong and slim, they seemed to got on forever. He wondered why she never wore a short skirt. Perhaps there was a scar?
Luke followed the line of her thigh and hips with his eyes. Her shirt was white and showed off well the start of a tan. He could see the outline of her breast moving gently as she breathed deeply in her sleep. Her long hair surrounded her shoulders almost as if she’d studiously arranged it, a cascade of reflections from the afternoon sun coming through the windows.
He reminded himself that this fascination in her was nonsense, they were supposed to be ‘just friends’. When he’d finished his chapter he started a new document and sketched what he saw in the only way - the best way - he knew, with words. His long slim fingers caressing the keys as if to coax them into producing the best words that they could. Emily stirred in her sleep, her hip gyrated ever so slightly and her toes curled. Her lips parted and as she sighed he could just see the tip of her pink tongue. She opened her eyes and adjusted to her surroundings.
“Sweet dream?” he asked her. She looked sleepy and flushed and smiled, avoiding his eyes.
He wondered if he’d ever know her well enough to ask her who she’d dreamt about that afternoon….
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)