Tag Archives: novel

Tidings Of Comfort And Joyce.

Tidings Of Comfort And Joyce.

Grae: What do you think of Joyce?

Simon: Joyce! Yes! Now you are talking – ‘Ullysses’ is fantastic; where the hero is measured through a single day, just 24 hours, in Dublin. I think it’s the best ‘stream-of-consciousness’ novel ever written. I really love his short story collection ‘The Dubliners’ – I’m always delving into that – and his novel Finegan’s Wake is also a classic. Wow! That is what I have to say about Joyce, his writing is amazing!

(A slight pause)

Grae: No. ‘Joyce’ the new girl in accounting.

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Start of a Novel – The Man in the Gabardine Mac.

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Start Sentence – man in the gabardine mac

The man in the gabardine mac rose to leave seconds after I had exited the room; pushing his way through the crowded après-theatre luvvies and onto London’s glistening streets – freshly cleansed with rain a la mode – to find that I had spirited myself into thin air; causing him to stop two paces beyond the entryway, where he glanced right, left, and right again.
“All safe to cross.” I softly spoke – my gun poised the obligatory five feet away from his back to avoid a spinning kick. The safety was off and I had no need to ask any questions.
“Move forward and let’s head for that black van.”
He moved forwards and, ducking down, spun.
Quieter than even he could hear, I had gone.
He cursed; but, I wasn’t there to hear it.

Dream Sequences – Part 2 (a story in creation)

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NB please read Part 1 first at: 

Dream Sequences (a story in creation) http://wp.me/p1MjHq-1jS via

thank you

G:)

Part 2

Henry’s mind considered these things during the waking hours; to the detriment of his paying attention to his work and his driving skills – which were relatively called into question ‘twice’ on the way into the office; ‘many’ times ‘in’ his office; and ‘three’ times on the way back – once with almost disastrous consequences for an intrepid motorcyclist on a courier ‘Mission from G.O. Deliveries’ where he, the dispatch rider, had almost met his Almighty Employer.

Henry parked his dilapidated Ford Belligerent in an unusually empty space only a hundred and fifty yards from his flat, and ventured away from sanctuary and towards the quietude of the public library.

Henry was pleased to see it still there; he always assumed it would become a cut-price something-or-other overnight and his refuge from society’s babble would disappear like a traffic warden’s cologne after he’d photographed your car V.I.N. number not three seconds since you’d parked and popped into the newsagents for some Aspirin.

Henry found a table with seat near the Motoring section and dumped twelve back-issues of Exchange and Mart upon grubby surface.

It took him the effort of retracing eight issues before he found what he was looking for.

1926 Bentley, 3.0 Litre, British Racing Green, yada yada yada… up for auction at Rialto (Automobiles) Auction Rooms, Tuesday 7th, lot 458, estimate of £300K-£320K.

Henry whistled – and received a look of disapproval / approbation from a nearby librarian who was replacing ‘Humbly’s Diesel Engines of the 1950s’ or some-such tome.

‘Well, that detail was right.’ he thought. ‘A 1926 Bentley in reality looks just like the one in my dream – apart from the colour.’

Henry could have Googled this information in seconds; but, being of the sort of disposition that feels a book to be paper and words first – any other format (if you must) is a poor second.

However, finding A.R.P. might require a little of today’s modern-magic. He knew that needles in haystacks were a mouse-click away when the Interweb was put to use – Henry replaced the E&Ms correctly (in chronological order) and decided ‘now’ would be the time to seek out ‘Warden’ for any truths in ‘her’ story.

Henry had not had any dreams continuing his encounter with this enigma of a pretty, young lady who ‘they’ called ‘The mechanic’ or had that been a joke? He tried to visualise her face; arrange her features in proper order; remember her hair colour, style, length, but he was hopelessly hopeless at that sort of thing unless taking detailed notes at the time – which he hadn’t.

Not having had any more chances to gaze upon her smiling face, Henry had just taken to noting down the words spoken and the detail of the… the what? Hardly a date. She had been a knight in shining armour to his broken down damsel in distress – then she had galloped into the sunset without as much as a: ‘See you Tuesday; Rialto? Seven?’

Today was Tuesday. The 7th. Rialto! Where were the Rialto (Automobile) Auction Rooms?

—-

NB how do you think it’s going? No dreams in this bit; but, that is fine IMO. G:)

A Secret Message in an Agatha Christie Novel

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The note that I found slipped between the pages of my book (Agatha’s ‘They Do It With Mirrors’) gave me the terse message:

‘We are no further from the truth. 87a.’

I disposed of this slip of paper in the time-honoured way – I ate it – then set to thinking upon this latest ‘lack of’ development.

We had been passing messages this way for all of two months. I, receiving a thin strand of rice-paper with short missives; my counterpart having the benefit of my replies and questions in a similar form, attached to various items or concealed at random points where we knew each other to be. These destinations had been set up by the number/letter arrangement on the end of the message – ’87a’ meant I was to be at Henri’s Wednesday at 14:45. We had a series of locations, days and times that we had conceived as our drop-off codes; anytime we had a feeling that the code had been *infiltrated* we would use one of our ‘curtail’ keywords. We rarely met. The system in its simple way worked – though at the moment there seemed that there was little of anything for anybody to infiltrate.

Tbc (possibly)

The Start of Something?

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1.

A bead of sweat forms upon my brow
And is quickly akin to a torrent.
A heated breeze brings little respite
To my fatigued demeanour
And I close my eyes in such weariness…

2.

When I awoke
There had been a distinct change in the weather
And my condition was such that I
Thought a fourth Ice-Age had descended.
This was not right.
How did I shiver here where once I had melted in the abnormal heat?
I seemed to be in the same place…
But, was this a different time?
There were no people
Just a vaguely familiar frozen landscape.
In fact, there seemed to be little chance of my living more than a few minutes in this bitterness.
I was shaking with the cold; surely my blood was freezing inside my veins.

3.

Start moving, that was the thing; pump that blood and live a little longer – perhaps long enough for the survival instinct to kick in fully.
I hauled first one leg, then the other into a slow lumbering sequence of jerky movements. It wasn’t pretty, but it was a start.

Why Adkins Had To Die (extended: because I’ve written more of it)

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Adkins was barely into the first sentence of his novel when he received a stiff blow to the back of his head – he died instantly.
I know because I was that writer.

Howard Richmal Adkins, born 3rd May, 1957, died 3rd May, 2015 – not the best birthday that I’d ever had, but the most memorable from the viewpoint of my now being a ghost.
I think that after due consideration I was held back from the afterlife because there was a serious wrong outstanding that needed me to put it right. The main reason for my requirement being that I was the only one who knew that a serious wrong ‘was’ outstanding.

I had been considering writing my novel for some time now – as a first novel there was little time left to me before my expiry date (how little, even I was surprised at) and so I had set myself the task of sourcing an adventure that could then be written up as a book that took the best-seller lists by storm. As of current count, I have still to sell a copy – due to my unexpected and untimely death.

However, let me stop all this waffling and take you back to the start of my actual ‘real-life’ adventure.

It was on a day in late November back in the year 2012, about eleven-fifteen at night, and I was stranded in deepest, darkest Oxfordshire. The last bus had long gone and I was miles from civilisation.
I had been to one of these ‘raves’ where the music pumps like a jack-hammer into your brain and the lights and smoke dull any clarity in your unfocused mind. There was a lot of drink in evidence and little pills to lift you up – and also some to bring you back down again – both of ‘these’ I avoided, just.

I had been looked upon as an ‘oldie’ by most of the ‘bright-young-things’ there; but, I was accepted without question into the ranks. True, I was grandfather material to a lot of the youngsters, but I was not alone in the ‘wrinkly-brigade.’

My companion on that eventful night was a lady (by ‘our’ standards) who went by the name of Letitia du Worthy (don’t ask) a mid-forties woman from the late-sixties (you do the maths) with a mid to upper class ancestry that made Tottina Toffville from Tottington look like gutter trash (or so she told me).

Lettie (my rave name for her) and I (called by her ‘How?’ Yes, always as a question) had been gyrating our moves on the dance floor amongst the fit young things as though we didn’t care, and as though no-one was looking (though they were – and laughing). We stopped after a seasonable amount of sweat and toil and removed ourselves to the makeshift bar for a light refreshment – which turned out to consist of bottled alcohol, with tart, sugary flavourings that could only be described as… well, tart!

“Getting on a bit!” I called to Lettie above the noise.
“Speak for yourself!” She mouthed back.
“No – the time!” I explained; feeling that she knew that anyway.
“It’s nine-fifty-five!” She mimed exasperation at my lack of staying power. “I’m staying for more – off you go to Beddie-byes!”
I realised that it was much too early to leave; another half-an-hour, perhaps.
And that was when I mistakenly drank from the wrong bottle of tartness (although I didn’t immediately realise) and soon keeled over in the midst of ‘Radalalaboomthang’ or the like.
They pulled me off the floor and propped me up to the side near an air flap (so I was unreliably informed later) so that I could recover. They initially thought that I was having a heart attack (but, that was before I keeled, and was just my antiquated dance moves).

I never saw Lettie again. Nor my wallet and its contents.

When I recovered enough to leave (and after a futile search for Lettie) I left. Finding myself in the aforesaid bleak Oxfordshire countryside at 11:15pm with just my clothing and empty pockets.

Except, that is, for a folded piece of paper that I discovered with a phone number on it – one of those ‘mobile’ ones.

‘How?’ I asked myself. This was quickly replaced by the more interesting ‘Who?’ And if I had been a Douglas Adams’ creation, I would have then asked ‘Where do I go for the best breakfast this side of the Apocalypse?’ But, I wasn’t, and so I didn’t. Shame.

I pushed that number deeply back into my pocket for later; and got on with the job in hand of finding my way home.

I recalled the address where I lived rather well; though how to get there was a little less forthcoming. I decided to keep walking along this road and see where it led (which is the story of my life really). Off I went, dimly thinking that the sun would rise in the East, and I would be able to reach London by Christmas. The fact that I lived in Oxford, and wanted to reach there by breakfast being a later update to my thinking.

#dialogueforaplay Tweets 41-50

hash-tag dialogueforaplay 41-50

41

Dr P: More important – Who are you?

Dr 1: Whom!

Dr P: Let’s not argue over grammar!

Dr 1: (bitter) She started it!

Tbc

42

Dr P: You!

Dr 1: Me!

DC Acey: Are you?

Dr P: Yes!

DC Acey: And you?

Dr 1: Yes!

DC Acey: My Uncles!

Dr P: My God!!!!

Tbc

43

Dr 1: Grandma Whom was a fine old lady – who had the bad grace to live too long and, when she died, made cats rich!

Tbc

44

Dr P: You never liked Grandma… or cats!

Dr 1: What is there to like about cats?

DC Acey: Ladies! Handbags away!

Tbc

45

Dr 1: He started it!

DC Acey: And I’m stopping it!

Dr P: I never liked you!

DC Acey: What I do?

Dr 1: He means me!

Tbc

46

DC Acey: I’m Harold Whom – and this is not my ‘twin’ brother. No, the deceased! Dr P; I know that, I’m your father!

Tbc

47

Dr 1: Any chance of a recap!

Dr P: It’s a bit early, old stick; the sun’s not over the yard arm yet – is it Harold? Tbc

48

DC Acey: That’s the stiff! He’s extremely unlikely to have an opinion – on anything!

Dr P: Do we know who he is?

Tbc

49

Dr P: And before you say it, I was talking about the stiff; and not Dr 1.

Dr 1: Do we know yet who the stiff was?

Tbc

50

DC Acey: No! You cannot call the deceased ‘The Stiff’ – it’s disrespectful!

Dr P: But, he has gone somewhat stiff!

Tbc

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