Stuart Aken's Blog, page 252

Read Breaking Faith, Free: The Final Chapter

Here it is: the last chapter. I hope you’ve enjoyed the book. Please consider reviewing it. And, if you’d like it on your shelf or your eReader, see the note at the foot of the chapter.
For those who never started the free read, the whole book is now on the blog. I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January 2012. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and all 50 feature here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search by chapter number. If you missed the start, you’ll find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite your friends along. As an author, I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 50Sunday 5th December
Everything was white.My head hurt. I moved to touch the place where the pain was most severe and found I was covered with a quilt.‘Awake at last. How do you feel, love?’ Ma was sitting by the side of the bed, a worried smile on her face. ‘Don’t try to get up, Faith. You’ll need a time to settle.’I was in my old room at Longhouse. ‘Is Leigh here?’‘Sleeping. He spent all last night with you after we brought you back from the hospital, remember? He’s done in, poor love.’‘Mervyn’s in the…’‘The pervert’s dead, love. Bled to death before they got to him. Serves him right an’ all.’‘Bruce! He hit him and…’‘Leigh found him. You were muttering. He went up there yesterday afternoon. I’m sorry, love, your dog is dead.’I allowed myself the tears.Ma handed me a tissue. ‘Stay there, love, I’ll fetch you a cuppa.’She was gone before I could ask any of the hundreds of questions I needed answering. There was a knock. Leigh came in from his bedroom, weary but smiling at my wakefulness. I sat up and almost fainted. He held me close, rocking me gently as we wept quietly together for a few moments.‘Mervyn killed Netta.’Leigh nodded. ‘He admitted it when the police got to him. I’m not sure they did as much as they might’ve to stop the bleeding. He was dead when the ambulance got back for him, anyway.’‘Back?’‘They thought it was for you. Took you to hospital first. You came round briefly on the way and told them about Merv. The police were still in the village following your 999 call and they asked for the ambulance when they found him. How’s your head?’‘Aching and sore.’‘At least there’s no fracture, or you’d still be in hospital. You’ve a nasty bump, some missing hair and half a dozen stitches under that bandage but you’ll be fine in a few days.’ He leant forward and held me close again, hugged me close and tight. ‘God, Faith, I thought I’d lost you when Matilda called to tell me you were in hospital.’‘Where is Mum?’‘Downstairs with Ma.’‘Did Mervyn tell the police anything else?’‘He was nearly gone when they arrived; the knife was right through him. Must’ve known he’d had it. He boasted about killing Netta and attacking you. Said he’d raped you and started to laugh…’‘He didn’t. But he would’ve.’ I held back tears that fearful memory stirred up. ‘Nothing about the man Netta met when she ran off?’‘Man?’‘Mervyn wanted to scare me. He described how he’d found Netta, watched her. He followed her from Longhouse. She met a man on Lovely Seat. A man with a rucksack who was waiting for her. He watched them have sex; told me how she put condoms on him. “Won’t ‘ave to use ‘em on you, cunt. There’ll be nowt for ‘em to find after I’ve burnt this place down wi’ you inside it.” That’s what he said to me. He told me that the man and Netta had sex all morning and afternoon. When he went, Mervyn chased her. By that time, it was raining but he didn’t care. He chucked her dress on the barbed wire so she couldn’t get it back. When he caught her, he tied her to the fence. He kicked and raped her until he’d had enough and the weather got too foul for him. Then he hit her with the rock and dumped her in the pit. He told me what he’d done in order to frighten me. It worked.’Leigh hugged me close and was silent.Ma arrived with the tea on a tray. ‘Let her rest, Leigh. Poor lass has been through a terrible ordeal.’‘I know.’‘I’m fine, Ma. Really I am.’She poured the tea for us and left.‘This man, who was he?’I’d expected that. ‘No idea. Said he’d never seen him before. He asked her but she wouldn’t say. He made her, hurt her. He was a walker she’d met before. Said she’d arranged to meet him there that day because she liked sex with him in the open. That got Mervyn even madder. He didn’t say, but he was jealous. He made her cry and hurt her again. He was going to tie me up and rape me, Leigh, over and over and over again. He was going to kill me.’‘You were very brave. You’re safe now.’I let him think about the lie I’d told to make him lose the guilt he should never have felt, let him come to his own conclusions, as I knew he would. It was a shame to have to blacken my sister’s name but the living are more important than the dead.We drank our tea and he looked at me and held my hand, stroked my undamaged shoulder and arms, kissed my cheek and forehead. I felt the warm, soft love in his touch and felt safe and secure and cherished.‘Wasn’t my fault, after all.’‘Never was, Leigh.’‘She was just using us an excuse for sex with someone else. Jesus!’I slept.In the evening, he brought me my evening meal on a tray and I ate ravenously. Slept again.The following morning, he came in with a cup of tea. ‘Breakfast in bed?’I reached up and caught his hand, brought him down to kiss me. I coaxed his hand under the covers and felt the tingle of response. He was wearing a towelling robe and my fingers strayed through the gap to caress him and found his firm reaction. My lie had worked, the barrier had lifted.‘I thought I’d lost you, Faith.’‘I’m still here.’‘You always have been. I’ve been so stupid. Can you forgive me?’‘I always did, Leigh. I love you. There’s nothing to forgive this time, you just made a mistake because you didn’t know the facts.’‘I don’t know why you love me.’‘Why? Love’s nothing to do with why. The sky is blue: I love you. Night follows day: I love you. The sun is hot: I love you.’‘You’ve always been amazing. I love you. Will you have me back?’‘I never sent you away.’ I folded the cover back and drew him to me.‘You’re not well enough.’‘I’m the best judge of that.’‘The doctors said you…’‘Doctors aren’t always right. Doctors don’t always know best.’He frowned at that, as if I’d said something of profound importance and significance.‘What about your head?’‘You’re in my head; have been since the day we first met. I want you in my bed, Leigh. I want you in me.’Mum came up to see me and stopped halfway through the door. I caught her eye in time to stop her words and she looked puzzled for an instant before smiling. She shook her head at me in resigned delight and backed silently away so Leigh had no idea she’d been there. He never heard her chuckle and close the door before she returned downstairs. He was concentrating on loving me and I was all he saw, at last.
###
Well, that’s the end, folks. Enjoyed the ride? Breaking Faith is available in paperback (through online or high street outlets) or ebook format for whatever ereader you use, just click on the cover picture or visit ‘My Books’. You might like some of my other books, which you’ll also find on that page. I’d appreciate a review, posted wherever possible - Amazon, Goodreads, Smashwords, or any other bookish site. Reviews get indie published books noticed, you see. Look out for more of my writing. Coming soon, some fantasy for your enjoyment.
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Cliché Software Review.

In collecting information for my Writing Contests page, I came upon a site called ‘Writers’ Village’, which looked interesting. Needless to say (cliché), it runs a writing competition. However, my reason for this post is that the website owner, John Yeoman, also provides a number of free articles dealing with improving your short story efforts. I signed up for the free stuff and, as a result, received a link from John. This took me to http://www.cliches.biz/clichecleaner/, where I was able to download a trial version of software designed to spot clichés in written work.
Often, writers are unaware of even using clichés, let alone repeating the error by using them more than once. Similarly, repeated phrases are commonly overlooked by the most careful of editors, but will stick out like a sore thumb (cliché) to the alert reader.
A couple of days ago, on Xmas day, I posted a short story for readers and decided to use this as a test of the software. The results are shown in the screen shot below. I was pleasantly surprised by the few instances that appeared in the story. But I’m conscious that, especially in longer works, I’m prone to the occasional cliché, and I bet you use them as well. I like the clear style of the software and its ease of use. It’s a good old no-nonsense tool and a worthy addition to any writer’s toolbox. At present, you copy and paste the piece of work into the program, which has the look of a basic text editor. However, the designer is currently working on an update, which will allow users to open files direct from Word. This upgrade will be offered free to purchases of the current software. To be honest, I had no problem with the copy and paste (repeated phrase) process, but a direct route to a file would obviously be preferable. There are four options to control the way the software selects and displays the clichés and repeated phrases it finds, but the default position was all I needed.
If you click on the graphic, it should bring it up in a new window at a larger size.
As this was a trial version, I decided to look into costs for the full version. It’s so cheap it’s hardly worth considering, when you recognise how useful it will be for you. The cost of the full program is $12.95, which translates currently to £8.29 or €9.79.
I’ve downloaded the full version and will use it in editing my work from now on. In fact, I used it on this post. Any tool that can help improve the quality of writing must be considered seriously by every writer hoping to gain and retain a worthwhile readership, after all.
Related articles Tip #6 Use Clichés (or clichés - the elephant in the room.) Writing & Editing: Find & Eliminate Cheesy Cliches 12-18-12 Cliche? ...t'was a storm and darkly night...what?...Cliches?...Moi??...

Procrastination Revisited.

English: A Diagram of procrastination cycle. Task features, internal factors, irrational beliefs, behavior and consequences are shown. used for a university assessment. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It’s possibly the most dangerous of all threats to anyone who works alone in a self-motivated, self-controlled situation; the danger of procrastination. Regular readers will know I’ve visited this topic before: here are the links to those posts; 8 March 2012 (The Dangers of Distraction) , 7 June 2012 ( Procrastination is the Thief of Time) , 25 Nov 2012 (Do You Work Best in Chaos or Control?)  So, why the 4th visit in a single year? Well, if you take the time to visit the side panel to the right and scroll a good way down (you’ll need to dive below the ‘Popular Posts’ piece), you’ll discover a table I was sent by www.onlineclasses.orgin response to my previous posts. The table, headed  ‘Procrastination Nation’, features some interesting and salutary stats on the way we waste out time. If you click on the table, a new window will open in which you can read the short piece from Online Classes and view the table at full size. I think it’s a worthwhile way to spend a few minutes, and I recommend it, especially if you’re prone to distractions. And, no, the irony is not lost on me!Read, absorb, enjoy and take note.
Related articles The Irony Of Procrastination Procrastination Procrastination is a dirty word...or is it? FreeAgent Friday - the procrastination issue Procrastination Puzzler-Ask Paula for Some Timely Tips

A Christmas Gift.

It's a bit cheesy, since it was written for a rather old-fashioned women's magazine, but, what the hell? It's Christmas: enjoy a cosy tale from me, with my best wishes for the season.


A Display of Love
‘But, what’s it all for, Dave?’‘What’s it all for? What’s it all for? Isn’t it obvious, love? I’m not having that moron next door outdoing me again.’‘Does it matter?’‘Of course it matters, Shirl. Look, he got a first for his marrows, a second for his carrots and then, to cap it all, they give him a commendation for that lousy holiday snap he called a landscape. I tell you, Shirl, that so-and-so knows someone. Else he knows where the skeletons are hidden.’‘That was all last summer. What’s it got to do with Christmas?’‘Well, we all know what Christmas means to him, don’t we?’‘You’re obsessed, do you know that? I just want this Christmas to be normal, Dave. Like everyone else’s. I’m fed up of the time, trouble and cost we put into decorating the outside. Stuff I only get to see when I’m coming home or leaving. Why can’t we do the inside this year?’‘No one sees the inside, Shirl. What’s the point of that?’‘I see it. You see it. The kids and grandkids see it. No, Dave; I’ve had enough of this stupid competition. I want my Christmas back.’Her stance said she was serious and, even if he’d had his back to her, the tone of her voice made her feelings clear. And when Shirl meant it, you’d better do as she expected. He looked at the collection of lights, blow-up figures, plastic lawn decorations and flashing signs he’d gathered over the years and felt a small pang of disappointment. But Shirl had a point. He’d spent good money, too much time and far too much effort on the whole project. Why, he wondered, hadn’t she said before it got almost out of hand? What was it all for, she’d wanted to know. And he knew the answer. It was pathetic, really. To outdo his show-off neighbour. Hell, he didn’t even like the man. Why was he so intent on competing with him?He looked out of the window and saw Bob fixing the first lights to the cherry tree in his front garden. He felt an urge to go out there and start on his own display, a slight urge to make this year’s display a sight the whole village would come round to view. But, really, he knew the motivation was just to do something better than Bob and be recognised for that for once. Bob always got the prizes, never Dave. Prizes. Prizes? ‘You know, Shirl, who cares about the odd silver cup, a certificate signed by the Vicar? I mean, what’s it mean, after all?’Shirley, unexpectedly, embraced him. ‘Thanks, Dave. I appreciate it. I know it’s hard for you to give it up after all this time. But I’m proud of you. I don’t need awards and certificates to tell me how good you are at all sorts of things. And they never give prizes for the things that really matter anyway.’He saw that look in her eye, knew what she meant and abandoned the pile of decorations for a while. He’d decide what to do with them later. Probably return them to the loft, for now, anyway.He still had a spring in his step when he returned home from work the next day. He parked up outside as usual and noticed Bob back at it next door. ‘Not botherin’ this year, old man?’Dave forced a smile at the condescending tone and just nodded noncommittally as he strode down the path. The Christmas tree was in the window; a few effective lights decorated the Magnolia in the centre of his lawn, as a greeting for visitors, but that was all. Understated, was what Shirley had called it.‘Looks lovely. I’ve always felt too much looks just cheap and gaudy. I mean, Bob’s display’s just showing off for the sake of it. The man’s too full of himself.’It was good to know she preferred him to the moron next door. Shirley’s appreciation was a prize worth having. ‘No, Bob, I decided against, this year. I see you’re up to your usual standard. Mind you don’t blow a fuse.’‘Oh, no chance of that, old man. Taken all the precautions, I have. No danger of a power cut here. Not like some I could name. All the power on one big fuse. I’ve got a special circuit for this lot, you know.’He did know. Bob had boasted about it two years ago on the memorable occasion when Dave’s power cut blacked out the house for a day. He’d really rubbed his nose in it, smirking as the electrician came round to sort out the problem.‘Aye, well, have a happy one. I’m off in for my tea.’ And in he went, before he was tempted to wipe the condescending smile off the moron’s face.Shirley greeted him with her usual warmth, the aroma of homemade lamb stew welcomed him into his home, and Christmas carols played lightly in the background. ‘Nice, but it’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?’ He nodded at her outfit, the one she normally reserved for their private Christmas party, on Boxing Day. ‘Thought I’d treat you. You’ve been so good over the decorations and I know how much you like me in this. Anyway, thought you might like a surprise this year on Boxing Day.’He raised a quizzical eyebrow.‘Oh no. You’ll have to wait and see. Now, come and have your tea, love.’‘I’m supposed to eat whilst you sit opposite me looking like that?’‘Think of it as an appetiser.’It was, so he did.Two days to go and Bob was still in the garden when Dave arrived home a little the worse for wear, after the works Christmas do, as the taxi dropped him off outside the gate.‘Now then, Bob, nothing better to do than festoon your house with lights and Santas, eh?’Bob’s wife, a mousy woman with a sharp tongue who, Dave suddenly realised, he’d never spoken to, was watching tight-lipped from behind the glass in the front room. Though, whether she was watching Bob with approval or dismay was impossible to say from her expression. But Dave realised that he had one thing in his life that Bob didn’t have. He had Shirl. Shirley was worth a thousand, a million cups and medals and certificates.‘Wait there, mate.’Shirley was waiting in the hall, her face covered in questions but the greeting kiss ready as always. He indulged her and himself first and then extricated himself with reluctance and difficulty.‘Come and give us a hand, love. Then I’ll be able to concentrate better.’He dropped the loft ladder and started handing all the stored decorations down to Shirley. The look on her face was hard to ignore, but he was determined. She took it all downstairs with him, disappointment written large on her pretty face. But she said nothing; knew him too well when he was in this mood.He gathered the stuff together, with her help, in the hallway. ‘Right, the rest I’ll do on my own. Won’t take long, love.’‘Tea’s almost ready.’There were tears in the corners of her eyes, her lovely eyes, and he almost capitulated. But he’d made up his mind and, once started, he was going to finish.‘Won’t be long.’Bob was still putting the finishing touches to his display. His wife still watching. Dave transported everything from the hall into the crisp garden until the house was empty of the Christmas show. ‘Wonder if you’d give me a hand with these, Bob?’Bob looked shocked at this suggestion but seemed unable to resist the opportunity to boast. It took the pair of them another three hours but when they’d finished, both were happy with the result.‘Best ever, Bob. What do you think?’‘Brilliant, Dave, brilliant. Got to hand it to you, this time.’‘One more touch, I think.’ He went round the back to his shed and found what he was looking for. Bob looked at the small wooden box with its slot in the top and the hand-painted sign advertising the display as a charity raising event and asking for donations.‘Village Hall fund, I thought?’Bob nodded, dumbfounded. A few neighbours had ventured out into the chill of the night and looked on admiringly as Dave affixed the box to the fence. A few even emptied their pockets of change into it. Dave nodded his thanks.He said good night to Bob, thanked him for his help and went inside. Shirley was still disappointed.‘Tea’s ruined.’‘Come and have a look, Shirl.’‘I don’t think so, thank you.’‘Bob says it’s the best ever.’She looked up, tears still threatening.‘Come one, love. Just a quick look. Then I’ll not say another word about it. Promise.’Reluctantly, and because she loved him in spite of his failings, she went with him to the door. He put his hands over her eyes and guided her down the front path to the pavement to give her the best view. Once in place, he removed his hand. Shirley gasped and then was silent as she took it all in, including the box and its sign. ‘Oh, Dave, you’re brilliant. And Bob’s all right with it, is he?’‘Think he’s still getting over the shock, to tell you the truth.’They stood and admired Bob’s house and garden, covered with lights, figures and all the blaze of commercial Christmas, then at their own place, still with just its simple white string of lights twinkling on the Magnolia and the Christmas tree in the window.‘Wonderful, Dave. The whole village will be talking about this. I think you’re marvellous.’They wandered back down the path together and inside to the warmth of their house. Shirley closed the curtains on the lights from next door and settled happily for the gentle glow of the Christmas tree. ‘I think you deserve your Boxing Day surprise early, Dave.’ She poured him a small measure of his favourite and dashed upstairs to change.When she returned to the room, he was ready and waiting and he knew no amount of awards and certificates could ever mean more than the woman he loved.

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 49

This is the penultimate chapter. Enjoy what’s left of the ride.
For those who haven’t been following the free read, I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have featured here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search by chapter number. If you missed the start, you’ll find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite your friends along. As an author, I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 49
Tuesday 30th November
My return from Scotland had been so full of hope and expectation. Reality killed all that along with Netta. I examined my reactions to her death and found, amongst the grief and sorrow, I could blame both her and her attacker but neither Leigh nor myself. I felt no guilt, no responsibility, and Leigh’s insistence on his fault confounded me.At first, I accepted he must be grieving in his own particular way. He would eventually leave that stage and return to his normal self. It was clear he found comfort in my arms and derived pleasure from our nearness, so I couldn’t understand his determination to avoid me. It wasn’t important, for the moment, that he couldn’t make love. The trauma of discovering Netta’s naked and abused body coupled with his natural grief at her loss caused that. Time would sort it out; time, patience and understanding from me. Alex Comfort’s book had taught me many things but that was a most important lesson.Leigh, having lived so long through and for sex, seemed incapable of understanding it was just one aspect of our lives together, only part of our relationship.I wanted him inside me again, I wanted to make love. Of course I did. But I could and did still love him without sex. Just to have him in my arms, to have his arms round me, was joy and pleasure. There was more than comfort in our embrace, more than mutual support.He couldn’t see it.And his obsession with Netta made it hard for him to accept she was dead. He had to keep her memory alive, had to keep the image of her clear before him as though that would somehow cover up his guilt. Guilt that was misplaced and unnecessary. It had been difficult enough for me to bear his fixation with Netta when she was alive; to have her form a barrier between us now she was dead was almost unbearable.Eric’s death changed everything. In practical terms, it brought me a new home without the effort of finding one; and with it, an escape from the claustrophobic atmosphere of Longhouse. It brought me Bruce and his unquestioning devotion and loyalty. And it brought Zizi up from London, ostensibly to give me her support and comfort. When I heard them at it through the night I knew I had to leave. He could find a way to fuck Zizi, but not a way to make love with me.I’d been in Dad’s old cottage for a week, though it wasn’t strictly mine in a legal sense until much later, with Bruce my only companion, when I received news that Heacham’s old Will had been found in favour of myself and Hope. He’d failed to change it after I’d left. I was surprised to learn I now had two cottages. I’d always thought Heacham’s place was rented. But he’d apparently inherited it from his parents. What, I wondered, had he done with all the rent I’d paid for him over the years? It turned out he, or rather I, had been the sole payer of rent for the old stone barn he and his cronies used as their chapel. The rest he’d hoarded in bank accounts and in a box in cash under the bed.I found grim satisfaction in regaining what I’d lost to him and great delight in ending at once the informal agreement on the chapel. The few who’d joined him in his grotesque distortion of Biblical legend faded into obscurity amongst the community once their meeting place was advertised as ideal for conversion to holiday accommodation.I would have to take decisions on behalf of Hope but I went to see her anyway. I wish I had let her be. She was all flab and bedsores; her lovely hair cut short, dry and unstyled, her skin red and flaking. There was no dignity in what she’d become. She was no more than meat kept alive and I wished they would let her die in peace if that was the best they could do for her. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t remove her from their care and knew I shared their guilt in my refusal. I used her share of the funds from the Will to employ a private nurse to see her three times a week and care for her skin and general health. I would do no more for her myself; it was pointless, she didn’t even know me. I’d spent my early life sacrificing my needs to the demands of others. It was time I lived for myself.Heacham’s cottage was a mess and bore the stench of death. I threw the windows open to bring in fresh air but knew I could never live there. It was foul and full of memories I wanted to erase. For three days, I cleaned and cleared out rubbish, burning everything of his, including a handful of foreign-language, pornographic magazines that lay stained and scattered on the floors.I restored it to some semblance of tidiness so I might do something with the place. Once finished, I was full of tension, angst and bitterness. I must free myself of the memories of Heacham and that house if I was ever to live in peace. I needed some sort of symbolic act, some spiritual rite to wash me free of the filth I associated with his memory. The tarn offered an attractive solution. It was November but not yet seasonally cold and the autumn rains had filled the lake with clear cleansing water.I put on my working underwear, grabbed a towel and walked up the hill, Bruce running ahead of me as if impatient to get to the tarn. In the shadow of the trees, with sunlight sparkling on the silent water, I folded my outer clothes; the idea of Mervyn watching me swim naked had spoiled the place to some extent and I wasn’t prepared to risk treating him again.The water was cold enough to take my breath away but I waded in until I was able to swim. The cold and the clarity of that fresh, untainted water flushed away my tension and I felt my spirit healing within me as the tension left. A few strokes took me to the very centre and I ducked myself beneath the surface and struck into the depths. Kicking hard, I touched the bottom and then pushed myself hard and fast toward the light above. I broke surface and gulped the sweet, fresh air and laughed aloud in exultation.Bruce barked. I turned to see Mervyn in the trees, a large fallen branch in his hand. Bruce stood, hackles high, menacing the lout as he approached my clothes.‘Go away, Mervyn! Leave me alone.’His silence was unnerving. Bruce went for him and Mervyn shook him off his arm. I had no time to decide what to do. He fended Bruce off with the stick. I was swimming, wading, running for the bank before I ever thought of what I was doing. As I emerged from the water, Mervyn turned to me and gave a savage kick to Bruce. My poor dog was hurt and he caught him by his collar in one hand, the other holding the branch over his head.‘Dog’s fuckin’ dead, less you do as I say. Get them off, cunt.’‘Leave my dog alone. He’s done nothing to you.’‘Off. Or the dog’s meat, cunt.’ He waved the bloodied bough and Bruce suddenly seemed so vulnerable. Perhaps I could buy time, distract the pervert. I slowly slipped off the bra and made myself stand proud.‘Them an’all. Get the fuckers off.’ He waved the bough close above Bruce’s head and I knew I had no choice.I stood naked before him and understood what he did not; that he had no way to rape me whilst holding Bruce. If I were to run, he’d be forced to make a choice. And I was certain I knew what choice he’d make. Bruce would be safe.He took a step forward. ‘On the ground, cunt. Legs apart an’ arms underneath. Or I’ll whip your tits with this.’I stooped and grabbed a handful of wet pebbles. He was so engaged by my body, he failed to notice what I was doing. As my stones peppered him, he was startled into dropping his weapon.I took my chance and ran. ‘Come on, Bruce!’The fool moved to my clothes. As if I cared about that when he threatened my very existence. I ran for the cottage as fast as I could, his mistake giving me the lead I needed.Heavy, fat and unfit, he wasn’t as fleet as I. But I had to watch for sharp stones that might damage my bare feet and disable me. And I’d misjudged him. He paused only to batter Bruce hard enough to stop him running with me. I stopped, uncertain what I should do; concerned for my dog.But he moved away from Bruce and started toward me. I turned and ran again. I gained on him only slowly and he was still within sight as I reached the cottage. I’d left the back door unlocked and I opened the garden gate, closing and bolting it behind me, and was quickly inside the cottage and safe. I locked and bolted the back door, top and bottom, and leant with my back against it, breathing hard and fast but relieved to be secure inside whilst he was locked outside.The front door opened. I’d left the key in my coat. He’d watched me leave by the front door, seen me pocket the key, and followed me to the tarn. I suspect he took the key whilst I was in the water, just in case.He took his time, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He locked it and put the key in his pocket. I desperately tried to return to the back door I’d just secured. But he was in the kitchen before I’d undone the top bolt and I had to dodge round the table to escape him.There was blood above one of his cold eyes. My stones had been more effective than I’d thought.‘I’m gonna fuck you, cunt. On the table, on the floor, over the chair, up your cunt, up your arse, in your mouth. Then I’m gonna beat your fuckin’ brains out, just like I did that other lyin’ cunt. Onny, wi’ you, I’ll leave my cock in when I come ‘cos no-one’s ever goin’ to know what happened to you. Your body’ll burn with this house once I’ve ‘ad enough. But I’m gonna teck me time. I’ll tie you up an’ come back to fuck you every day for as long as I like. An’ no one’ll know.’He studied me as he took off his coat. He eased each of his boots off in turn. He untied the string he used for a belt. ‘Gonna tie your ‘ands together wi’ this. Tight, so it hurts.’ He removed his trousers. ‘This is gonna split you an’ meck you bleed an’ scream before I’m done wi’ you.’I was shivering now that I’d stopped moving, still damp from the tarn, cold from the air as I’d run, and terrified by his threats. ‘Leigh’ll be here soon. You’d better go, if you know what’s good for you, Mervyn.’Fear flashed briefly across his face and then he sneered. ‘Think I’m fuckin’ stupid? You ‘aven’t seen Leigh in days. I bin watchin’ you ever since you come. Seen you around the ‘ouse in nowt but your knickers. See you now in nowt at all.’‘I don’t understand why you hate me, Mervyn. What have I done to make you dislike me so?’‘You and your whoring sister got me sacked. Cunts! Well, I did for her and she were beggin’ for mercy before I finished her. Your turn now. You’ll teck longer, be more fun. No one comes up ‘ere since your pervert father topped hissen. They say it’s haunted. Soon be haunted by more’n ‘im. Like being a ghost, will you?’‘What do you want from me, Mervyn?’He moved suddenly but I reacted as quickly and kept the table between us.‘Want? I’m gonna ‘ave what I want, cunt, whether you like it or not. I’m gonna ‘ave you. Any way I want and as many times as I like. You can’t make no bargains wi’ me. I can do what I like wi’ you.’I put my hands on the table to steady myself, emotion and physical fatigue making me suddenly unsteady. My hand caught the edge of the table. My finger caught the handle of the drawer. I opened it and grabbed the large carving knife that Heacham had kept razor sharp to slice the Sunday roast.Mervyn saw the blade and backed involuntarily from the table. He searched for a weapon and I took my chance, grabbing the teapot from the sink behind me and throwing it at him as hard as I could. Caught off guard, he moved too late and it hit him on the side of his head. I dashed from the kitchen and slammed the door closed behind me.Desperate, I pushed the armchair against it before he had time to recover. For a few seconds, I stood, uncertain of my next move. It gave him time to recover and barge through into the sitting room. He was armed with the wooden rolling pin and came straight at me.I dodged his first blow and struck out blindly with the knife. I felt resistance and saw blood drip from his free hand.‘Cunt!’He swung at me again and I ducked, the end of the rolling pin crashing against my shoulder. I turned and side stepped. This time I held my ground as he rushed at me. The knife stabbed through his shirt and into his midriff as he brought the rolling pin down, hitting the top of my head.I was stunned for a few seconds, blackness fighting my instinct to remain conscious. I won through the pain and dizziness to find blood flowing across my left eye. Mervyn was staggering nearby with the knife still in his body. I picked up the empty coalscuttle and slammed it as hard as I could across his head. He stumbled and turned to face me. His hands were scrabbling at the knife and his face was drained and white. I picked up the rolling pin from the floor and hit him back and forth across his face and head. He put up his hands to defend himself and rose from his knees to try to reach me. I moved aside as he came forward and he fell onto his face. I hit him again on the back of his head and then dashed to the front door. It was locked and he had the key.I jumped hard on his writhing body as I passed and rushed for the back door. Frantic with terror, I undid the top bolt, turning to see if he was behind me. There was no sign of him in the kitchen as I ran from there into the back garden and opened the gate. I peered round the cottage, fearing he might have opened the front door. But he wasn’t there. I ran down the stony lane, heedless of the sharp stones cutting my feet.Mrs Greenhough’s shop was closed. Early closing day.I stumbled across the Green to the red telephone box, picked up the receiver and dialled 999.‘Police and ambulance. I’ve been attacked and I think I might’ve killed….’
###
Impatient for the final chapter? It’ll appear after Christmas. If you’re really that impatient, perhaps you can persuade someone could give you it as a Christmas present. It’s available in paperback (through online or high street outlets) or ebook format for whatever ereader you use, just click on the cover picture or visit ‘My Books’. I’d appreciate a review, posted wherever possible - Amazon, Goodreads, Smashwords, or any other bookish site. Reviews get indie published books noticed, you see.
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The Results, the Answer, the Winner!

Briefly, for those who entered last week’s competition to win a paperback copy of Breaking Faith, here’s the result you’ve all been waiting to hear.
The question I posed for the contest was: ‘In Breaking Faith, what’s the opening line of Chapter 11?’The answer, of course, was: ‘I was not afraid of contact with others; I simply had not experienced it.’
No one who entered had the wrong answer, so it was all down to the draw.
The name drawn out of the hat was Rasuna from Sumatra, and the book is winging its way across the seas even as you read this, inscribed with the special message requested by Rasuna.
Congratulations, Rasuna; enjoy the read. And my thanks to all who entered the contest; commiserations to the unlucky majority. 
Related articles Contest: Win a Signed Copy of Romantic Thriller.

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 48

You’ve come so far with me and the end is close. Continue to enjoy the ride.
For those who haven’t been following the free read, I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have featured here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search by chapter number. If you missed the start, you’ll find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite your friends along. As an author, I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 48
Sunday 12th September
‘Sorry? Sorry? Does that bring back Netta’s laughter and joy? Does sorry make it better? Will sorry restore her to me? You think you’re sorry, you shit of shits; you will be when I’m done with you.’‘Matilda! Leigh was out all night looking for her. It wasn’t his fault she ran off the way she did, she was always doing it.’‘You would stick up for him. You’re as good as his mother, you’re bound to side with him.’‘Want someone to blame, Matilda? And you do. Blame the devil who chased her across that fell and threw her into the pit.’She looked at Old Hodge’s face and something reached her. He had a way of getting through to people with few words.She broke down and wept without restraint and allowed me to comfort her this time. Ma made the ubiquitous pot of tea as I nodded my thanks at Old Hodge.When she’d sobbed herself into exhaustion, she asked me to explain, to tell her exactly what had happened. It was a chance to explain to Ma and Old Hodge as well and they listened with few interruptions.‘When’s Faith due back home?’‘Week on Saturday.’‘Netta’ll be long underground by then. I don’t know what…’‘Not if there’s been foul play. They may not release her… her body, if there has to be a trial.’But they did. The inquest followed on the Wednesday and they found her to be the victim of unlawful killing by a person or persons unknown. She’d been brutally raped and one of the fractures to her skull had occurred before she’d been thrown into the pit. Conjecture was she’d been chased, caught, bound and raped. She’d then been knocked unconscious, and dumped in the pit, probably still alive until she hit the bottom. It sickened and enraged me but I was powerless to act in any way at all.Heacham had been the obvious culprit except his own time of death coincided with Netta’s. Whilst the forensic and medical evidence allowed a short overlap between the two events, it was unlikely he could have made it back to his cottage and done away with himself in the time allowed. In any case, there was nothing at the cottage to indicate he’d been out in that rain. His clothes were dry. His note, confessing relatively minor sins other than the multiple rapes of Hope, made no mention of Netta’s death.To our relief, the coroner released Netta’s body for burial, though not cremation, once all tests were done. There was little forensic evidence to help the case. The rapist had either used a condom or removed himself before ejaculation. The only semen found was mine. There were no foreign pubic hairs mingled with hers, no skin, raked from his back, beneath her fingernails. And the rain had washed her skin clean of any pollution from her murderer, no fibres, nothing on her that wasn’t her own. Only one thing puzzled them; the grit and tiny shreds of vegetation lodged within the flesh of her bruised vulva. The conclusion was she’d been kicked by a booted foot. But whether before or after the rape, no one could say.The guilty rock he’d used to club her was belatedly discovered on the hillside where I’d waited for the dawn. Nearby, in the heather, lay the cup from my flask. I hadn’t even missed it. When they arrested me for the crime and I admitted my complicity, Ma’s strident denials were treated with indifference. But Matilda came to my rescue, explained to them in terms they understood and secured my release. She drove me home in time for me to change for the funeral.She remained at Longhouse, as Faith was due back the next day and she wanted to be there. I spent the afternoon in a state of restlessness that drove Matilda and Zizi almost to despair. They sent me to the office with instructions to do something useful and to get out of their hair. Going through the backlog of mail on my desk, I came across Faith’s letter.I read her words with growing disbelief and almost tore up her pastel sheets of pain. I almost took her things and threw them on the drive. I almost laughed at her amazing innocence and honesty and callous indifference about my feelings. How could she do that in cold blood and then write to me about it in such candid detail? How could she say she loved me and then go off and screw a stranger, just for some peculiar experience? How could she…?’I was so confused and bitter, I gave the letter to Matilda and Zizi, asked them the questions, how?‘How could she, in perfect innocence, do just once what you did all the time in full knowledge of the facts before you finally took her? How could she fulfil what she saw as a sacred duty to her dad? How could she not?’‘How could Faith forgive you all the pain and rejection you heaped on her? How could she hang on to her love for you when all you gave her was hurt and dismissal? I know how, Leigh, because through all the hopelessness and pain I love you just as she does.’‘Oh, Leigh, what’ve we done to them, to Netta and to Faith? What have we given them? What lessons have we taught? I hope they’ll forgive us.’We went to separate beds and slept uneasily. Zizi, who’d come up, at Ma’s request, to support me for the funeral, spent the night in Faith’s bed and left first thing on Saturday morning. I’d slept alone since Faith had left.I saw her car come up the lane. Matilda stood beside me, waiting in the office. Faith was getting out of her car when I went out to meet her. The smile of joy and expectation on her face died in concern as she looked into my face.‘Leigh, what’s happened?’I had it all planned; how I would lead up to the events, skirt around the final tragedy, leave out the gruesome details and break it to her gently.‘Netta’s been raped and murdered.’She looked at me for the briefest of moments as if I’d uttered some meaningless foreign phrase, then she took me in her arms to comfort me. She, who’d lost the sister she loved, supported me in my grief.She had to know it all and I felt compelled to tell her. Matilda was silent throughout and let me tell the tale in its entirety. At last I made my confession to the woman I loved. ‘It’s my fault. If I hadn’t taken advantage of you, she would never…’‘If that makes it your fault, Leigh, it makes it mine as well. You took no advantage. I invited you. If our making love caused Netta’s rape and murder, then I’m as much to blame as you.’‘No. No, you were an innocent party in all this.’‘Leigh, you’re wrong. It must be both or neither of us. You did nothing to me Leigh. What we did we did together, with each other. I was no more innocent, or guilty, of our making love than you were. What we did was make love with each other, not you to me, nor me to you. If not making love, then what can be mutual between two people?’‘You’re not to blame, Faith.’‘Then neither are you. Did I run off to the hills to sulk every time you had sex with Netta?’‘You found other ways to retaliate.’‘Once, and under extreme provocation and for reasons far more complex than your display of mutual obsession.’‘There’s no one else to blame.’‘Except Netta herself.’Matilda drew in breath sharply and looked at me. But, though I found it hard to think of Netta being culpable, I couldn’t argue with Faith’s logic and I was too drained to fight. Faith understood the quandary she’d given me and softened her attack. ‘There’s only one person to blame, Leigh: the brutal bastard who did it.’‘They don’t know who it was.’‘I do.’I saw my own incredulity echoed on Matilda’s face.‘Have they interviewed Mervyn?’‘He’s got an alibi.’‘With those brothers, I bet he has. It doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.’‘No one can prove it.’‘Perhaps.’Matilda thought we needed time and space. She went home, her way of life under review, her head and heart full of ‘if only’ and ‘what if?’ and the joy in her eyes extinguished.Faith and I went to our separate beds that night, until she came to me in the early hours seeking and offering comfort. We embraced and found some help in that, but for the first time ever, I was incapable of making love.‘It’s not important. It isn’t what I came for, Leigh. I just wanted to hold you and be in your arms, be next to you, that’s all.’But I didn’t sleep that night. When she woke, I tried again, but the image of Netta lying used and broken in that pit wouldn’t leave my mind and I couldn’t respond to Faith’s touch. All I could see was Netta’s cold abandoned body, hurt, abused and defiled. I left my bed, disturbed and anxious at this new torment.‘Come back and hold me, Leigh.’But I wanted more than that, I needed more. I feared each time I moved to touch her I would find that appalling image of Netta excluding all else from my mind. I went down to breakfast alone.So, the days and nights went by and nothing changed except that the lack of sex grew like a cancer between us, cold and cruel in its isolating force.Faith came to me later that week with pictures from her holiday, pictures of her at the cottage, in the sea, lying under the sun, all taken with me in mind and all wonderful but useless now. Netta, lifeless and defiled, invaded my mind every time I looked at her. She undressed me one evening, in the sitting room, and removed her own clothes, simply and without ceremony, slowly unveiling her beauty for me. She knelt before me, and all I could see was the image of Netta, damaged and used in the pit.So, at my unexplained request, we slept in separate beds and I avoided her touch for the pain of the memory. Netta lived on in my mind when I was alone. I printed the series of pictures I’d taken of her in the hills, intending to produce a book. But the prints became mine and I wouldn’t share them with others; I didn’t deserve the acclaim they would bring. As long as I kept her mine, she would still be around and untouched.Faith did her work and daily tried reaching toward me, but I couldn’t bear the pain of her disappointment.Four weeks after we buried Netta, Faith came to me with tears flowing unchecked down her cheeks. She was desolate and needed comfort only I could give.‘Eric’s dead. The doctor’s just phoned me.’It did something to her, that news. She seemed to withdraw into herself, seemed to lose her will to reach me. The funeral, another that year, brought Zizi faithfully back up, this time to offer support and comfort to Faith.And that night I took Zizi to my bed and fucked her and fucked her and fucked her all night.‘Bastard, aren’t you, Leigh? I came to comfort Faith and you take advantage of me, instead. I’m glad I’ve been some use to you. I can’t hate you; I still love you too much. But I don’t like you, Leigh, I don’t like you one little bit.’‘It’s because I love her I can’t…’‘It’s because you love yourself too much, you selfish shit.’ And Zizi returned to London.Faith rescued Bruce from certain death at the local vet’s and brought him, with my grudging acceptance, to Longhouse. Later that week, she found she would inherit the cottage that Eric had shared with her father. She and Bruce moved out of Longhouse the following day.
###
Impatient for the final chapters? You can buy the book, or someone could give you it as a Christmas present, in paperback (through online or high street outlets) or ebook format for whatever ereader you use, just click on the cover picture or visit ‘My Books’. If you do, I’d appreciate a review, posted wherever possible - Amazon, Goodreads, Smashwords, or any other bookish site. Reviews get indie published books noticed, you see.
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Like my author page on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StuartAkenRead on Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4234877.Stuart_AkenStumble with me: http://www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/stuartakenPin with me here: http://pinterest.com/stuartaken/Buy my ebooks via Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartakenUSA readers, see my author page on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/stuartaken(for some odd reason, this type of link isn't yet available on Amazon for UK)Join my professional connections on LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/stuart-aken/22/1b6/aaa

The Concept of the Goddess, by Sandra Billington & Miranda Green, Reviewed.

The blurb on the back of this book suggests it’s ‘a scholarly yet highly readable study of the place of the goddess in past and present belief systems and mythologies’. As a convinced agnostic and casual student of history and myth, I thought it would be a useful book to augment my knowledge of these subjects. I was, unfortunately, disappointed.
The book is mainly an annotated list of references to other works with the occasional piece of narrative inserted to reduce the boredom: a trick that doesn’t work, by the way. Scholarly, it no doubt is. But highly readable it most certainly ain’t! It came across to me as a series of pieces by writers desperate to illustrate how well-read they are. It, perhaps, doesn’t help that there are various references and asides in untranslated Latin and some Scandinavian language I’m unable to identify, since I speak none of that collection of tongues.
Perhaps the book is intended as an introductory text for university students studying mythology; I could envisage it having a place in such course material. But, for the general reader, it appears dense, uninformative in those areas of most interest, self-congratulatory, obtuse and often plain boring.
I found myself skipping the frequent, not to say, innumerable, references in a vain attempt to find some meat. I rarely discovered anything more than the leavings of a dog-chavelled bone. In fact, I learned almost nothing, discovered very little that I didn’t already know from former reading around the subject.
I suspect you’ll deduce from the foregoing that I was unimpressed. You will be correct, Watson. I cannot, in all honesty, recommend the book.
Related articles Egyptian Mythology The Power of Myth The Complete Gods and Goddesses of Ancient Egypt

My Memories Suite Software Review

In conjunction with this review, there was originally intended to be an opportunity for me to offer a copy of the software as a prize in a contest. However, the associated commitment required on this blog would have involved monthly posts, which would go against my policy of neutrality and would have rendered the site more commercial than I intend. 
So, sorry, I can’t provide that prize. I’ve offered an alternative, which is detailed on the previous post. Why not have a go?
As regular visitors know, I rarely endorse or promote products here. However, a short while ago, as a result of the blog’s growing popularity, I was approached to do a piece on some digital scrapbooking software designed to produce albums and other items of memorabilia. At the time, I was trying to sort out the 5,700 photographs stored on my PC and the idea of turning some of these into albums I could share was very attractive. So, as I was offered the software free, I decided to give the My MemoriesSuite software a trial.
The first thing I should say about this product is that, unlike a lot of graphics applications, it’s very simple to use. Once I’d downloaded the programme, a process that took longer than expected because of the size of the file, I scouted through the various options and quickly understood how the various components worked. Because I was particularly busy at the time, but had committed to reviewing the suite as soon as possible, I decided to see how easy it would be to compile a simple album there and then.
The illustration of the album page, shown here with its photographs, was completed within the single hour that I used to download updates, familiarise myself with the various tools and view the huge collection of items on hand in the software. Now, I think that’s pretty impressive. I could quickly have expanded the album to several pages in very little extra time. The suite is that easy to use.
Out of curiosity, I wondered how it would work in producing some posters I’m intending to create for other purposes. I had an idea in mind, so I returned to the software the following evening and turned out the ‘Write…edit…’ poster in less than 10 minutes. That includes selecting the background, fonts, embellishments and colours, and learning how to place and arrange the various elements that make up the design. Now, I don’t know about you, but this is the sort of simplicity of use I value. My time is precious and I cherish tools that allow me to complete a specific project without fuss in a short time.
For those of you interested in using this application, let me give you a few facts before you decide:
Features:·         Backgrounds – many and varied – spoilt for choice here. And, if you wish, you can purchase additional backgrounds.·         Photos – the software automatically imports all your images into its library and makes them available, exactly as you have arranged them in folders. You can also import pictures from outside, if you wish.·         Photo Layouts – many pre-designed layouts to allow easy displays on each page. Or you can arrange your photos as you wish.·         Text – all the fonts on your system are automatically included in the range available, with examples of each font shown in the dropdown list.·         Word Art – looks similar to the familiar Word Art used with Windows programmes, including the different shapes, colours, sizes and formats.·         Embellishments – a huge catalogue of flourishes to embellish your creative efforts, all easily applied and sized to your requirements.·         Shapes – a great collection of different shapes that can be used as stand-alone decoration or to frame a particular page or photograph. Place your loved one inside a heart, for example.·         Calendars – allows you design your own illustrated calendars for months or years.·         Imprints - hundreds of ready-made designs to title or decorate your album, easily applied.·         Paint – a drawing screen that allows the artists in you free reign. Great fun.·         Video & Multimedia – allows you to add video, audio, websites, files and pages to your constructions for online viewing or production of DVDs.·         Music & Narration – so that you can add background music and tell a story over your series of pictures.·         Check Album – gives you the chance to make sure everything is as you want it to be, applies a spell-check and points out errors before you commit.·         Share Album – so you can print at home, export, send for professional printing online, make an interactive album, a DVD or a movie, as desired.·         Tools – a huge selection of tools to allow you to arrange, size, colour, edit and experiment so that your album becomes truly your own.
The software allows the design of more than just albums and calendars. I’ve used it to produce posters, as you can see. You can also make films, with sound, and interactive multimedia presentations.
The software normally costs just $39.97 (about £25.00 or about €31.00) for download. If you’re in USA or Canada, you can opt for a disc instead. You can purchase the software, and its associated products, which I haven't tried, through the My Memories Suite website.
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Contest: Win a Signed Copy of Romantic Thriller.

On Thursday, I promised you a contest, with some graphics software as a prize. However, things have not panned out as expected and I’m not able to fulfil this promise now, largely due to events beyond my control.
My apologies for this.
However, I promised a contest. And, whilst I can no longer give the prize originally intended, I can offer a paperback copy of my novel. So, the contest continues, but with a signed copy of Breaking Faith as the prize.
To win a free copy of this novel that has earned many very positive reviews (see the entries under the Published Work tab), here’s what you have to do:
Simple; just answer the following question:
Q: In Breaking Faith, what’s the opening line of Chapter 11?
If you’ve got the book in either paperback or eBook form, you’re laughing. But, if you haven’t, not to worry. The chapter has been posted on the blog. You just have to search for it through the Archive, or by using the ‘Search’ box. Make sure you let me have an email address where I can reach you.
Please do not use the comment box for your answer. Send your answer to me by email to this address and put ‘Breaking Faith Contest’ in the subject line.
You have a week to reply. At the end, i.e. 11:00 GMT on 15 December, I’ll get my daughter to make a random selection from all correct answers, which I’ll print off and place into a box for the draw. I’ll announce the winner the same day, here on the blog.
Good luck. 

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