One book out, two more scheduled in the months to come.
Now available here in ‘Kindle’ format, three short stories putting the realism back into romance –
US$0.99 – less than the price of a Mars bar – on Pankhearst publications. The stories will subsequently be included in a compilation work, also on Pankhearst, published in July 2014. Other contributors to the Singles series include Evangeline Jennings, Simon Paul Wilson, and Lucy Middlemass. Lucy deserves my thanks for her excellent editing of Three.
Reviews on Amazon would be greatly appreciated.
“Where’s the dog?”
“Young man, your dog has not entered my garden. Had it had the temerity – not to mention dexterity – to scale my hedge, I should have obliged you by throwing it back.”
“I meant your dog.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “My dog? I once had a Maltese called Harold… he died some fifty years ago, and was buried somewhere near Tring. He can’t have wandered far – I suggest you begin your search there.”
“The sign on the gate -”
“Oh, I see. My son. He put it there ten years ago. A ruse to see off intruders. I said at the time it seemed singularly naïve, and bless you, you have proved me right at last. The house is unlocked. The second door on the right at the top of the stairs is my bedroom. My jewellery case is in the lower-left-hand drawer of the dressing table, and some of its contents, I’m assured, are priceless. The assurances came from the gentlemen who presented them to me, and are admittedly unsubstantiated. They are, nonetheless, valuable items, and should furnish you with more than enough money for the new wardrobe you so desperately need. I must insist you disturb nothing else by rifling, or by the youthful exuberance of vandalism. You may then depart by the tradesman’s entrance, situated at the rear of the building. Good day.”
A novel. Five layers of stories within stories that intertwine, weaving between fiction and reality, Chapter One is a sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant tale of five men finding their way in the rapidly changing society of the 1990s.
“How old is Nanny?” Katie began after some thought.
Tom calculated. “Fifty five. No, fifty six. But don’t tell her I told you.”
“How old will I be when I’m fifty six?”
The question had been posed a little dreamily, and Tom tried for a few moments to get at its meaning before giving up. “What do you mean? You’ll be fifty six.”
“Will I be a Nanny?”
“Then I’ll be old as well.”
“I shouldn’t say that to Nanny.”
“Because Nanny doesn’t think she’s old.”
“But she is, isn’t she?”
“She seems old to you because you’re five and it’ll be a long time until you’re fifty six, but when you’re fifty six you won’t feel old either.”
“How will I feel then?”
Tom pondered. “You’ll just feel like you.”
“But I will be old, won’t I?”
“No… not if you don’t feel it.”
“Andrew’s granddad is six hundred and forty five. That’s old, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think Andrew’s granddad is really six hundred and forty five.”
“Andrew said he is.”
“People don’t live that long.”
“How old are people when they die?”
“Different ages. Sixty, seventy, eighty…”
“How old was mummy when she died?”
Tom swallowed. “Twenty six, my love.”
A short story published in various ebook formats, Caught will be available from this site and elsewhere – free, then and forever – before the end of 2014. I bloody hope.
Jerry and Ron, a couple from London, relocate to the seaside village of Salt Heath to open an arts’ shop. Things are going well when their lives are disrupted by unexpected – and unwelcome – visitors. A pair of racketeers.
“Five-hundred fucking quid?”
“A fucking month? Five-hundred fucking quid a fucking month? And you fucking agreed?”
“He was pointing a gun at us, remember?”
“You fucking agreed?”
“Please stop swearing, Ron. I can never get through to you when you’re running at over five fucks-per-minute. I agreed. Yes. To get them and the gun out of the shop.”
“And then you fucking invited them back? What do we give them tomorrow afternoon – tea and fucking cake?”
“You fucking what?”
“We give them five-hundred pounds.”
“In a pig’s arse!”
“Fine. I’ll draw the money out, you find the pig and a pair of rubber gloves.”
“This isn’t funny, Jerry.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Oh no – you’re not laughing. You’re fucking serious. You want us to just cough up half our savings to these bastards.”
“What do you suggest?”
“What do I suggest? We don’t fucking pay is what I suggest.”
“No Ron, not nothing. Then they send their thugs round, we get the crap beaten out of us, and the shop gets burned down. That’s not nothing. That’s something, Ron, that’s really something.”