Writing - My Obsession!

Hi everyone – being pestered, albeit pleasantly, to finish putting An English Boy’s Wanderings in Africa together as a completed book, so getting to it – in my spare time. Maybe I just love writing, or I’m obsessed – whatever. For me, the perfect indulgence is in watching filled pages roll of the screen, new adventures take shape. Be they Africa’s rough and tumbles, horrors or funnies, I love them all; the urge to produce the perfect story is constantly at my shoulder.

Preparing Feeders for my next Kindle upload, here’s another sneak peek at one of four stories: Wolf Slayer. Good one, this – way back in the seventeen hundreds.

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Extract from Wolf Slayer:

... Where the forest opened, lakes of moonlight flooded in. Still hung with drizzle, ancient trees trembled under the weight. DeLacy’s eyes tricked with the shadows; through his own rampant imaginings, grotesque shapes rose from the earth as living beasts to run alongside him.

‘Keep your eyes well peeled, lad and your sword to hand. You’ll find neither man nor beast of good intent abroad on nights such as this one.’

Swayed by the roll and yaw of the Suffolk warhorse, the silver cage of his sabre nuzzled against his hip. Strapped diagonally to the mare’s left flank, the black, double-handed hilt of a claidheamh mòr, the Great Sword, leaned from its scabbard. Lifted by his father from the Scottish battlefield of Killiecrankie, the double-edged blade was lavishly inlaid with silver, the steel itself honed to a fine edge. Like that of DeLacy’s sabre the pommel was cast of solid silver; the head of a grey wolf was the shape of it – set with those narrowed searching eyes and bared fangs of the mythical beast.

DeLacy slowed his mount and waved the boy alongside him. Up with the Suffolk mare, the boy’s horse stood four hands shorter, though her step was lively and her ears were pricked for every sound.

‘Are you of an open mind, lad?’

‘I like to think so, squire. Though separating the truth from what is unreal can sometimes prove troublesome.’

DeLacy smiled at Jack’s honesty. Though barely sixteen the boy stood almost as tall as his master, his outlook more that of a grown man and with a quick eye and loose limbs he could place the point of his sword faster than most.

‘The beast of Bowland, lad, how do you see it; truth or fable?’

The youngster took his time in replying. ‘I should say truth, sir. Too many men have died in these forests; I know of five good souls who have perished here. Their womenfolk still search for them but find nothing.’

‘So you say the beast is real?’

‘Wolves are killers, squire. If a man is foolish enough to walk the forest alone, then as would the deer or the sheep he might well fall prey to wild beasts.’

‘I have seen it, boy. Believe me; not far from where we are now.’

‘The wolf, squire?’

‘That I did Jack, but only once mind, and no ordinary wolf was this one. Though many have laughed at what I told them.’ Instinctively he reached across for the great sword and drew it half way out from its scabbard. In the moonlight, the blade fired out with lights of brilliant silver; the icy fingers of superstition reached beneath his cape and for a moment he struggled to quell the fear that followed them. ‘Six feet high at the shoulder, Jack, from that day onwards nothing has frightened me more than the sight of that hellish creature walking beside me.’ He sensed the boy’s uncertainty. ‘Like a man, Jack; not on all fours but straight backed and upright, its forelegs hung as arms and its jaws, though shorter than a wolf’s were filled with fangs; some, as God be my witness, were long as my fingers.’ DeLacy paused for a moment and drew his cape closer in to his throat. ‘But the eyes, Jack; they were the worst of any man’s nightmares, yellow in the moonlight, the eyes of Satan, those of Lucifer himself...’

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Warriors to Witches!

Hi – as the title suggests, big change this week. Sticking my neck out, posted the cover of my imminent addition to Amazon Kindle as well as an excerpt from one of its four scary stories. Have wanted to do this for months – I find cross-genre-ing keeps my mind sharp and the adventures varied, though leaving it to weekends only – sandwiched between writing attacks on Empress Gold.  The swing from Africa to a spooky Old England has proved enlightening and refreshing. The writing, as always, is as good as it gets; short, but never boring, a concise and interesting read before bedtime, or to ease the morning grind between home and work. And the price is fair – less than a pound for ten thousand hard won, entertaining words. So here’s a piece of Feeders, my half-hour-horror quartet – enjoy the extract. Now back to work on Empress Gold...

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... Scarf-like, the drizzle wrapped about his neck; Moresby shivered, for the cold had come upon him as a curse. The sounds that came from the dark were neither animal nor human, but somewhere in between. It was then he felt the first, tiny insects of dread scuttle beneath his shirt. He reached for the sword and with the heavy blade unsheathed, forced himself to step inside the hovel.

‘Show yourself, Device and keep your witches’ spells for the judge at Lancaster.’

‘There’ll be no judge, squire Moresby and forewarned you are.’ Like glass on steel, Device’s voice keened through the darkness. ‘What you do this day will not go unrewarded. Look to the boy, Moresby, or have you left him there alone with that horse o’ yours! See the beast, Moresby! Black as Satan’s eyes for is it not so that you yerself ‘as named him Lucifer!’

With a ventriloquist’s skill she flung her voice back and forth across the room; behind and then in front – from the floor and up inside the soot-covered eaves above his head; that of a girl then that of the harridan. From a deep, bell-like bass to an effeminate, reedy tremble, winsome then fey her voice wavered.

‘Look to the boy, Moresby.’ Now the voice of a man, but deep and hideous – that of Satan himself it echoed about the room. ‘What mortal fool would stand alone in the company of Abaddon and Barghest?’

‘Save your tricks for the children, Device. Your witches’ voices hold no threat for me.’

‘Not so for the lad!’ Now the voice of a girl, without substance, flimsy as the mist and fine rain it flew about his ears.

 The hag has been marked by the devil, the boy had told him, and it was then that Moresby felt the grasping, leaden hands of superstition drag at his legs; when he heard the cry, he spun on his heels and ran outside.

The lad’s eyes were wide open, those that had glimpsed beyond the edge of hell itself. The stallion stood over him; its great neck arched – the veins along its throat were black snakes beneath the skin, the beast’s eyes blacker than a Pendle night. An inch behind his left ear, the boy’s skull had been stove in. Moresby swung the sword underhanded; the sound it made was that of a falcon’s wings at a full stoop, less than an inch from the stallion’s throat.

Like an addict freed of the opiate’s veil the stallion quietened and stepped away. Now, with soft eyes it watched its master cover the terrible wound with the boy’s own cape – the animal’s breathing steadied – the evil had left it...

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Thumb Talk!

Hi – Friday last; dentist’s waiting room for half an hour – read the one and only dog-eared golf mag and a tired old Geographic – almost fell asleep. The chair was deep and warmth from the gas fire unavoidable. Diagonally across the room, a young woman dipped inside her bag and unleashed her mobile phone. Her shoulders drooped, mouth fell open and with that faraway look of the opium addict she energised her thumb.

Never in all my life have I seen a thumb move so independently of its stable mates. Like a digit possessed it flew at all angles, racing over the touch-pad, until the ‘send’ button was stabbed and a message about whatever winged its way through the ether. I pictured the same, though not so young lady thirty years on; thumb past its ‘best before’ date, wrapped in cartoon, crepe bandage – bunny-ears and safety pin, joint totally shot with arthritis and repetitive strain stuff. Beats me how the world managed without mobile phones. Beats me even more when I try to comprehend this cool, obsessive need to talk with your thumb... Hello thumb two, this is thumb one, do you read?

Maybe there’s more to this thumb-talk than I realise, maybe I should give it a go and join the droves of cool thumb-talkers; maybe thumb-one’s thumb would talk back and we could spend thumb quality time together, stabbing at text buttons.

Gotta go – my phone’s beeping...

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A Summer's Day in Autumn!

Literally out-of-the-blue weather, hot enough to warrant one more firing up of our barbecue; thoughts of burgers, sausages, chicken and cold beer  were dragged from hibernation and for one last time this year, elasticated waistbands were back in vogue.

Couldn’t believe our luck; sat in the garden with 30 degrees of sunshine, but in October? Unheard of for this part of the world. Should be under threat from hard frosts and damp mists – maybe even snow. Bit like the picture here of my wife, Victoria blazing a trail through last year’s, most definitely un-barbecue friendly, first snowfall.

A day later and the barbecue’s back in the shed, because surprise, surprise it’s raining! But that’s England – wouldn’t have it any other way...

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