Ned Hayes's Blog, page 147
October 12, 2013
Reading and writing this morning on early revisions for my novel...
Reading and writing this morning on early revisions for my novel Sinful Folk — coming out soon!
First chapters available here…
Lovely coffee and book illustration from: a little morning reading (flickrjo)
Book Giveaway - starts today!
Goodreads Book Giveaway
Sinful Folk
by Ned HayesGiveaway ends November 10, 2013.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter to win
October 11, 2013
"The road is a river of ice, slick and unforgiving. A harsh...
"The road is a river of ice, slick and unforgiving. A harsh sweep of white iron, smooth as glass and cold enough to freeze any uncovered inch of flesh to the surface. Hillocks and haystacks rise up, isles in a smoking brume. Here and there snow has blown aside, revealing the line of the great white stone road that slices through the hills."
— from the novel Sinful Folk
SOURCE: mystic-revelations (by disconnecta)
October 10, 2013
"Spring grew into summer, and the rhythm of my life now included...
"Spring grew into summer, and the rhythm of my life now included Nell. I learned that her secret thyme and mint beds were deep in the woods, out by the chuckling stream that disappeared underground.
She gathered plants she needed every day, and she was as a child who gathers flowers in May, setting them in bundles, choosing with caprice, singing to them, naming each plant and leaf with fondness. She danced in the sunlight and the shade. Even watching her a moment, my spirits lifted.”
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
"Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies..."
- C.S. Lewis (via quote-book)
October 9, 2013
Book Giveaway - starts today!
Sinful Folk
by Ned Hayes
Giveaway ends November 10, 2013.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter to win
“On most nights under the winter moon when we have made...
“On most nights under the winter moon when we have made our camp, around us echo faint sounds of that other hidden world—the one of meadow and forest in the night. The melody of whip-poor-will, the cry of hunting owl, the scurrying rush of vole and chasing fox.
This night, the land is empty. The silence is deep in stark and open heath. The woods carry no sound. Our horses survive on wisps of straw we pull from the cart.
The oats were used up on the first day. We cooked it long, we ate it rough, and now we have nothing. It is as if some great razor scraped the life from this sheet of white-edged vellum, leaving only blank.”
— from the novel Sinful Folk
PHOTO SOURCE: unbourn
October 8, 2013
"Sound carries far here in the trees. Snow slides off a heavy...
"Sound carries far here in the trees. Snow slides off a heavy oak as some creature shuffles through the woods, and ancient branches snap. Out of the corner of one eye, I see the flash of colored feathers. It is a yellowhammer, black eyes flickering in a hedgerow, tiny breast plumped out in golden livery, streaked with colors rich and brown. It was calling in its winter song:
A little bit of bread and no cheese—
A little bit of bread and no cheese—
— from the novel Sinful Folk
"I glance swiftly down at the leaves open on the tables, looking...
"I glance swiftly down at the leaves open on the tables, looking for Moten’s carrel with his records, his manuscript. As always, the monks in the scriptorium work to inscribe the secrets of the ancients. Each lectern holds an ancient book and a new. The ink wells are covered, the quills sharpened to a nib, and the books wait here with half-complete lines of drying ink.
I look down at the paper to see a fragment of cosmology: now I read it hungrily, my ability to read undimmed behind a wall of mute, mad years.
Nine spheres there are that rotate across the great firmament of the heavens. As Pythagoras wrote, each sphere holds the stars like glowing jewels on their surface, whirling ever in their orbits. At the center of those vast moving orbs of quintessence rests the unmoved rock of this earth, our Eden and sometime Hell …
The ancients understood all things, from the mysteries of our frail flesh to the languages spoken by animals and by angels. Here are all the remnants of their knowledge we hold. The voices of the past echoing into our diminished age.”
— from the novel Sinful Folk
Source: HappyonAccident.Tumblr.com
