Stuart Aken's Blog, page 253

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 45

You’ve come this far, and you’re looking forward to the climax now. 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 45
The drive to the island was hot, long and tiresome. I made a mental note to have a car radio fitted as soon as I returned to Longhouse. Just beyond Glasgow, I stopped at a wayside café for a break and discovered I hadn’t replaced my knickers after that last pleasuring of Leigh. I smiled at the state of mind that had allowed such forgetfulness. For the rest of the journey, I found my mind filled with ideas about the way I’d altered over the months with Leigh and how making love with him had changed me so absolutely with regard to modesty, both false and real.I arrived at the ferry station just in time and was grateful for the chance to spend a short spell out of the driving seat, letting the sea air blow through my hair and clothes. Though driving on and off the boat was an experience I hadn’t prepared for.Once at the other side of the narrow straits, I had another twenty or so miles to drive before I reached the meeting place. We’d agreed on the village post office as our rendezvous since there was a small café there where one could wait if the other was delayed. As it turned out, we arrived within minutes of each other. I wondered if she’d been looking out for me.Mrs McAlastair was a big boned woman with little flesh on her skeleton and she had a most unattractive face for a woman. But she smiled brightly when I introduced myself and offered her cash for the price we’d agreed.‘Och, best see the bothy first, lassie. You’ll no be wantin’ to pay if you’ll no be wantin’ to stay. Will you be wanting bread and milk from the store afore you go?’I spent a few minutes adding fresh food to my stockpile in the car.‘Follow me.’She drove a Landrover, which looked as though it might have been one of the first made. Great clouds of charcoal smoke billowed from the exhaust as she started it, but it ran cleanly after that.I followed her for three miles along a tarmac road with a pecked white line down the middle and passed no other vehicle. We turned off at a three-way junction onto a single-track road with occasional passing places, which we never needed to use. Another four miles and we turned onto a stony track that crossed open fields with mountains frowning down at us. I was anxious about my Mini’s suspension but there were few potholes and I managed to miss those there were.At last, we arrived at a gate and Mrs McAlastair got out and let me through, her own car staying the other side. As I drove past her, I got my first view of the croft and stopped the car at her signal.‘I’ll not drive down there, lassie, and I’d advise you leave your wee car up here. I’ll help take your things down and show you where everything is.’It was perfectly situated. The small whitewashed cottage lay at the foot of the steep track, hills on all three landward sides, rising to mountains on two. Beyond the cottage itself, a stretch of grass, dotted with windswept mountain ash, led to a shingle strip and a bar of brilliant white sand that plunged into the deep azure of the ocean. The water stretched to the horizon where a small island broke the line between sea and sky. The next land after that was America. I was impressed.‘Aye, it’s bonny enough. But see it all afore ye make up your mind.’‘Is it safe to swim?’She looked me up and down as we took the case and bags from the car. ‘You’re a wee thing but strong enough I ken. You’ll be up to your navel five yards in and you’ll need to watch the currents further out. Otherwise, it’s just the cold’ll get you.’As we walked down to the cottage, I noted the small outhouse to one side, at the back. ‘Aye, that’s the privy. There’s no light but there’s running water.’She unlocked the only door into the cottage, facing the sea, and let me in before her. Small windows let the sunlight in. There was an odd smell I could not identify until she reminded me the lighting came from oil. The cooker used bottled gas and there was a supply already connected. A pile of peat rested by the fireplace, should I need it. Enough was stacked against the back wall, under a wooden lean-to, to last for several weeks so I should be fine for the fortnight.‘I’ll ask no questions about why you’re here alone, lassie. Good-looking young woman like you no doubt has her reasons for solitude. You’ll not be disturbed here, by anyone. There’s red deer wander the shore for seaweed, otters and seals in the sea and eagles in yon crags. Once or twice, a lad in search of adventure might pass on his way to climb the hills but you’d be unlucky to be caught unawares. The sun’s still warm enough to sit out at this time of year.‘The water’s from a wee loch up yonder so it’s peaty and sometimes runs brown from the fawcett but it’ll do ye no harm. There’s spare bedding in yon closet and a torch under the sink. New batteries. I’ve a radio if you wish? No?‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, lassie, you’ll no doubt be anxious to get settled after your long drive. When you leave, put the key on the shelf in the privy. Anything you need you’ll get from the post office; it closes all day Wednesday and, since you’re from the mainland, ye’ll no be aware it’s shut all the Lord’s Day too.’I handed her the cash and she counted it out carefully before she smiled and gave me a receipt. I walked with her as far as the foot of the track, from which I could make out the roof of my Mini.‘No need to fret about your wee car, lassie. No one here to steal or damage it. We don’t have much in the way of crime on the island. The men are hard but fair-minded. They get drunk and they fight. But they’ll do nae harm to a lassie. Should you happen on one you teck a fancy to, he’s like to be safe. Willing as any man, if you let him. Talk travels, so I’ll no let it be known you’re here, less ye want me to?’‘I’d not welcome a horde, Mrs McAlastair, but a clean, handsome young prince might come in handy next week.’She gave me a knowing look and assessed me as breeding stock. ‘Aye, there’s handsome enough about, lassie, but you’re no likely to find a prince, I fancy; more likely the frog.’ She turned and made her way up the track.I waited for her to drive away before I dashed to the cottage, pulled a towel from my case, stripped and ran down the shingle to let the ocean wash the travel from my skin.It was the first and only time I made that mistake. The ocean was cold and there was no fire in the cottage. By the time I had one lit, I was chilled and rather subdued. I vowed the fire would remain alight for the rest of my stay, and it did.The privy was home not only to gas bottles for the cooker but to a variety of spiders; large, huge and colossal. They generally moved away from the oil lamp I carried if I ventured there after dark but I was always anxious of the possibility of one dropping on me. My visits were brief and to the point.I discovered that the best way to collect the peat for the fire was to use the shovel provided for the ashes and take as large a pile as I could carry at one time. I stacked it high beside the fireplace and used enough to keep the place warm throughout the cool nights.I’d been warned about midges but they didn’t trouble me. The land surrounding the cottage was well drained and there was no standing water to attract them, I suppose.The light from the windows was enough for dreaming but if I wanted to read I had to either go outside or be near an oil lamp. Much of my time I left the front door open to reduce the slightly oppressive feeling engendered by the low smoke-stained ceiling.The cottage, a proper croft, consisted of a single room, which contained the small kitchen area in the corner facing the door, the bed in the corner furthest from the door and the sitting area near the fire on the same wall as the door. A window faced the ocean on each side of the chimneybreast and a smaller window looked out on the rising hills behind the croft. I found I could open the door wide and sit in the ancient armchair, warmed by the fire when the days were cloudy, and read in comfort with fresh air occasionally disturbing my hair.I was obliged to bathe in a tin tub that hung on the back of the privy door. It housed three tarantulas when I first took it down but they scuttled away when I dropped it noisily on the stone path. I had to fill it from two kettles, one hung over the fire and the other boiled on the gas stove. My first attempt took me over an hour for a reasonable depth and even then, the water was only warm. I hung it back on the door for the spiders to recolonize and decided to stick to my daily dip in the ocean waves, followed by a strip wash in soft, brown fresh water at the kitchen sink. Washing my hair was the most difficult and I had to make do with the sink for that as well, allowing it to dry by the fire or in the sun.But these privations didn’t worry me. I’d sought isolation and simplicity and that’s what I’d found. I was used to cold and discomfort from my time with Heacham and the croft on my own was infinitely more comfortable than the cottage had ever been when shared with that perverted excuse for a man.The isolation, and Mrs McAlastair’s hints that I may sunbathe unwatched, together with the loss of my shyness after sharing my body with Leigh, allowed me to be relaxed about being naked. I spent my time wearing very little or nothing unless I needed clothing for warmth.Each day I swam as I had on my first day and ran to the cottage to dry off on a towel left by the fire. I saw no one for the first days but had the privilege of watching red deer grazing on the seaweed just along the shore and catching sight of a pair of otters playing in the surf. Seals eyed me curiously when I swam but never approached close enough to touch. Eagles evaded me until the Thursday when two flew overhead, circling quite low until one found and caught a small rabbit in the field near my car. I managed to catch something of all these natural sights with my camera and the telephoto lens Leigh had loaned me for my trip.The weather varied enormously and there wasn’t a day when I didn’t see both sunshine and rain. Some days a heavy shower would smite the windows with lashing drops so loud they drowned the ocean’s constant surge. Other days a few drops would precede unbroken, glorious sunshine when I could lie outside and laze under the warm rays, reading Watership Down or The Thorn Birds or Lord of the Rings or simply imagining myself alone with Leigh.For the first three nights, I allowed myself the necessary freedom to weep. My sorrow and grief at Dad’s death, having been finally released by that incident at Longhouse, now swept from me in tears heeded by no one but me. By Tuesday, I could think of his passing without desperate sobbing, though I knew it would be years before I could think of his death and remain completely dry-eyed and I was relieved to have the worst of my grief expressed at last. I felt free to enjoy myself without the guilt that grieving brings so unfairly in its wake.It was on my first Friday that I met Hamilton. I was trotting up the beach, fresh from the waves, when I became aware of him standing by the door and watching me with evident surprise and delight. He was the prince I’d jokingly requested Mrs McAlastair to provide. He didn’t attempt to look away or hide his enjoyment of the view. On the floor, at his feet, rested a large rucksack and I guessed he expected me to believe he was one of the occasional mountaineers his mother had mentioned.‘Good morning.’ I walked past him into the cottage and started to dry myself.‘Hello.’ He remained in the open doorway, with his back turned, just out of sight.‘You’re welcome to step inside and take a seat. I’ll make a pot of tea once I’m dried’He entered at once and sat and watched me dry myself, continuing to study me with frank admiration and ill-disguised lust as I made the tea, but he said nothing.‘Quiet sort, aren’t you?’He nodded and continued to study me.‘I haven’t seen a soul all week so you’ll forgive me if I’m a bit chatty.’‘You’ve a lovely wee body, miss. Aye, and a pretty face.’I stood and considered. Leigh had told me I was beautiful, but he said that to all the women who had sex with him. Then, of course, since he invariably also took photographs of them with the intention of selling them, they all would have to be beautiful. ‘Thank you.’‘Thank you. Do you no think it a wee bit risky walking about in that state in front of a stranger?’‘Your mother said I’d nothing to fear from the men of the island and …’His face was a picture.‘Oh, it’s obvious she’s either your mother or your aunt; you’re like peas in a pod. She said I’d be in no danger but that the men were willing enough if invited. I expect you’re hoping for an invitation?’He blushed wonderfully and I stopped teasing him, knowing how unpleasant a blush can be but happy it wasn’t me who suffered this time.I suddenly became aware of exactly what I was doing and laughed out loud at my audacity. I felt such relief that I was finally free of that terrible shyness that had been forced on me for so many years. I was confident in my body and myself and felt no shame attached to its voluntary display. I was good to look at and it was up to me whether I was seen.‘I’m going to ask you a few questions and I want you to know that I’m very good at detecting lies. I want you to answer me truthfully, even if you think I might prefer a different answer. Whether you get to have sex with me depends on you answering my questions truthfully. Do you understand?’‘I do, but how d’you know I actually want sex with you.’‘It’s self-evident. But, if you don’t, you might as well go. I’ve no other use for male company at present.’He grinned at his deception and my discovery of it. ‘Mother said you were a strange wee lassie. She was right and no mistake.’I smiled at this description. ‘What’s your name?’‘Hamilton.’‘Well, Hamilton McAlastair, how many women have you had sex with?’He opened his mouth to speak, gave himself time to think and then looked at me as if seeking a clue.‘When I talk about the truth, Hamilton, that is exactly what I require.’He shrugged, a little ashamed. ‘None, then.’‘Excellent.’He brightened at my obvious pleasure in his answer. ‘Kissed a few, of course, touched the odd wee titty, but no more than that.’There was something charming in his use of a word I generally disliked and I found myself smiling again. ‘Just a few rules.’ I handed him a cup of tea. I noticed he was sweating slightly in the heat of the cottage fire. ‘Why not take off your jumper?’He put the tea on the floor and did as I suggested, revealing a broad chest clad in a sleeveless shirt.I waited till he sat again before explaining my rules. ‘Nothing you do must hurt me. I do not want to be kissed; kissing is an intimate act between people who love each other. I don’t love you and I don’t expect you love me. What I offer you will be for the period I offer it, no longer. When I’ve had enough of you, you must go, at once and without argument. Will you agree to these terms?’‘Mother didn’t know the half of it. You’re the most amazing wee lassie I’ve come across. Aye, for the chance of knowing that lovely body and learning a trick or two to help me wi’ a woman, I’ll do as you ask.’‘Good. Drink your tea and we’ll start to explore a little. Just to set your mind at rest, Hamilton, I’m not a prostitute and I don’t expect payment. I’m not in the habit of inviting strange men to have sex with me and you’ll be only the second man to know my body. I won’t explain why I’m doing this, except that I’m fulfilling a rather odd but important obligation. The sign for you to go, by the way, will be when I put on some clothes, or when I ask you. I’ll be naked whilst I wish you to stay. I take it you’ll not be missed if I need you overnight?’‘Astounding. I’ll no be missed for a night or two, lassie. May I know your name?’I told him.‘Am I to start the … the er, whatever, or do I wait for your lead?’‘However the mood takes you, Hamilton. I’m adaptable and ready to respond to your advances.’I was so nervous inside but I couldn’t show him how I really felt. I was doing this to satisfy my need to carry out Dad’s wishes. I had no wish at all to satisfy the lust of another man or to give myself to anyone other than Leigh. But Dad’s wishes had been explicit. This was the only way I could reach a satisfactory compromise and I’d already decided I might as well approach the task enthusiastically. Hamilton’s arrival allowed me to do some good to someone else along the way. I considered myself fortunate to have been given the chance to do some sexual comparison for my education whilst teaching this pleasant young man something of value to him. I had no doubt at all about the outcome of my experiment but I must fulfil Dad’s last request of me. I knew myself well enough to understand that I had no choice in that matter if I was to live with my future self in peace.The sun was high in the sky on Saturday when I moved off his strong young body for the last time. He lay looking up at me as if I might be an angel or a magical princess and I was sufficiently moved by his obvious adoration that I leant over and kissed his lips softly. ‘Thank you, Hamilton; you’ve been exactly what I needed. I’m going for my swim now. I expect you to be gone when I return.’‘You canna just leave like that. Surely you don’t expect me to…’‘I expect you to keep your side of the bargain, Hamilton. I expect you to follow the rules of our agreement. I expect you to show me that your mother was right.’ I draped my towel over the chair before the fire and walked out of the door and down to the sea without a backward glance.The sea seemed particularly cold that day but I gave him time to make up his mind and to get dressed. I had no wish to confront him or argue with him. He’d done the job and enjoyed himself in the process. I’d given him an opportunity he was unlikely to get again and he would now have a better idea of how to pleasure any woman he cared to form a relationship with in future.I deliberately avoided looking at the cottage as I swam and tried to lose myself in the waves and the water as it washed me clean of the sex and the smell of him. Although we’d shared some pleasurable sensations, I’d experienced nothing of the passion and desire and indescribable joy I’d felt with Leigh and I now fully understood for myself the real difference between having sex and making love.Chilled and tired, I left the waves and sauntered up the beach, reluctant to reach the cottage in case he was lurking, waiting for more of me. But the place was empty. I dried myself and cried a few tears of relief. The job was done, my pride and honour saved by the anonymity of my subject, my duty to Dad complete. I could return to Leigh and know that I loved him not from inexperience or ignorance but because I loved him.As I made myself a pot of tea, I noticed something on the table. The small package was wrapped in sheets of my notepaper and tied with string from the kitchen drawer. Inside was a small wooden box with a thistle carved on the lid. It was a handmade piece and the lid fitted well on its tiny brass hinges; the carving was good but lacked finesse and I guessed he’d brought it with him as an offering should I need inducement. Inside the box were three small sheets of paper. Each bore a charcoal drawing of me; in one I was sleeping on top of the bed, in another I stood at the door looking out to the ocean and in the last I was at the kitchen sink, making tea.On the back of the one of me sleeping was a short note.
‘Faith, you gave me less than all of yourself but more than I deserved. I will carry you with me in my heart through all of my life, though I know I will never see you again. Thank you for your generous education of a simple man. You said I would not love you. That was the only mistake you made. Goodbye, Hamilton.’
I tucked the pictures back into the box, wondering when he’d found the time and opportunity to draw me, closed the lid and wiped a tear from the corner of my eye with a fingertip.That night, I started writing my letter to Leigh, intending to drop it into the post office on Monday when I went to the village to replenish my supplies.
###
Impatient for the next chapter? You can buy the book 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.
Tweet with me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
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

A Day of Cultural Contrasts

I want to share with you a strangely satisfying day of contrasting culture. This morning, my wife and I travelled to our nearest city, Hull, to view some of Da Vinci’s drawings on exhibition at the Ferens Art Gallery. Hull is not noted for its culture, though both Philip Larkin and John Godberproduced some of their best work in the city. And, of course, it is the birthplace of William Wilberforce, whose influence on world culture through the abolition of slavery must be considered great.
To get back to the Da Vinci: A few weeks ago, we were in Paris and spent some time in the Louvre, where, over the heads of the multitude, we saw the Mona Lisa in its original form. It was distant, because we were unwilling to elbow our way through the throng, and it was protected by non-reflective glass to protect it against the assaults of the multiple flashes from the tourists’ cameras (the signs asking people not to use flash have little or no effect on those who haven’t a clue how to actually use their cameras, of course).
Today, in Hull, we joined a much smaller number to walk in peace and quiet around an exhibition where we could get up close to the drawings made by Da Vinci. The subtlety of his technique, the detail captured by his eye and the skill of his translation of reality into pictorial form were aspects I will treasure for a long time. That we could actually examine them as closely as if reading a book, spend uninterrupted time before each of the ten examples, study and absorb the brilliance, was wonderful. Information boards enhanced the experience and the gallery staff were on hand to enthuse and guide where necessary.
An exhibition I urge you to visit if you’re anywhere near the city. It’s on until 23 January 2013. The drawings are on loan from the Royal Collection, by the way.
###
Because we are not city lovers, we rarely visit without a specific purpose. Today we also decided to go to the cinema to watch the latest Bond movie. Skyfall is a very typical Bond film with plenty of chases, improbable action scenes and occasional sexual encounters, understated so that the films can be watched as family entertainment. Though it’s always puzzled me that film classification allows extreme violence to be witnessed by young children, yet prevents youngsters seeing the natural state of human beings. Never understood why nudity should be considered bad for children when violence and killing is apparently considered acceptable. But that’s maybe a subject for a different post.
The film is the best of those starring Daniel Craig. There is a great story and more interaction and narrative than the previous efforts. The film is also full of surprises. Naturally, James wins most of his unlikely fights, defeats his enemies and gets the girl. I won’t spoil the story for those who haven’t seen the film. But, if you’ve been less than impressed by the previous outings of Craig’s Bond, you will find this one a real improvement.
As I say, a day of cultural contrasts. But a very enjoyable day in spite of, or maybe, because of, that.
Related articles Da Vinci works draw huge crowd VIDEO: Exhibition of Da Vinci drawings The Leonardo Da Vinci Exhibition @ Platea Exhibition paints a fresh picture of Old Master

What Do You Love/Hate About Traditional Publishers?

Way back, in the fogs of the ancient past, when men were apes and women were damned glad to be fleet of foot, traditional publishers took on a role in the world of books. They sought out and nurtured talent. They actively encouraged good writers. They sold their authors’ books. It was a dream world, where writers could actually spend their time writing, learning technique, coming to grips with the process of telling stories, unburdened by the constant need to expose themselves to their public like some lurid music hall act.
Way back then, the publisher took on the tasks of marketing and sales, jobs requiring entirely different skill sets from those needed to produce creative fiction. Sales people are a breed. They are driven by money and the idea of reward. Creative people are artists, driven by the need to express themselves and living in hope that someone somewhere might enjoy their output sufficiently to pass a positive comment and maybe even recommend it to a friend. Publishers organised the production of the book; engaging and paying for skilled cover artists to draw attention to the work, hiring editors to iron out inconsistencies and grammatical errors, choosing the font most suitable for the text, taking a pride in turning the creative work into a marketable product. Publishers negotiated with booksellers and others in the book trade to get the volumes on the shelves of stores and libraries. They produced publicity material and arranged for signings and, sometimes, tours by their authors.
All this activity released authors from the need to worry about a side of writing mostly foreign to the creative nature. It allowed writers to spend time actually learning their craft and developing into practitioners with insight, depth and experience. Their writers grew in talent and value to their readers. The authors were protected from day to day anxieties regarding deadlines and targets and sales list positions. They could actually get on with the job of writing; the role for which they were best fitted.
Of course, there were downsides, for both writers and publishers. Occasionally a publisher would encourage a promising prospect only to discover either a lack of real talent or a lack of discipline, which resulted in the one-book author or the procrastinator who promised but never actually delivered. For the writer, there were restrictions in genre. Publishers would light on the first novel and then drive the writer along the same route time and time again, trying to turn their protégée into some sort of word machine churning out endless versions of the same, once-successful book until both the writer and his readers became disenchanted with the whole business. Readers then turned to some other talent whilst the writer went off to be a plumber or park warden instead.
We have reached a stage in publishing today where the potential for a better deal for all is possible. Because it costs almost nothing to produce an ebook, financial risk for publishers regarding that first novel is no longer relevant. The only potential loss involves their time. The monetary layout is negligible and there is no concern for overheads with a warehouse full of unsold books. The publisher can devote time and effort to marketing the books and, should the ebook prove successful, can then produce a POD, again at little cost, but with the confidence that the book is likely to sell well. This is a win/win situation for publisher and author. The writer is spared the time-consuming and destructive work of marketing and can get on with the actual creation of a really good book. And the publisher can return to the role of nurturing mentor and guide, taking care of those tasks most authors find so onerous; i.e. marketing and sales.
So, why are so few publishers doing this? Why are so many locked into the recent cycle of backing pointless celebrity with huge advances only to lose these enormous sums when the product fails the first test of quality? I suspect it’s because publishers, along with most other businesses, are now run by bean counters rather than by those with imagination, flair and taste. As long as money is seen as the only worthwhile outcome for publishing, traditional publishers will continue to fail and decline. Once they start to understand and return to their original role of mentor and protector of talent, there is a strong possibility that they will flourish as never before. I just hope they discover this fact before I’m too old and decrepit to benefit from such services.
As always, I value your thoughts. Please comment freely and pass on this piece to as many of your writing/reading friends as you can.
Related articles 10 Rewards and Risks of Self-Publishing Blurring The Lines: How Some Are Cashing In On The Self-Publishing Craze The Future of Books (Calm Down Edition) Writers Can Be Friends Matthew Bayan On Marketing: How to Write a Book Event

The Tales of Beedle the Bard, by J.K.Rowling, Reviewed.

Just over a hundred pages of delight in this slim volume from the queen of fantasy. Many may be convinced that this book is exclusively for children. It most certainly isn’t, though most children will undoubtedly take great pleasure in the tales. The commentary, in the voice of Albus Dumbledore, is so good that the reader hears it in his mellifluous tones. There is humour and real magic in the words of wisdom dispensed by the ancient Headmaster of Hogwarts.
The stories themselves are wonderful little fairy tales, paying homage to the traditions of the genre whilst carving out a new niche in fantasy. There is morality here, side by side with great humour and lessons to be learned. I won’t give away the plots, or the messages that lie at the hearts of the stories, but I must express my admiration for the storytelling skill shown in each of them. To proclaim such moral messages without preaching and, at the same time, providing the reader with amusement, is a rare and valuable feat.
It’s great to know that by buying this book, recently produced as a Kindle for those who no longer handle paper books, you will not only treat yourself to some first class entertainment, but will support Children’s High Level Group, a very worthy charity. It’s typical of J K Rowling to be so generous; her support of this charity, which she set up with Baroness Nicholson of Winterbourne MEP, brings hope to children all over the world who would otherwise spend their lives neglected and abandoned.
I spent a pleasant lunch time reading this book and urge you to indulge. If you have small children, read them the tales; they’ll love them. And, if you don’t, well read them yourself and enjoy Dumbledore’s pithy narratives as well. I thoroughly recommend this book to adults and children alike.
Amazon UKAmazon.com
Related articles J.K. Rowling's Tales of Beedle the Bard now availble as an ebook, proceeds go to Lumos Foundation J.K. Rowling's Pottermore adds ebook gifting and new book J. K. Rowling Releases "Tales of Beedle the Bard" in Ebook Form to Benefit Charity, Lumos The Tales of Beedle the Bard (Harry Potter Companion Books #3) by J.K Rowling

My Next Big Thing

I’ve been invited by Penny Grubb  (http://pennygrubb.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/my-next-big-thing.html) to take part in the Next Big Thing Blog Tour. My five nominees were supposed to be listed at the end, but, for various reasons, they were unable to commit, so I guess this is the end of this particular leg of the tour!
In common with most published writers, I write to be read. But I also break a great publishing rule, imposed by agents and traditional publishers for reasons of their own: I don’t write in only one genre. In fact, I rarely consider genre before I set out to write a story. This makes my work difficult to categorise, of course. But, as I give a description of every book, I see no difficulty with this approach.
Take a look at the titles under the tab ‘My Books’ and you’ll see what I mean. There’s a romantic thriller, a sci-fi novelette, an anthology of tender love stories, a collection of dark speculative fiction, a cheeky story for the New Year, a selection of stories from my writing group, an erotic anthology and a collection of prize-winning sci-fi and fantasy stories to which I was invited to contribute.
So, it’s not immediately obvious what my next big thing might be. But, I am currently working on the second volume of an epic fantasytrilogy intended for an adult readership. Volume one is ready for publication and volume two is well along the editing path. Volume three is around as an outline combined with a huge number of ideas floating around the caverns of my mind. I intend to publish this story after I have introduced it by publishing a number of short novelettes starring various minor characters from the main story. So, that is likely to be the next big thing for me. Capricious? I’m an artist, in the sense that I create from imagination, and it’s difficult to pin me down. One thing I can promise my readers, however, is that the epic fantasy will be well on the way to completion before I publish volume one. I think there is nothing more irritating for readers than to become involved in a story that runs over several books only to find that the writer has either lost interest or failed to engage the level of discipline needed to complete the work.
What is the working title of your book?
The series will go under a title which, for the moment, remains secret. However, the first volume is ‘Joinings’, the second ‘Partings’ and the third is provisionally titled ‘Endings’.
Where did the idea come from for the book?
This series has been around in my head for so long that I can no longer recall its germination. I can, however, let you know that it deals with themes of injustice, betrayal, religious hypocrisy and the strength or genuine love.
What genre does your book fall under?
It’s an epic fantasy, but excluding elves, dwarves and dragons (thought the latter mythical creatures do feature in the folklore).
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
About seventy years! Actually, for reasons I won’t bore you with, it’s been an on and off project that started over 30 years ago with the development of the imagined world and the drawing of the map. The actual writing was interrupted by domestic events and life that got in the way but began around seven years ago. In that time, I’ve written two volumes of around 220,000 words each. I’ve edited one and am currently half way through editing the second.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I’m not into comparisons for my work, as I don’t consciously feed off the work of others. The book neither refers to nor borrows from any other. It’s the product of my imagination, influenced by the thousands of books I’ve read, the many films and plays I’ve watched, the multitude of life experiences I’ve passed through. I understand that literature is necessarily incestuous but I’d be hard put to identify any parents or siblings for this work. I’ll let readers decide.
Who or What inspired you to write this book?
My work is almost always the result of free imagination. I’m able to sit at the keyboard and produce a short story without any preparation. Obviously, for a series of this complexity and scope, I had to develop a history, customs, religions, landscapes, social patterns, laws, traditions, myths and all those other things that bring an imagined work to life. The themes, however, as explained above, permeate much of my writing; in particular the issue of injustice and the all-pervasive idea of hypocrisy within organised religion. It was undoubtedly thinking on these matters that brought the pot to the boil until the ideas melted together and became the story that now feeds the books.
What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?
My stories are character driven. I aim to make the people who inhabit my fiction into characters they will know or, at least, come to know. Some are very bad, others are very good and, in between lie those people we all meet and live with, escape from, love, hate, like, despise and worship.
Which five writers will take over from you next week and tell us about their next big thing:-
Here was supposed to be the list for links to the blogs of 5 other writers taking part in the tour. Unfortunately, they were unable to commit for a multitude of reasons, most of which I fully understand, as a busy writer myself.

Fusion, by Fantastic Books Publishing, Reviewed.

This collection of 25 science fiction and fantasy tales represents the cream of the entries for a short story contest run by Fantastic Books. The stories included are the contest winners plus a couple from professional writers, invited by the organisers. 10% of sales receipts will go to cancer charities.
Anthologies are sometimes patchy affairs, but not this one. The quality of the writing is pretty consistent and all the stories are well told (I must add here that I contributed one of the tales). But consistency doesn’t mean similarity. There’s great variety here. Some humour, some darkness and something for younger readers. All speculative fiction, the stories entertain, amuse, inspire and make the reader think.
There are characters of every sort lurking in this selection and plots to suit all tastes. This is a collection you can read at one sitting, as I did, or dip into for those short breaks over coffee, when a longer piece must be interrupted. I enjoyed all the stories but I don’t intend to describe them in this short review. All are different and all demonstrate the imaginative power of their creators, the skill of these writers as storytellers. I thoroughly recommend the book to all who love their fiction with a twist of the unexpected.
To buy for Kindle through Amazon UK, click here.To buy for Kindle through Amazon USA, click here. To buy for all ebook formats through Smashwords, click here.

Related articles Fusion ~ the Anthology from Fantastic Books Publishing

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 44

If you’ve come this far, you’re obviously reading Breaking Faith. We’re close to the denouement, moving towards the climax now. So, 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 44
Saturday 11th September
‘Bastards! Fucking, shitty bastards!’I looked up, squinting in the bright sunshine streaming through the open window, to find Netta, hands on hips, staring down at us. Faith was still sleeping in my arms and I smiled at the pleasant pressure of her body against mine.‘What’s so fucking funny?’Naked, of course, her posture of jealousy threw her into a caricature of anger that held more amusement than alarm for me. My smile of pleasure at Faith’s slowly stirring presence, transformed into a smirk of scornful humour at Netta’s unjustified indignation. I struggled to prevent a laugh escaping me.‘You fucking shit!’ She stomped from the room.I felt Faith slowly rousing in my arms, stroked the hair off her face and kissed her lovely mouth until she struggled to free herself so she could yawn.‘Sorry, not very romantic, but I had to do that.’I smiled at her. From beyond our private world, I heard Netta leave the house in her usual state of dudgeon and sighed my relief. I could make love with Faith confident that Netta wouldn’t disturb us.‘Make love…’‘Pardon?’I eased away the cover we must have drawn across us in the night. ‘I was just thinking of making love with you again. I’ve never thought of it that way before. It’s always been just sex. With you, it’s definitely love. In a sense, we both lost our virginity last night. You taught me as much as I taught you.’‘Teach me more. Did I hear Netta?’‘She’s, er, gone off.’‘Oh.’‘You seem disappointed.’‘Only that I missed her discovery of us. Is that wicked?’I laughed. ‘Considering the way she’s treated you, I think it’s generous. She’ll be back when she’s hungry. We’ll help her pack then.’‘Heacham!’‘He’ll not touch her after our visit. Netta’s safe. And she’s taken up enough of our time; I want to see what else we can discover about each other. But first, I want to look at you as I’ve never looked at you before.’She smiled up at me, stretched, raising her arms over her head, and then relaxed with her hands under her head and her legs slightly apart. It was an invitation I couldn’t ignore and one I took to heart. I realized, as I took in her shape and form, I was looking at her in a way entirely different from my normal appraisal of a woman. No longer was I searching for imperfections that might render her unsuitable for modelling. No longer was I viewing a lovely body as a lovely body. This was Faith. I was looking at Faith. I was looking at the woman I loved and I understood comparisons were not only invalid but pointless and stupid. No other woman would ever look as good to me because no other woman was Faith.Learning that lesson was extraordinarily easy. At that moment, I was interested only in her and the way she looked to me.‘It’s unfair; the closer I move to you, to kiss your beautiful skin, the less of you I can see. I want all of you all the time. Your look, your touch, your smell, your taste, your feel, your laughter and your love.’‘You have as much of me as there is, Leigh. You have all of me.’As I gazed and touched, and tasted her, I was readily aroused. I lay on my back and discovered she needed little instruction, understanding she was in control.We caught our breath and slowly came down from the mountain. My hands palmed her back from shoulders to thighs, tracing her contours and marvelling at the smoothness of her skin.‘I begin to understand.’I waited for expansion but she said no more, only breathed softly in my ear as her face lay on the pillow beside my head. I wanted to remain that way with her forever and it was she who made the move to separate us at last, sighing heavily.‘Much as I would love to stay with you like this, Leigh, I’ve a long journey. I’ll have to be off straight after breakfast if I’m to be on time.’‘You’re not going on holiday alone after this?’She was already standing at the bedside and bent to kiss the tip of my nose. ‘Of course I am, silly. I know now, without any doubt, I love you. I know you think you love me. I still need to understand who and what I am and where I fit into the world. You need to decide whether you’re ready for me, to have me as your only love. Because, Leigh, I won’t share you with any other woman.’‘But I love you, Faith.’‘If you do love me, you’ll wait for my return and then we’ll be together for the rest of our lives. If you only think you love me, Netta will return to your bed and keep you company during my absence. When I come back, I’ll move out of Longhouse and leave you to it. I can love you only if you’re mine alone, Leigh. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. And, once I’ve fulfilled Dad’s wishes, I’ll be as faithful to you as you must be to me.’‘Wishes?’She took my face in her hands and looked down at me with such tenderness, I melted. ‘You read his Will. Dad said I should try several but one other will do and then I’m yours forever. I think that’s fair, bearing in mind your extensive sampling, don’t you?’How could I argue? I’d had hundreds of girls. I had no right to protest at her trying one other man. But how could I let the woman I loved have sex with some stranger? ‘Who have you got in mind?’‘Oh, I’ve no idea, Leigh. I’m sure I’ll find someone willing enough, in view of all the offers I’ve had before. Anyway, I must shower or I’ll be late.’And she was gone. I sat for a moment stunned by the whole situation. Usually I was in charge, or at least felt as if I was. Now, this young woman, whose virginity I’d claimed only that night, had taken over and was telling me what was going to happen. I went into the bathroom intent on showing her who was in charge in this new relationship and, much to my embarrassment, found her flushing the toilet.She raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t in the least mind you watching me shower, or sharing it with me, Leigh. But I’d prefer to use the toilet alone, if you don’t mind.’‘Sorry, I just didn’t think. I wanted to … God, but you’re beautiful Faith. Please don’t go.’She turned and got on with her shower. ‘We’ve been through that, Leigh, and you know I’ve got to go. It’s only two weeks. You’ll see; it’ll fly by. Give you time to catch up on some of that work you’ve let build up during your obsessive coupling with Netta. I know you’ll miss me. I’ll miss you. I’ve found something wonderful with you during the night and I want more. I don’t actually want to leave you, Leigh, but I must, and it must be now. My grieving and healing started last night but it isn’t over and I’d rather do the rest of my weeping in private. You know how hard it is for me to cry with others around, even you. Believe me; I do know what’s best for me on this occasion.’I watched her wash, enjoying her open, uninhibited display that owed nothing to exhibitionism and everything to trust. It seemed that now we’d made love, all her inhibitions about being naked with me became irrelevant. I felt hugely privileged to be the one on whom she bestowed this trust but I was deeply concerned about her plan to let some other man invade her.I knew it was irrational and even unfair, but I couldn’t let her share herself with some other man now that I loved her. I’d been indifferent to my women having sexual adventures with other men; had been supportive and encouraging, in fact. Even Netta, who’d been the closest to becoming what I might consider my woman, hadn’t worried me when she had sex with another. I knew my obsession with her was purely physical, my infatuation based solely on the wonderful combination of her physical appearance and her instinctive carnal abilities. Netta was made for sex, but not for love, and I knew I had no love for her. I’d grown fond of her, attached in a way I hadn’t known with any other woman, even Zizi. But there was no comparison with the way I felt about Faith. I wanted Faith, needed her and wanted to be with her, wanted to protect and provide for her, wanted her to have my children.That thought stopped me in my tracks. I’d always considered children a nuisance to avoid at all costs. In any case, I’d always said I had no wish to bring a child into the world as it was with the perpetual fear of mass oblivion and the violent turmoil of modern society. But now I was considering the idea of a family with Faith. And the idea didn’t seem so bizarre, so awful, so undesirable after all.‘Pass my towel, Leigh, please.’I returned to the present and reached for her towel from the rail. She stood there dripping water down her skin and I wanted her again and she smiled at my obvious desire.‘Me too. But I’m wet. And I do have to set off as soon as possible.’I passed her the towel and watched her dry herself, loving every movement, every aspect of her. ‘Don’t go.’She shook her head at me and stepped out of the bath, pulled the curtain across behind her to let it dry and draped her towel over the rail again.I followed her into her bedroom and took her into my arms and she embraced me and kissed me and stroked my back. But, although she allowed me to put her on the bed and kiss her skin, she playfully smacked my bottom when I persisted. ‘Behave yourself. You know I want to make love again every bit as much as you do. Don’t make it more difficult than it already is. If I spend another hour or two with you in bed, I’ll be late arriving for the ferry and there’s no other way to the island. I’ll never find my cottage.’So, I had at least learned that she was going to an island. It was something. I let her go and watched her cup her lovely breasts in a redundant softline bra in white. She stepped gracefully into scandalously brief panties, courtesy of Netta, and donned a sleeveless tie-dye tee shirt in greens and yellows before pulling on a light cotton maxi-skirt in a yellow-based paisley print. White ankle socks and flat suede driving shoes covered her feet last of all. She sat briefly before her dressing table mirror and brushed and combed her hair into a loose ponytail.‘You look lovely in those clothes; get them off.’She laughed and then looked down and stroked my erection, a soft pity in her eyes. ‘Will it hurt if you don’t use it?’I could have lied but found I was incapable. ‘It’ll go once I stop thinking about how much I want you.’‘I’ll make it up when I come back. Promise.’I knew it was as much as I was going to get from her and I decided to give in and go along with her wishes. ‘I’ll get your breakfast whilst you pack the car. Go on.’‘You’d better put something on first. It’s difficult enough leaving you as it is; when you’re as ready as that for me, it’s almost impossible.’‘In that case, I’ll stay naked till you drive out of the gate.’‘You’re a wicked, inconsiderate man, Leighton Longshaw, and I love you.’ She removed the pants I’d watched her don so gracefully and pushed me to the bed where she brought me quickly to a climax with remarkable skill and ease. I was still recovering as she parted from me.‘Now I’ll have to wander about without knickers until I stop leaking. Wicked man.’I was struck by the difference between the way she’d pleasured me entirely for myself and the way Netta had mounted me that first time and taken her own pleasure first. ‘Oh! My poor wren. This is what made me cry and what made you come to me in the night. I was fond of it before. Now it means so much more to me.’ She picked up the broken carving and brought it to show me.‘I’ll get Old Hodge to mend it. It’ll be good as new, don’t worry.’I made her breakfast as promised. She packed her car and then ate, watching me with mischief in her gorgeous eyes.At the gate, she poked her head out of her car window and kissed me. ‘Be good and take care of yourself. I expect to return to no backlog and plenty of free time in which to make love with you.’ She handed me the morning’s post, which I could’ve sworn was on my desk when I’d gone down to make the breakfast. I frowned and she gave me a cheeky smile. ‘Might be a summons in there for me, but if I don’t know, I can’t be made to stay, can I? And no one knows where to reach me. See you in a fortnight, Leigh. I love you.’ And she was off down the lane, waving as she drove toward the road.I watched her out of sight before I closed the gate and returned to the house to find Ma looking at me with an expression of glee.‘At last.’I turned back to the direction Faith had taken and looked at the empty space. The two weeks till she returned would be long and lonely.‘I love her, Ma.’‘Obviously; taken long enough to realize it, haven’t you? Where’s she gone?’I explained.Ma was intrigued. ‘I doubt he expected her to fall so completely for one man at the first attempt, otherwise her dad was wise enough to know comparisons mean nowt. I hope she doesn’t get herself in bother with some kilted highlander, that’s all. If I’d known what she had planned, I’d not have hung on to this.’From her apron pocket, she produced a brown envelope. It was the dreaded summons and Ma had had it for days. She looked a bit shame faced as she handed it to me. ‘I didn’t want her worried by even more anxiety. I was going to give her it just now but she was out that gate before I crossed the lawn.’‘She was determined to escape that summons. Looks like she’s succeeded.’‘I’m so pleased you’ve finally decided you’re made for each other, Leigh. I’ve been wanting you to marry that girl almost since the day you took her on.’‘Well, you’ll have to wait a couple more weeks at least. God, I’m going to miss her.’Ma looked suddenly anxious. ‘She’ll not be in trouble if she fails to attend the court will she, Leigh?’‘Only for contempt, Ma. Just a couple of years inside. Nothing to worry about.’Ma looked at me and I saw the anxiety grow sharply on her face.‘Tell the truth, Ma, I’ve no idea what might happen. I doubt she’ll be in any bother when we explain she didn’t receive it. But I think we’d best try to let her know and then, if we can’t find her, let the court know this arrived too late.’‘You know where she’s gone?’‘No idea, except it’s a Scottish island. You?’Ma shook her head. ‘Still, the travel agent’ll know.’I hadn’t thought of that. ‘I’ll pop in on Monday. Good thinking, Ma.’ And I put that anxiety at the back of my mind. ‘Think I’ll have some breakfast, need something to replace that energy.’‘Is yon hussy likely to join you?’‘Unlikely, Ma. She did a runner when she caught Faith and I in flagrante delecto. No doubt, she’ll return later and attempt to show me what I’m missing. But I’m packing her bags after breakfast. She can go back to Matilda’s.’‘Best of British, Leigh. It’ll not be easy parting company with that one.’I knew. It was a task I was dreading, but I was determined to carry it through and, after breakfast, I carefully packed everything I could find that belonged to Netta and put the cases in the back of the car in readiness. I assumed she would be decent enough to travel home in whatever she’d slung on to walk the hills.When she failed to arrive back for teatime, I began to be a little concerned. My anxiety became serious when she failed to show as darkness began to fall. I called Matilda and spent a long time persuading her that there was no need for her to come over.‘I’ll let you know as soon as she returns. Now I know how a parent feels when a child goes missing. I don’t know whether I’ll spank her backside or hug her so tight she’ll not be able to breathe.’‘Leave the spanking to me, Leigh. She might enjoy it too much from you.’Later, I called the police to report her missing, just in case she’d fallen somewhere out there. The storm clouds had regrouped after the beautiful respite of the morning and the afternoon had seen some rain and a little distant thunder. The oppressiveness had returned by evening and the threat of a renewed storm was imminent. I thought of that little lass out on the hills, alone and probably frightened, and decided I’d better try to find her.
###
Impatient for the next chapter? You can buy the book 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.
Tweet with me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
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 Silence of the Lambs, by Thomas Harris, Reviewed.

Everybody has, of course, heard of this modern crime classic. Many people have seen the film. I’m not one of them. Intrigued by the many references to the book, when I stumbled upon it in the charity bin of a local Co-op, I made my donation and brought a copy home.At last, I’ve got around to actually reading it, and I’m glad I have.
For me, fiction is made real and compulsive by the quality of its characters. I mean by that not the natures of the people themselves but the depth and detail gifted them by the author. The story is important, of course, but I find I’m unable to enter a fictional world if I don’t care about at least one of the primary characters. There was no such difficulty with this book. Crawford is easy to empathise with, in spite of his hard-nosed sheath of self-protective toughness. Dr Lecter is, of course, become the archetypal sociopath; a man more concerned with demonstrating and playing with his intellect than he is with any emotional connection. He is the epitome of the unfeeling genius. And in Starling we have the caring, clever, resourceful, courageous, insightful and strong young woman we can all so easily love. Chilton, of course, is the selfish, cunning and sly man who everyone can as easily hate. And the antagonist, who I won’t name for those few who have yet to come across this excellent work, is a superbly drawn piece of human detritus mostly formed from his history but choosing the path upon which he has set out destructively and without concern for any but himself. The woman we encounter as his final victim is anything but a stereotype, displaying courage, resourcefulness and a strength of character that has the reader desperately urging the authorities to get to her before it’s too late. Clarice Starling (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I had no idea what the story was really about and was surprised to find it dealt with the hunt for a serial killer in quite the way it does. I’d more or less expected to find a police procedural with little reference to emotion or justice. That the book transcends its genre is clear almost from the first page. I confess to some irritation with the US crime fighters’ jargon that peppers some pages and leaves a UK reader, unfamiliar with police procedures, somewhat confused. But the fact that such a stumbling block never even came close to stopping me read is testament to the power of the story and the characters who drive it.
The denouement is expertly handled. Indeed, I deliberately put off finishing the book at night for fear of having nightmares if I went to sleep on the ending. Read in my lunch hour, the final chapters were no less powerful, the ending no less satisfying than that late night read may have rendered them. The book finishes in the only way it can. A satisfactory conclusion to a tale of pace, incident and superbly engineered personal interrelationships.
I enjoyed this book more than I expected to. Should I now watch the film? Will I be disappointed? I don’t know. But the book is definitely worth the read and I can thoroughly recommend it.

A Remembrance for the Grandfather I Never Knew.

Frederick Burden, seated, with an unknown soldier.Today, 11th November 2012, is Remembrance Sunday, one of those few occasions when Armistice Day actually falls on a Sunday.
I’d like to take this opportunity to say something relating to my paternal grandfather, and the trip my wife, Valerie, and I recently took to France in order to see the monument in Arras, where his death is commemorated.
Frederick Burden, born in Sculcoates, Kingston-Upon-Hull on 14thSeptember 1886, was one of a large family. He left school at 13 and trained as a plumber. Not much is known about him or his life, as he died before any of his 3 children, Dorothy, Vera and Ken, could get to know him. This fate was later echoed by my own experience of my father, Ken, who died a little over 2 weeks before I was born.
Frederick joined up to serve in the First World War and fought in France with the 1st East Riding Field Company, which later became the 529thField Coy of the Royal Engineers, part of the 3rd Division. On 9thApril 1917, the Company was engaged in the Battle of Arras and became part of the VI Corps, Third Army. Frederick died during the battle, on 18thJune 1917, and his body was never recovered. As a result, after the war, he was commemorated, along with others of his Company, on the Arras Memorial:
WE WILL REMEMBER THEM
Those of the 529th (East Riding) Field Company Royal Engineers who died 18th June 1917 with no known grave:Leonard Alker, 438594.Frederick William Barnaby, 474333, age 26Frederick Burden, 474500, age 30Walter Carmichael, 474562, age 33Charles Maurice Steele 474102, age 19William Galpin, 474387, age 20John William Jones, 177715, age 36Joseph Henry Parkin, Second Lieutenant, age 29Robert Pickard Sharp, 474636

Ken Burden Florence with Vera, Dorothy & Ken.My own father, the youngest child, was probably at least held by Frederick, when he came home on leave a short time before the battle that claimed his life. Ken was born 16th January 1916 and died 23rd April 1948. Frederick’s eldest daughter, Dorothy, was born 11th February 1912 and died in 2001. Vera, the middle child, was born 15th December 1913 and now lives in Southampton. It was partially on Vera’s behalf that we went to France, as she’d never had the opportunity to see the memorial herself and, rapidly approaching her 100th birthday, is unlikely to do so. Of course, even Dorothy was only 5 when Frederick died, so none of the children had any recollection of their father. And his widow, Florence, who he married in 1910, died in 1958.
VeraDorothy’s son, Charles Hunter, started some family research a few years ago and set up a website in memory of our grandfather at http://www.hunt.karoo.net/   And it was through Charles, via Friends Reunited’s Genes Reunited site, that I discovered the existence of my Aunt Vera some few years ago. It turned out she’d been trying to find me. I suspect my mother’s death, when I was aged 16, and my frequent moves around the country had made this search rather difficult.
Outside the Monument.The Memorial at Arras bounds the eastern side of the earlier Fauberg D’Amiens Cemetery, where 2,681 servicemen are buried, and records the names of 35,700 servicemen and a further 1,000 airmen, all without known graves. Designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens, and commissioned by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, the Memorial itself is an austere, sober, but rather beautiful stone monument to all these deaths.
Looking along the Memorial Bays.We visited in September this year on a day when the heavens had decided to weep, the winds to gust fitful and strong. The walk from the railway station, where we’d journeyed from Paris, was wet and wild. It surprised us that there were no directions from there to the monument, but we’d brought maps and found it easily enough.
The open fronts of the tall arches occasionally allowed in drenching rain as we sought out the relevant bay where we could find Granddad’s name. But a quick look in the register, housed in a small cabinet, led us where we needed to go. The names are carved into the stone and the years have softened the letters a little so that they blend with the background. But we found Frederick’s name and spent some time in silent contemplation of a life about which we know so little; a life ended too soon in the madness of war.
There is a visitors’ book and I was able to make a short entry on behalf of ourselves and of Aunt Vera. Rows of gravesWe ventured out amongst the graves for a sortie between blustery showers but quickly returned to cover as the unseasonal weather continued. We met a young couple from Colchester, Essex, who’d made the visit simply out of interest and to pay their respects to these unknown heroes. And we were able to guide a small group from Birmingham who were having difficulty identifying the bay in which their relative was commemorated. Frederick's name on the Memorial
The whole place has an air of solemn sadness about it, yet manages to convey a feeling of hope for the future in its tall open arches of pale stone. We were glad to have managed the visit and both felt that it, alone, had made our trip to France worthwhile.
Pointing out the InscriptionOur walk back to the railway station took us through the Place de la Victor Hugo, where we followed a French woman out of the lashing rain into the Peter Pan Brasserie, a proper French Café. There, the patron, who spoke no English, and Valerie, whose French is much better than my few words, managed to organise a hot meal for us, accompanied, of course, by a glass of real French red table wine.
On the TGV train back to the Gard du Nord in Paris, the weather slowly improved and, once out of the station, we found ourselves in such bright warm sunshine that we climbed to Sacre Coeur and walked through Montmartre and along the wide avenues until we reached our hotel near the Arc De Triomphe.
A trip worth making for us, and a good day.
Florence Barker, his wife.Remembering the dead of those appalling wars is often seen as a duty, but, when there’s a personal element, the whole process becomes far more real. Our visit to the Arras Memorial and our short sojourn of contemplation over Granddad, Frederick Burden, will live with me long. Each Armistice Day, I’ll have more reason to spend those two short minutes in silent thought and thanks for those heroes who gave their lives to ensure a safe world so that we now live in freedom.
Commemorative Death PennyWe will never know the exact circumstances of his death; whether it came swift, or in slow agony, whether he died alone under the bullet of a sniper or with others of his Company, victims of a shell. But of one thing we can be confident, since he was posthumously award the Death Penny, inscribed with his name and the words, ‘He Died For Freedom And Honour’, that he died with courage. This small coin came with a note saying "I join with my grateful people in sending you this memorial of a brave life given for others in the Great War. George R J."
Along with all those other men commemorated at the Arras Memorial, and many others in France, Europe, and the whole world, he died fighting in defence of a better future for his family. That other men, and it is always men, caused the conflict that resulted in his death is a matter of great shame for humankind. Whether such violent conflict will ever be eradicated from our race is uncertain. But those of us who remain, those of us provided with a promise of long life and freedom by those who to kept us free, must strive to ensure we make full use of our opportunities. We must live our lives in celebration of the bravery of such men as Frederick Burden, the grandfather I never knew.
Thank you, Granddad Frederick, I Will Remember You.
Notice Board Information board

Related articles Remembrance Day: Who are you remembering? Remembrance Sunday: The traumas of war that haunt us still Remembrance Day - Remembering our soldiers Lest We Forget ... Remembrance Sunday, November 11th

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 43

I suspect you’re already reading Breaking Faith, if you’ve come this far. We’re reaching the denouement, moving towards the end of the story now. So, I hope you 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 43
Friday 10th September
I spent the first part of the evening packing for my holiday, which I intended as a sort of retreat: a quiet time and space away from the madness of a world that seemed intent on making my life miserable. Perhaps Heacham had been right; perhaps I was wicked and was being punished for my rejection of his teachings. In my current turmoil, I couldn’t make up my mind on that or anything else.A crofter’s cottage, on the edge of the ocean, seemed ideal. No telephone, no electricity, no television or radio. The nearest shop was the village post office stores, seven miles along a single-track road. It would be perfect.Except that I had Dad’s dying wish; his gentle injunction to mate with more than one man before taking Leigh as my lifetime’s partner. It wasn’t a prospect I welcomed but it was Dad’s final request of me and therefore something I must do; something I felt compelled to do. The sooner I achieved it, the sooner I’d be free of that obligation and able to contemplate the life I still hoped might become mine.Once I’d collected and packed all I needed to take with me, I found I still couldn’t settle. I wasn’t hungry and the prospect of dinner with Leigh and Netta looking at me, anxious and confused, wasn’t inviting.I showered and returned to my room. The window was wide open and I let the air flow over my skin as I rested my elbows on the windowsill. The carved wren perched on its impossibly delicate legs on the log between my arms, its tiny pointed bill threatening to peck my breast. I picked it up and examined it. Old Hodge’s present meant the world to me. It represented real, unambiguous love and something solid and unchanging in a world that was in turmoil for me. There was within that small gift, so much care in a symbol of a natural world free of the complications human relationships seemed always to involve. I replaced it and continued my reverie at the window.The wind changed and the air, although not cool, lost some of the heat it had borne for days.My mind was full of all that had befallen me since I’d come to Longhouse. I was bursting with confusion and emotions I couldn’t identify, let alone express. I felt as though I must explode with anger, despair, frustration, desire, disgust and sheer perplexity if something didn’t release me soon.I reviewed those things I could identify as changes, sources of anxiety or confusion, in the hope I might bring order to my chaotic world. But I found no consolation in the exercise. In fact, it seemed to intensify my negative feelings.To add to my anxieties, now had come the news that Heacham’s trial was due and would prevent my holiday should I allow it.I hadn’t been able to book my holiday through the travel agent where Leigh had bought my vouchers. Instead, I’d found private holiday accommodation, advertised in the Dalesman magazine. With a bit of gentle persuasion I might have exchanged the vouchers for money but that would have invited questions and, in any case, I might use those vouchers later to take Leigh with me on a holiday; somewhere warm, exotic and romantic.So, I’d contacted the owner of the croft by phone, explained my situation and gained her agreement to accept cash on arrival. We would meet at the village and go to the croft together. She’d given me detailed instructions how to find the village, even explaining where to get the ferry for the crossing to the island and estimating my journey time so we could agree on a time for our meeting.I must get away and be completely out of contact. This was an ideal way of ensuring my isolation and continued privacy whilst away. But I dreaded the arrival of a summons to appear at Heacham’s trial, knowing I couldn’t ignore such a legal requirement. I decided not to open the post in the morning and to ensure no one else could before I left for Scotland.None of this helped relieve my internal pressure and turmoil. I still felt tight as a bowstring, felt something must trigger my release or I would snap and be utterly destroyed.Thunder rumbled over the dark fells and I realized that night had fallen as I stood in contemplation. With the thunder came rain and, for one insane moment, I wanted to dash into the garden and let the torrent wash me clean of doubts and confusion. Lightening split the darkness, blinding me for a moment and moving me at last.My back ached; my limbs were tense and stiff from my fixed position. I straightened up and stretched, swung my arms to bring life back into my hands and relieve the numbness in my elbows. As I brought my arms around in a full circle toward my body, my hand caught something hard and knocked it off the sill. It fell at my feet.I crouched and, in the glow that entered through my partly open door from the landing, I saw I’d knocked Old Hodge’s birthday gift onto the floor. The wren had snapped from the log and lay as if dead beside it.I felt rather than heard the cry of utter desolation that developed from breaking that symbol of love. The barrier to grief, to pent-up rage and disappointment, to unexpressed anxiety and confusion, to unrequited love was breached by that one cry. I fell to the floor and wept; sobbed my heart out and began, at last, to wash away my guilt and rage and grief.Leigh came early in the cleansing process. I felt his warmth about me, his arms holding me, his hands using tissues to dab my eyes and nose. I heard his soft voice, full of concern, saying words with no meaning but comfort. And slowly I came through the first layer of my pain.Exhausted, yet refreshed, I let him take me from the floor and lay me on my bed, his skin warm and gentle against mine.‘Sleep now, Faith. Sleep and forget.’I felt him move away as if he meant to leave. ‘Don’t go. I want you. I want you here.’ And he lay beside me on the bed, his body close to mine, his arms about me. He held me in a close embrace and made no sexual advance in spite of our nakedness.The storm raged through the night about us but we were warm together, protected from its violence.I felt safe in his arms. He was kind and gentle, holding me and stroking me for comfort, enclosing me within his soft embrace.I wanted him to join with me. I wanted it and it was right. ‘I want you, Leigh. Please.’I rolled to face him and he kissed my mouth, gently, for a long time our lips met and knew where they should go. When he moved away I wanted him to stay and kissed his mouth again. He guided me then, with his lips and tongue, showed me where the pleasure was, how to give and to receive. I learned quickly, desire uncovering what my body knew by instinct.I stroked a hand along his back and felt him do the same, felt the feather touch of his palm and fingers on my willing skin. He kissed my face, my neck, my shoulders and I found my mouth seeking his skin to kiss in turn. We moved and he stroked one hand from my shoulder down the front of me across the space between my breasts and down my abdomen as far as the short hair that marked the space I wanted him to fill. He stroked on down and I moved my legs to give him access. He caressed the insides of my thighs in turn, brushing his fingers so softly against the lips of my divide that it was barely a touch at all, yet it brought such pleasure that it had me rising up to meet him. I stroked his back with one hand as the other sought new places to explore. I found his manhood. As my fingers touched and stroked and held him, he hardened and grew rigid and I knew that this part of him would enter me and penetrate my very centre.His mouth moved to my lips and we kissed and tongued and mouthed each other in a passion that was in danger of overwhelming me. I knew I wanted him inside me and we were ready. He moved to kiss my breasts and took each nipple in between his lips in turn, sucking gently, tonguing the tips so my body arched in answer and I felt a new sensation deep inside me.I took his manhood in my hand and guided it toward my moist divide. He led my hand from there and placed it on the firm curve of his bottom as he slowly found my entrance and explored me, the very tip discovering the magic nodule and touching it with such sweet softness that I gasped with the delight of it, my body filling with sensations of excitement and arousal.He lingered there, caressing that one place with gentle strokes that sent ripples through my body, making every portion of my skin aware of touch and feeling, so that his lips on mine were sweet and warm and moist with love, his hands traced exquisite joy around my shoulder and my side. He moved the stroking hand along my body, caressing the curve of my breast, making my nipple rise to firmness as his fingertips encircled it, then whispering down my abdomen and gentling my hip as he slipped the palm beneath my rising buttock.I held my breath as he drew the tip of his manhood along the length of my divide and found the willing, wanting opening. He put his lips over my mouth and tongued my tongue with his, nudging his way into my mouth as he entered my very centre. There was one brief instant of sharp pain and I was woman.I encouraged him toward me with my hands cupping his buttocks and he thrust on past the fragile barrier and stroked into me until all was pleasure. I let him guide and show me. He kissed my mouth, my eyes, my cheeks, my ears. One hand played in my hair as his other taught me how to rise and fall with him, matching his slow movement so the base of his hard manhood touched against my magic spot and caused the growing sense of wonder to pervade my entire body. I was alive in every cell of being, every touch was pure delight, my hands discovered his delicious body, stroked his back, his arms, his beautiful firm bottom as he rose and fell above me. I spread my thighs a little wider to heighten the touch of him on my most sensitive part. He responded, moving higher up my body and gentling my bottom with the hand beneath. We moved together, rising, falling, breathing the same air and oblivious to everything that was not the single being we had formed.The pleasure filling me grew and grew as he moved within me. It built in waves of pure enjoyment until my body pulsed with wonder and I cried aloud in joy. He let that climax take its course and moved within me, matching my pulsating pleasure as it slowly faded. Then he moved more deeply within me, thrusting his whole length of manhood deep inside me, in and out, the tip almost leaving me but returning to my depths as he plunged into my centre and touched again that heightened point of pure sensation. I held him to me, my hands moving with his body as he thrust inside me, feeling pleasure building once again, raising my hips to meet his thrusting, plunging delicious movement. He took the hand from my shoulder, drew it down my side and slipped it underneath my bottom with the other so he held me to him. Still he moved within me powerful and strong with desire and love.I felt another wave of climax breaking over me and ecstasy discovered me as we became one with wave following resounding wave through my body from my centre to the very tips of all my being. I felt his force burst deep within me, felt the throb of his life, his being, merging with my own and we both cried out in wonder and delight as amazement surged and we became a single joyous unity of love and pleasure and delicious exultation.Slowly we descended from that high, that other plane of being, into a soft gentle world of self-awareness. I had never felt so whole, so utterly complete, so wondrously at one with me. He stayed within me, gently moved his hands to take his weight onto his elbows, stroked my head and neck and shoulders with his fingers.We kissed, softly, slowly, lingering as we caught our breath. My hands caressed his back, his head, his ears, his arms. We gazed at one another in the dim light from the open door.The storm returned to us and we knew then it had raged and thundered as we loved, had rained as it still did, had strobed our glowing bodies with its lightening flashes as we moved.I felt the gentle echo of the climax as my centre clasped the relaxing stem of him inside me in a soft rhythmic reminder of the waves of passion that had ruled me.There were no words to say what I felt. I could say just one phrase to describe it. ‘I love you, Leigh’He nodded in the dim light and I saw his eyes were full of wonder. ‘I promised I would never say these words unless I meant them. I love you, Faith. I love you absolutely and without conditions.’It was enough for us just then. Practicality dictated we must part but reluctance to accept that made us stay together until moisture from our love began to leak from me and I gently urged him move and give me tissues. I smiled, recalling the garden scene with Netta, knowing now what she’d felt as I had teased her. Even her intrusion to my thoughts didn’t diminish my delight.Leigh lay beside me, one arm round my shoulders as I lay my head upon his slowly moving chest. ‘Did it hurt?’‘Very briefly, very little. You made me woman tonight. The pleasure was amazing. I feel wonderful. I love you.’‘I love you, Faith.’We spoke no more; satiation stealing passion from us so we slept.
###
If you're impatient for the next chapter, you can buy the book in paperback 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.
Tweet with me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
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
Related articles Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 41 Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 40 Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 39 Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 37