Time

       It’s March already! How time flies!

       They say that ‘Time flies like an arrow’ but ‘Fruit flies like a banana’.

       Strangely, the older you are the faster that time seems to slip past. One wonders why this should be.

       There are probably many reasons why this should be. Perhaps answers abound from philosophers as well as psychiatrists.

       For my part, I suspect that the accretion of many years of knowledge and experience are jostling for room in the brain and, in so doing, create distraction and thoughts that are not necessarily in any sequence or logical order. This activity is distracting to the point of losing track of time, which, as we know, is extremely flexible in its delivery to us.

       Let me explain that part.

       It is common knowledge that the working day, especially when slow and tedious, lasts a long time but that the weekend will flash past if we are involved in something, to us, entertaining. Time varies in its pace and with individuals.

       Further to that, the effect of time for an individual person can be varied by that same individual. Sports persons, for example, can dilate time to their advantage; they might, for example, ‘slow down’ the rate at which a ball will arrive at them so that they can make a more accurate judgement on how to strike the ball with foot, hand or racquet.

       Top Boxers and Fencers have a similar ability that puts them a fraction of a second ahead of their opponent.

       There is an illusionist who immerses himself for long periods in water and offers other life threatening ‘tricks’ to entertain the public. It is believed that he is able to not only slow down his heartbeat and metabolism but he also slows time (in his head) to make it easier to bear the exigencies of these acts.

       Thus I believe that the older you get the busier your mind becomes. Memories, especially older ones (since more recent ones tend to fade away!), take up a lot of mental time and activity.

       In a practical sense the attenuation of time as a tool in fighting was developed by me in the stories of the Adepts and, specifically, their fighting girls from Paya.

       The first story that mentions these girls, ‘Rhittach’, demonstrates this idea in full.

       I have every confidence that, in the future, there will be athletes, among others, that will develop this ability.

       Who knows how many records will tumble if this happens?

       My only regret is that I shall not be here to witness it. My time is draining away too quickly for that!

Support

Some time ago, when the Earth was still young, I was wont to write an article for the station magazine.

I did this every month for five years without missing a month. Appended to the article, which was about sea angling, was a cartoon. Every month. Without fail.

The article was called ‘Casting Around’ because, when I started it, I was ‘casting around’ for something to write. The sea-angling organisation was in its infancy at that time.

At an early point in my submission of journalistic writings for the magazine, imaginatively called ‘Force 8’ because of the high winds for which the area was notorious, I had an idea. Why not, I thought, write a story for the magazine.

Filled with an earnest desire to please and a youthful zest for accomplishment I duly wrote a story.

A short story. A very short story. Possibly no more than a thousand words.

Proud of my work and creative artistry, I decided to take the story to the editor’s office by hand. This was instead of putting it into the internal mail.

The thought was father to the deed.

I tapped on the door and a voice called, “Come.”

‘Curt,’ I thought.

The other side of a large desk was an officer, a Flight Lieutenant. He didn’t look up so I placed the story on his desk.

Again, without looking up, he said, “What is it?”

“A short story for inclusion in the Station magazine,” I spoke briskly, as one does.

He glanced up at last, “I hardly believe that a Corporal in the Technical Branch is capable of stringing sufficient words together to form a cohesive sentence let alone write a story.”

He chuckled at his own, perceived, perspicuity and pushed the story back towards me with his finger nail without looking up again.

Arrogance? Condescension?

I mentioned these words on my way out. He said something about “...not being the last I have heard of this...”

I heard no more, of course.

Something all authors need is support. From friends and family.

We need this so that we can focus on turning our creative juices into ‘cohesive sentences’.

Friends who tell me that they have no regard for my writing abilities would be best served by saying nothing. Other friends who tell me that they will stick to reading books by ‘real writers’ (Stephen King and Amanda Hocking were suggested) would, similarly, be well advised to say nothing.

I have mentioned before, under a ‘Blog’ entitled ‘Reviews’, that constructive criticism is welcome but being ‘put down’ and the subject of derision by persons who have not read my stories is insulting and dispiriting.

Fellow authors, you should be aware that these people who are full of negativity are to be vigorously ignored.

Look, discard and think positive.

Perhaps that editor, if he still lives, may be given pause to reflect now that I have many books on ‘Amazon’ and many more to come.

Support is not only welcome but vital. Do not be frightened to explain this to friends and family. You are not ignoring them you are doing what you must for you and that is something they need to recognise.

Good luck.

Time is of the Essence

“My Name Is A Number” has been published. It is now available on Amazon kindle store at the special, Christmas, price of 99cents (77p in UK).

The price will undoubtedly increase in January to reflect the fact that this is not a short story but a fully-fledged novel.

Curiously, having been caught up in the excitement of writing “MNIAN” (as we like to call it) I kept the momentum going and wrote two sequels.

These are currently known as ‘MNIAN 2’ and, wait for it, ‘MNIAN 3’! 'Imaginative,' you might be thinking.

These are just working titles because it is by no means certain that these stories will ever see the light of day.

The original ‘MNIAN’ was intended as a ‘stand-alone’ story. It really doesn’t need sequels and, in any case, either both sequels are published or none at all.

Besides, the publisher has other stories to sort out and send to the editor first. There are still some ‘Ruthermore Heidigens’ stories to go as well as ‘Four’s a Crowd’ and ‘Five’s the End’.

This is without the second major novel of the “Adepts: Book Two – Empath”.

Still, they are written. We shall see what happens to them in the future, no doubt.

In the meantime there is work to be done on Book Three of the Adepts, the next ‘Ruthermore Heidigens’ and ‘Deep Space Squadron’ needs wrapping up with, at least, one more chapter—possibly two.

There is pressure from other places to complete the graphics for ‘A Simple Guide To Understanding Jet Engines – Systems’ but there is no room on my desk. I need a bigger desk and a faster keyboard!

Anybody like drawing cartoons?

Now you will see why I need to tender my apologies for being remiss in up-dating this ‘Blog’. So much writing to do. So much time needed in a World where time is just not available.

Thank you for your patience. I shall try to do better in future.

All Hallow's E'en

Hallowe’en! Pish!

Maybe, hundreds of years ago, Allhallows tide was a decent festival.

Maybe.

Perhaps, during samhain, festivities were wrought for the celebration of harvest festival and the guarding against the ‘Dark Time’. Winter.

Perhaps.

Nobody cares now. Everybody cares about knocking on doors and saying ‘Trick or Treat', whatever that means.

Nobody cares about the coming of the ‘Dark Time’.

As long as we get our sweets—candies they call them now.

Carve out the pumpkin and make jokes of the light that comes out of the grinning, toothy face. Possibly there will be pumpkin pie made from the scooped out innards of the great fruit.

That sums it up. It’s a joke.

Children dressing up in ghoulish costumes and pretending to be a mini-Dracula or a tiny skeleton knocking on the doors of people who, really, just want to be left alone for a quiet night indoors.

We are compelled to buy small treats in huge quantities to cater for the voracious demands of a horde of small people accompanied by older children or parents.

Corporate insensitivity doesn’t care about the old folk or the disbelievers—the killjoys, as they are collectively known.

Let’s get money.

For costumes, for make-up, for sweets and any other merchandising we can fob off on the people who love to revel.

It’s a joke.

Do you remember when it wasn’t a joke?

Do you remember the old times? When we believed in things that go bump in the night?

Do you recall the fear of the ‘Dark Times’? How we used to huddle together for warmth and comfort? When we had the animals in with us in the crofts and cottages to add their warmth and comforting presence?

Is the memory of the birds roosting up in the thatch to share the warmth still with you?

Longer and longer the dark lasts until the winter solstice. Then we celebrate that the light is coming.

Do you remember our faces? How happy we were when we knew that the darkness was losing ground to the light? When we knew that it would be warm again soon?

The corporations perverted our winter solstice festival for their greed. They turned it into a time of guilt if you spent less than your income on giving. If you spent less than lavishly on the eating and drinking to excess; the need to send cards and greetings to people you barely knew and never liked.

The magic in the mistletoe is lost; the power of the evergreen is gone.

So it has become with All Hallows E’en. The tentacles of greed reach ever further into our pockets.

Do you remember the time before the corporations? When there was magic and fairies that would protect us from the goblins and mischievous sprites.

We had people who knew how to ward off the succubus and the incubus that came to us in the eve of the ‘Dark Times’. They had potions and spells that protected us.

Now we have sweets—treats, and costumes. Mummery for children.

The ghouls and hobgoblins are toys of the infants; they are the stuff of fiction writers and television series. The makers of cheap films to frighten the foolish and send them home, giggling, to their warm beds and safe homes in the suburbs.

Of course you do not remember. You are dead.

I killed you when you were yet young.

You were imbued with the vigour and the desire to kill the wraiths that coiled around us and our homes.

I tried to warn you but you would fain listen to me, your guardian.

Now I am unable to discern your knock from the infants’ that come to my door for their annual booty.

I have put a sign up for their safety that warns them to stay clear but to no avail such is their ardent desire for sweet prizes.

Why can you not warn them, keep them away.

Hallowe’en! Pish! You are too weak to aid them in their petty little lives.

Every year the police come and ask me if I have seen yet more missing children.

Every year I tell them that I have not. That I gave out the sweets and limped back to my fireside where the warmth quells the arthritis in my aging bones.

Every year I have to stir the remains in the grate to make sure that the children have all gone...

My Name Is A Number

Some time ago I wrote a ‘Blog’, following pressure from certain quarters, that explained how I set up and wrote a story.

The ‘Blog’ involved several ‘Chapters’ that were spread over four entries during March, 2013.

At the end of the ‘Blog’ I wrote, “Finally, we have to read the story critically and examine whether it is worth pursuing. Not every story that falls out of our heads is going to dominate the literary market. Some might not even make it as far as the waste paper basket.

This one will make it to the bin. No further.”

I was in error.

The story was seen by other eyes and the result was that it was rewritten and passed to the publisher.

Khairul Hisham, of ‘Hishgraphics’, has produced a magnificent cover illustration and now the story is in the hands of the editor for final corrections.

'My Name Is A Number' should be published on 'Amazon' in the next couple of days.

I will confess that the story was inspired, to a certain extent, by the Rolling Stones song ‘2000 Man’, which I commend to you via ‘YouTube’.

So you will see that, whatever you write you should never throw it away.

This is my second lesson in this respect.

Many moons ago I wrote ‘The Hags of Teeb’ as an exercise in exorcising the story from my head. After completing it I threw it, wholesale, into the rubbish bin from whence it was extracted by delicate fingers and scrutinised with an intense scrute and smuggled out to the publisher. It is now a top seller on ‘Amazon’!

[Note: It is being caught up by ‘Rhittach’—watch out behind you, Hags!]

On the other hand, other stories that I wrote have been much admired by me (how arrogant is that?) and yet have failed to pass the ‘first reader test’! One such is ‘South From Alaska’ that appeared in the ‘The Write Stuff’ ‘Blog’ on 23^rd June, 2012. I loved that story only for it to be rejected even after rewriting.

You just can never tell what will make it and what will not.

A friend of mine is a great chef. He is the master at turning plain food into a heavenly delight. He is called Gerry Buxton, a big, down-to-earth fellow who is easy to get on with and has a great sense of humour and no legs.

I asked him, years ago, how he manages to cater for so many different tastes amongst the people who eat his food?

He told me that he did not. He cooked for himself. If he liked it then it was good enough to go out to the guests.

I remembered that.

I write for me. I write to make myself happy.

If you like my stories then I am happy; if you do not like my stories then I am also happy because it shows that you have, at least, read it/them and have cared enough to write a review telling me what it was that you disliked.
[See ‘Amazon’ reviews for ‘Crater’.]

You will never please everyone. Never. The main thing is to please yourself.

Sometimes you will not be pleased but it is always worth keeping your work because somebody might love it!

Never give up. Everything you do is practice. Overnight success comes to very few. Success comes to those who work at it.

See you on ‘Amazon’.

South From Alaska

Trees. Almost black. Endless, trackless. In the far distance there were tiny mountains chipped from cubes of ice. Underneath, slipping past, were trees.

He was transfixed by the trees. His knuckles were white on the armrest of the seat. The trees looked soft but he knew that they were hard. Trees were made of wood. They were tough and hard.

He felt ill. He knew he was hallucinating but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Look at me”

He heard the voice but it was only in his mind.

“Look at me.”

He tried to take his eyes away from the window and those endless trees.

“Look at me.”

The voice was becoming more insistent.

He dragged his head around to gaze at the person sitting next to him.

She put her hand on his and gripped gently. It was real to him. The touch, the feel of her hand.

He tried to look away but her left hand came around and firmly held his right cheek. He imagined that her hand slipped a little on the sweat.

She was beautiful. Blonde hair to the shoulder, big blue eyes and a warmth, a humanity, in her. He felt a tear well up.

“The trees....” he gasped at her.

“Yes. The trees. We are a long way above them. All is well. Relax.” her voice was soft, breathless.

He turned back to the window. The trees were closer now, he was sure. Much closer.

Panic was freezing his muscles and clamping down hard on his heart. He tried to explain to her but the words would not form. His mouth was dry and the breath would not squeeze past his tight throat.

The worst of all his fears was realised.

Crunching, splintering, tearing. The ‘plane hit the treetops and descended down into the branches and trunks. It bucked and gyrated. With a deafening ripping noise a huge branch smashed through the floor; the sharp, shattered end speared into his chest pinning him to the seat.

He tried to breathe but nothing would come—only pain. Searing hot agony coursed through every fibre of his being and pounded his head, pushing his eyes from the back.

Somewhere down in the core of his soul a voice said, ‘Let me die. Now. I beg you, let me die.’

The ‘plane flew on. Outside all was serene. The trees floated past far below.

Outside his head a voice, soft and warm, said, “Hold on. Stay with me.”

He looked out of the window. It was dark. His back was propped up so he could see out.

“How long do the nights last here?” he asked.

“Six months.”

He was not surprised to hear her voice. He turned towards her. She was perfect. Blonde hair combed to a fine sheen, big blue eyes full of compassion and warmth. Her hand came out and held his, softly.

He turned back to the window. White. Snow. As far as the eye could see it was just snow. In the far distance were tiny mountains chipped out of cubes of ice.

The policeman appraised her appreciatively. She was not tall but she was attractively formed. Blonde hair to the shoulder, blue eyes and a soft, kind voice with a sort of Louisiana lilt that made you think she was singing to you. She was groomed perfectly.

“What did he say his name was?”

“Shudde M’ell. I told him that meant he was big and burrowing. Appropriate, no?”

“And you told him your name was....”

“Dejah Thoris.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he expected someone darker, somehow, with a name like that. Perhaps with black hair. He smiled.”

“And then?”

“He clutched his chest and collapsed. I called the medics.”

“So you had not yet gone upstairs to conduct business.”

“How diplomatic of you, Officer. No. Not yet.”

“Was he a regular?”

“No. I had never met him before.”

“Thank you, Miss...” he consulted his pad, blushing. She was exceptionally attractive, “Mrs... sorry... Solo. If we need anything we’ll call you.”

“Certainly, Officer.” she stroked his lapel. He blushed deeper, “For you, I will always co-operate.”

He watched her walk away and wondered if every joint had been recently oiled.

Half a mile later she peeled the patch from her right palm and dropped it into a garbage bin. She was confident it would not be found as she was also confident that the toxin would not be traceable.

Fifteen minutes later she entered the lobby of her hotel and took the lift. In her room she gazed in the mirror and thought, ‘Damn. Even I could get hard looking at that.’

He peeled off the wig, unhooked the ear-rings and unclasped the bra with the false breasts in it.

After a hot shower he lay down on the bed with just the towel over him. He had arranged the pillows so he was propped up at the back.

He looked out of the window. It was dark.

“How long do the nights last here?”

“Six months.” she said. Her voice was soft, breathless. There was a Southern lilt in it. He imagined she was singing to him.

He turned towards her. She was a dream. Not tall but a golden treasure. Blonde, big blue eyes full of kindness and warmth.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Padmé Amidala.” she replied, “And you?”

“Hari Seldon.” he told her, “I would have expected someone darker, somehow. Black hair, perhaps, with a name like that.”

She smiled. Her hand came over and held his softly, gently.

He had a vague thought of trees but it was immediately swept away in a tide of amnesia.

“Have I been here long?” he asked her.

“No. Not long. Rest.”

There were familiar sounds from the next room. He discarded them and focussed on the window. Still, they affected him. She grasped him through the blankets. It was a comfort. He relaxed.

Snow. As far as the eye could see it was white snow. Untrampled, pure, flat, clean. In the far, far distance were tiny little mountains chipped out of cubes of ice.

In the hallway she spoke to the officer. The officer admired her nakedness but did not wonder at it. She, for her part, felt no embarrassment. All seemed normal.

“I was passing the room and heard a scream. So I reported it to the hotel staff.”

“Could I take your name, please?”

“Certainly. I’m Medical Technician Peters.”

“Thank you for your help, Ma’am. We will take it from here.”

She went down to the lobby and stripped the pad from her right palm, dropping it into a bin on the way out. And then smoothed out her charcoal grey pencil skirt that accentuated her hips and thighs.

Tiredness overwhelmed her.

She found another hotel closer to the town centre and checked in.

“Your name please, Ma’am?”

“Zoë Washburne.”

The clerk at reception had the vaguest feeling that he should have expected someone darker—perhaps with black hair.

He handed her the key to her room, “Have a pleasant stay, Ma’am.”

“Why did he want my name if he is going to call me ‘Ma’am’?” she muttered to herself on the way up to her room.

The card never worked first time. It was always a struggle to unlock doors with these new card keys. At last the door opened. She giggled happily.

“Kyle Reese. You are already here, my love!”

“Yes, Ripley, my sweet. I yearn for you.”

They were making love. Slowly, gently, quietly. He revelled in her warmth and nuzzled her neck, his fingers twining in her blonde hair. She mewled at him to let him know that she, too, was happy. Every touch was valued, every feeling explored and cherished.

Afterwards he lay back, propped up on the pillows and looked out of the window. It was dark. Black.

There was no recollection of their love-making. No memory of her warmth, the feel of her skin on his.

“How long do the nights last here?” he asked her.

“Six months.” she told him.

She reached over from the chair and took his hand.

“What is your name?”

“Dr. David Bowman. And you? What is your name?”

“Dale Arden.”

“Dale Arden. I should have expected someone darker with black hair, perhaps, with a name like that.”

She smiled. It was like the sun coming out. He felt his heart warming. She was blonde and stunningly beautiful. Her eyes were big and blue and yet she had warmth, a friendliness about her.

She stood and stretched. Her wings were long and slender, they had no feathers. He wondered at that and then forgot.

The window was bright. Outside it was white. Snow. As far as you could see just snow until, far, far, away there were mountains. Tiny mountains that seemed to have been chipped from cubes of ice.

He couldn’t breathe. He wondered if he should be able to breathe. Perhaps he had forgotten to breathe.

The window was brighter now. The snow seemed to almost glow. He moved toward it and slid into it along the brightest path.

Two paramedics brought the body in to the morgue.

“Heart attack on the inbound from Alaska. We tried the paddles a few times but it was no good—he’d been an’ gone already. Old lady sat next to him said he just grabbed his chest an’ keeled over. She called the Steward an’ whoop-de-doo! Here we are.”

The morgue attendant asked him for a name.

“Oh, yeah. It’s here. A Mr Ronald Proctor. He’s a Science Fiction writer going to some convention here in Seattle. His wife’ll be along soon to collect the body. She was already here. At the convention, that is.”

Two hours later she arrived. The morgue attendant whistled under his breath. She was a real looker, alright.

“Come this way please, Mrs Proctor. Your husband is in the chapel.”

He glanced sideways, appraising her. She wasn’t tall but she was very nicely shaped. Blonde hair to the shoulders, big blue eyes and a kindliness about her like she needed to be somebody’s Mum.

“Could you tell me why he had a plaster on his right palm?”

“He was putting up boarding on a new shed and got a blister from the screwdriver.” she dabbed her eye gently with a tissue and sniffed.

The body was laid out on a board in the chapel. She nodded, reached over and took his hand. Softly, gently.

“Goodbye, my Dan Dare. Your Wilma Dearing will miss you.” she kissed him on the lips, wept and left.

The attendant was entranced by her voice, she sounded as if she was singing to him in that quiet Louisiana lilt. He watched her go. She walked from him like every joint in her body had just been freshly oiled.

He went back up to the morgue to lie down for a nap on one of the benches.

By his head was a window. It was snowing...