Some thoughts on writing...
Like many writers, I've tended to dabble with a range of genre's and styles. If you've taken a look at my poetry page already, you'll know that my approach there has been much the same. Consequently I've been unable to come down on one particular side of the fence - if indeed such a thing exists.
I've enjoyed exploring both children’s characters in my writing, as well as the more 'grown up' ones. My inspiration has often come from authors recommended by my Mother - an avid reader who, to this day, devours books by the library load. Adam Hall, Ian Fleming, Ian Rankin, Stephen King - wonderful writers who have the ability to grab you and transport you away with the simplest of sentences. It's through reading their novels, together with those of a myriad of other authors, that I've developed a fascination with the opening paragraphs of books. Do they grab you? Do they transport you? Do they hold you?
I've included excerpts from a few of my short stories below, together with a free download of 'The Barbeque'. If you would like to purchase any of the stories, check out the 'For Sale' page as I'll be making some of my longer ones available for a very modest sum.
I've enjoyed exploring both children’s characters in my writing, as well as the more 'grown up' ones. My inspiration has often come from authors recommended by my Mother - an avid reader who, to this day, devours books by the library load. Adam Hall, Ian Fleming, Ian Rankin, Stephen King - wonderful writers who have the ability to grab you and transport you away with the simplest of sentences. It's through reading their novels, together with those of a myriad of other authors, that I've developed a fascination with the opening paragraphs of books. Do they grab you? Do they transport you? Do they hold you?
I've included excerpts from a few of my short stories below, together with a free download of 'The Barbeque'. If you would like to purchase any of the stories, check out the 'For Sale' page as I'll be making some of my longer ones available for a very modest sum.
Extracts From a Few Short Stories
The Barbeque
However you dress it up, forty sounds old. Forget all that “life begins” nonsense, forty is just plain bloody old. It’s the exact point at which you cease relating to the characters in ‘Friends’ and start to feel a greater affinity and kinship with the cast of ‘One foot in the Grave’. You’re well into your mortgage years but without any of the thrill of being close to paying it off, and you carry around a myriad of aches and pains that, rather than actually going away, only seem to have slightly better or worse days. You are an old sod. You know it and everyone else knows it and no amount of get-togethers, reunions or birthday parties are ever going to change that fact.
“Thanks Alison, can I get you anything – a nice piece of meat perhaps?”
She blushed as I knew she would, fully, past the underside of her slightly asymmetrical chin to the point where her patterned blouse gave way to her somewhat shallow cleavage. I enjoyed flirting shamelessly with all of my mate’s wives. They knew it was par for the course and in this particular case it was also a perk of being the host, not to mention the birthday boy. I would make a point of extracting the birthday kisses a little later on. For now, I was simply enjoying serving up the grub, with a little sauce.
Alison had soon composed herself.
“Perhaps some chicken if it’s ready. I’ve been helping myself to your wife’s salad Greg it’s fabulous.”
I found a small piece of chicken and skewered it to make sure it was cooked through. Then with dexterity, honed after years of living abroad, I flipped it over and tossed it onto her waiting plate.
“There you go, a nice small breast. Help yourself to garlic bread.”
I think I just caught the corner of her smile as she turned and made her way towards my old pasting table. Funny how, no matter how many barbeques I organise, I never seem to get around to buying any decent garden furniture. It’s always the same miss-matched collection of bric-a-brac from the garage and kitchen.
“Thanks Alison, can I get you anything – a nice piece of meat perhaps?”
She blushed as I knew she would, fully, past the underside of her slightly asymmetrical chin to the point where her patterned blouse gave way to her somewhat shallow cleavage. I enjoyed flirting shamelessly with all of my mate’s wives. They knew it was par for the course and in this particular case it was also a perk of being the host, not to mention the birthday boy. I would make a point of extracting the birthday kisses a little later on. For now, I was simply enjoying serving up the grub, with a little sauce.
Alison had soon composed herself.
“Perhaps some chicken if it’s ready. I’ve been helping myself to your wife’s salad Greg it’s fabulous.”
I found a small piece of chicken and skewered it to make sure it was cooked through. Then with dexterity, honed after years of living abroad, I flipped it over and tossed it onto her waiting plate.
“There you go, a nice small breast. Help yourself to garlic bread.”
I think I just caught the corner of her smile as she turned and made her way towards my old pasting table. Funny how, no matter how many barbeques I organise, I never seem to get around to buying any decent garden furniture. It’s always the same miss-matched collection of bric-a-brac from the garage and kitchen.
A Tight Squeeze
Robert Fisk had made his choice and he wasn’t about to give in just yet. As unpleasant as this job had been, he could feel the familiar, twisted thrill his work always gave him and he relished it – he needed it, it was what kept him alive. He kicked at the souls of his brown, leather work boots and released the two concealed, three inch blades. By angling his toes down and kicking out with both legs, he was then able to grip the walls of the cylinder of earth that held him and pull his body slowly downwards. With each agonising flex of his ankles, he inched himself further down inside the tube, towards what he hoped would be an exit. He knew this funnel wasn’t sealed. The air, though roasting hot, was reasonably fresh and that could only mean it was being fed from beneath.
After what seemed like an eternity his feet finally left the confines of the cylinder and dangled, helplessly beneath him. By making small shrugging movements with his shoulders, Fisk was then able to ease the rest of his body down, until gravity eventually took hold and he was dumped, unceremoniously, onto a wet, concrete floor.
He lay in the gloom, his chest heaving and the muscles in his legs and ankles screaming for mercy. Seconds later a fierce blow to the back of his skull silenced the screaming, and blackness consumed him.
After what seemed like an eternity his feet finally left the confines of the cylinder and dangled, helplessly beneath him. By making small shrugging movements with his shoulders, Fisk was then able to ease the rest of his body down, until gravity eventually took hold and he was dumped, unceremoniously, onto a wet, concrete floor.
He lay in the gloom, his chest heaving and the muscles in his legs and ankles screaming for mercy. Seconds later a fierce blow to the back of his skull silenced the screaming, and blackness consumed him.
The Adventures of Captain Tingle
It was a bitterly cold day aboard Captain Tingle’s Ship. Everyone was below decks, fighting to keep warm. Everyone except Captain Tingle that is. He was at his usual post behind the large ship’s wheel, and this morning he was looking for pirates. He’d been out on deck most of the previous night, only taking a short break around 2am to study his charts and make some minor adjustments to the course they were on. Captain Tingle always liked to know exactly where he was and more importantly where he was going.
The sun had been up for nearly an hour, but frost still clung to the whiskers of his bushy, grey beard and there was a ruddy glow in his weather worn cheeks brought on by his nightly vigil. Captain Tingle screwed up his eyes against a particularly icy blast of wind and surveyed the horizon. He could just make out the shape of Dog Island looming up out of the morning mist.
“It would pay to be mindful.” he thought to himself. Smuggling was common place in these waters. The coastline was dotted with numerous secluded bays and the limestone cliffs were riddled with caves and tunnels, the extent of which was unknown, even to the smugglers whose bounty they concealed.
NB:
The full story is available for purchase on the for sale page.
The sun had been up for nearly an hour, but frost still clung to the whiskers of his bushy, grey beard and there was a ruddy glow in his weather worn cheeks brought on by his nightly vigil. Captain Tingle screwed up his eyes against a particularly icy blast of wind and surveyed the horizon. He could just make out the shape of Dog Island looming up out of the morning mist.
“It would pay to be mindful.” he thought to himself. Smuggling was common place in these waters. The coastline was dotted with numerous secluded bays and the limestone cliffs were riddled with caves and tunnels, the extent of which was unknown, even to the smugglers whose bounty they concealed.
NB:
The full story is available for purchase on the for sale page.
Download 'The Barbeque'
| the_barbeque.pdf |
