Saturday 22 December 2012

Story 21 - 2 Worms

Two worms were fighting over a strawberry. It was first one to get to the top. One worm battered the other with a magnificent headbutt to send him flying onto the ground. The victorious worm then slid his way to the summit. “I’m the king!” he shouted. “I’m the king.”

Just then the fallen worm spotted, out of the corner of his eye, a starling.

“Over here, over here,” he yelled, before burrowing his way into the mud. Even before he was fully submerged he could feel the beating of the starling’s wings as she swooped down upon his tormentor.

Saturday 8 December 2012

Story 20 - Hungry and Homeless

There’s a sign in front of me saying hungry and homeless.

“How did you come to be hungry and homeless?” a woman asked me.

“Poor girl,” she must’ve been imagining; wanting to say; most probably a Christian; she was certainly giving off a motherly impression of, “There, there.”

I told her I’d lost my job along with my flat but was on a waiting list for a new one. I said there were a couple more weeks for me to get through ‘cause I could tell she was sorry for me and it being a good opportunity to get money. I wanted to make her feel she could make a difference so she’d go home happy; a lot less depressed than the sight of me was obviously making her. Unfortunately all I got was a cup of Starbucks coffee, a toasted cheese sandwich and a phone number.

“If you need someone,” she said. I thought: “For what?”

The truth is a lot simpler; much less dramatic than what I tell most of my mates: I was never kicked out of home, my parents never hit me and I’ve had plenty of chances to go back.

The fact is I’m stuck. At the very suggestion of getting my act together my veins fill up with inertia. I panic, and then tell myself there’s no hurry, that maybe one day.

Afterwards I remember there’s more important things to be thinking about. Like where I’m gonna sleep tonight; where, how, who with, how much, and is there a need for me to be begging for any more money?

It looks like it’s gonna rain soon. I’ll sleep round Steve’s if I can. Unless Tanya and her mates are there again it shouldn’t be a problem. Otherwise it’s the launderette on Wicker Street if I’m lucky enough for it to be unlocked tonight; and the doorway to Sam’s CafĂ© if I’m not. There’s twenty-seven pounds, thirty-eight pence on me. Two half cigarettes left (will more butts need to be gathered before everything gets wet?)

As the sky now rumbles with distant thunder the shoppers around me speed up, eager to be getting back to their warm homes. If I didn’t look such a mess I’d head for the shopping mall, but the security don’t like me in there. Think I’m gonna cause trouble. Harass the customers. Disturb the customers more like. Distract them from the ambience designed to make them feel rich, successful, happy and willing to part with their money. Perhaps I should dress up all nice and wave a flag saying you’re rich, life’s great, you’re great, and then people would be more eager in donating their loose change.

I need to collect some cigarettes for later; though there’s enough cash to treat myself to a new pack: Could do. Why not? Money is for food, drink, drugs and emergencies. A rule I made up last year. It’s how I’ve lasted this long: However, now as dusk sets in I’m starting to feel cold; and also slightly starving in a passive sort of way.

The folded cardboard hungry and homeless sign goes into the pocket of my duffle coat as I pick myself up from the floor. It’s started spitting now so I pull out my small Mickey Mouse umbrella from another pocket which explodes into life at the press of the magic button. I’m not your typical homeless girl. I have a magic Mickey Mouse umbrella.

The rain gets worse as I head to the kebab shop. Outside there’s a guy selling The Big Issue. He’s wearing a green parker with the hood up and is shifting from one foot to the other to keep warm. I don’t know him; or more precisely, haven’t seen him around here before; and he doesn’t recognise me yet.

We ignore each other as I go inside; ask for two kebabs with lots of mayonnaise please. There’s a TV on the wall but nowhere to sit. The news, but I can’t concentrate fully on what’s going on because of feeling tired and a little spaced out. I drink a Dr Pepper and stand, gazing at the TV screen while my two wrapped up kebabs sit on the counter.

It’s pouring with rain when I exit the shop. I offer the Big Issue guy one of my kebabs, hoping to make a new acquaintance but he refuses; and then disappears into the rain with a shout of, “You’re all good, yeah?”

Sitting on the floor up against the wall, under my umbrella I eat the two kebabs. After that I’m getting my cider at a different offie this time. In the rain everyone often appears worn and weathered; which usually works to my advantage ‘cause I look a little more ordinary. Less shit. On entering I for once can sense that to them I’m just a normal customer.

After sketchily making a show of browsing around I treat myself to a packet of Amber Leaf and get a one litre bottle of White Lightening; on impulse adding some M&M’s and bacon flavoured McCoy’s.

I decide against going to Steve’s but the laundrette is open thank God. It’s nice lying down in the dark - I daren’t turn the light on of course because of not wanting to give away my position - behind the row of washing machines with my little picnic. Outside the rain is pelting against the windows. Shadows of swaying trees dance against the wall while I smoke a rollie and briefly think about how lucky I am: the food, the shelter, the cosiness, the independence and that warm feeling inside brought about by the cider…

Although on waking up in the morning I’m being kicked by two old men. I’ve overslept, you see: a mistake on my part. A dishevelled old woman in curlers and a nightgown is in the background, looking on gratefully.

I hear the word, “Scum,” and there’s a moment when I’m spitting on the floor; and then it’s out into the fresh morning bitterness of a new day.

Monday 5 November 2012

guest story - Unseen by Ray Tullett

For the boy it had been a great Sunday afternoon, the first time he had ridden his bicycle without stabilizers. He could still feel the exitement as he thought back to the moment he realised his dad was no longer holding the back of his seat but better still was the look of pride in his dad’s face. Once he was off there was no stopping him and he spent hours riding around the park until he was exhausted. That was why he had put up no fight when told it was bed time. Now lying under the covers he looked up at the picture on the ceiling of an elephant spraying water over its back from the trunk, he wished he could go on a safari.

He rolled over to reach for his teddy bear but found nothing there. Confusion took him for a moment before he remembered putting it on the shelf. He felt a little guilty but now his stabilizers were off he was grown up and should not have a teddy bear in bed any more.

Watching the boy flick the switch on the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom; this did not take long as his night vision was very strong. He looked across the now dark room at the mound in the bed: anger did not come close to how he was feeling. He wanted to cause pain and suffering and could feel the urge building as the rage intensified, he had tried very hard to repress the urges he felt each day.

Waiting now was difficult but his past experience had taught him patience and if he was going to have his fun he would have to wait. The room was quiet; not even the ticking of a clock disturbed the peace. The only sound was the sound of the boy breathing, although it was not yet the slow steady breath of deep sleep.

The day had seen the boy riding solo for the first time and the boy had talked of nothing else since. He had already been in the bedroom and listened to the talk of the day, at one point the boy had come unexpectedly to the room and only some fast reflexes had kept him from being discovered. Thinking about the shock now only added to the anticipation of what was going happen later, he was not fully sure of how this was going to play out but feeling a fresh surge of rage that he barely managed to suppress, he knew it was going to be messy.

Daydreaming those pleasant thoughts made him miss the change in breathing but now he was focussed, the little snores coming from the small bed told him all he needed to know. Soon he would make his move and the fun could begin… but patience was still required as the parents were awake and downstairs watching T.V. He wanted to take his time with this one and make him pay in pain.

Time drifted on and in moments there seemed to be no hope of them ever going to bed. There had been a false alarm earlier when the dad had got up to put the kettle on. Listening to the kettle ping in the kitchen had been a real nightmare as he knew that there was probably going to be another hour of waiting. Passing the time by counting the boy’s breaths he waited and waited until finally there was movement downstairs and the T.V. was turned off.

The parents took their cups to the kitchen, rinsed them out and then came upstairs. This was it, finally the waiting was over and the rage was to be unleashed in a violence this house would never see again. He heard the mum go into the bedroom and the toilet flush in the bathroom as the father finished his business.

Footsteps on the landing and a soft light bathing the boy on the bed as the father opens the door to check on his precious boy. Holding his breath he waits for the door to close so he can make his move but he hears the father chuckle and sees him step into the room.

The father starts towards him and he holds himself dead still, he feels the father’s hands as they pick him up and carry him to the bed. He is tucked under the boy’s arm in his usual place, the footsteps retreat and the door closes and night once more enfolds the room…

Sunday 21 October 2012

Review - Semi Detached by Gareth Jones



Twenty-six years old, bored with the nine to five and looking for adventure, Gareth takes off to South America and into backpacker land. Brazil, Argentina, Peru, Chile… if you’ve ever been there yourself, you’ll know the routine. Go to a city, wander around feeling bored, then get pissed and have fun. At least that’s the way he does it.

What I liked about the book is that it wasn’t written by a journalist. There’s no in depth descriptions of the history and politics of every place they go to. And there’s no travel program isn’t this wonderful? bullshit. It’s a proper young person’s hedonistic flight into the sort of mad life such “holidays” can bring. A South American On the Road for the modern generation.

Gareth and his mates may not be everyone’s sort of people. Their sex, drugs and rock’n’roll lifestyle can sometimes be shockingly over the top. And the way they pretty much abuse the fact that they’re in a poor country by treating it like a playground is not exactly moralistic. But there again, this is what most young people do on their “year out.” (Plus there is a half-hearted epiphany or “realisation” of this towards the end).

If you’re looking for a travel book that doesn’t get bogged down with a lot of dull information or heavy plotlines then this is for you. Nice and simple. And a lot of fun.

This is a self published novel and could do with a bit of editing to tighten things up, but it’s still worth checking out. As with the other books I’m reviewing, this won’t be on the bookshelf of most shops, but will be available to order.

Thursday 6 September 2012

Interview with Jonny Gibbings, author of Malice in Blunderland


So this month I’ve the pleasure of interviewing up-and-coming writer Jonny Gibbings. He’s the author of the hilarious Malice in Blunderland, and has been described variously as the new Irvine Welsh; the new Chuck Palahniuk; the new Will Self; the new Charles Bukowski; the new… well, why not judge for yourself?



You’re a surfer, a writer, well travelled, a family man… you had a difficult upbringing, you’ve been homeless, worked for a crime syndicate, spent time in prison… ever thought about writing an autobiography?

I get asked that a lot lately. To be honest, there are a lot of uncomfortable memories and a memoir would mean revisiting things that I’ve invested a hell of a lot of money in booze to try to forget. Lidia Yuknavich [author of Dora: A Headcase - CM] has done some amazing words recently and in light of that I tried an essay on my childhood, but that was enough. Way too much pain in there to dwell on. I’ll stick to making folks laugh.

It’s a fairly routine question but for those who haven’t heard of Malice in Blunderland can you give us a quick summary of what it’s about?

Well I like to think of it as a transgressive nihilistic comedy, written as a farce. I only say that because it makes me sound smart. It’s the tale of a guy down on his luck. He makes some really bad choices and things go from bad to worse: in the farce tradition, his every decision is the wrong one. So from one drunken night, he ends up wanted by the police for rapes he didn’t do, hunted by the Ukrainian Mafia and London gangsters, and violently assaulted by a transvestite. Oh and he accidentally appears in a snuff movie.

I think that in life we’re all just a couple of steps from disaster. So it’s a lot like the bible but with fewer beards.

To make your book more authentic you included a few “deliberate” mistakes. (Mixing up there, their and they’re, it’s and its, with the occasional spelling error thrown in.) Were these left in from the original manuscript or was it a case of them being purposely added to the final draft? Did you have to be careful to not include things that would confuse the reader?

This is a funny one. It all came about because of the actor Christopher Walken! When he gets a script, he has all of the punctuation removed so that when he reads it, it ensures his distinctive unbroken flow. Originally, the manuscript felt too manicured so I took out a bunch of words and it began to sound like the ramblings of a police confession rather than prose:

“Four chairs were fixed by bolts to the floor, the cold reflective plastic, etc” became, “Four chairs bolted to the floor. Shiny plastic.”

I felt it added urgency in places. Paul at my publisher is ex Harper Collins. He loved it and suggested the spelling errors after reading a quick draft update that wasn’t proofed. We even started the first page on the left hand side, which is cardinal sin in publishing, so it’s a sort of ‘fingers up’ to the literary establishment.

I wanted it to feel like you’d found the journal of a man in breakdown, like a voyeuristic peek at private mad drunken scrawls. In that respect I love the spelling. It’s a fun book, so we had fun with it and I wasn’t bothered about confusing the reader. Like with Trainspotting and A Clockwork Orange, it’s good to make the reader do some of the work.

As well as being the comedic tale of an antihero gate crashing his way through one awkward situation to another, there’s also a darker element to Malice. Mostly this is about the protagonist’s fall in self confidence related to the break up with an ex girlfriend who he refers to intermittently throughout the novel. Did this come naturally in the writing or was the back-story something you later added to give the book some extra depth?

Well, having been homeless and in prison, I was hardly a catch (being vagrant you’re about as popular as cock flavoured lollies) so I’ve never had the luxury of being a ladies man. But the protagonist needed a reason to be in a hole and heartbreak seemed as good a lever as any.

As for the darkness (such as considering jumping from a bridge, the violence and drug use), that was important. He needed to be someone who you initially hated but thought was funny enough to make you want to read him. The idea was you’d see him grow, learn he isn’t a bad person and empathise with him. Most people so far have ended up loving the guy.

It’s all as a set up for the ending of the book to be honest. I wanted to write a comedy, but I also wanted to subtly make the point about judgement and writing people off. When I was sleeping in doorways, I’m sure people thought that was by choice.

Word’s getting around that Malice is to become a film. A dream come true for many authors. But I put it to you: if you had the choice of your book becoming a successful but awful Hollywood blockbuster which made you lots of money or a fairly respectable independent film that premiered at Sundance but disappeared into the abyss soon after… well, what’d it be?

Oddly, exactly that happened. My publisher was approached by two film companies. A big group from Hollywood and an independent group from the UK. The American team (I say team, as there was a shit load of them) met in a conference room in London. There was a guy called Luis ‘from legal’ who had so much paper for me to sign, like it was the fucking Magna Carta. I would’ve had to hand over all control. Quickly it turned out they wanted the film to be a 15A certificate. They wanted to take out most of the drugs, violence and shock humour. They wanted to sanitise everything.

When booking into the hotel with them, for a joke I asked if there was porn in the room. When the receptionist told me the porn could be disabled, I said, “That sounds kinky – yes, give me the disabled porn!” They were horrified. That was the first clue that things wouldn’t work out.

If I was in it for the money, I’d have probably written a memoir. It would’ve been all moody and tragic and I’d probably be a shit load more successful because of it. But then, if I wanted to make quick money, I could also throw on a blond wig and start blowing sailors! I’d rather be loved by a few than liked by the many. The London team got it. We left the hotel, went to a vegan cafĂ© in Camden and got pissed. And laughed a lot. Malice is a massive challenge. Making people laugh was important to the London boys. They want to make something to be proud of first, over the money it makes, and I respect that integrity. So it’s all going ahead with them.

So your blog, as well as being hilarious is often quite political. How about putting your political hat on for a moment and telling us the best (no cheating!) and worst thing that our current Prime Minister has done for this country so far?

Cameron? I despise that shiny faced shitty little twat-weasel. Why is he always so shiny? Is his face buffed up before he appears on telly? Why is his mouth too small for his head? I can’t think of one good thing to say. It amazes me that taxpayers have bailed out the banks to the tune of billions. Yet, if you are wealthy you get free banking. If you are poor or in debt, you have to pay for banking. It is immoral. How can he let that happen? Cameron is full of shit. Full of promises and failed to meet even one. “Read my lips, I do not break my promises,” he pledged. Promised to protect the NHS, even though they have just forced through a bill to fuck it and have enforced massive cut backs. The promise of 3,000 more police officers, instead we have redundancies. The promise to keep the future jobs fund – then axed it. The promise to keep the education maintenance allowance – then axed it. Unlike the promise to scrap tuition fees – and they went up. The promise to keeping the Child Trust Fund – then axed it. It’s bullshit. The UK is the world’s 6th biggest economy; we give £170m to China, the world’s second biggest economy. China has a space program, we don’t. You don’t have to be an economist to work out that is just stupid. He might as well have knocked on my door, and when I opened, just pissed on my feet. I can’t stand these elitist, upper class Oxbridge pricks with no idea how hard it is for most people. These are the people who are supposed to have integrity, the bastions for inclusion and against class and sexist practices. Yet Cameron, Osborne, and Boris are members of The Bullingdon Club. A secret society dining club where women and poor people are not allowed. This is the 21st century for Christ sake, not Dickens. It’s shameful that a Prime Minister would associate with that kind of shit. He has let banks off paying tax to the tune of £19 billion! It’s bullshit. His own government austerity advisor Sir Philip Green, the chief executive of Arcadia, skirted an estimated £285 million in tax through his wife’s tax-free status in Monaco, yet he has a pop at Jimmy Carr? Meanwhile they penalize the poor and the elderly. It is immoral.

Ok, deep breaths. Back to your blog again: the golf cart incident, being arrested in Vegas for pretending to shoot a transvestite, going missing in London, pissing off company executives, and even a few trashed (all be it accidentally) hotel rooms… it seems that some of these are the sorts of situations your character might have found himself in. Is this life imitating art or art imitating life?

Yeah, I must admit, I’m not the best decision maker and have put myself in stupid situations. Though, I believe you should live every day like it’s your last. Because one day you’ll be right. The Golf Pimp disaster was fairy typical, and I’m 40 now. I know I should grow up, but can’t quite stop wandering down the ‘That’d be funny’ path.

My book is an exaggeration of myself in many respects, especially the choices he makes. But I think, if when you died, you had to write an essay on your life, what would you say? “I worked really hard in an office for 60 years and gave up on my dreams.” Or would you say, “I did things, got in trouble, had adventures and laughed?” Cos I prefer the latter.

I have a tattoo: ‘LIT’ (Life is Temporary). We are not white goods like fridges that are here to perform repetitive tasks, then consigned to landfill. Do shit, take risks. You don’t stop laughing because you get old; you get old because you stop laughing.

You’ve said in the past that the gift of being able to tell good jokes has often won you friends and got you out of trouble. Do you have a particularly favourite joke you’d like to share?

This is a great question. You know, I’m not so much a joke teller, just that I have funny stories and see things a bit differently to most people. Things tend to happen. I was in Subway getting a roll, there was a queue and I was with some people from a signing. One guy cut the bread… then everything ground to a halt. I asked what the delay was, and the second guy had walked out. He was the guy who does the fillings. I told the first guy to just put the shit in the roll, but he said, “I don’t know what to do?”

How can you not know how to make a sandwich? Why in Subway does it take three people to make a sandwich? I’ve never been hungry, buttered bread and gone, “What next… I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!”

Till and sauce guy couldn’t help because he was till and sauce. So I went around the counter and dicked about serving people.

I think I just see the funny side of things, and I’m not embarrassed to look an idiot for finding it funny. Most think what I think, they just don’t say it.

My jokes are never mean though. I’ve been compared to Frankie Boyle and Tucker Max recently due to my flavour of humour and that bothers me a bit. Boyle is very funny, but mean about people, making jokes outwardly about them. Tucker Max is the memoir of an arrogant frat guy who got girls drunk, abused them and wrote about it. In Malice in Blunderland, the jokes are all on him, though the subject matter is dark, he is the only victim.

Lastly, being a bit of a whiz at self publicity (don’t be modest!) can you offer any words of advice to authors who are looking to create more awareness for their books?

I wouldn’t call myself a whiz at anything. If I was going to give advice it would be to be humble and be honest. There are too many authors now who feel it’s more important to be taken seriously and respected as an author than for what they’ve written. Sort of an X-factor narcissism. It does nobody any favours. If you post everywhere ‘read my book’ and use social media as an advertising platform you will be seen as spam. You’ll get blocked and hated.

Engage. That’s all I have done. When people do the ‘My book is free on Amazon – help me become a best seller,’ it’s just desperate. To be a best seller it has to be sold, not given away. It’s just a needy want to be a best seller for egotistical reasons. It’s bullshit. And downloads do not mean read!

Also, have an opinion and stick to it. I’m vegan, into animal rights, am political and talk about these things. This will gain you friends by association. I say friends because I hate this ‘fans’ crap. If ever I say I have fans – KILL ME.

Friends. It’s two way. My blog, goodreads, twitter… I’m talking and having fun all the time. It’s never one way, I’m asking what people have read; why they liked it, etc. Making jokes. I’m not pretending to be an author. I’m your average nobody who happens to have a book out.

Since the film thing, I’ve been asked by students in media: ‘What happens at script meetings?’ I was honest and told them I know naff all about film. So I let a bunch of them come along, getting involved in the process. Why not allow folk to piggy-back on your successes for free? It costs me nothing. Share the opportunity I say.

You can’t make anyone buy your book. You can be open, let people hear what you have to say, see if they like you. And if they like what you’re about, allow them to find a route to your book if they want one. My book has all five star reviews on Amazon because the people who buy it are pre-conditioned to the content. There are no shocks. They know it is black humour and very explicit. My efforts of simply being myself, acted as a filter. Like panning for gold. The people, who make it through, like what they read and so word of mouth kicks in. It’s organic. There’s no magic to it.



Some great advice there from the one and only Jonny Gibbings. Malice in Blunderland is available in kindle and paperback from all good bookshops. You can also follow Jonny on twitter, goodreads, check out his blog, and keep up to date with news via his website.

Tuesday 7 August 2012

Review - If Errands Could Kill by Jim Bronyaur

So here’s the next indie review. If Errands Could Kill by Jim Bronyaur




It’s a self published kindle book and I was a little sceptical at first but ended up thoroughly enjoying it. (And I've since found out it's also available in paperback).

There are a few typos but don’t let that put you off. It’s well written, perfectly paced, and an extremely warm and fun book to read. The family life of the protagonist is rather “ideal” in an Enid Blyton sort of way but this works as advantage because you genuinely enjoy being a fly on the wall in the household. Reading about a happy marriage, well brought up kids, it’s a nice world to be entering. (We can’t be fascinated with the dark, messed up lives of others all the time now, can we?)

And then there’s the non-offensive murder mystery which keeps you turning the pages as any book in this genre should. Especially when the action hits in at the end. Back to Enid Blyton though, I actually think this would serve rather well as a kids book.

So whether you’re young or old, if it’s light reading for your kindle that you’re seeking then look no further.

Saturday 7 July 2012

Review - Abattoir Jack by Christopher Neilan




You’ve probably never heard of this book so I’ll borrow a quick summary from the blurb at the back…

At the age of 22, Jack is going nowhere. Stuck in a New Mexico backwater, slicing dead cattle for a living, he is ready to seize any opportunity to make something of his life. So when his workmate Ed tells him about the $25,000 stashed in a bus station locker in San Francisco, and when he meets and falls for the beautiful De S'anna, a sweet Italian supernova of sweat and lips and purple-black hair, the two events propel him into a journey of love, drugs, madness and determination as he tries to make real those two seductive mirages, the accidental fortune and the perfect love.

Abattoir Jack came out in 2010 on the same publisher as my own novel English Slacker (Punked Books). In fact, it was the main reason why I was drawn to this publisher in the first place.

It’s quite a short book, beginning with an absolutely awesome piece of writing about working in a meat cutting factory in the New Mexico desert (“just one dusty road leading back to the little spithole row of houses and bars”), living in a motel and wasting day after day, mostly by getting through a fair amount of vodka. The writing is stylistic and original. Christopher Neilan was barely in his twenties when he wrote this, but he shows the skill and maturity that a lot of older authors would kill for.

Then, suddenly the girl De S'anna enters the scene and it all turns at little too much like On the Road meets Natural Born Killers meets Thelma and Louise. It’s as if Neilan is trying too hard to fit in his favourite influences rather than relying on his own original ideas. Finally in the last third of the book, certain events cause the protagonist to turn melancholy and what we get is Raymond Chandler on acid, speed, coke, or all three.

For me this book showed a lot of promise but by the end of it I was thus, slightly disappointed with how it turned out. However, I would still highly recommend it as being an exciting and quite a unique read as a whole.

Frustratingly, like all the books in these indie reviews, it’s not likely you’ll see it on the shelf in your local bookshop. (Although it’s easy enough to order.) Also frustratingly, Neilan has so far yet to provide us with another novel to get our teeth into. A shame, since this debut shows a lot of potential.

(If you’d like to read an interview with Neilan see the interviews page at the top of the screen)





Saturday 16 June 2012

Story 15 - The Quarrel

I was walking home with my girlfriend one night and we were arguing. What it was about isn’t important 'cause of it not being in any way relevant to the story so I’m not even gonna go into any of it… Although just for no reason at all I may as well tell you we’d been with some of my mates who’d all pretty much ignored her 'cause of there being some fit barmaid they’d gone down this particular pub to watch. We’d sat at the bar instead of finding a table but my girlfriend had been all pissed off and settled on a table to herself instead. This meant of course that I’d had to sit with her but had been wanting to talk to my friends too and had sort of been flitting between the two places, exhausted with all the hassle of it all. Now she was sulking on the way home, obvious thoughts of what dickheads my mates were and why hadn’t I just sat with them, like why had I even bothered talking to her at all?

So anyway, I guess the story really begins when we were on the hill about two minutes away from our flat; no longer talking and not going home until things had become a bit more resolved, not wishing to enter whilst still in a bad mood with each other and all that.

I was on the bench smoking a cigarette while my girlfriend was sort of skulking about, not yet ready to sit down next to me; but at the same time having no desire to walk away and leave me behind either.

It was in this moment of me sitting there and her standing around nearby when I first noticed the guy walk across my field of vision. A figure out of nowhere, coming into focus momentarily: thin, ill looking, younger than me and slightly shorter. Either a drunk, a homeless person; or both. – in fact my guess of him being one of the many beggars you often see around our city (Brighton) was confirmed almost straight away as I watched the figure approach a couple who were now walking up the hill towards us. A conversation I couldn’t hear but could tell from the body language that he was asking for money and being refused: The shake of the head from the man, and then the blank, poker expressions of both him and his girl as they continued past him.

I drew on my cigarette, not wanting to stare for too long, allowing my eyes to drop to the floor, drinking in a brief moment of peace before out of nowhere the thin beggar had positioned himself next to me on the bench, leaned his face to my ear and spoken, “Give me 50p or I’ll slice your face.”

I froze for a moment, not wanting to turn and face him, trying to give myself time to decide how to best handle this unexpected encounter. I remember thinking I could probably jump up quickly to put myself into a more defensive position; or if it’d be better to simply tell him to fuck off and leave me the hell alone.

I was already in a bad mood of course and taking it out on this guy (at least verbally) didn’t seem like such a terrible idea at the time. The problem however was, if he really did have a razor blade then all it’d take would be one quick swipe of it to ruin my face for life. And I liked my face.

I also liked my girlfriend; despite the current argument. And I had to think about protecting her. To be honest if I hadn’t been with her and hadn’t been in a bad mood then I’d have probably got up and run away without a second thought. I’m not the sort of person who really cares about being macho or anything. Running away is simple and that’s what I’d have done. Problem solved within a couple of seconds.

“I mean it mate, I’ve got a razor blade here and I’ll slash your fucking face if you don’t give me 50p.”

I looked across to my girlfriend who was now walking into the kebab shop across the road, shouting something to me about wanting a coke; completely unaware of our current predicament.

“That your girlfriend mate,” he was now saying. “Nice girl. Give me 50p or I’ll slice your face.”

Keeping my head I did two things at the same time. Actually more than two. I got up quickly, stepping back and away from the bench so I was now looking down at the drunk; far enough so he couldn’t get hold of me with one movement.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet and said, stalling for time, “Ok mate, 50p it is, or make it, I’ll give you a quid, but that’s it.”

By being friendly I was attempting to pacify him, by taking a firm hold of my wallet I was making sure he wouldn’t snatch it and by stepping away I was stopping him from slicing my face. (I say all this ‘cause I remember consciously taking all of these things into account which is why I go into detail here.)

He got up quickly and at once was right next to me, in front of me, stumbling about in the wake of my path. I remember him taking a swipe at my wallet and pulling it away just in time as I took out a quid, which I handed to him saying, “Here you go, but that’s it,” and made to walk across the road to the kebab shop; but already I could sense a growing agitation coming from the drunk.

“Give me fifty quid or I’ll slice your face.”

I couldn’t believe it. How had fifty p suddenly changed to fifty quid? I’d thought I’d somehow stopped the whole situation and now it was gonna be over. I was about to happily share my girlfriend’s coke while this guy would wander off down the hill, accepting the fact that I’d outsmarted him, that I’d been too quick. He was now gonna go and hassle some other unlucky bastard.

“Give me fifty quid or I’ll slice your face.”

I’d been nice enough to give this guy a quid, which at the time wasn’t exactly breaking the bank, but all the same I was still relatively hard up, and there was no way in hell I was even gonna consider giving this guy far more than I usually allowed myself to spend in a week.

“Look mate,” I said, trying to be friendly, deciding I’d have to cleverly talk myself out of this one. “I’ve given you a quid. That was pretty nice considering it’s double what you asked me for. You can go and ask someone else, I’ve given you all I’m gonna give you.”

“Give me fifty quid or I’ll slice your face.”

All of a sudden he started approaching nearer, closer to me with a look of violence in his eyes before swinging a bony fist through the air, which I dodged, and then he was on the floor, lying in the road: Literally, all happening within a couple of seconds.

He looked kind of pathetic as I stared down at him. In a blur I considered kicking him a couple of times just to make sure he didn’t get up and start harassing me again but didn’t. Although I nearly did. I’d been more scared than I’d realised and at the moment of him lying there I felt a great sense of relief as well as the strange urge to punish him for having given me such a shock.

Instead though I carried on talking; sticking to the original plan of using my brain instead of my fists.

“This is Brighton mate. Plenty of people are gonna give you money here. Why don’t you head into town? Loads of people around there.”

“It’s fucking shit mate.”

“What, Brighton?”

“It’s a fucking pile of shit.”

“You from here?”

“Nah mate, from London,” he said as he got up.

“What’s that like?”

“Fuckin’ shit.”

“Why’d ya come to Brighton?”

“Give me fifty quid or I’ll slice your face. GIVE ME FIFTY QUID OR I’LL SLICE YOUR FACE!”

My girlfriend was near us now. She’d come out from the kebab shop and was sipping her coke, watching our conversation, aware I was being hassled; although not giving away any like fear or apprehension over whether this guy really meant what he was saying about slicing my face.

I gestured to her, mouthing, “Go home,” then in reaction to her lack of response gave up with the whole mouthing thing and shouted, “Go home, I’ll catch up with you later!”

She was just standing there sipping her coke though, not doing anything.

“GIVE ME FIFTY QUID OR I’LL SLICE YOUR FACE!”

I needed her out of the way. I needed her to leave me alone with this guy so I could simply leg it.

I began to walk down the hill, drawing the drunk along with me, leading him away from my girlfriend who was hopefully gonna get the hint that she wasn’t helping matters by staying close.

The drunk followed, deciding now upon repeatedly mumbling his familiar offer of not slicing my face if I gave him fifty quid.

My girlfriend started walking down the hill towards us.

“Give me fifty quid mate or I’ll slash both your faces.”

It was more than I could take. Actually no; there wasn’t any anger involved. No lack of patience. It was simply my last resort. I’d attempted to be nice, tried to be clever and was without the opportunity of running away.

There was only one thing for it.

I stepped a couple of paces back from him and clenched each of my hands into fists. He was talking to me more now but I was no longer listening. I said nothing. Did nothing. There was no, “Come on then.” No, “You’d better watch it.” No, “I’m gonna smash your head in, kick your arse,” or whatever.

I simply looked at him, concentrating on his hands, assessing the time it would take him to pull out a knife or razor, waiting for him to make his move, read to knock him down as soon as he did.

In one rapid movement he jumped at me, fast as lightening. But instead of attacking he merely pushed me aside, sprinting down the hill.

And then my girlfriend was suddenly next to me, asking if I was ok while I remember half wanting to chase after the guy; kick his head in for putting me through what he’d just put me through. And in retrospect I should’ve been cuddling my girlfriend, telling her I was fine, she was fine, it’d been nothing and there was nothing to worry about. But I just couldn’t.

“Give me a minute,” I said to her. “I just need a cigarette. Then I’ll be ok.”

Although at the time my mind was swirling:

“Fuck that bastard,” I was thinking to myself as I fumbled around with my lighter, sparking up. “Fucking should’ve decked him. Taught him a lesson good and proper... And fuck my girlfriend. Bitch. It’s her fucking fault I got into the whole fucking situation in the first place.”

“Are you all right honey?”

“I just need a minute,” I told her. “Then I’ll be ok… Just leave me a bit… No, don’t touch me… Just go on home… I’ll be all right in a minute.”

Sunday 3 June 2012

Story 14 - Control Panels

The control panels are flashing red. A strange anomaly has appeared on the view screen and the captain has ordered a level one alert. It’s a dust cloud in the shape of a perfect hoop. The hole in the middle is black… whether it’s an actual black-hole or not is something I don’t think anyone knows for sure. Certainly the atmosphere on the bridge is tense.

The captain shouts for me to get down to engineering immediately and the information-pad in my hand is ignored but swiped away nonetheless. When someone bothers to look they’ll see our sensors have been showing a 0.02% malfunction over the last several hours, which I suspect is getting worse. In a ship this size it could be interfering with our exterior imaging array.

I slouch into the turbo-lift and command to be taken to section E2, silently cursing my low rank.

“How about you?” I say to the lift’s computer. Were you ever a lowly control panel? How long did it take you to work your way up to having your own voice?”

“Unable to comply,” is the simple response I get. “Please restate the question.”

Engineering is bustling with a flustered liveliness. Flashing red lights along the walls and ceiling add to the mood. Staff are arriving from various sections. Most of them, like me, seem uninformed of what they’re supposed to be helping with. I search out a senior officer through the crowd who subsequently informs me that we’re all awaiting orders, and when I ask if there’s anything I can do in the meantime he only tells me that it’d be helpful if I could just pass this message along.

So I’m meandering around for a while, telling anyone who’ll listen to keep calm, not panic and that it’s probably only a false alarm. There I am, busily doing nothing when I notice Juliana Shawls standing by a control panel in the navigational section of the engine room; her face deep in a kind of perplexed concentration; an unsolved problem obviously blocking her out to the rest of the world.

Juliana Shawls who I’ve been trying to find the opportunity to talk to ever since being assigned to this ship. I ponder if now would really be the best time to tell her how much I admire her work; how long I’ve been following her career; how honored I am to meet her in person. How I’ve dreamed about her more times than I can care to remember…

No, forget it. Why would she even care? I’m a nobody amongst hundreds of other nobodies. Someone of my rank would and should never talk to an officer in such a way. But there again, if my theory about our malfunctioning sensors is correct I may have enough reason to interrupt her thoughts. I could even be of help.

I walk over, wondering how I’m to open our conversation: when her head is going to rise from the control panel and she’ll stare into my eyes, inviting me to state my reasons for talking to her.

“So nice it is to meet you,” she’ll say. And then I’ll be telling her there’s no time for idle chit chat because we need a diagnostic to determine if there really is an anomaly outside, if such a menace is actually present at all; or whether the danger could be worse than predicted.

“Never mind the diagnostic,” she’ll reply, letting her hair down in front of me. “Why don’t we take this chance for me to show you my quarters?”

She’ll be leading me away through the crowd, throwing orders to a passing cadet before we come to the turbo lift. And once inside we’ll no longer be able to restrain ourselves.

But wait. This sort of thing wouldn’t happen to a lowly cadet such as I am.

I pick myself up from the floor; try to focus, to shake off the throbbing pain there now is inside my head. Why do I seem to be the only one conscious in engineering? I have to contact the bridge.

I stumble over several bodies to the nearest control panel, punch in a code I can hardly remember. The flashing red lights are blinding to me as I shout, “Bridge! Get me the bridge God dam it!”

A rush of static gushes out of the speakers. Somewhere in there I think I can hear the voice of the captain, though I can’t be sure.

“This is cadet 362,” I say.

There’s no response but more static.

I look around me. I’m not an engineer and have no idea what half of these control panels are for. An officer is needed, not me. Why is it that I’m the only one left conscious? I need to find an officer.

Making my way over the bodies I search out someone with a blue patch on their left shoulder. By the hyper-drive area I immediately notice some movement. Yes, the blue patch is there on this officer’s uniform, and they’re awake too. It’s the most beautiful officer I’ve ever seen. She’s smiling at me…

No, wait. This isn’t happening.

I pick myself off the floor again; ignore the throbbing pain in my head, the flashing red lights. I search the bodies around me, more bodies, finally come across the same officer I spoke to earlier. The one who told me to be alert and wait for orders. I shake him by the shoulders trying to rouse a response. After some minutes of this he begins to mumble sleepily.

“Wake up!” I shout. “Focus!”

“Where am I?” He finally says. “Who are you?”

“Never mind who I am, focus. Look around you. We’re in engineering. Something’s happened to the ship. I’ve tried to contact the captain but communications are out. We need to assess our situation but I’m not qualified to -”

“- my head! No!” he suddenly cries, falling to the floor, writhing in obvious agony before passing out once more.

I decide quickly not to reawaken him; look around me at the bodies, wondering if I should try someone else. A young female cadet lies to my left. I pick her up, shake her, her eyes open and then she’s kissing me passionately: but I manage somehow to bring myself around from this new fantasy; finding the same cadet lying on the floor next to me. I shake her, slap her face and shout for her to wake up but she doesn’t stir.

I need to get out of engineering. Maybe the situation is different on other parts of the ship. The bridge is where I should go. That’s where all the important people are: the ones who can help; who know what they’re doing. I pray to God someone is awake up there as I stager towards the turbo-lift.

Luckily it’s still working. And as soon as the doors shut and begin to move the throbbing in my head weakens somewhat. Transported through the veins of the spaceship on my way to the bridge I can feel my heart beating fast, my breathes short and irregular; and I’m sweating profusely: but there’s a definite sense of relief to be out of engineering.

Able to concentrate for the first time in a while the thought suddenly occurs that I can use the voice activated controls to talk to the ship’s computer in here.

“How many people are on the bridge?” I begin.

“There are eighteen people currently on the bridge. Four senior officers, two security officers, three science officers, three navigational officers, one weapons operator and five cadets.”

“And how many of those are conscious?”

“That information is not available.”

Hang on, I think. Why isn’t the captain on the bridge? I ask: “What is the current location of Captain O’Conner?”

“This information requires a security override.”

“A what?”

“Knowledge regarding the locations of Captain O’Conner and First Officer Dobson has been restricted to officers only.”

What, I think, is going on?

Then the doors of the turbo-lift are abruptly opening before me to reveal the bridge.

As I step out onto the golden floor the first thing that strikes me is how normal everything appears to be. Officers and cadets stationed at their posts, punching information into control panels, staff gliding about from one place to another, everyone communicating in low, calm voices. The flashing red messages of alert have ceased. The image on the view screen is an unremarkable picture of distant stars.

But soon something strange begins to occur: namely a realization of the fact that nobody has responded to my presence. They all just seem to be going about their business in an orderly fashion; a little too orderly for my liking.

I grab a passing cadet by the arm.

“Where is Captain O’Conner?” I whisper. “What happened in engineering? What is the state of the ship?”

It’s as if I’m not even there however. The cadet confusedly brushes my arm away, continuing in the direction he’d been headed.

I saunter around the bridge in desperation, pulling my hair out; wondering what to do. I move to look over the shoulder of a navigational officer, but I’m not qualified to understand our heading: cursing my rank once again and making a sudden decision I run at an officer by the turbo-lift, tackle him to the ground; then drag him through the sliding doors, commanding for the lift to move immediately.

“Take us to medical,” I shout, without putting too much thought into which section I’m willing to go to next. What I want is to get this officer away from the bridge in the desperate hope of shaking him back to life.

My plan however soon begins to backfire in the strangest of ways. Before I know it the officer has attached his hands to my throat and is strangling me with this crazy look in his eyes. He’s screaming with a frightening sort of anger. And when I say strangling I mean really strangling: actually trying to kill me.

My thumbs are under his hands, I’m pushing against him but he’s leaving me with no choice. I may be of low rank but I’m well experienced in hand to hand combat. I hit him squarely on the chest. Hit him again in the same place with more force and, when he comes at me a third time, kick at his temple to knock him out cold.

In slow motion he slides down the silver wall, crumpling to the floor. I turn to see the doors of the turbo-lift have opened behind me.

Three security officers are blocking my way. “The medical section has been restricted to officers only,” they say. Or at least this is the last thing I hear before being shoved back into the turbo-lift.

“Where am I supposed to go now?!” I appeal as the doors slide shut.

“Unable to comply,” is the lift’s unwelcome response.

I put my head in my hands, once again cursing my low rank. I am cadet 362; a nobody in a ship full of nobodies. I cry out for the lift to take me to the shuttle bay while beside me the officer begins to stir.

Saturday 19 May 2012

Interview with Oxford author Rebecca Emin

Last week I caught up with fellow writer Rebecca Emin, described by many as “the nicest author on the internet.” She’s already had two books published this year and is about to release a third.



Where are you sitting right now? Is it your usual place for writing?
I usually sit at our table so I have a view of the garden. I always look out to the garden when I am thinking. My other writing spot is a coffee shop with ceiling to floor windows and a view of fields.

In your new book, When Dreams Come True, you use dream sequences to reflect the changing emotions of your teenage protagonist. This can be quite an exciting way to move the plot along. Were you inspired by other authors’ use of this literary device, or did it come from your own personal experience?
I’ve always had incredibly vivid dreams myself so really that was where this book came from. I was talking to a Twitter friend one day about the dreams I had and she said, “I’m sure there’s a story in that,” and that got me thinking.

Do you believe that dreams reveal our subconscious thoughts?
I think it’s possible that some of them do, or at least they can stem from thoughts. It’s almost like writing fiction in fact; you can have one little idea and it sends you off on a tangent.

Is the character of Charlie based on yourself at a younger age or on your own children?
There are definitely similarities between Charlie and myself, but only because when I write fiction for the 10-14 age group, I try to get in the mindset of a child of that age again. I was a tomboy as a child so I think that is the characteristic I could say was based on me.

Imagine When Dreams Come True on a 13 year old girl’s bookshelf between two other books. What are those books?
Well hopefully my debut novel, New Beginnings would be one of them! I’d like it to be next to one of Tamsyn Murray’s Afterlife books as they are fantastic.

You grew up in the early 80s. How does the life of a thirteen year old now compare with life back then?
It’s like a whole new world, with the Internet and all the games consoles that are around now. But I think, fundamentally, in the eyes of a thirteen year old the most important things will remain the same – friends, films, music, and the fact that it’s hugely important to get a boyfriend/girlfriend before all of your friends do so you’re not the last one who’s “single”!

Do you worry about kids reading less; is internet junk food for the mind; and is kindle going to kill the bookshop?
I don’t worry about my own children reading less because thankfully the three of them are absolutely fascinated by books. I think the Internet is a fantastic thing, used in the right way. It’s like everything though; if you over-use it or use it for the wrong reasons it’s not going to be a good thing. However if it wasn’t for the Internet I wouldn’t be here on your blog, so I have to think it’s good from a writer’s point of view.
I sincerely hope the Kindle doesn’t kill bookshops. I do own a Kindle but I have to say I much prefer paperbacks. Having said that my four year old comments on me “plugging my book in to charge”. Goodness knows what will happen by the time he is my age.

This is the second book you’ve self-published. How do you maintain discipline with regards to your writing quality? Isn’t it tempting to just put it out there as soon as possible?
For me it is exactly the opposite. I have got a massive loathing of typos in my own work for a start, so I would never ever publish a book without having both an editor and at least one proof reader go through it. But before I even get to that stage I ask my beta readers to have a read and tell me what they think. Further down the line for my novels, I have a team of ‘test readers’ who are in the target age group, and I ask them questions and they give me feedback which is essential. For example I mentioned ‘Space Dust’ in an early draft of When Dreams Come True and three of my test readers had no idea what that was, so that had to go.

It is my aim to deliver a product I can be proud of, that is of at least equal quality to that of a book published by a publisher. It’s actually quite a lengthy and consuming process, but I do think it is worth it.

Charlie is happiest when biking with Max and Toby, or watching films with Allie. But when Charlie reaches year nine (age 13), everything begins to change. As her friends develop new interests, Charlie's dreams become more frequent and vivid, and a family crisis tears her away from her friends. How will Charlie react when old family secrets are revealed? Will her life change completely when some of her dreams start to come true?

A few cheeky questions to finish…

Your favourite childhood snack compared with your favourite snack now?
I can’t actually remember my favourite childhood snack – but I do remember sneaking to the village shop for a bag of penny sweets when I shouldn’t have been doing so – just before school!
Even now I don’t have one favourite snack… I am more of a savoury person than sweet though.

Your blog is about trying to write as well as being the mother of three. Any parenting tips?
Hmm. Well, I have three children and it is definitely a learning process when you have three. The dynamics are complicated and there is always something to keep you on your toes. My main tip would be to look after, and make time for, yourself as well as everyone else. That is the hardest thing to learn, but it is essential in the long term.

You can only take one book to a desert island. Choose between your favourite novel, one of your books, or a novel you’ve yet to read.
Well you said I could take one book so I’m going to be very crafty and take the biggest notebook I could find – which of course comes with one of those multi-leaded pencils in the binding. Actually that sounds wonderful… an Island, a notebook and unlimited thinking time. When do I leave?

Thanks Rebecca. Some great answers there.

Rebecca’s first novel for older children, ‘New Beginnings,’ was published by Grimoire Books in January 2012. When Dreams Come True is officially launching on 28th May 2012.


Catch up with her on facebook, twitter and goodreads