I'm not sure how long these will be free, but three great new releases by publisher Caffeine Nights are currently free for the kindle.
Frank's Wild Years by Nick Triplow
The Late Greats by Nick Quantrill
And
Abide With Me by Ian Ayris
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
Something Old
Got nothing to rant about this week so here's the first chapter of an unfinished book I started years ago: Sausage Roll Finger. It was the sequel to Spies, lies and pies (now renamed The Spy With Eczema.)
Funny looking back at old stuff, isn't it? I suppose your writing grows as you grow or whatever. This book, though, is probably my favourite of all the unfinished stuff clogging up the hard drive. However, I never saw the point of writing a sequel to a book that isn't up for sale. What's that you say? Self publish The Spy With Eczema? Maybe I will. Maybe, I will.
Sausage Roll Finger - Chapter 1
Jeffrey Humpdine was no average security guard. Sat on his fat arse eating a cheese sandwich in front of a CCTV monitor, you’d be forgiven for thinking he was. At four am in a factory on your own, life can be quiet. However, Jeffrey wasn’t the sort of man to catch a few hours sleep or read the paper; he was committed to his job and the people he served.
Years of watching the CCTV monitor had toned his vision. He no longer saw the pictures on the screen. Instead, he saw the irregularities. Someone in sector G had left his coat on a peg, the cleaner had forgotten to empty a bin in the canteen.
Jeffrey checked his watch then stood up.
“Time for the four o’clock walk then,” he said, in between mouthfuls of cheesy bread. Grabbing his high-vis jacket, he left the office, a ring of keys jangling at his belt as he took each stride.
Outside in the factory was row upon row of bright stainless-steel machinery all inter-connected by conveyor belts. Each of the machines deserted. Walking up to the first machine he paused, reading the label for the fiftieth time.
ACME Sausage Roll Piping Machine Model 18923B.
“So then, ACME piping machine, what time you reckon today?” Jeffrey asked it with a curiously Americanised accent.
Receiving no reply, he pulled his left sleeve back, pressed the side button three times on his digital watch to reveal the stopwatch, which for some reason was named a chronograph, and adopted a runners standing position.
“Five, four, three,” he counted, “two, one, go.” He pressed the start button on the watch and started slowly walking.
Making a car-like acceleration noise, Jeffrey held out his left hand, grabbing at an imaginary gear stick. When the revs reached a peak, he pulled his hand back quickly, the revs in his voice dropping noticeably.
“Brrrrrrrm,” he said, his pace increasing as second gear accelerated him down the corridor. Changing up again to third, a flawless change, his speed was akin to that of a fast trot. Ahead of him, the plastic double doors led through to the Rolling room.
The bottom of his coat flapped curiously against his keys as he took his hand off the gear stick to push the door open, barely slowing his pace on the way through.
Giving a final, “Brrrrrm,” he changed up to fourth. The engine was now noticeably quieter as he sprint-walked down the straight, known in the trade as Pastry Paddock. Repositioning himself to the left of the track, he began his deceleration ahead of the sharp right hand bend leading into the cutting room. Changing down to third, then second, he squealed round the bend, taking the racing line, his right hand oversteering, feet skidding, as he glided to the left after the bend. He, again, began accelerating through the gears and onwards toward the cutting room exit.
Maybe if Jeffrey hadn’t been playing silly twats motor racing he would have seen the small metal casing beneath the cutting machine. Maybe, if he’d slowed or changed down to second, he might have seen the wires hanging out of the casing. Maybe, if he’d been actually doing his job instead of fannying around, he would have noticed the digital read out on the front of the box, counting down the seconds with only five seconds left.
However, he missed the signs.
In the last four seconds of his life, Jeffrey accelerated back to third then slowed, changing down at a inch perfect spot for a tight right hand corner, before re-accelerating down the home straight.
There are probably worse ways to die.
~
It even had a cover done by Bradley Wind.
Funny looking back at old stuff, isn't it? I suppose your writing grows as you grow or whatever. This book, though, is probably my favourite of all the unfinished stuff clogging up the hard drive. However, I never saw the point of writing a sequel to a book that isn't up for sale. What's that you say? Self publish The Spy With Eczema? Maybe I will. Maybe, I will.
Sausage Roll Finger - Chapter 1
Jeffrey Humpdine was no average security guard. Sat on his fat arse eating a cheese sandwich in front of a CCTV monitor, you’d be forgiven for thinking he was. At four am in a factory on your own, life can be quiet. However, Jeffrey wasn’t the sort of man to catch a few hours sleep or read the paper; he was committed to his job and the people he served.
Years of watching the CCTV monitor had toned his vision. He no longer saw the pictures on the screen. Instead, he saw the irregularities. Someone in sector G had left his coat on a peg, the cleaner had forgotten to empty a bin in the canteen.
Jeffrey checked his watch then stood up.
“Time for the four o’clock walk then,” he said, in between mouthfuls of cheesy bread. Grabbing his high-vis jacket, he left the office, a ring of keys jangling at his belt as he took each stride.
Outside in the factory was row upon row of bright stainless-steel machinery all inter-connected by conveyor belts. Each of the machines deserted. Walking up to the first machine he paused, reading the label for the fiftieth time.
ACME Sausage Roll Piping Machine Model 18923B.
“So then, ACME piping machine, what time you reckon today?” Jeffrey asked it with a curiously Americanised accent.
Receiving no reply, he pulled his left sleeve back, pressed the side button three times on his digital watch to reveal the stopwatch, which for some reason was named a chronograph, and adopted a runners standing position.
“Five, four, three,” he counted, “two, one, go.” He pressed the start button on the watch and started slowly walking.
Making a car-like acceleration noise, Jeffrey held out his left hand, grabbing at an imaginary gear stick. When the revs reached a peak, he pulled his hand back quickly, the revs in his voice dropping noticeably.
“Brrrrrrrm,” he said, his pace increasing as second gear accelerated him down the corridor. Changing up again to third, a flawless change, his speed was akin to that of a fast trot. Ahead of him, the plastic double doors led through to the Rolling room.
The bottom of his coat flapped curiously against his keys as he took his hand off the gear stick to push the door open, barely slowing his pace on the way through.
Giving a final, “Brrrrrm,” he changed up to fourth. The engine was now noticeably quieter as he sprint-walked down the straight, known in the trade as Pastry Paddock. Repositioning himself to the left of the track, he began his deceleration ahead of the sharp right hand bend leading into the cutting room. Changing down to third, then second, he squealed round the bend, taking the racing line, his right hand oversteering, feet skidding, as he glided to the left after the bend. He, again, began accelerating through the gears and onwards toward the cutting room exit.
Maybe if Jeffrey hadn’t been playing silly twats motor racing he would have seen the small metal casing beneath the cutting machine. Maybe, if he’d slowed or changed down to second, he might have seen the wires hanging out of the casing. Maybe, if he’d been actually doing his job instead of fannying around, he would have noticed the digital read out on the front of the box, counting down the seconds with only five seconds left.
However, he missed the signs.
In the last four seconds of his life, Jeffrey accelerated back to third then slowed, changing down at a inch perfect spot for a tight right hand corner, before re-accelerating down the home straight.
There are probably worse ways to die.
~
It even had a cover done by Bradley Wind.
Thursday, 2 February 2012
So...
If you didn't know, I've asked for my stories to be withdrawn from Trestle Press. There's no point explaining why as it's all over the internet.
Obviously it's a set back in my quest for world domination, but that's what life's all about isn't it. The short story formally known as Das Slap will become a novella at some future point. The other one, A Life in Rags, I will be putting up for free when I work out how to make something free on Amazon.
My only hope is this whole thing doesn't put off other small publishers from attempting to enter e-book and niche markets. The reputation of indie, small and self publishing was bad enough without this, and I think the major publishers have just been given a big stick to beat us with.
Anyway, life goes on and lessons have been more than learnt.
Obviously it's a set back in my quest for world domination, but that's what life's all about isn't it. The short story formally known as Das Slap will become a novella at some future point. The other one, A Life in Rags, I will be putting up for free when I work out how to make something free on Amazon.
My only hope is this whole thing doesn't put off other small publishers from attempting to enter e-book and niche markets. The reputation of indie, small and self publishing was bad enough without this, and I think the major publishers have just been given a big stick to beat us with.
Anyway, life goes on and lessons have been more than learnt.
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
Sunday Drivers
Haven't posted for a while, but here's a very little short story. 120 words.
Sunday Drivers
Nicky had run him over, but that wasn’t the problem. We’d have got away with that. Dark night, dark clothes, tight bend. Guy didn’t stand a chance.
Problem was, she’d slammed the gear in reverse and had another pop.
“The fuck you doing?”
The car bounced over the body.
“He might be alive. Don’t want him talking.” Her hands gripped the wheel so tight. And her eyes...
“Jeez, Nicky.”
She put it drive, floored the pedal. Car didn’t bounce. Guess he was already flat.
“Stop.”
She did. Her hands left the wheel and into her bag.
“Why?”
“No witnesses, no crime.”
Her eyes still burned. I saw the .22 she’d pulled from her bag. “That include me?”
She nodded. “Sorry.”
---
As a break from all the cat, pie and roadsign pictures I've been posting of late, this year I'm targeting shops and take-aways.
Sunday Drivers
Nicky had run him over, but that wasn’t the problem. We’d have got away with that. Dark night, dark clothes, tight bend. Guy didn’t stand a chance.
Problem was, she’d slammed the gear in reverse and had another pop.
“The fuck you doing?”
The car bounced over the body.
“He might be alive. Don’t want him talking.” Her hands gripped the wheel so tight. And her eyes...
“Jeez, Nicky.”
She put it drive, floored the pedal. Car didn’t bounce. Guess he was already flat.
“Stop.”
She did. Her hands left the wheel and into her bag.
“Why?”
“No witnesses, no crime.”
Her eyes still burned. I saw the .22 she’d pulled from her bag. “That include me?”
She nodded. “Sorry.”
---
As a break from all the cat, pie and roadsign pictures I've been posting of late, this year I'm targeting shops and take-aways.
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
2011 Awards
The annual Best Of awards for last year (in my opinion) are...
Best book (that I've read) : Ian Rankin - Let it bleed
I spent the year reading the whole Rebus series so one of them had to win... This one is certainly one of the best.
Best Scouse complied anthology of more than 37 short stories: Off the Record by Luca Veste
There could only be one winner... Click here to see what the fuss is about and also for details of a huge competition.
Best short story : AJ Hayes’s Small Separations at Shotgun Honey
Chilling, concise and very memorable read it here.
Best collection of short stories : Julie Morrigan’s Gone Bad
Fab collection of dark and wonderful shorts. Buy it here.
Best Takeaway menu typo : My local kebab/pizza shop
Nun bread - Either it's an ecclesiastical delight or they've misspelt Nan bread. No picture I'm afraid but here's something similar I found. (Number 9's the good bit)
Best Road Sign :
That's all. Back with another old man rant early next week.
Best book (that I've read) : Ian Rankin - Let it bleed
I spent the year reading the whole Rebus series so one of them had to win... This one is certainly one of the best.
Best Scouse complied anthology of more than 37 short stories: Off the Record by Luca Veste
There could only be one winner... Click here to see what the fuss is about and also for details of a huge competition.
Best short story : AJ Hayes’s Small Separations at Shotgun Honey
Chilling, concise and very memorable read it here.
Best collection of short stories : Julie Morrigan’s Gone Bad
Fab collection of dark and wonderful shorts. Buy it here.
Best Takeaway menu typo : My local kebab/pizza shop
Nun bread - Either it's an ecclesiastical delight or they've misspelt Nan bread. No picture I'm afraid but here's something similar I found. (Number 9's the good bit)
Best Road Sign :
That's all. Back with another old man rant early next week.
Monday, 19 December 2011
Brit Grit Too
Paul David Brazil's anthology of 32 British and gritish writers is now available to buy.
It's quite a line up, some cracking writers and stories plus my own unoriginally titled story.
The full line up is:
1. Two Fingers Of Noir by Alan Griffiths
2. Looking For Jamie by Iain Rowan
3. Stones In Me Pocket by Nigel Bird
4. The Catch And The Fall by Luke Block
5. A Long Time Coming by Paul Grzegorzek
6. Loose Ends by Gary Dobb
7. Graduation Day by Malcolm Holt
8. Cry Baby by Victoria Watson
9. The Savage World Of Men by Richard Godwin
10. Hard Boiled Poem (a mystery) by Alan Savage
11. A Dirty Job by Sue Harding
12. Squaring The Circle by Nick Quantrill
13. The Best Days Of My Life by Steven Porter
14. Hanging Stan by Jason Michel
15. The Wrong Place To Die by Nick Triplow
16. Coffin Boy by Nick Mott
17. Meat Is Murder by Colin Graham
18. Adult Education by Graham Smith
19. A Public Service by Col Bury
20. Hero by Pete Sortwell
21. Snapshots by Paul D Brazill
22. Smoked by Luca Veste
23. Geraldine by Andy Rivers
24. A Minimum Of Reason by Nick Boldock
25. Dope On A Rope by Darren Sant
26. A Speck Of Dust by David Barber
27. Hard Times by Ian Ayris
28. Never Ending by Fiona Johnson
29. Faces by Frank Duffy
30. The Plebitarian by Danny Hogan
31. King Edward by Gerard Brennan
32. Brit Grit by Charlie Wade
Available to buy on Amazon
It's quite a line up, some cracking writers and stories plus my own unoriginally titled story.
The full line up is:
1. Two Fingers Of Noir by Alan Griffiths
2. Looking For Jamie by Iain Rowan
3. Stones In Me Pocket by Nigel Bird
4. The Catch And The Fall by Luke Block
5. A Long Time Coming by Paul Grzegorzek
6. Loose Ends by Gary Dobb
7. Graduation Day by Malcolm Holt
8. Cry Baby by Victoria Watson
9. The Savage World Of Men by Richard Godwin
10. Hard Boiled Poem (a mystery) by Alan Savage
11. A Dirty Job by Sue Harding
12. Squaring The Circle by Nick Quantrill
13. The Best Days Of My Life by Steven Porter
14. Hanging Stan by Jason Michel
15. The Wrong Place To Die by Nick Triplow
16. Coffin Boy by Nick Mott
17. Meat Is Murder by Colin Graham
18. Adult Education by Graham Smith
19. A Public Service by Col Bury
20. Hero by Pete Sortwell
21. Snapshots by Paul D Brazill
22. Smoked by Luca Veste
23. Geraldine by Andy Rivers
24. A Minimum Of Reason by Nick Boldock
25. Dope On A Rope by Darren Sant
26. A Speck Of Dust by David Barber
27. Hard Times by Ian Ayris
28. Never Ending by Fiona Johnson
29. Faces by Frank Duffy
30. The Plebitarian by Danny Hogan
31. King Edward by Gerard Brennan
32. Brit Grit by Charlie Wade
Available to buy on Amazon
Monday, 12 December 2011
Another old man rant...
The youth of today, eh?
That’s one good thing about getting old: you can start saying old people things. However, the statement does have some value.
Every generation post 50’s has left behind some redeeming change. Whether its music, fashion, obesity, whatever. I always refer to them as music eras as they seem to be the driving force. Sixties gave us mods and hippies. Seventies rock then punk. Eighties new wave and indie. The nineties, rave.
I was a bit too young for new wave and slightly too old for rave, but god did I have a bash at it. I’ve stood in fields at four in the morning freezing cold and sweating at the same time. I’ve been in clubs where the atmosphere turned from defensive to electric after the drunks left at three in the morning. I’ve watched the sunrise on Brighton beach after dancing all night in steel toe-capped CAT boots. I’ve got the prematurely bad knees to prove it.
But youngsters today, eh? What about them?
Nothing.
The noughties were a forgettable decade. The only thing they generated were manufactured pop music, hoodys and trousers that are worn at half mast. The oneties look to be going the same way too.
Youngsters of today, this rant is for you. Think hard about this. When your grandkids eventually ask you, “There was punk, new wave and rave. What did you have?” What you going to say to them?
"We listened to rehashed, manufactured music, I wore my trousers halfway down my arse while your nan had a spray tan in November?" No. You need something more. Some defining theme or music style. Something to celebrate the fact you’re still young and can change the world before you get old and cynical and start thinking you can write books. The inability to spell and punctuate isn’t what you want to be remembered for, is it?
I know everything from festivals to alcohol has become commercialised and dumbed down, but that doesn’t stop you thinking for yourself and rebelling. Not that I want too much rebelling. I’m middle aged now and I’ve got twenty quid on me nectar card. Rebel in moderation, young people, avoiding damage to loyalty card users wherever possible. Most of all, find something that makes you stand out from the last and the next generation.
So, sort it out. Pull your trousers up, they look fucking ridiculous, get out there and do something people’ll remember. Before it’s too late.
And breathe out...
Time for a picture, I think
That’s one good thing about getting old: you can start saying old people things. However, the statement does have some value.
Every generation post 50’s has left behind some redeeming change. Whether its music, fashion, obesity, whatever. I always refer to them as music eras as they seem to be the driving force. Sixties gave us mods and hippies. Seventies rock then punk. Eighties new wave and indie. The nineties, rave.
I was a bit too young for new wave and slightly too old for rave, but god did I have a bash at it. I’ve stood in fields at four in the morning freezing cold and sweating at the same time. I’ve been in clubs where the atmosphere turned from defensive to electric after the drunks left at three in the morning. I’ve watched the sunrise on Brighton beach after dancing all night in steel toe-capped CAT boots. I’ve got the prematurely bad knees to prove it.
But youngsters today, eh? What about them?
Nothing.
The noughties were a forgettable decade. The only thing they generated were manufactured pop music, hoodys and trousers that are worn at half mast. The oneties look to be going the same way too.
Youngsters of today, this rant is for you. Think hard about this. When your grandkids eventually ask you, “There was punk, new wave and rave. What did you have?” What you going to say to them?
"We listened to rehashed, manufactured music, I wore my trousers halfway down my arse while your nan had a spray tan in November?" No. You need something more. Some defining theme or music style. Something to celebrate the fact you’re still young and can change the world before you get old and cynical and start thinking you can write books. The inability to spell and punctuate isn’t what you want to be remembered for, is it?
I know everything from festivals to alcohol has become commercialised and dumbed down, but that doesn’t stop you thinking for yourself and rebelling. Not that I want too much rebelling. I’m middle aged now and I’ve got twenty quid on me nectar card. Rebel in moderation, young people, avoiding damage to loyalty card users wherever possible. Most of all, find something that makes you stand out from the last and the next generation.
So, sort it out. Pull your trousers up, they look fucking ridiculous, get out there and do something people’ll remember. Before it’s too late.
And breathe out...
Time for a picture, I think
