Lazarian Wordsmith's Blog, page 8
June 14, 2017
I'm getting a face lift. Easy. Easy. I'm considering a new cover for Kindle edition of Wicker Wood.
A link can be found on the left panel.
June 12, 2017
Wicker Wood - sequel Draft 1 ....Fanahan again in crappy mood!!!
Fanahan had to admit that Gerry had tidied it up, and gave the place a lick of paint. He was unsure about the big framed painting of Milo R.I.P. Rot in Pogutary. Does that place exist any more? Does Limbo either? It was hanging at the back, behind the counter above the mirror, it looked like he was smiling down at the punters!A new, different clientele...if you could call toss-pots and drunkards clientele,were now coming into the Saloon Bar. The plonker changed the name as well. Fanahan knew that late on a Saturday night, in this location, after watching TV and engaging in iPhone betting on the nags all day, the boys would act like cowboys in a saloon brawl.“What cha say to her, me gurlfrien'?” “Nuttin'.”“Well that's it then - just say nuttin' or ya'll be picking up yer teeth – wan by wan.”But a couple of new customers were dropping in for a few. Scoping the place out no doubt. Shay was missing the old crowd – even the Prick – you could get a rise out of him. Now, it seemed, he had reverted into Georgie, cast off the cloths of his granny the duchess, and was on the lam.I need a diversion, from me problems. Wind yer man up.“Would you like a drink pal?” The suited, if shabbily suited, gentleman on his right turned and looked Shane up and down.“No thank you, pal. I'm fine and on my own: enjoying my own company.”“Oh! La de daw, pal and it's detective to you, Detective Inspector Fanahan, to be exact. Who are you?”Flustered at such a direct approach, cautiously he replied. “Church Willmore is my name.”“Church? After Churchill, it's no wonder you shortened that. What do you do, Church?”“I'm retired.”Fanahan was starting to enjoy himself, interrogation was something he enjoyed, particularly when it served his purpose of upsetting someone.“What did you do then? How would you describe yourself? Mr. Retired.”“I would say I was a former editor at the Irish Press Newspaper Group.”Fanahan wanted to reply and I'm a former schoolboy but instead continued twisting the knife. “Sure that went out of business in 1995, didn't it. Connie was the only journalist in that rag, the rest acted like stringers. The mouthpiece of De Valera. He founded it. Didn't he?”“So they say detective.”“Hop it then back to your own company, I'm tired engaging with you.”Fanahan remembered the note he had picked up in the hospital: the one Georgie left for him, after he hanged the auld dear to pretend it was himself as the duchess. He fished it out of his pocket, opened the envelope and glanced at the message.
I've changed my drink to a Brandy and Port, Shay. Suppose you are still a pint and a ball o' malt chaser man. See you soon and we can reminisce.
Jees. He is back, and I bet he is as evil as he ever was. More evil? Bloody psychopath.
June 10, 2017
Draft 1 of the sequel to In The Wicker Wood is progressing.
This sequence deals with the deranged Grorgie, who escaped being tried for the murders, since he had regressed into the personality of his Grandmother The Duchess. Now he is planning his escape......from the Hospital.
The boy visited more often now, never with any interesting gossip. He was only interested, it seems, in telling his own stories, ones, Duchess presumed from his past, his youth, when he lived away from then family. Then she remembered he never lived outside of Bowen Court, at least not for any time. The stories, the tales he told were vile. No sane human would be involved in such depravity. She hoped he was telling her about his dreams as the scenes, he was able to replay in her head, terrified her, although the telling seemed to excite the boy.She began to close her mind to his wants, yes wants, he wanted her to know what she had assisted in. He called it that assisted, helped, because she did not stop him. As the time passed he became more insistent that once again she would let him loose again to do more killing. He enjoyed doing that he said.Over time Duchess got weary, tired, confused again. The world she knew was crumbling. Georgie was becoming aware again.Duchess tried to resist on those occasions when the boy dressed her as a man and sneaked her out in that guise from her rooms to the hospital – a terrible confused place full of sadness. Georgie was not being honest. He would not let her walk in a normal fashion. He made her slouch along walls, often making her drool, and mumble. It was most distressing for her to act in that way, but somehow in those occasions she did not have the will to resist. Always she wanted to go back to her rooms and take to her bed.Then when they returned she could wash the disguising smell of madness from her body, power herself, resume her wardrobe, lie on her bed and cry.
“Yes”“Chief, Laurel here.” Before he could continue he was interrupted.“Good news? The gravelly voice asked, then continued, “Still away with the fairies I hope, and if he is not, why are you disturbing me?”“He's recovering. He sneaks out of his room now in man's clothes. We watch him. He is visiting the other inmates. Just looking and observing so far. What should we do?”“Get him out of there if this goes on. Watch him closely. If we snatch him and he is lucid, well as lucid as he ever was, we will have to eliminate him. The phone link was broken and Laurel looked at Hardy and said, “He promised to send us on holidays in the Sun, when this is all over.”“Don't hold your breath,” Hardy replied, “He'll change his mind about that when another project comes up for us, probably making the calls now.”“To his travel agent?” Laurel asked. “Dream On. Hardy replied.
The boy visited more often now, never with any interesting gossip. He was only interested, it seems, in telling his own stories, ones, Duchess presumed from his past, his youth, when he lived away from then family. Then she remembered he never lived outside of Bowen Court, at least not for any time. The stories, the tales he told were vile. No sane human would be involved in such depravity. She hoped he was telling her about his dreams as the scenes, he was able to replay in her head, terrified her, although the telling seemed to excite the boy.She began to close her mind to his wants, yes wants, he wanted her to know what she had assisted in. He called it that assisted, helped, because she did not stop him. As the time passed he became more insistent that once again she would let him loose again to do more killing. He enjoyed doing that he said.Over time Duchess got weary, tired, confused again. The world she knew was crumbling. Georgie was becoming aware again.Duchess tried to resist on those occasions when the boy dressed her as a man and sneaked her out in that guise from her rooms to the hospital – a terrible confused place full of sadness. Georgie was not being honest. He would not let her walk in a normal fashion. He made her slouch along walls, often making her drool, and mumble. It was most distressing for her to act in that way, but somehow in those occasions she did not have the will to resist. Always she wanted to go back to her rooms and take to her bed.Then when they returned she could wash the disguising smell of madness from her body, power herself, resume her wardrobe, lie on her bed and cry.
“Yes”“Chief, Laurel here.” Before he could continue he was interrupted.“Good news? The gravelly voice asked, then continued, “Still away with the fairies I hope, and if he is not, why are you disturbing me?”“He's recovering. He sneaks out of his room now in man's clothes. We watch him. He is visiting the other inmates. Just looking and observing so far. What should we do?”“Get him out of there if this goes on. Watch him closely. If we snatch him and he is lucid, well as lucid as he ever was, we will have to eliminate him. The phone link was broken and Laurel looked at Hardy and said, “He promised to send us on holidays in the Sun, when this is all over.”“Don't hold your breath,” Hardy replied, “He'll change his mind about that when another project comes up for us, probably making the calls now.”“To his travel agent?” Laurel asked. “Dream On. Hardy replied.
June 7, 2017
Stand back - I'm going to let fly! (This means I'm givin' out.)
When I started publishing books, I did that on Createspace. Naturally I joined the forums and began to follow posts. What a mistake!
I joined Amazon forums and even with my first question got racial abuse with the phrase "You Irish and people like you..." Of course it was a Brit who did that.
Later she attacked others, who were not native British, and eventually she was banned and her posts had to be removed.
Probably by now she has returned under an alias.
Then I started to follow posts and forums on Createspace itself.
I stuck it out for about a year before the quality of the Q&A's drove me mad.
"How long should a paragraph be?"
"Do you have to enclose speech in speech marks?"
"Yes they are called quotes and they enclose speech."
In "unpublished excerpts" only.
"Please read the first chapter of my published novel."
When you do and reply "It's rubbish, you can't spell, have no idea what punctuation is, and besides you already published it on Amazon, where it stinks up the rest of our work."
Eventually the man who said he was an editor and because of that we all believed he was helping others in editing their work, broke the rule and unknown to us posted the first chapter from his published book.
It was terrible, silencer suppressed rifle shots echoing in the hills and a broadband office set up in the mountains on a satellite dish and a bit of cable. When I pointed this out and commented that to get a signal from a satellite or another dish you needed a subscription. He went ballistic.
Then I suggested that in order to get the grammar checked, he needed to use a particular product, which he had been pushing, he went totally ballistic. I suspect I touched a nerve, that is, that the excerpts from others that he was correcting he had run through the checker.
Again I got abused, and I left.
Then as I am on Linkedin I followed their forums, and shortly after ceased following the forums there.
Recently I started to participate again. Then I joined a Book Marketing Group, who told me I could not post links to my book. The forum it seems was only for advising each other on marketing books. I suggest changing the title to "advice on marketing your books", and was invited by a member to leave.
Then the moderator asked me not to leave. I evoked the Groucho Marks axiom and left that discussion group.
Now I have to leave the Linkedin Forums as well. This morning someone posted poetry that had no punctuation AT ALL. And a poster was bewailing that he changed the point of view of a character, from third person to first person and now needed to go back and give him a romantic connection.
Then I suppose the poster who wanted to know would he dream about his work in progress, took the biscuit.
So my conclusion is that some people who say they write and have produced 23, 34, 42, 56, 9,7 or whatever number of dross books are not writers: unless each and every one of those books are selling.
They are just pulp mills ruining the World's resource of trees, and that some forum posters are completely nuts, abusive, uneducated and do not respond to criticism at all.
But then again I did find some genuine helpful friends on all the forums, and I feel for them when they get abused. So much so that like me they cease to participate.
But I still look in now and then, and now I can do it for amusement.
I joined Amazon forums and even with my first question got racial abuse with the phrase "You Irish and people like you..." Of course it was a Brit who did that.
Later she attacked others, who were not native British, and eventually she was banned and her posts had to be removed.
Probably by now she has returned under an alias.
Then I started to follow posts and forums on Createspace itself.
I stuck it out for about a year before the quality of the Q&A's drove me mad.
"How long should a paragraph be?"
"Do you have to enclose speech in speech marks?"
"Yes they are called quotes and they enclose speech."
In "unpublished excerpts" only.
"Please read the first chapter of my published novel."
When you do and reply "It's rubbish, you can't spell, have no idea what punctuation is, and besides you already published it on Amazon, where it stinks up the rest of our work."
Eventually the man who said he was an editor and because of that we all believed he was helping others in editing their work, broke the rule and unknown to us posted the first chapter from his published book.
It was terrible, silencer suppressed rifle shots echoing in the hills and a broadband office set up in the mountains on a satellite dish and a bit of cable. When I pointed this out and commented that to get a signal from a satellite or another dish you needed a subscription. He went ballistic.
Then I suggested that in order to get the grammar checked, he needed to use a particular product, which he had been pushing, he went totally ballistic. I suspect I touched a nerve, that is, that the excerpts from others that he was correcting he had run through the checker.
Again I got abused, and I left.
Then as I am on Linkedin I followed their forums, and shortly after ceased following the forums there.
Recently I started to participate again. Then I joined a Book Marketing Group, who told me I could not post links to my book. The forum it seems was only for advising each other on marketing books. I suggest changing the title to "advice on marketing your books", and was invited by a member to leave.
Then the moderator asked me not to leave. I evoked the Groucho Marks axiom and left that discussion group.
Now I have to leave the Linkedin Forums as well. This morning someone posted poetry that had no punctuation AT ALL. And a poster was bewailing that he changed the point of view of a character, from third person to first person and now needed to go back and give him a romantic connection.
Then I suppose the poster who wanted to know would he dream about his work in progress, took the biscuit.
So my conclusion is that some people who say they write and have produced 23, 34, 42, 56, 9,7 or whatever number of dross books are not writers: unless each and every one of those books are selling.
They are just pulp mills ruining the World's resource of trees, and that some forum posters are completely nuts, abusive, uneducated and do not respond to criticism at all.
But then again I did find some genuine helpful friends on all the forums, and I feel for them when they get abused. So much so that like me they cease to participate.
But I still look in now and then, and now I can do it for amusement.
June 4, 2017
After all -it's my blog - so it should be used to help sell my books.
I'm was being plagued by requests to monetise my blog.
Seems simple if they are correct - all I do is allow someone or other to add advert links to my blog. Then when a punter clicks a link a seller offers to sell something or other, offer advice, or whatever, and I get buttons - not shirt buttons - small amounts of money, deposited into my bank account.
But I see click on terms and conditions, so there must be a catch. But it seems there isn't.
But (third but) I sell books: paperbacks and kindles, and as the adverts will be associated with what I blog about, I presume they will be for others selling books.
Put the idea on the back burner: but it kept calling me, nice little earner, no work, just blog.
Then the light bulb idea and question. Can I advertise and sell my books from my blog?
A little research, a little HTML and Hey Presto! It happened!
The links at the left hand of this blog now shows my books, as added and displayed on Goodreads.
The long planned inflatable boat is now a possibility!
Seems simple if they are correct - all I do is allow someone or other to add advert links to my blog. Then when a punter clicks a link a seller offers to sell something or other, offer advice, or whatever, and I get buttons - not shirt buttons - small amounts of money, deposited into my bank account.
But I see click on terms and conditions, so there must be a catch. But it seems there isn't.
But (third but) I sell books: paperbacks and kindles, and as the adverts will be associated with what I blog about, I presume they will be for others selling books.
Put the idea on the back burner: but it kept calling me, nice little earner, no work, just blog.
Then the light bulb idea and question. Can I advertise and sell my books from my blog?
A little research, a little HTML and Hey Presto! It happened!
The links at the left hand of this blog now shows my books, as added and displayed on Goodreads.
The long planned inflatable boat is now a possibility!
June 1, 2017
Shay Fanahan appeals to all that's bad in me - that's why I love when he talks in my head.
Draft from the new... In The Wicker Wood - Awake Again.
Fanahan, stuffed the letter, into an inside pocket of his wind-breaker. He started to hum a tune, a song he heard somewhere, and at times of thought he ran it through his mind, often vocalising it as humming. He also muttered to himself. Cardboard Programming he called it. Saying softly what was worrying him. Sometimes even finding a quick solution, that formed in his brain and became reality.“You have changed Plonker, smaller, skinnier. Jees when you fell on me in the street – you almost flattened me! How many years ago. Five? Six? Seven? Was it seven? The wig fell off. Christ is that a wig? It's a better one anyway. Did someone buy it for you Georgie, or did you inherit it. If someone looks in and sees me smiling and talking to myself they may try to keep me in here. Shay you are here to identify Georgie. Is it him? Who the feck, else could it be? He has changed, but as he was incarcerated in here – it must be him. I need to get out of here quick and have a few scoops, before I report back. Well a lot of people will be relieved – the killer brought to justices. God's justice, if not man's justice. Dead as a doornail – no danger any more. Can't believe he hung himself. Did he come back to himself and do it, or did he come back as he did it. Feck we will never know. Good riddance. Hung himself.”Now that's something I always wondered about. They say when a man hangs himself, he gets a big Langer, a big erection. No Shay you wouldn't – you wouldn't take a peek. Sh-one-t I would. But what if someone sees me – the detective was observed peeping up the dead woman's skirt. Jees no I can't risk it. Crap. You will never get another opportunity to find out. Get rid of yer woman first.He went to the door and opened it wide. He called the only nurse outside and asked her to get the orderly who found the body and cut down Georgie. As soon as she turned away he hurried back to the bed and taking a deep breath, raised the skirt quickly and looked underneath.“Jayus! Shit! Bollix! Crap! It's not Georgie! It's an auld one – a real auld one. With a gee. Where's Georgie then. Ah! Bollix. What's going on here?”Stay quiet. You are in the shits now. How can you explain how you found out. Calm down. Let the primitive Fanahan survival instinct take over. Stand back over by the door, they are coming back.“This is the man detective...he found the body. Are you all right?”“Fine. Just thinking back to when I brought him in here.” Get a grip. There's a way out. Emphasis the HIM, the gender. “When I brought him in here, a good few years ago: five or six, was it?. Maybe more. He had killed a lot of girls and kidnapped a priest. He was a nutcase. A raving nutcase. A madman, mad,” he repeated the word. “Man.” “Detective I think we are at cross purposes here. This body is that of Georgina Bowen, Mistress Bowen she liked to be called. Sometimes Duchess. She has been a guest here a good few years and is a woman. Not a man”Attack! “I'm sorry sunshine, this is, su...” Don't say supposed to be.“Is George Edward Bowen – Georgie. A serial killer! Incarcerated here awaiting a return of his memory, so that if that happens we can charge him. This is not a woman! It's a man: a serial killer. And if you don't believe me, go ahead and check. God knows I can't.” Nice one. Shay.The nurse moved forward, raised the lower clothing, then opened the top buttons of the blouse, and stood back and turned to face Fanahan.“Detective,” she said through gritted teeth, “beyond any doubt, you might have. This patient is a woman – without any doubt at all.”
Good job I didn't stop for a snifter the way this blooming whale is sniffing my breath.
Fanahan, stuffed the letter, into an inside pocket of his wind-breaker. He started to hum a tune, a song he heard somewhere, and at times of thought he ran it through his mind, often vocalising it as humming. He also muttered to himself. Cardboard Programming he called it. Saying softly what was worrying him. Sometimes even finding a quick solution, that formed in his brain and became reality.“You have changed Plonker, smaller, skinnier. Jees when you fell on me in the street – you almost flattened me! How many years ago. Five? Six? Seven? Was it seven? The wig fell off. Christ is that a wig? It's a better one anyway. Did someone buy it for you Georgie, or did you inherit it. If someone looks in and sees me smiling and talking to myself they may try to keep me in here. Shay you are here to identify Georgie. Is it him? Who the feck, else could it be? He has changed, but as he was incarcerated in here – it must be him. I need to get out of here quick and have a few scoops, before I report back. Well a lot of people will be relieved – the killer brought to justices. God's justice, if not man's justice. Dead as a doornail – no danger any more. Can't believe he hung himself. Did he come back to himself and do it, or did he come back as he did it. Feck we will never know. Good riddance. Hung himself.”Now that's something I always wondered about. They say when a man hangs himself, he gets a big Langer, a big erection. No Shay you wouldn't – you wouldn't take a peek. Sh-one-t I would. But what if someone sees me – the detective was observed peeping up the dead woman's skirt. Jees no I can't risk it. Crap. You will never get another opportunity to find out. Get rid of yer woman first.He went to the door and opened it wide. He called the only nurse outside and asked her to get the orderly who found the body and cut down Georgie. As soon as she turned away he hurried back to the bed and taking a deep breath, raised the skirt quickly and looked underneath.“Jayus! Shit! Bollix! Crap! It's not Georgie! It's an auld one – a real auld one. With a gee. Where's Georgie then. Ah! Bollix. What's going on here?”Stay quiet. You are in the shits now. How can you explain how you found out. Calm down. Let the primitive Fanahan survival instinct take over. Stand back over by the door, they are coming back.“This is the man detective...he found the body. Are you all right?”“Fine. Just thinking back to when I brought him in here.” Get a grip. There's a way out. Emphasis the HIM, the gender. “When I brought him in here, a good few years ago: five or six, was it?. Maybe more. He had killed a lot of girls and kidnapped a priest. He was a nutcase. A raving nutcase. A madman, mad,” he repeated the word. “Man.” “Detective I think we are at cross purposes here. This body is that of Georgina Bowen, Mistress Bowen she liked to be called. Sometimes Duchess. She has been a guest here a good few years and is a woman. Not a man”Attack! “I'm sorry sunshine, this is, su...” Don't say supposed to be.“Is George Edward Bowen – Georgie. A serial killer! Incarcerated here awaiting a return of his memory, so that if that happens we can charge him. This is not a woman! It's a man: a serial killer. And if you don't believe me, go ahead and check. God knows I can't.” Nice one. Shay.The nurse moved forward, raised the lower clothing, then opened the top buttons of the blouse, and stood back and turned to face Fanahan.“Detective,” she said through gritted teeth, “beyond any doubt, you might have. This patient is a woman – without any doubt at all.”
Good job I didn't stop for a snifter the way this blooming whale is sniffing my breath.
May 26, 2017
From Streets of Birdsong "That Secret Night of The Yew"
Then that night – in the moonlight under the stars, I went down into the wood: to its pine heart; and garnered from the forest floor into my hamper box, small twigs, pine and fir and larch cones, covering them with palm.
I ranged outward, seeking the brown yellow and green, turning to amber, fallen-sinner-leaves covering them with creeping ivy. I scooped up hawthorn haws, yew berries and green spiky chestnuts, womb-open, showing their fruits inside.
I went and stole from gardens jasmine, lavender and bramble. From the bogs their heather and their peat. At dawn I took this treasure trove of forest bog and garden, to the house; to her father’s door, where he stood in his day-clothes.
I carried the captured night-time into that bitter-sweet bower. I surrounded her with the woodland. I gave her soft air born of pine fronds that wafted chestnut smells and whirling seeds of sycamore. I made for her the rustling sounds of leaves, wind-tossed against the swaying bark of ash and beech.
As sacred as any priest of pipe and plug, I pared and rubbed between my palms the peat and heather, and dropped the chaff along the floor and blew the fragrance to the air. I scattered the gardens on her bed. I told her I was sorry and called her my first love. She smiled and reached up her small hand and whispered “Hi.”
As the day filled our new wood with light we murmured of the old days and never spoke about the present The family left us alone that day. We whisper-talked, remembering.
She dozed and then we whispered again and then she dozed again. Together we waited.
In that Blackthorn Month, that Secret Night of The Yew: of death and rebirth, transformation and reincarnation; Deirdre died. They wrapped her and hid her away: carrying her in the heart of the coffin-wood, that once hid pine martins, squirrels, owls and sleepy, hot-foot-hopping, pigeons.
I ranged outward, seeking the brown yellow and green, turning to amber, fallen-sinner-leaves covering them with creeping ivy. I scooped up hawthorn haws, yew berries and green spiky chestnuts, womb-open, showing their fruits inside.
I went and stole from gardens jasmine, lavender and bramble. From the bogs their heather and their peat. At dawn I took this treasure trove of forest bog and garden, to the house; to her father’s door, where he stood in his day-clothes.
I carried the captured night-time into that bitter-sweet bower. I surrounded her with the woodland. I gave her soft air born of pine fronds that wafted chestnut smells and whirling seeds of sycamore. I made for her the rustling sounds of leaves, wind-tossed against the swaying bark of ash and beech.
As sacred as any priest of pipe and plug, I pared and rubbed between my palms the peat and heather, and dropped the chaff along the floor and blew the fragrance to the air. I scattered the gardens on her bed. I told her I was sorry and called her my first love. She smiled and reached up her small hand and whispered “Hi.”
As the day filled our new wood with light we murmured of the old days and never spoke about the present The family left us alone that day. We whisper-talked, remembering.
She dozed and then we whispered again and then she dozed again. Together we waited.
In that Blackthorn Month, that Secret Night of The Yew: of death and rebirth, transformation and reincarnation; Deirdre died. They wrapped her and hid her away: carrying her in the heart of the coffin-wood, that once hid pine martins, squirrels, owls and sleepy, hot-foot-hopping, pigeons.
May 25, 2017
A closed mouth catches no flies.
So the USA leaked details around the Manchester bombing that the Brits supplied, in confidence.
This, I'm sure made catching, what now seems to be a terrorist cell, more difficult.
Just think what would have happened if the leak had happened the other way around.
'Nuff said A Closed Mouth Catches No Flies.
This, I'm sure made catching, what now seems to be a terrorist cell, more difficult.
Just think what would have happened if the leak had happened the other way around.
'Nuff said A Closed Mouth Catches No Flies.
May 24, 2017
Dark, dark, clouds here today, grieving for the children murdered in Manchester - need nonsense to cope!
The Frog Hedda Hoppa, star columnist and Fly-On-The-Wall found Slugger and Pal and told them all they knew about Harry's Dastardly Plan. The Pair as Hedda told it later in her Buke were still under Wacki Bacci influences and thought the whole thing was hilarious. Well they would wouldn't they and Hedda at the time – she omitted this is her Memoirs – was speaking with a mouth full of - well – crawling things: still crawling but doomed.
Eventually the penny dropped – well the cent than – bloody de cimi mation – you never know where you are. Pal figured he was just as broke under all currencies. No! Once he found a million Lira note on holiday and thought he was a millionaire. Well he was – and as he learned later he wasn't.
A meeting was organised for The Denis the Menace Centre and the word went out: by Chicken, chucking, by Duck ducking, by Fly flying, and Bat batting, and Wasp, waspishly wending their way, by Bee, buzzing and lots of things, doing things, lots of things' ways.
It was a momentous occasion: even Slug-Ali The Greatest turned up. “I gots and agenda.” He said as he arrived.
“No.” says Pal, “Dgenda is open t'all attendees to agendee what they wants to.” And then he couldn't help himself, he said “Like – like”
Ali insisted “I journey here, to find out whatta ya all gonna do about that slimy rat Harry. He's a nuisance and is disrupt-in' business. Can't get dem slimy workers to do any-tin' with all dat talk about The Revolution. Whatch'a doing about Harry. Listen Pal dats why I'm Here! “
Pal gulped. Ali on his tail with bulging eyes several inches above his head: slime boiling and bubbling on his brow, from head to one toe, was an awesome sight. “Ya folly me Pal! I wants action!” And then he bellowed. “This meeting is called to order: and I'm presidin'. Any objections – Hah.” Then he glowered around the room at each individual he knew. Banjoed looked away from his gaze and waited with fingers plucking an imaginary Banjo. Pal shook his trouser leg and pretended to scold his invisible dog.
Ralf chirped and moved nervously: then fell off a branch - it was an olive branch he bought for Robina. She didn't know whether to forgive him or make peace.
Ignoring Ali: Polly flounced in – missing her Pal – her current squeeze. She was calling everybody “Pal” now. “Howdah Pal. Seeya Pal. Have a seat Pal. Have a drink Pal.” It was driving Pal spare: making him very jumpy.
Ali nodded into a corner and one of his men moved in: over to where a very suspicious looking hedgehog that turned out on inspection to be Klanger - hiding under his wig.
He was seized and evicted; evacuated by Dobbin the Pony, who scoped him up on instructions from the Presidin' Chairman and pony tailed him up – up- and away.
Over a hedge, down the hill he landed Splat! on the windscreen of a car being driven by two baldy grim horsey brothers on the way to Lisdune Varna. That was their names: The Brothers Horsey.
“Would ya look at de head of hair on dat fly,” the younger one said.“It's a wig, and it's a slug.” Brother said.“A slug – so 'tis. We'll ask him where he got the wig.”
“No!,” Brother said.”Take it off him and we'll have turns wearing it at the festival.”
That brother of mine is smart! Younger thought.
Eventually the penny dropped – well the cent than – bloody de cimi mation – you never know where you are. Pal figured he was just as broke under all currencies. No! Once he found a million Lira note on holiday and thought he was a millionaire. Well he was – and as he learned later he wasn't.
A meeting was organised for The Denis the Menace Centre and the word went out: by Chicken, chucking, by Duck ducking, by Fly flying, and Bat batting, and Wasp, waspishly wending their way, by Bee, buzzing and lots of things, doing things, lots of things' ways.
It was a momentous occasion: even Slug-Ali The Greatest turned up. “I gots and agenda.” He said as he arrived.
“No.” says Pal, “Dgenda is open t'all attendees to agendee what they wants to.” And then he couldn't help himself, he said “Like – like”
Ali insisted “I journey here, to find out whatta ya all gonna do about that slimy rat Harry. He's a nuisance and is disrupt-in' business. Can't get dem slimy workers to do any-tin' with all dat talk about The Revolution. Whatch'a doing about Harry. Listen Pal dats why I'm Here! “
Pal gulped. Ali on his tail with bulging eyes several inches above his head: slime boiling and bubbling on his brow, from head to one toe, was an awesome sight. “Ya folly me Pal! I wants action!” And then he bellowed. “This meeting is called to order: and I'm presidin'. Any objections – Hah.” Then he glowered around the room at each individual he knew. Banjoed looked away from his gaze and waited with fingers plucking an imaginary Banjo. Pal shook his trouser leg and pretended to scold his invisible dog.
Ralf chirped and moved nervously: then fell off a branch - it was an olive branch he bought for Robina. She didn't know whether to forgive him or make peace.
Ignoring Ali: Polly flounced in – missing her Pal – her current squeeze. She was calling everybody “Pal” now. “Howdah Pal. Seeya Pal. Have a seat Pal. Have a drink Pal.” It was driving Pal spare: making him very jumpy.
Ali nodded into a corner and one of his men moved in: over to where a very suspicious looking hedgehog that turned out on inspection to be Klanger - hiding under his wig.
He was seized and evicted; evacuated by Dobbin the Pony, who scoped him up on instructions from the Presidin' Chairman and pony tailed him up – up- and away.
Over a hedge, down the hill he landed Splat! on the windscreen of a car being driven by two baldy grim horsey brothers on the way to Lisdune Varna. That was their names: The Brothers Horsey.
“Would ya look at de head of hair on dat fly,” the younger one said.“It's a wig, and it's a slug.” Brother said.“A slug – so 'tis. We'll ask him where he got the wig.”
“No!,” Brother said.”Take it off him and we'll have turns wearing it at the festival.”
That brother of mine is smart! Younger thought.
May 22, 2017
Don't judge a book by its cover - it won't tell you IT'S FREE
For the next few days - until Wednesday 24th May 17, the Kindle version of In The Wicker Wood is free.This is what Amazon readers (verified purchases) are saying about......In The Wicker Wood.
Jo Nesbo, has masterfully shown the world the secrets of Norway, its subcultures of authority (the police and the politicians), Oslo’s drug culture, murder, kidnapping and mayhem in Scandinavia. The author of “In The Wicker Wood” attempts to reveal Ireland in a similar fashion. Wicker Wood is a book worth reading.
There was just the right amount of street talk and street logic used by the characters to keep me on edge. I was very interested in, and yet scared shitless of, these mean bastards and the gritty underworld they inhabit.
I liked all the Irish nomenclature and phrases and customs that were normal to the author and the characters but were quaint and sometimes baffling to me.
Once taken up, it's hard not to finish this story. Some interesting characters, and while some of them imitate Hitchcock's Psycho, nevertheless a good weekend read.
This story takes a wild path which the author somehow magically combines with Irish mythology.
The Amazon UK Link
And a pitcha is wurth 1,000 wurds (Dublineese).
Jo Nesbo, has masterfully shown the world the secrets of Norway, its subcultures of authority (the police and the politicians), Oslo’s drug culture, murder, kidnapping and mayhem in Scandinavia. The author of “In The Wicker Wood” attempts to reveal Ireland in a similar fashion. Wicker Wood is a book worth reading.
There was just the right amount of street talk and street logic used by the characters to keep me on edge. I was very interested in, and yet scared shitless of, these mean bastards and the gritty underworld they inhabit.
I liked all the Irish nomenclature and phrases and customs that were normal to the author and the characters but were quaint and sometimes baffling to me.
Once taken up, it's hard not to finish this story. Some interesting characters, and while some of them imitate Hitchcock's Psycho, nevertheless a good weekend read.
This story takes a wild path which the author somehow magically combines with Irish mythology.
The Amazon UK Link
And a pitcha is wurth 1,000 wurds (Dublineese).
