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Hobbits and Hogwarts

Greetings, Earthlings!

So last night I started rewatching the Lord of the Rings movies, just because I couldn’t sleep and nothing else took my fancy. I was streaming the first of the trilogy on Amazon Prime Video, and before the movie started an advert for the Lego Harry Potter Express was shown. The combination of the two tales reminded me of a short, short story I wrote some time ago where I also combined Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter.

So I thought I’d post it here.

Aren’t you lucky.

Hobbits and Hogwarts

Gandalf strode back to where, ten minutes beforehand, they had briefly rested. His companions trailed behind, heads bowed, studiously avoiding any eye contact. Elvish whispers mixed with Dwarvish mutterings as they grumbled amongst themselves.

Frodo! What are you doing? We must make haste if we are to reach the Mines of Moria before nightfall!” The wizard’s eyes gleamed, and the tip of his staff glowed as his temper rose.

Frodo sighed. Could he never get any peace? He marked the page in his book, and peered up at Gandalf.

I’m reading. You know, expanding my mind? You should be pleased,” Frodo said. “This book is about a wizard at school. Did you ever go to a wizards school, Gandalf?”

Behind the tall wizard muffled sniggering could be heard.

Is there anything so foolish as a Hobbit?” Gandalf spoke in but a whisper, yet still the companions flinched, as if he roared like a sun struck ogre. “Some do not know the meaning of the words make haste. Others clearly do not know when silence is the better option!”

The sniggering stopped abruptly. Merry and Pippin edged behind Aragorn, hoping the tall Ranger would deflect any more of the wizard’s wrath.

Gandalf glared at Frodo. “Get up, Master Baggins, and shoulder your pack. I do not use the words make haste lightly.”

Frodo remained still, loathe to stir from his comfortable position. Comfort had been a rarity so far on this quest but Frodo had managed to find it here on this mountainside. The loamy soil between large boulders cushioned his backside perfectly. His pack, after a few minutes of wriggling to and fro, now supported his aching back just so as he reclined upon it. His large feet were enjoying the respite from trudging over rough terrain. A cool breeze tickled his toes, airing them nicely.

But, Gandalf, it really is an excellent book,” Frodo tapped the cover with one long fingernail as he spoke. “I feel sure you would like the young wizard, Harry. And the headmaster of the school – why, he reminds me greatly of yourself. It’s almost as if the author has used you as the inspiration for the character!”

Aye, the halfling speaks truthfully,” a rough voice interrupted. Gimli shouldered his way through the assembled group. Legolas hissed in warning. The Dwarf halted next to Gandalf, leaning on his axe as he continued.

I have heard tell of this book. It is sweeping across the land faster than Sauron’s fell army. Only it brings joy in place of despair.”

The wizard mumbled to himself, but the glow of his stave’s tip lessened. Gimli pressed on.

You would do well to listen to the halfling, Gandalf. Heed his words. This is a good book.”

Gandalf flashed Gimli a look which would have withered the stoutest of men, his dark eyes glowing once more. Gimli stepped back a pace.

The day I need advice on my reading matter from a Dwarf, Gimli, son of Gloin, has not yet arrived! Learn from the two fool Hobbits – silence is best!”

Legolas stepped lightly forward and rested his hand on Gimli’s stout shoulder. The dour Dwarf grunted, but refrained from shrugging away from the lithe Elf’s touch.

Gandalf – Mithrandir,” began Legolas, his voice light and musical in the thin mountain air. Gandalf turned his gaze upon the Elf. “As much as it pains me to agree with a mere Dwarf, the gallant Gimli is correct. This book, about the schooling of a young wizard, has brought joy to many. In these dark days a little light should always be welcomed. Is this not so?”

Enough!” Gandalf planted his staff into the rocky ground. The dry terrain cracked, the staff shot a lightning bolt high into the cold blue sky. The wizard’s shout echoed across the landscape, the very mountains trembled.

And what say you two?” Gandalf stabbed a finger at Aragorn and Boromir. “Do the mighty men of Gondor have naught to say of this book?”

Aragorn met the wizard’s fierce gaze with his cool grey eyes. His countenance was calm, but inside his spirit quailed. He had been witness once before to what happened when Gandalf the Grey lost his temper. He had no wish to see it again.

I know not of this book, or of the Harry of which it speaks, Gandalf.” Aragon was pleased to note his voice remained level, no quaver betraying the turmoil he felt within. “Maybe Boromir has heard of it in Gondor.”

Boromir shook his head vigorously. “Uh, no, not I. But I have been otherwise employed, defending my land from Sauron’s minions.” He glared at Aragorn. “I leave the reading of storybooks to children and womenfolk.” He felt it prudent not to mention his own copy of the book secreted in his pack.

Um, excuse me sir, if I may?” Sam stepped out from behind Boromir. Merry and Pippin attempted to wave him away, but he ignored their flailing hands and whispered cautions. All eyes turned on him as he moved to stand before Gandalf.

Samwise Gamgee, well well,” said the wizard. “What, pray tell, would a Hobbit gardener have to say about such a literary work? And more fool me for enquiring!”

Sam wrung his hands together, nerves getting the better of him. “I, well… Umm… I…”

Gandalf pointed his staff at Sam. “Well, what is it? Spit it out Samwise. Speak now, or forever hold your peace!” Sam flinched but held his ground.

Begging your pardon, Gandalf sir, but Master Frodo, he be right about this here book. Misters Legolas and Gimli have the right of it too.” He nodded at the Elf and the Dwarf, who bowed their heads in return. A faint smile played on Legolas’ lips. Sam stood straighter, emboldend by their support.

There’s many a child back in the Shire that’s read about the wizard Harry, about his friends and their adventures and such. And, well…” Sam faltered, his face reddening.

Say what you mean to say, Master Gamgee, my patience is wearing thin!” Gandalf folded his arms and scowled at Sam. His staff stood upright of its own accord, standing sentinel by its master’s shoulder.

Well, the headmaster – Dumbledore – he, well… he,” Sam stammered, blushing furiously. Eight pairs of eyes watched him intently. Even the chill mid-afternoon wind abated, as though waiting to hear what the Hobbit would say next.

Sam took a deep breath, and spoke in a torrent of words. “Master Frodo was right. Dumbledore is just like you. I mean, you’re just like him. I mean, you’re both like for like, Gandalf sir. When I first clapped me eyes on you I thought you was Dumbledore himself, stepped right out of the pages of the book to say hello!” Sam fell silent as he ran out of breath.

Gandalf blinked. He furrowed his brow, drawing his bushy eyebrows together. He hmm’d and he ahh’d. He looked back along the way they’d come, down the mountainside at the thick forest which sat below, silent, dark and brooding. He looked along their chosen path, the high mountain pass which was their destination, grey, cold and forbidding.

Sam wrung his hands. Frodo lightly caressed his book. Boromir, Aragorn, Merry and Pippin drew close to Legolas and Gimli, the companions crowding together as if for mutual support.

So!” the wizard said at last. “I have reached a decision, after thoughts that were both long and deep. If this book is good, as both Master Gamgee and Gimli, son of Gloin, have attested,” Sam blushed once again. Gimli looked on, stony faced.

And,” Gandalf continued, “If it is indeed a small glimmer of light in these dark days, as our Elf friend has claimed,” Legolas bowed slightly. Gandalf nodded back. “Then I believe that it will be in all our best interests to hear what it says. Maybe we all can learn some lesson from it. Not all that is dark is lost, when a light, however small, still shines.”

And you wish to know more of this Dumbledore, as you are so alike,” Gimli growled. Gandalf gave him an evil look. The Dwarf watched the small speck of a bird soaring high above them, stoically ignoring the wizard’s gaze.

Aragorn spoke up. “If we are to listen to the story Frodo has in his book, then we had best make camp.” He looked around, his experienced eye taking in the surroundings. “This is as good a place as any.”

Gandalf spoke a quiet word and a campfire appeared upon the ground, flames crackling brightly. The companions shrugged off their packs and dropped wearily to the floor, making themselves comfortable around the fire. Legolas produced two rabbits he had slain and skinned that morning. Aragorn spitted them and hung them over the fire to roast. Merry and Pippin lit their pipes, and competed with Gandalf at blowing smoke rings. The wizard, who had plucked his already lit pipe right out of the thin air, comfortably won each round.

At last, the amicable chatter tailed off. The rabbits had been consumed, and mugs of frothing ale poured. The sun began to slip down behind the high mountain tops, and dark shadows crept in from the east. As one, the companions inched closer to the cheery, dancing flames. Gandalf tapped out his pipe, emptying the bowl into the fire, and looked across at Frodo, who had been silent for some time.

Now then, Frodo my lad, where is this book of yours, hmm?” Gandalf’s good humour was a stark contrast to his foul temper of that afternoon. “Why don’t you return to the beginning, and read it aloud for all our ears?”

Frodo started, suddenly brought back to the reality of the evening. Good company, good food, good ale, and a warm fire had lulled him into almost believing he was back in the Shire, back in the warm confines of Bag End. But no, here he was on a lonely mountainside, in who knew what part of the land. He wished, not for the first time, that he had never seen or heard of the One Ring, that Bilbo had left the blasted thing under the mountain where he found it.

His only comfort on this journey had been reading about the exploits of the young wizard Harry, who lived in a made up fantasy land. This land contained self propelling carts called cars, and even bigger devices for transporting passengers the author had mysteriously called trains. Steam trains. Frodo’s imagination had worked hard at visualising the weird and wonderful contraptions described within the pages of the fantastic story, and he delighted at the images it produced.

But now he would have to share the book’s wonders. If Gandalf said it was for the best, then so be it. He sighed.

I’m no good at reading out loud, Gandalf,” Frodo said, glancing at all the faces peering at him in the gathering darkness. He held the book out. “I think… no, I know you’d be a lot better at it than I.”

The wizard took the proferred book and studied the image on its cover. He refilled his pipe, lit it, and blew out smoke which took the shape of a flying owl. He looked from face to face, interested to see eager anticipation etched on each one. Anticipation to match his own, he noted, surprised at the notion. Gandalf opened the thick volume and turned to the first page of text.

Very well,” he intoned, “then I shall begin. Chapter One… Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say…”

The old wizard read the story of the young wizard and his school. The companions listened, entranced. The night drew on, and somewhere, in the darkest of dark places, a small light glimmered into life, casting back the pervading evil. If only for a little while.

The End.

And, as always, that shallot.

Until next time, laters…

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Posted by on November 23, 2018 in Writing

 

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Coming Soon (ish)

So okay, soon might be a tad optimistic. Coming whenever I get around to finishing and publishing it might be more to the point.

Anyway, whatever :smileyface:

Seeker

When the end came, it came without a sound. As silent as the grave. Not that graves were needed.

There were no earth-shattering roars as mushroom clouds bloomed on the horizon, vaporising entire cities in an instant.

There were no chilling moans from breathless throats as hordes of the undead swept across the planet.

There wasn’t even the sound of a harsh, alien tongue barking orders as invaders from beyond the stars enslaved the human race.

Only silence.

With no noise at all every man, woman and child on Earth disappeared. Here one minute, gone the next. Vanishing as if some unseen hand had flicked the off switch.

Except…

One was left behind.

One left to seek out answers, the reason for the disappearance of the human race.

One left to seek out others. For if there was one survivor, why should there not be more?

One left to seek out who, or what, was responsible.

One left to realise that when the end came, it wasn’t really the end at all.

It was merely the beginning.

And there you go, make of it what you will.

As always, that shallot.

Laters…

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Posted by on June 13, 2018 in Writing

 

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All Our Tomorrows

For far too long I’ve been procrastinating about writing my own stories. The usual reason is that I’m too busy writing stuff for other people, and while this is somewhat true, it’s still just an excuse.

CompleteCover“Those reasons why you can’t are just excuses. There is always a way. No excuses, get it done.” Those words are mine, tweeted a few days ago. I think it’s time I started following my own advice for a change. So, though I’m not usually one for all the New Year’s resolutions malarkey, this year I have resolved to write a lot more for myself.

Those who know me know that I have been toying with the idea of releasing a short story collection, called Flotsam. It’s that which I’ll concentrate on, while also, from time to time, adding more words to A Negative Bind.

So, as a treat (I’m not sure “treat” is the correct word…), here’s the beginning of a short sci-fi/horror story which will be included in Flotsam.

All Our Tomorrows

Photo 31-08-2013 19 47 10We’re comin’ in too fast!” Benny wailed.

Well yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Why’d you think that would be then?” Cal surveyed the ruined console in front of him. Sparks spluttered in dark recesses – recesses where dials and readouts were supposed to be. Heading indicator, velocity readout, life support and system updates, fairly useful things like that. Acrid smoke drifted in the cockpit, redolent of burnt ozone and melted plasteel.

Benny clambered out of the navigator’s chair in the rear of the cabin, coughing in the smoky atmosphere, and made his way forward, finally dropping heavily into the co-pilot’s seat next to Cal.

Can’t you do summet, Cal? You’re the pilot, like, so can’t you do that flying shit you do?”

Cal grimaced and took a deep breath, immediately regretting it as a coughing fit followed. He looked over at Benny, wiping his streaming eyes as he did so.

No, Benny, I can’t do that flying shit that I do, ’cause we ain’t flying, we’re fuckin’ crashing.” His voice was calm, reasonable, but the look in Cal’s eyes revealed that all was not sweetness and light with the Captain at this particular moment in time. Benny flinched as Cal’s hand settled on his shoulder, squeezing it painfully.

And we’re crashing, Benny, ’cause we somehow managed to fly into a fuckin’ asteroid. Now, you’re the navigator, so why the fuck didn’t you do your navigating shit and navigate us around that fucker?”

Benny’s shoulder cracked audibly, and painfully, as the Captain’s hand squeezed harder still. Cal had paid a backstreet TechMech back on Khollos IV to replace the servo-motors in his worn out cybot arm with illegal Pluton powered ones, and he had revelled in showing off his mech aided strength ever since. At least he can’t blame me for losin’ his arm, Benny thought as he gritted his teeth against the pain. That was his own damn fool fault.

C’mon Cal, it weren’t my fault, I was busy…”

You were busy jerkin’ off to Cylerion porn, that’s what you were doing!” The spacecraft lurched alarmingly, and Cal released his grip. Benny gingerly rubbed his shoulder, convinced that something was broken. The lights clicked off, then back on again. A muted alarm began to wail somewhere behind them, and a soft, feminine voice politely advised them that they should evacuate the ship immediately. A single red light blinked on and off above their heads.

Shit!” Cal flicked a switch, flinching as it sparked and hissed, belching more smoke at him. “Double shit!”

Benny suddenly felt claustrophobic. The view screens were no longer working, damaged in the collision, and the cockpit now felt exceedingly small. He looked around fearfully, panic slowly slipping its icy tendrils into his stomach.

Cal? Captain? What…?”

Cal fixed him with a despairing look. “Mr. French, I believe that now would be a good time to make for the emergency pod. And then, maybe, pray.”

Benny didn’t need telling twice – he was out of his seat and on his way before the Captain had finished speaking.

* * * *

The two men sat on the ridge of a tall dune as the twin suns reached their zenith in the sky above. Cal surveyed the distant desert through the viewscope while Benny sipped tepid water from his aqua-pack. Three days had passed since their unexpected arrival on this world, their stricken cargo craft breaking up as it entered the atmosphere.

They had nearly roasted in the oven of their emergency pod as it too blazed a trail through the ozone. Gravity had taken over and they hurtled towards the ground, panic rising between them until, with a sudden jolt, the large ‘chute deployed, slowing their descent to a slightly less terrifying speed. Through the small view port the terrain below could be seen – sandy desert from horizon to horizon.

There’s definitely something there in the far distance,” Cal said, still looking through the viewscope. “I can’t quite make it out, it’s like a dirty smudge on the horizon.”

Not in a talkative frame of mind, Benny grunted by way of reply. Their relationship, strained at the best of times, had rapidly declined since the crash. He gingerly touched his left eye, wincing as his fingertips brushed over it. The swelling had started to reduce, but the pain lingered. He had escaped uninjured from the emergency pod, only to walk straight into Cal’s fist, with the full power of his cybot arm behind it. He was out before he’d hit the floor, and so missed Cal’s venomous tirade against him and second rate navigators in general.

Cal lowered the viewscope and looked at Benny. “A grunt? Is that all? Don’t you have anything useful to say?”

Benny took another sip, rinsed his mouth, and spat the water out, aware he was wasting precious fluid but not caring. “You can’t make it out, even with the viewscope. If you can’t see what it is, then what the hell am I supposed to say, Captain? I’ve only got me two eyes, and one of them is swolled near shut.”

Okay, fair point. But do you have any idea what it could be?” Cal unhooked the tube to his own aqua-pack and took a long sip, grimacing as the brackish water reached his mouth.

Benny scratched his head where his scalp was beginning to peel. He’d never been any good in the sun, his pale skin easily burnt even in the mildest of summers. So two suns glaring down on him from a cloudless sky was downright unfair, in his opinion.

Well? Anything?” Patience wasn’t one of Cal’s strong points.

Benny met his gaze. “It could be smoke.”

Cal’s eyes lit up. “Smoke! Yeah, exactly what I was thinking! When I was a kid the factories of Newchester looked like that, ‘specially from a distance. And if there’s smoke, then there must be people!” He was on his feet, scanning the horizon with his scope again.

To Benny, the presence of smoke, if that’s what it was, didn’t necessarily mean people. It could be due to any number of things. They had no idea what, if anything, lived on this god forsaken planet. The newest star charts referred to it only as AR159C – Possible Oxygenated Atmosphere – Unexplored.

We need to check it out. It’ll mean a long hike for us, but we can do it.” Cal slipped the viewscope back into its case and slung it over his shoulder. “We don’t have much of an option anyway, seeing as you broke the emergency radio.”

Benny lunged to his feet. “What d’ya mean, I broke the radio? The friggin’ thing ain’t worked since we left Khollos IV, ’cause you were too tight to get it serviced. That, and everything else on that bag of bolts you called a ship. The Federation should’ve grounded you years ago! Don’t you go blaming me for shit you caused just to save a few Creds!”

Cal was walking away, heading to their small camp by the emergency pod at the base of the dune. He stopped, and turned to look at Benny. His eyes were glazed, no sign of emotion in them whatsoever. Benny closed his mouth with an audible click and stepped back a pace.

I’m the Captain. Your Captain, Mr. French. What I say, goes. So if I say you broke the radio, then you broke the damn radio, okay? Good.” Cal turned and continued down the steep slope, sliding on the loose sand that sucked hungrily at his heavy boots. “Come along now. We need to make preparations.”

Benny stood and stared after his retreating Captain. Cal had always been on the wrong side of stable, and it looked very much as if he was losing control. Benny thought Cal becoming unstable, out here on this friggin’ never ending beach, would be a bad thing. A very bad thing indeed.

As always, that shallot.

Laters…

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Posted by on January 8, 2018 in Writing

 

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Flotsam

Hey! Hi, howareya?

Kept you waiting, huh? (for all you MGS fans out there.)

Well then. Busy, busy, busy. But finally back to working on my own stuff once again. The Negative Bind hasn’t been forgotten about, it’s still very much on my mind. It has, however, been shelved for the time being, as my short story collection keeps rearing its ugly little head and distracting me.

Once upon a time I had a title in mind for this collection but as time went on I came up with another name for it and ran with that for a while. This new title – A Dog Barked Once – made perfect sense. To me, anyway. You see, the vast majority of my stories contain, somewhere in them, the line “…somewhere in the distance a dog barked, once, twice…”, and so A Dog Barked Once seemed very fitting. Hell, I could even write a second collection and call it A Dog Barked Twice!

Genius.

But no. Again time has moved on, and I find myself favouring my original title – Flotsam.

Why Flotsam, you ask. Well, dictionaries define the word as:

  • pieces of broken wood and other waste materials found on the beach or floating on the sea.
  • anything or anyone that is not wanted or not considered to be important or useful.

If you were to ask me where I get my ideas from, most of the time I’d be unable to tell you. They just kind of appear in my head. The closest I can come to explaining it is to say I view the imagination in my head as a vast, and mostly empty, ocean. Floating around in this Imaginocean are idea boxes – some complete and whole, the majority only a part of the entire story, pieces of wreckage from a fractured tale.

Whenever one of these boxes floats close enough to the shore, I wade out and grab it with both hands before it can float out of reach again. I’ll open the box, see what’s inside, and write it down, before settling back to await the next idea box to drift into view.

So yes, I’m slightly weird. No matter.

A lot of writers like to do cover reveals. They like to keep the image hidden until they feel the time is right, and then release it with great fanfare, or in a more subdued manner, depending on their style. Well, not me. Once I have a cover I like then I don’t mind showing it around (mainly because there’s a very good chance I’ll change my mind and make another cover before long).

And so, without further ado, here is the cover for my upcoming short story collection, Flotsam.

CompleteCover

 

When will it be released? Who knows. Whenever I get around to finishing it, would be my best guess. Until then, at least you have a pretty picture to look at, right?

Right.

As always, that shallot.

Laters…

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Posted by on May 6, 2017 in Books, Writing

 

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Resurrection

Well hello there, how’re you doing?

Since before last Christmas I’ve been working on a collection of short stories. The stories had been knocking around in my head for quite some time, and so I thought they deserved to be brought into the world. I had a title for the book of this collection. I had a cover all worked out. I had a list of the stories I was sure I wanted to include, and a list of others I’d put in if there was room.

I set about this task in good spirits. I mean, how hard could it be, right? I had everything I needed. Piece of cake.

Wrong.

Every time I worked on one story, my mind would wander to another. Work on that other story instead, and I’d be thinking about yet another. Progress was slow. Progress was painful.

Something was wrong here. The words weren’t flowing and I needed to find out why. This past weekend I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, peering into the recesses of my mind, looking for the cause.

And I found it.

Sunset behind the clouds over Quintrell Downs in Cornwall.After I’d published my short story ‘Watcher’, I started work on another, longer tale. The story of Paul Bowscar came to life rapidly, the boy would never shut up, his tale needed to be told, and he was damn sure he was going to make sure I wrote it all down. He was constantly in my head. Talking incessantly, eager to be heard. Morning, noon and night.

Then one day – silence. Nothing at all. Paul had left, gone to wherever his own negative bind had taken him. The words dried up, the story stalled.

But no longer. Paul is back. Maybe he took exception to me writing things other than his story, who knows. But back he is, and it’s time to complete his tale.

So, The Negative Bind has been resurrected. How long will it take? Who can tell, and Paul certainly isn’t telling. He’ll get to the end when he’s good and ready.

Small excerpts might be posted from time to time. They might not. But this story will be told, one way or the other.

As always, that shallot.

Laters…

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Posted by on January 30, 2017 in Books, Writing

 

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The Key

Quite a long while ago I was challenged to write a story based on a certain image.

key This image, to be exact.

Well, as so often happens, life, and various other things got in the way and the story never got written, although I had a good idea of what I wanted to write. Time has gone on, far too much time, and I’ve been so caught up in doing other things – earning money in order to be able to pay the bills and feed oneself, what a drag that is – that I haven’t done any writing for myself.

Plenty for other people. None at all for me. Now, that kinda sucks, so I decided it’s time I did something about it.

And shock horror! Today I actually put pen to paper. Well, typed words on a screen. Same thing. I didn’t produce much, a thousand words or so, as the writing machine is kinda rusty due to lack of use. But it is oiling up nicely. The words aren’t exactly flowing, but they are seeping out slowly.

Who knows, if you’re good I might even post an extract.

Or not.

Anyway, as always, that shallot.

Laters…

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Posted by on November 10, 2016 in Writing

 

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Fairboss and Prizes

Nearly Christmas day… are you ready? No? Well, panic not. Before you know it, it’ll all be over and you’ll be worrying about what to wear for the New Year’s party, and what resolutions to make.

Soon be Easter.

And so… on with the 30 Writing Challenges. Challenge 23 states: Write the story of one of your childhood memories. 

Simple enough, you would’ve thought. But no, not really. You see, talking about myself isn’t something I generally do. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve lived a very varied and interesting life, which is worthy of many a tale. I just don’t enjoy telling those tales, unless I’m in a conversation. Ask me, and I shall tell, but to just sit and write something down? Nope.

I do, however, weave a lot of my personal memories, emotions and feelings into the majority of the stories I write, and so I have decided that for today’s challenge I will post an extract from my soon to be released book – The Negative Bind. 

This book tells the story of Paul, a teenage boy whose perfectly ordinary existence is shattered after an accident. Paul sees his life spiral out of control, with unexpected and possibly tragic consequences. Paul is not me at a younger age, by the way. That really would be a tragic story. But there’s no denying a lot of me is in the story, in one shape or form.

The following is from chapter 10: Fairboss and Prizes. I hope you enjoy.

Extract from Chpt 10: Fairboss and Prizes.

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Posted by on December 23, 2015 in 30 Writing Challenges

 

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