R.J. Askew's Blog: Indie tester, page 3
January 7, 2013
Why I'm Putting My Price Up From 99 Cents
The toothpaste I came away with from the 99p shop in my home town was not quite right. The actual toothpast was fine, but there was something wrong with the tube which meant it only delivered a tiny blob of paste, and that after much coaxing.
Was the tube priced cheaply because it was a defective lot, I wondered?
I wld certainly not buy another bargain tube again.
So, too, I always avoid the cheap 'value' range in a certain supermarket because I know that they will be second rate in quality, preparation, and presentation. In short, they will be the opposite of value. They will be a false economy. Or something that someone who is really short of money has to buy because they have no choice.
And that buy-one-get-one-free pair of jeans that I really didn't want but got in a sale, what of them? An ill-fitting, baggy, styleless, disappointment.
There is a lesson in all this which may apply to ebooks.
I know that it is a tactic to go free to amass downloads in the hope of winning a reputaion which than spreads by word of mouth and can be cashed in on.
I am also told by some who have done this that they do get lots of downloads, but that these seldom produce reviews or a ripple of purchases once a price is reinstated.
One author told me he thought that people merely squirrel ebooks away because they are free but never actually read many of them.
He cld just be bitter and twisted, of course.
But his view chimes with me instinctively. If something is free I tend not to want it because I probably didn't want it in the first place and, well, 'no free lunches', right? I know some people will scoop up anything for free. But I am not one of them.
I tend to avoid stuff I don't want or need. I tend to only want really good stuff that pleases me, is useful, or will last forever. I suppose it is about quality.
I know that some might say that it is elitist to look for quality, anti-democratic in some way even. But my instinct is that it is natural to make choices in favour of quality. Given the choice an intelligent, cultivated person will mostly opt for the best in life at every opportunity. There will be reasons and times when this may not be true, but mostly it will be true, given, choice, opportunity and the ability to do so.
That is to say, you get what you pay for.
My enovella has Watching Swifts has been priced at 99 cents on Kindle for a while now. I have always had misgivings about this, mindful of the dodgy tube of cheap toothpaste, unhealthy value food, and ill-fitting free jeans. Is the 99 cents cage fight really where my story belongs.
It is not a genre story. There are no vampires, zombiess, gone wrong cops, alien wars, or YA archetypes in it. Only poetic prose, and 14 sonnets. This makes it a tricky read, not to everyone's taste. But to those who favour litary fiction I believe it will prove nourishing.
And so. I am quitting the 99 cents genre cage fight and heading into the less crowded environs of the $2.99 yeomen and women.
Henceforth, I will only look for readers who are themselves in search of quality.
There is no point selling a piece of literary fiction for 99 cents to 20 readers who want sex, death, and devils. They will only be disappointed. They will not read it. No one will be happy. No work of mouth ripple will happen.
No. It is far better to win the eyes of two appropriate readers who will be more likely to appreciate art for beauty's sake.
Anyway, we shall see. And so farewell, 99 cents cage fight. I was never dirty enough to rip the eyes from my neighbour.
We shall push out punt into the gentler ox-bowing waters and and rich artistic meadows where there be minds of rarer diversity and eyes, oh such wonderful eyes to win with writing of a certain distinction.
Your poet *bows* Watching Swifts
Was the tube priced cheaply because it was a defective lot, I wondered?
I wld certainly not buy another bargain tube again.
So, too, I always avoid the cheap 'value' range in a certain supermarket because I know that they will be second rate in quality, preparation, and presentation. In short, they will be the opposite of value. They will be a false economy. Or something that someone who is really short of money has to buy because they have no choice.
And that buy-one-get-one-free pair of jeans that I really didn't want but got in a sale, what of them? An ill-fitting, baggy, styleless, disappointment.
There is a lesson in all this which may apply to ebooks.
I know that it is a tactic to go free to amass downloads in the hope of winning a reputaion which than spreads by word of mouth and can be cashed in on.
I am also told by some who have done this that they do get lots of downloads, but that these seldom produce reviews or a ripple of purchases once a price is reinstated.
One author told me he thought that people merely squirrel ebooks away because they are free but never actually read many of them.
He cld just be bitter and twisted, of course.
But his view chimes with me instinctively. If something is free I tend not to want it because I probably didn't want it in the first place and, well, 'no free lunches', right? I know some people will scoop up anything for free. But I am not one of them.
I tend to avoid stuff I don't want or need. I tend to only want really good stuff that pleases me, is useful, or will last forever. I suppose it is about quality.
I know that some might say that it is elitist to look for quality, anti-democratic in some way even. But my instinct is that it is natural to make choices in favour of quality. Given the choice an intelligent, cultivated person will mostly opt for the best in life at every opportunity. There will be reasons and times when this may not be true, but mostly it will be true, given, choice, opportunity and the ability to do so.
That is to say, you get what you pay for.
My enovella has Watching Swifts has been priced at 99 cents on Kindle for a while now. I have always had misgivings about this, mindful of the dodgy tube of cheap toothpaste, unhealthy value food, and ill-fitting free jeans. Is the 99 cents cage fight really where my story belongs.
It is not a genre story. There are no vampires, zombiess, gone wrong cops, alien wars, or YA archetypes in it. Only poetic prose, and 14 sonnets. This makes it a tricky read, not to everyone's taste. But to those who favour litary fiction I believe it will prove nourishing.
And so. I am quitting the 99 cents genre cage fight and heading into the less crowded environs of the $2.99 yeomen and women.
Henceforth, I will only look for readers who are themselves in search of quality.
There is no point selling a piece of literary fiction for 99 cents to 20 readers who want sex, death, and devils. They will only be disappointed. They will not read it. No one will be happy. No work of mouth ripple will happen.
No. It is far better to win the eyes of two appropriate readers who will be more likely to appreciate art for beauty's sake.
Anyway, we shall see. And so farewell, 99 cents cage fight. I was never dirty enough to rip the eyes from my neighbour.
We shall push out punt into the gentler ox-bowing waters and and rich artistic meadows where there be minds of rarer diversity and eyes, oh such wonderful eyes to win with writing of a certain distinction.
Your poet *bows* Watching Swifts
January 1, 2013
'A SIBLING TO ALL' .. SUCH IS THIS TRUE MODERN POET .. READ HIM
Me, I love reading the short stuff because it's the sprint event of the literary olympics, it thrills. You can forget your million word novels. Give me a 100 words of terse verse. Many are like sawn off novels anyway, a whole story in 30 lines. That is what I love, the distillation. I don't care if they are in-form metaphysical abstractions or dabs of free-form in-y'face life. I love the lot. Sometimes I just crave a shot of the short stuff.
Stevie Robison's ECSTATIC BEAT hit the spot for me.
I'd just read - and enjoyed - a longish novel by an indie author. So I came to EB in need and hope. I read it on a Kindle. Now this is clearly not the best way to read verse as it just does not look great. You can't fool around with the visual presentation. Even KING OZYMANDIAS wld look a bit down in the mouth on a Kindle. You can't flip back and forth without getting RSI of the clicking joints. I mean you just don't plod through poetry from page 1 > 2 > 3 > right? Part of the joy is starting at page 34, going to page 9 then to page 57. Then maybe you read 23 > 27. You move around, easy like. You can't do that on oh-so-prosaic K-K-Kindle.
But hey! I'm just a modern kinda guy!
EB is a collection of 80 contemporary American verses arranged in 10 chapters, grouping some 5-12 verses in each. I reckon there is enough material for two good reading sessions. I read many of the poems twice and some three or four times.
Stevie Robison ranges from violent, dark, almost Baudelairian themes to some absolutely exquisite metaphysical meditations and porcelain-delicate observations on his surroundings. The contrast between these two approaches is total, with the one underscoring the other. The range in the collection says, 'this poet feels across the spectrum of human experience.' Some of the gentler verses made me think of William Blake because of their sheer spirituality.
I read somewhere once that we read to be entertained or to learn in some way. EB meets both these ends, with little dabs of wisdom and wit showing up all over the place and with some 'situation' type poems
One of my fave's in the entire collection is the wonderfully titled DATING A WOMAN ON PROBABTION. I love every line of this verse because of its sensitivity, hope and thwarted beauty. The fallen woman was in servitude to substances, and is still in servitude to her past, while the poet who makes soup for her is now in servitude to her. Everything about it is beautiful, loving and tender.
Contrast this with a later poem, called 2.50, where the poet is crusing around checking out streetwalkers with lust in mind. And contrast the contrast with AN ODE TO TRUE LOVE where he chomps on a tin of sweetcorn.
The wit in all this is arch, arch, arch. All the players in 2.50 are stuck in the lust part of life's spectrum. Thee is no judgement, it just is how it is. Another poem which captures how we are is HABITUALLY, which deftly mocks how we all depend on our little online hits, how we constantly check and recheck our msgs like inane idiots who will die if we can't get a little digital love coming our way from some other keyboard.
The one thing I cld not quiet work out is why the first section of EB - entitled Chaos - groups the 5 most gristly poems in the collection. The first five are like a big dark wave crashing over the reader. Some readers might freak. But I'd started reading from the middle and i don't get freaked anyway. None of the first five were among my faves though.
The second chapter - Hyperbole - has some winners. MORE nails how we are with our cravings and the lean and lithe POETRY is the first top, top write in the collection, at least for me. I love this line: 'the poet weaves//the reader wears'.
The first poem I read was in fact in the third section A TYPICAL DAY. I found it compelling surreal. I read it again and again. The newspaper with no words just wins me. Read it see for yourself. It is as long as POETRY is short. It takes its time.
Another fave of mine is QUIETLY as it is a meditative observation of great gentleness.
The rascally poet follows up with a poem of despair. It can't be avoided, the world is not all quiet all the time. Is that the msg? There follows an observation on a lonely woman pushing a shopping trolly and heading for a dark alley which takes the mind back to the first five poems in the collection.
This brings us to SERENITY'S SONG which revertes to the vibe in QUIETLY. But SERENITY'S SONG is shorter verse more in keeping with POETRY. These three poems are among the best in the collection for me.
I'll just mention two more as I don't want to give the whole thing away for you. ONCE A POET really caught my eye because it seems to imply what a pain in the butt it is to be a poet, stuffed full of wildness and doom. I cld write a 1000 word about this poem. it is a great one for a poet to read. i was also taken with a line in AFFIRMATION: 'I am sibling to all.' Maybe this is what poets are, siblings to all.
The most American poem in the colletcion, at least to this Brit reader, was POP'S GENERAL STORE. It seems to capture a little bit of the soul of America, with this being the key line; 'a good place to go.'
I reckon ECSTATIC BEAT wld be definitely be at home in said store. No branding or fancy corporate marketing, just honest poetry. I think I understand the first five poems now -- and the final one: A REAL ******. They are sort of how we are, the prosaic reality. But if we look deeper, go deeper, we will find poetic peace int he likes of QUIETLY, SERENITY'S SONG, POETRY and POP'S GENERAL STORE.
I commend Stevie Robison's ECSTATIC BEAT to you and hope you will enjoy the read as much as I did.
Written on New Year's Day, 2013, in an office in London's Canary Wharf. Well, it was the quietest of days at work.
ECSTATIC BEAT
Stevie Robison's ECSTATIC BEAT hit the spot for me.
I'd just read - and enjoyed - a longish novel by an indie author. So I came to EB in need and hope. I read it on a Kindle. Now this is clearly not the best way to read verse as it just does not look great. You can't fool around with the visual presentation. Even KING OZYMANDIAS wld look a bit down in the mouth on a Kindle. You can't flip back and forth without getting RSI of the clicking joints. I mean you just don't plod through poetry from page 1 > 2 > 3 > right? Part of the joy is starting at page 34, going to page 9 then to page 57. Then maybe you read 23 > 27. You move around, easy like. You can't do that on oh-so-prosaic K-K-Kindle.
But hey! I'm just a modern kinda guy!
EB is a collection of 80 contemporary American verses arranged in 10 chapters, grouping some 5-12 verses in each. I reckon there is enough material for two good reading sessions. I read many of the poems twice and some three or four times.
Stevie Robison ranges from violent, dark, almost Baudelairian themes to some absolutely exquisite metaphysical meditations and porcelain-delicate observations on his surroundings. The contrast between these two approaches is total, with the one underscoring the other. The range in the collection says, 'this poet feels across the spectrum of human experience.' Some of the gentler verses made me think of William Blake because of their sheer spirituality.
I read somewhere once that we read to be entertained or to learn in some way. EB meets both these ends, with little dabs of wisdom and wit showing up all over the place and with some 'situation' type poems
One of my fave's in the entire collection is the wonderfully titled DATING A WOMAN ON PROBABTION. I love every line of this verse because of its sensitivity, hope and thwarted beauty. The fallen woman was in servitude to substances, and is still in servitude to her past, while the poet who makes soup for her is now in servitude to her. Everything about it is beautiful, loving and tender.
Contrast this with a later poem, called 2.50, where the poet is crusing around checking out streetwalkers with lust in mind. And contrast the contrast with AN ODE TO TRUE LOVE where he chomps on a tin of sweetcorn.
The wit in all this is arch, arch, arch. All the players in 2.50 are stuck in the lust part of life's spectrum. Thee is no judgement, it just is how it is. Another poem which captures how we are is HABITUALLY, which deftly mocks how we all depend on our little online hits, how we constantly check and recheck our msgs like inane idiots who will die if we can't get a little digital love coming our way from some other keyboard.
The one thing I cld not quiet work out is why the first section of EB - entitled Chaos - groups the 5 most gristly poems in the collection. The first five are like a big dark wave crashing over the reader. Some readers might freak. But I'd started reading from the middle and i don't get freaked anyway. None of the first five were among my faves though.
The second chapter - Hyperbole - has some winners. MORE nails how we are with our cravings and the lean and lithe POETRY is the first top, top write in the collection, at least for me. I love this line: 'the poet weaves//the reader wears'.
The first poem I read was in fact in the third section A TYPICAL DAY. I found it compelling surreal. I read it again and again. The newspaper with no words just wins me. Read it see for yourself. It is as long as POETRY is short. It takes its time.
Another fave of mine is QUIETLY as it is a meditative observation of great gentleness.
The rascally poet follows up with a poem of despair. It can't be avoided, the world is not all quiet all the time. Is that the msg? There follows an observation on a lonely woman pushing a shopping trolly and heading for a dark alley which takes the mind back to the first five poems in the collection.
This brings us to SERENITY'S SONG which revertes to the vibe in QUIETLY. But SERENITY'S SONG is shorter verse more in keeping with POETRY. These three poems are among the best in the collection for me.
I'll just mention two more as I don't want to give the whole thing away for you. ONCE A POET really caught my eye because it seems to imply what a pain in the butt it is to be a poet, stuffed full of wildness and doom. I cld write a 1000 word about this poem. it is a great one for a poet to read. i was also taken with a line in AFFIRMATION: 'I am sibling to all.' Maybe this is what poets are, siblings to all.
The most American poem in the colletcion, at least to this Brit reader, was POP'S GENERAL STORE. It seems to capture a little bit of the soul of America, with this being the key line; 'a good place to go.'
I reckon ECSTATIC BEAT wld be definitely be at home in said store. No branding or fancy corporate marketing, just honest poetry. I think I understand the first five poems now -- and the final one: A REAL ******. They are sort of how we are, the prosaic reality. But if we look deeper, go deeper, we will find poetic peace int he likes of QUIETLY, SERENITY'S SONG, POETRY and POP'S GENERAL STORE.
I commend Stevie Robison's ECSTATIC BEAT to you and hope you will enjoy the read as much as I did.
Written on New Year's Day, 2013, in an office in London's Canary Wharf. Well, it was the quietest of days at work.
ECSTATIC BEAT
December 29, 2012
AFTER FOREVER ENDS ~ a review of Melodie Ramone's novel
This was one of those stories that come into your life for a short time, but leave a profound effect on your soul.
Melodie Ramone's After Forever Ends traces the lives of four young people from their early days at Benington, a private school, where they fight for love and honour. It is about their rites of passage to university, marriage and parenthood. The story then accelerates, much as life seems to, and takes us to some extraordinarily moving chapters as the quartet move into old age. It is without doubt the most emotionally evocative book I have read in many a year, possibly ever.
I grew to love Silvia and her sister, Lucy, and the twins they marry, Oliver and Alexander. Their lives felt real to me and came to matter to me, as did those of their children and friends.
The story is almost a model for a good life lived well and to the full. Most of us will recognise aspects of our own lives in AFTER FOREVER ENDS. Some of us may learn essential insights from the story. It may help us to make sense of our own unsolved issues.
There is one pivotal scene about two thirds of the way through the book when Silvia and Lucy throw a napkin back and forth at each other during a row, as Lucy shows Silvia just how things were regarding their father, with whom Silvia has had a difficult relationship. I found this profoundly moving as things were not easy between myself and my own father. I am sure others with find things in this road map for a life lived well that may have meaning for their lives.
The story and the characters in it are V for Vigorous. "Nothing bothers me more in this world than a person who behaves as a sheep and not as a dragon", says the elderly Sil in the absorbing first chapter. "My problem is that I am homesick," she says, setting the scene for what is to follow, "I miss my little house in Wales."
I was hooked by the notion of an old woman remembering and craving to get back to what she loved, as this is something that many of us may feel as we age, esp if our lives have been well lived. So, too, Silvia's hankering after a special place is common to many of us. Indeed, AFTER FOREVER ENDS is definitively a story of place and belonging. In these times of shift and impermanance, it shows strongly how spiritually sustaining a sense of place and belonging is. There is a great lesson here for us all. So, too, many will find lessons in the way Silvia, a feisty and intelligent woman, surrenders her career to the cause of her and her brother-in-law's 'muffins'. No story better portrays the absolute joy of motherhood than this one. It is not about gender politics and power. It is about timeless human instincts and, this is the word: joy -- the joy of motherhood. Some wld make intellectual counter-arguments, but AFTER FOREVER ENDS is not about the intellect, though it is an intelligent book. It is about fundamental emotions and instincts. I sympathise with the book on this count because such emotions and instincs are our roots and we are lessened as human beings if we ignore or deny them.
Another feature running discretely through the story is a gentle feyness. The story is about trees, winds, the Welsh countryside. But it is also about deeper spirits which whom the characters commune. These spirits of the woods have a pagan feel to them, are entirely benign, and seem to link the lives of the characters to ancient times.
This quote from one of the fey captures the essence of the story, "They (humans) share a magic with us called love. It's a strong magic, it comes from deep within the source of all creation. Because it is so strong within him he takes it with him when he crosses through the veil."
Wales, where the story is set, is an ancient land, a bastion of ancient peoples. And Welsh is, I believe, the oldest living language in Europe. Yes, there is a magic in all this.
Back to practical matters, the author has resisted the temptation to split her story into two or three smaller books. I applaud this as there is a unity to the story as it is presented which wld otherwise be lost. And I for one hate stories that have false endings clearly designed to lead into the next marketing opportunity, ach, sorry, sequel.
There are at least a dozen emotional peaks in the story, moments of absolutely powerful emotional intensity. This story is not a genre thriller, far from it, the lives are very recongnisable, but it is emotionally thrilling because all the emotional peaks are things that will happen to most of us. AFTER FOREVER ENDS condenses the whole of family life, the most emotional parts into one story. The impact is totally overwhelming at times. It will trigger recollections, hopes, and fears. It is also a beautiful story because the joy the characters share feels tangible. I loved reading about their happiness as this made me feel happy and hopeful. I was intensely saddened at times also, but such is life. I read with mist in my eyes, esp the last third of the story.
That said, this is not a sad story. The concluding chapter is.. Well, I will let you find out for yourself.
I think someone in their early-to-mid twenties might love this book because they may take much from it because they will still be learning life. And I believe older people will enjoy it also because they may enjoy pointers of how to age well, how to make sense of their own nostalgic hankerings. They may also enjoy the memories the story is bound to trigger in them. Oh and middle-aged women esp may enjoy the vivid birthing scences as they are absolutely sure to make them remember their own experiences. And, erm, there are a couple of phwoarrr bonks in it, too.
I esp enjoyed the way the twins Oliver and Alexander were drawn: "the stuff young girls dream of." They really did feel like two halves. I found the "wonderful and terrible" Alexander an absolutely fascinating study. I sometimes wished I had been like him, had his vigour. There is a Shakespearean feel to the twins.
But we men are just the spear carriers in this story. It is the women and esp Silvia who is at the core of this story of Love, Life and Death. Here is what the new mum has to say of her firstborn: "She was our perfect combination, our little chocolate dipped cherry muffin .. and laughing at her parents." I cld see my own kids laughing at their parents and that laugher is one of the happiest sounds their is and you will hear ringing from the the pages of After Forever Ends
Melodie Ramone's After Forever Ends traces the lives of four young people from their early days at Benington, a private school, where they fight for love and honour. It is about their rites of passage to university, marriage and parenthood. The story then accelerates, much as life seems to, and takes us to some extraordinarily moving chapters as the quartet move into old age. It is without doubt the most emotionally evocative book I have read in many a year, possibly ever.
I grew to love Silvia and her sister, Lucy, and the twins they marry, Oliver and Alexander. Their lives felt real to me and came to matter to me, as did those of their children and friends.
The story is almost a model for a good life lived well and to the full. Most of us will recognise aspects of our own lives in AFTER FOREVER ENDS. Some of us may learn essential insights from the story. It may help us to make sense of our own unsolved issues.
There is one pivotal scene about two thirds of the way through the book when Silvia and Lucy throw a napkin back and forth at each other during a row, as Lucy shows Silvia just how things were regarding their father, with whom Silvia has had a difficult relationship. I found this profoundly moving as things were not easy between myself and my own father. I am sure others with find things in this road map for a life lived well that may have meaning for their lives.
The story and the characters in it are V for Vigorous. "Nothing bothers me more in this world than a person who behaves as a sheep and not as a dragon", says the elderly Sil in the absorbing first chapter. "My problem is that I am homesick," she says, setting the scene for what is to follow, "I miss my little house in Wales."
I was hooked by the notion of an old woman remembering and craving to get back to what she loved, as this is something that many of us may feel as we age, esp if our lives have been well lived. So, too, Silvia's hankering after a special place is common to many of us. Indeed, AFTER FOREVER ENDS is definitively a story of place and belonging. In these times of shift and impermanance, it shows strongly how spiritually sustaining a sense of place and belonging is. There is a great lesson here for us all. So, too, many will find lessons in the way Silvia, a feisty and intelligent woman, surrenders her career to the cause of her and her brother-in-law's 'muffins'. No story better portrays the absolute joy of motherhood than this one. It is not about gender politics and power. It is about timeless human instincts and, this is the word: joy -- the joy of motherhood. Some wld make intellectual counter-arguments, but AFTER FOREVER ENDS is not about the intellect, though it is an intelligent book. It is about fundamental emotions and instincts. I sympathise with the book on this count because such emotions and instincs are our roots and we are lessened as human beings if we ignore or deny them.
Another feature running discretely through the story is a gentle feyness. The story is about trees, winds, the Welsh countryside. But it is also about deeper spirits which whom the characters commune. These spirits of the woods have a pagan feel to them, are entirely benign, and seem to link the lives of the characters to ancient times.
This quote from one of the fey captures the essence of the story, "They (humans) share a magic with us called love. It's a strong magic, it comes from deep within the source of all creation. Because it is so strong within him he takes it with him when he crosses through the veil."
Wales, where the story is set, is an ancient land, a bastion of ancient peoples. And Welsh is, I believe, the oldest living language in Europe. Yes, there is a magic in all this.
Back to practical matters, the author has resisted the temptation to split her story into two or three smaller books. I applaud this as there is a unity to the story as it is presented which wld otherwise be lost. And I for one hate stories that have false endings clearly designed to lead into the next marketing opportunity, ach, sorry, sequel.
There are at least a dozen emotional peaks in the story, moments of absolutely powerful emotional intensity. This story is not a genre thriller, far from it, the lives are very recongnisable, but it is emotionally thrilling because all the emotional peaks are things that will happen to most of us. AFTER FOREVER ENDS condenses the whole of family life, the most emotional parts into one story. The impact is totally overwhelming at times. It will trigger recollections, hopes, and fears. It is also a beautiful story because the joy the characters share feels tangible. I loved reading about their happiness as this made me feel happy and hopeful. I was intensely saddened at times also, but such is life. I read with mist in my eyes, esp the last third of the story.
That said, this is not a sad story. The concluding chapter is.. Well, I will let you find out for yourself.
I think someone in their early-to-mid twenties might love this book because they may take much from it because they will still be learning life. And I believe older people will enjoy it also because they may enjoy pointers of how to age well, how to make sense of their own nostalgic hankerings. They may also enjoy the memories the story is bound to trigger in them. Oh and middle-aged women esp may enjoy the vivid birthing scences as they are absolutely sure to make them remember their own experiences. And, erm, there are a couple of phwoarrr bonks in it, too.
I esp enjoyed the way the twins Oliver and Alexander were drawn: "the stuff young girls dream of." They really did feel like two halves. I found the "wonderful and terrible" Alexander an absolutely fascinating study. I sometimes wished I had been like him, had his vigour. There is a Shakespearean feel to the twins.
But we men are just the spear carriers in this story. It is the women and esp Silvia who is at the core of this story of Love, Life and Death. Here is what the new mum has to say of her firstborn: "She was our perfect combination, our little chocolate dipped cherry muffin .. and laughing at her parents." I cld see my own kids laughing at their parents and that laugher is one of the happiest sounds their is and you will hear ringing from the the pages of After Forever Ends
December 2, 2012
TO CRAVE BEYOND CONTENT ~ a review of T.L.Davis's SHED
Good poetry gets straight to the pip at the core of life.
The following words from one of T.L.Davis's poem's felt to me like the pip at the core of SHED, her very accessible collection of some 60 modern American verses:
"Tidal waves are what I crave".
She wld rather be in too deep than, "in the shallows of life waiting for a ripple to flow into me."
There is some great stuff in SHED.
About a dozen of the poems are brilliant. This for me makes SHED a success. I enjoyed it. I learnt from it. it made me smile at times, and it made me understand a woman's pain. I believe SHED wld be a great book for unreconstructed cavemen to read because it just might make them think differently about their behaviour. I believe it wld be a very useful book for marriage counsellors to have to hand because if captures a lot of the woe that millions of us experience as we struggle to make sense of our lives. Isn't this part of a poet's role, to help others to understand?
SHED is a book that is full of emotional intelligence. We make great play of intellectual intelligence, but emotional intelligence is just as important to a balanced life.
Say hello, to Goldie, in Gold Digger, "Hey, what's up. I'm Goldie."
Another line captures how it starts for many, "I was drunk when I met you".
Love follows of course and it all goes right, then wrong, terribly wrong.
There are some great dabs in SHED: "the solemn corners of your mouth .. I heard someone say life is beautiful .. today I watched the grass grow .. to the mesmerising whispers of the ocean blue .."
DIRT ROAD .. CLEAN SLATE .. strong, strong poems. When T.L.Davis is at her best she seems to put on her best poetic form and uses repetitions very effectively. The human emotions always take precedence over form in her work though, but when she does use simple poetic devices her message is all the stronger.
Two poems rocked me to the core: THE ONE THAT NEVER CAME TO BE and SHED. I won't tell you what they are about, only that they are strong reads.
The sadness in SHED is balanced by a strong sense of wit which is evident in LIAR, GLOBESTROTTER and, especially, MR.VEGAS, the final lines of which wld leave scratch marks a yard wide down the love rat's ego.
Another clutch of poems in SHED deals with working life in modern America. Having a job can be dehumanising, "punch the clock, punch the clock again". But not having one is infinitely worse. STATE OF IDLE, for those millions of Americans without a job cld be a new state in the union.
The economy affects the emotional life, too. In WHATEVER PLEASES YOU, a guy loses his job and then his woman too because of what happens to him and how he is.
The collection ends on a calmer note with hopeful poems about salvation.
I recommend SHED to you because it is a tidal wave of strong emotions captured in modern verse that is direct and artful and beautiful in its totality.
The following words from one of T.L.Davis's poem's felt to me like the pip at the core of SHED, her very accessible collection of some 60 modern American verses:
"Tidal waves are what I crave".
She wld rather be in too deep than, "in the shallows of life waiting for a ripple to flow into me."
There is some great stuff in SHED.
About a dozen of the poems are brilliant. This for me makes SHED a success. I enjoyed it. I learnt from it. it made me smile at times, and it made me understand a woman's pain. I believe SHED wld be a great book for unreconstructed cavemen to read because it just might make them think differently about their behaviour. I believe it wld be a very useful book for marriage counsellors to have to hand because if captures a lot of the woe that millions of us experience as we struggle to make sense of our lives. Isn't this part of a poet's role, to help others to understand?
SHED is a book that is full of emotional intelligence. We make great play of intellectual intelligence, but emotional intelligence is just as important to a balanced life.
Say hello, to Goldie, in Gold Digger, "Hey, what's up. I'm Goldie."
Another line captures how it starts for many, "I was drunk when I met you".
Love follows of course and it all goes right, then wrong, terribly wrong.
There are some great dabs in SHED: "the solemn corners of your mouth .. I heard someone say life is beautiful .. today I watched the grass grow .. to the mesmerising whispers of the ocean blue .."
DIRT ROAD .. CLEAN SLATE .. strong, strong poems. When T.L.Davis is at her best she seems to put on her best poetic form and uses repetitions very effectively. The human emotions always take precedence over form in her work though, but when she does use simple poetic devices her message is all the stronger.
Two poems rocked me to the core: THE ONE THAT NEVER CAME TO BE and SHED. I won't tell you what they are about, only that they are strong reads.
The sadness in SHED is balanced by a strong sense of wit which is evident in LIAR, GLOBESTROTTER and, especially, MR.VEGAS, the final lines of which wld leave scratch marks a yard wide down the love rat's ego.
Another clutch of poems in SHED deals with working life in modern America. Having a job can be dehumanising, "punch the clock, punch the clock again". But not having one is infinitely worse. STATE OF IDLE, for those millions of Americans without a job cld be a new state in the union.
The economy affects the emotional life, too. In WHATEVER PLEASES YOU, a guy loses his job and then his woman too because of what happens to him and how he is.
The collection ends on a calmer note with hopeful poems about salvation.
I recommend SHED to you because it is a tidal wave of strong emotions captured in modern verse that is direct and artful and beautiful in its totality.
November 23, 2012
A TANKIE'S TRAVELS ~ review of a gem found serendipitously
I went into Oxfam's St.Albans bookshop recently in search for a copy of Orwell's essays for my son. I wanted him to check out some clear writing but cld not find a copy in Waterstones.
I saw A TANKIE'S TRAVELS on a clear plastic display stand on a table facing the door. Well, it was the run up to November 11th, Remembrance Sunday.
Everything about the appearance of the the book is uncool, so not now, so not out there. I mean, an old grainy b&w pic of a guy in his army uniform, grinning slightly. Even the title is a read-me-not.
So I bought it.
Some people, myself included, enjoy the odd bite of comfort food. Some of us also enjoy our comfort reading. And why not? It takes your mind off the nonsense of now.
I absolutely never intended or even thought that I wld write something about A TANKIE'S TRAVELS.
I read quite a bit, not as much as those frantic souls who set themselves reading challenges, 10 books a week. But I still do read my bit. I chew over what I read, try to have an open mind. In recent months I have read a lot of stories I wld never have thought of reading, out there genre stories. This is good, but I get yearnings for certain types of writing and the feel of a pbook in my hands again.
The storytelling and writing in A TANKIE'S TRAVELS by Robert 'Jock' Watt is weapons grade lucid.
I also think George Orwell wld take his hat off to the simple effectivness with which an ordinary bloke tells his story. Yes, it is a my-war story, but there is more to it than that because it is also an unselfconscious portrait of a particular type of British person. And, esp towards the end of the story, there are some acute insights into the shifting nature and notion of home.
Paraxoically, the story is extraordinary because a version of it happened to thousands of men like Jock. Perhaps he wrote his story in part for the ones who cld not write theirs because they died in the making of it, cld not face it once it was over, or were not as able with words as Jock.
That said, there are plenty of war recollections.
So why am I writing about this one now?
Because it moved me. Jock fought in tanks for the best part of six years. He was chased out of France. He was chased out of Greece. He went back and forth across the North African desert. He should not have survived but he did.
He was young when he left a Scottish fishing town to join the army because he loved engines. He was adventurous. Cld my sons do that I wondered? Cld I have done it? Men ask themselves questions when they read other men's accounts of war. Some dream and fantasise about being there, doing it. It is how many men are for better or worse.
War.
The millions of individual stories that coalesced in the history of of 1939-1945 beats anything that any writer of fiction can ever concoct. It beats X-factor. It beats I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here. It beats The Premiership. In some twisted way it even beats peace. Why? Because men seem far more alive when they are striving to kill each other not because they want to kill other men - thought some will feel like that - but because we want to avoid being killed, to survive. This is what life demands of us, that we survive.
A TANKIE'S TRAVELS is the story of a man who survived. He fought to kill others again and again so that he and his wld survive. He writes often of his fear. His fear is real. It is not something to be ashamed of.
As I read his story, I had to keep checking just how old the author was. So so young. Yes, it was all so stupid, idiotic, vile, nasty, wrong. But they got on with it.
And yet there was more to it than that. The spirit of adventure burnt strong in the author. He was a leader, literally, routinely at the front of his sqadron of tanks. He was a regimental sergeant major in his early twenties. He knew his machines and he knew men and he knew how to fight his machines and the men who followed him.
There is no craziness in the telling of this story. No extreme politics. No extreme sentimentality. Just a plain strong and honest recollection of astonishing events, extreme dangers, of human fortitude and failings.
Thee is the Colonel who, being fearful of being lost and captured, orders the author to leap from his tank, run exposed through the thick of battle to his tank so he can double-check where they are on the map. This happens every thirty minutes or so.
Many read of generals, of how Montgomery broke Rommel. Others pore over lavishly illustrated geek books about tanks and battle kit. Some love reading about the other side, about Rommel and all that. Maybe there is more to be had from reading about how it was for those who actually did it.
Reading and thinking about the events Jock Watts survived was an overwhelming experience. Why? Because of his humanity and honesty. I know I cld not have done what he did.
There are moral issues also. Watts tells us of some enemy soldiers who sprang an ambush trap during a rearguard action and then prompty surrendered and then...
War. Men. How would we bahave in those circumstances?
There was something else I felt as I read. The story felt fresh, did not feel as thought it happened a long time ago. Why? Because the author's responses to the events had a timeless universality to them.
As his jounrey nears its, the author finds himself in Germany, just north of Belsen. The war is over and he and the other suvivors are decompressing, chilling. The reason for the journey suddenly rears its head almost by accident. Here's how the author puts it:
'.. the order to physically stand down was given, the brain, having tolerated a high stress level for so many years, was not capable of sudden change like switching off a light. Confusion in the mind brought out the worst in many, where men of usually normal behaviour did stupid and unexplaineable things, and I certainly did my share. Excessive drinking became the norm, sometimes sitting in the bar until the early hours, without any real purpose. Perhaps our location had something to do with my state of mind, but I doubt it.'
That said, that said...
'We had moved into what was officially described as a Brain Research Establishment in the village of Suchtein, near Krefeld. This was not in anyway related to our behaviour, but merely a readily-available group of buildings suitable for winter quarters. The area of large houses, dispersed amongst trees and gardens, had a large frontal block of offices with cellar stores that ocntained many hundreds of brains, all perfectly preserved in jars of alcohol and presenting a very gruesome spectacle. Each house was self-contained with its own kitchen, rest room surgery and about ten bedrooms with double-glazed windows, which kept out the cold, but were probably designed to keep the screams of the patientss in. There were still a small number of patients and staff in the area, but they had been removed to a remote part of the plot and fenced off. Some suggested that we had been sent here to join them, but no one attempted to climb the barrier, although I was surprised some of the drunks did not fall over it in the night.'
Yes, this is a story of a great many journeys. Perhaps we share a common journey. Perhaps we all went to Belsen in some way, just as those who conceived it and those who suffered it. History is our story, too, as well as the story of those, like Jock who lived it. What may we learn from it, from how we were?
As you read this millions of young men around the world will be hunched over various digital devices playing high-resolution online war games, zapping and killing. Millions of others will be reading all sorts of quest fantasies peopled with hero warriors. Others will be pumping themselves up in gyms, going to all sorts of lengths to make themselves look more ferocious.
Maybe Orwell wld have teased some satire out of the euphemistically arch: BRAIN RESEARCH ESTABLISHMENT.
How poignant that those who fought so hard to break the evil behind the BRAIN RESEARCH ESTABLISHMENT should themselves end up pickling their brains with alcohol as they tried to cope with the insanity of their experiences.
It is vital that we read and undstand history because we need to know what has happened and why it happened, in order to shape our thoughts on how we are now and our own journey through life.
This is knowledge is vital if we are to think clearly. And if we do not think clearly, individually and collectively, our journey may take us back into darkness.
Here is something I wrote about an event in Jock's story where he is advancing in his tank in Tunisia. A severely wounded comrade in a shell crater reaches up to him. But Jock can't stop. The order is, 'Press on! Press on! Press on!'
Earlier Jock described the dead silence of the deep desert. And most poignantly of all he writes several times in his story, 'they died instead of me.'
IN DREAD SILENCE
A shape moves in its war-grave hole
'Can't stop', you cannot stop, 'push on'
Pained terrors arc live from its eyes
'Save me!' it cries deep into you
Broken handclaw claws desert air
Dies anew in dead silence true
You desapair, 'must not stop', live on
But nothing is the same back home
Not with this war-grave in your head
Condemned to live while they lie dead
Those friends of yours who died for you
Anew you see him in his hole
A life alive forever more
Beneath the silent desert floor
I saw A TANKIE'S TRAVELS on a clear plastic display stand on a table facing the door. Well, it was the run up to November 11th, Remembrance Sunday.
Everything about the appearance of the the book is uncool, so not now, so not out there. I mean, an old grainy b&w pic of a guy in his army uniform, grinning slightly. Even the title is a read-me-not.
So I bought it.
Some people, myself included, enjoy the odd bite of comfort food. Some of us also enjoy our comfort reading. And why not? It takes your mind off the nonsense of now.
I absolutely never intended or even thought that I wld write something about A TANKIE'S TRAVELS.
I read quite a bit, not as much as those frantic souls who set themselves reading challenges, 10 books a week. But I still do read my bit. I chew over what I read, try to have an open mind. In recent months I have read a lot of stories I wld never have thought of reading, out there genre stories. This is good, but I get yearnings for certain types of writing and the feel of a pbook in my hands again.
The storytelling and writing in A TANKIE'S TRAVELS by Robert 'Jock' Watt is weapons grade lucid.
I also think George Orwell wld take his hat off to the simple effectivness with which an ordinary bloke tells his story. Yes, it is a my-war story, but there is more to it than that because it is also an unselfconscious portrait of a particular type of British person. And, esp towards the end of the story, there are some acute insights into the shifting nature and notion of home.
Paraxoically, the story is extraordinary because a version of it happened to thousands of men like Jock. Perhaps he wrote his story in part for the ones who cld not write theirs because they died in the making of it, cld not face it once it was over, or were not as able with words as Jock.
That said, there are plenty of war recollections.
So why am I writing about this one now?
Because it moved me. Jock fought in tanks for the best part of six years. He was chased out of France. He was chased out of Greece. He went back and forth across the North African desert. He should not have survived but he did.
He was young when he left a Scottish fishing town to join the army because he loved engines. He was adventurous. Cld my sons do that I wondered? Cld I have done it? Men ask themselves questions when they read other men's accounts of war. Some dream and fantasise about being there, doing it. It is how many men are for better or worse.
War.
The millions of individual stories that coalesced in the history of of 1939-1945 beats anything that any writer of fiction can ever concoct. It beats X-factor. It beats I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here. It beats The Premiership. In some twisted way it even beats peace. Why? Because men seem far more alive when they are striving to kill each other not because they want to kill other men - thought some will feel like that - but because we want to avoid being killed, to survive. This is what life demands of us, that we survive.
A TANKIE'S TRAVELS is the story of a man who survived. He fought to kill others again and again so that he and his wld survive. He writes often of his fear. His fear is real. It is not something to be ashamed of.
As I read his story, I had to keep checking just how old the author was. So so young. Yes, it was all so stupid, idiotic, vile, nasty, wrong. But they got on with it.
And yet there was more to it than that. The spirit of adventure burnt strong in the author. He was a leader, literally, routinely at the front of his sqadron of tanks. He was a regimental sergeant major in his early twenties. He knew his machines and he knew men and he knew how to fight his machines and the men who followed him.
There is no craziness in the telling of this story. No extreme politics. No extreme sentimentality. Just a plain strong and honest recollection of astonishing events, extreme dangers, of human fortitude and failings.
Thee is the Colonel who, being fearful of being lost and captured, orders the author to leap from his tank, run exposed through the thick of battle to his tank so he can double-check where they are on the map. This happens every thirty minutes or so.
Many read of generals, of how Montgomery broke Rommel. Others pore over lavishly illustrated geek books about tanks and battle kit. Some love reading about the other side, about Rommel and all that. Maybe there is more to be had from reading about how it was for those who actually did it.
Reading and thinking about the events Jock Watts survived was an overwhelming experience. Why? Because of his humanity and honesty. I know I cld not have done what he did.
There are moral issues also. Watts tells us of some enemy soldiers who sprang an ambush trap during a rearguard action and then prompty surrendered and then...
War. Men. How would we bahave in those circumstances?
There was something else I felt as I read. The story felt fresh, did not feel as thought it happened a long time ago. Why? Because the author's responses to the events had a timeless universality to them.
As his jounrey nears its, the author finds himself in Germany, just north of Belsen. The war is over and he and the other suvivors are decompressing, chilling. The reason for the journey suddenly rears its head almost by accident. Here's how the author puts it:
'.. the order to physically stand down was given, the brain, having tolerated a high stress level for so many years, was not capable of sudden change like switching off a light. Confusion in the mind brought out the worst in many, where men of usually normal behaviour did stupid and unexplaineable things, and I certainly did my share. Excessive drinking became the norm, sometimes sitting in the bar until the early hours, without any real purpose. Perhaps our location had something to do with my state of mind, but I doubt it.'
That said, that said...
'We had moved into what was officially described as a Brain Research Establishment in the village of Suchtein, near Krefeld. This was not in anyway related to our behaviour, but merely a readily-available group of buildings suitable for winter quarters. The area of large houses, dispersed amongst trees and gardens, had a large frontal block of offices with cellar stores that ocntained many hundreds of brains, all perfectly preserved in jars of alcohol and presenting a very gruesome spectacle. Each house was self-contained with its own kitchen, rest room surgery and about ten bedrooms with double-glazed windows, which kept out the cold, but were probably designed to keep the screams of the patientss in. There were still a small number of patients and staff in the area, but they had been removed to a remote part of the plot and fenced off. Some suggested that we had been sent here to join them, but no one attempted to climb the barrier, although I was surprised some of the drunks did not fall over it in the night.'
Yes, this is a story of a great many journeys. Perhaps we share a common journey. Perhaps we all went to Belsen in some way, just as those who conceived it and those who suffered it. History is our story, too, as well as the story of those, like Jock who lived it. What may we learn from it, from how we were?
As you read this millions of young men around the world will be hunched over various digital devices playing high-resolution online war games, zapping and killing. Millions of others will be reading all sorts of quest fantasies peopled with hero warriors. Others will be pumping themselves up in gyms, going to all sorts of lengths to make themselves look more ferocious.
Maybe Orwell wld have teased some satire out of the euphemistically arch: BRAIN RESEARCH ESTABLISHMENT.
How poignant that those who fought so hard to break the evil behind the BRAIN RESEARCH ESTABLISHMENT should themselves end up pickling their brains with alcohol as they tried to cope with the insanity of their experiences.
It is vital that we read and undstand history because we need to know what has happened and why it happened, in order to shape our thoughts on how we are now and our own journey through life.
This is knowledge is vital if we are to think clearly. And if we do not think clearly, individually and collectively, our journey may take us back into darkness.
Here is something I wrote about an event in Jock's story where he is advancing in his tank in Tunisia. A severely wounded comrade in a shell crater reaches up to him. But Jock can't stop. The order is, 'Press on! Press on! Press on!'
Earlier Jock described the dead silence of the deep desert. And most poignantly of all he writes several times in his story, 'they died instead of me.'
IN DREAD SILENCE
A shape moves in its war-grave hole
'Can't stop', you cannot stop, 'push on'
Pained terrors arc live from its eyes
'Save me!' it cries deep into you
Broken handclaw claws desert air
Dies anew in dead silence true
You desapair, 'must not stop', live on
But nothing is the same back home
Not with this war-grave in your head
Condemned to live while they lie dead
Those friends of yours who died for you
Anew you see him in his hole
A life alive forever more
Beneath the silent desert floor
November 17, 2012
WHEN THE SIREN CALLS ~ a review
Isobel is a rich Surrey housewife adrift in the world of 'husbands, airports and business'. She has it all yet has nothing.
Peter, her alpha male husband, pays more attention to his phone and doing deals for his high powered international business clients than he does to her.
A chance encounter with a suave stranger who saves her from a sticky situation in a Marakesh souk leads Isobel on a sexual and romantic adventure that turns her life on its head.
Egged on by Maria, her adulterous confidante, Isobel swallows her scruples to embark on a steamy affair with Jay, another but very different sort of wheeler-dealer buziness man to her ice-man husband.
Tom Barry's When the Siren Calls chronciles Isobel's erotic liberation and subsequent fall as the net of lies she plunges into closes in around her.
The story-telling is strong throughout with the romantic lives of the players set against the fortunes of a decidedly questionable time-share complex in Tuscany.
The characters are skillfully drawn, especially Isobel, who felt very real in her hopes, ways, flaws and responses.
A couple of the chapters were also richly witty, farcical almost as the characters sought to further their romantic hopes and dreams.
And sex. There is plenty of sex. But this is not primarily an erotic of sexual story because the sex always feels secondary to the charachters' quests for fulfilment. Lucy, the most overtly sexiest player of all wants marriage and children. The main men, Peter, Jay and Andy, are motivated as much by winning their business power plays as by sex. Indeed, the story is as much about male power as sex. But then don't men seek power as a means to achieve sex, too?
The rivalries between the men are excellently portrayed and give an expertly observed and credible insight into the ways of rich professional men for whom, 'using the rules to your own advantage is not a crime'. This is one of the story's great strengths.
There is also a pleasing balance to the structure of the story and characterisaion with Jay, the lothario, at the cente of a diamond of six women. Isobel with her second, Lucy with her advisor, Rusty his wife. Gina, a luckless employee, completes the pattern.
For me though, the quality of the writing was especially pleaing because of the convincing insights to be had from it. It all felt very grown up and intelligent. For example:
~~ She imagined Tessa must have read about love in books and seen it at the movies but dismissed it as a weak fabrication of a lesser human mind
~~ Lucy lowered her eyes in shame and self-loathing, her eyes coming to rest on his pocket, which revealed the outline of what seemed to be a small square bod, pushing into sharp relief by his still, gentle hand.
~~ (Lucy) blessed with nipples he could hang his umbrella on.
~~ If Isobel had looked down the corridor she would have seen him break into a run as he reached the corner.
~~ (Driving along in a white cabriolet in Tuscany) The cool breeze rendered the sub-beaten landscape no more than a vast and beautiful painting, an idyllic backdrop for their perfection.
~~ when the shit hits the fantasy.
~~ with the iron resolve of a man crushed by an ultimatum.
~~ testosterone rising like mercury in a blast furnace.
~~ the entire opening paragraph of Ch 49.
~~ unable to bear the memory of her own happiness.
~~ because it was easier than resisting.
~~ If you only knew how loose that tongue already is for me.
~~ swirling herself around him in manic, hysterical sadness.
Yes, the writing is definitely investment grade quality, as is the characterisation, as is the story-telling. I loved it. The insights into human nature made me think of D.H.Lawrence at times.
Ron Askew
Peter, her alpha male husband, pays more attention to his phone and doing deals for his high powered international business clients than he does to her.
A chance encounter with a suave stranger who saves her from a sticky situation in a Marakesh souk leads Isobel on a sexual and romantic adventure that turns her life on its head.
Egged on by Maria, her adulterous confidante, Isobel swallows her scruples to embark on a steamy affair with Jay, another but very different sort of wheeler-dealer buziness man to her ice-man husband.
Tom Barry's When the Siren Calls chronciles Isobel's erotic liberation and subsequent fall as the net of lies she plunges into closes in around her.
The story-telling is strong throughout with the romantic lives of the players set against the fortunes of a decidedly questionable time-share complex in Tuscany.
The characters are skillfully drawn, especially Isobel, who felt very real in her hopes, ways, flaws and responses.
A couple of the chapters were also richly witty, farcical almost as the characters sought to further their romantic hopes and dreams.
And sex. There is plenty of sex. But this is not primarily an erotic of sexual story because the sex always feels secondary to the charachters' quests for fulfilment. Lucy, the most overtly sexiest player of all wants marriage and children. The main men, Peter, Jay and Andy, are motivated as much by winning their business power plays as by sex. Indeed, the story is as much about male power as sex. But then don't men seek power as a means to achieve sex, too?
The rivalries between the men are excellently portrayed and give an expertly observed and credible insight into the ways of rich professional men for whom, 'using the rules to your own advantage is not a crime'. This is one of the story's great strengths.
There is also a pleasing balance to the structure of the story and characterisaion with Jay, the lothario, at the cente of a diamond of six women. Isobel with her second, Lucy with her advisor, Rusty his wife. Gina, a luckless employee, completes the pattern.
For me though, the quality of the writing was especially pleaing because of the convincing insights to be had from it. It all felt very grown up and intelligent. For example:
~~ She imagined Tessa must have read about love in books and seen it at the movies but dismissed it as a weak fabrication of a lesser human mind
~~ Lucy lowered her eyes in shame and self-loathing, her eyes coming to rest on his pocket, which revealed the outline of what seemed to be a small square bod, pushing into sharp relief by his still, gentle hand.
~~ (Lucy) blessed with nipples he could hang his umbrella on.
~~ If Isobel had looked down the corridor she would have seen him break into a run as he reached the corner.
~~ (Driving along in a white cabriolet in Tuscany) The cool breeze rendered the sub-beaten landscape no more than a vast and beautiful painting, an idyllic backdrop for their perfection.
~~ when the shit hits the fantasy.
~~ with the iron resolve of a man crushed by an ultimatum.
~~ testosterone rising like mercury in a blast furnace.
~~ the entire opening paragraph of Ch 49.
~~ unable to bear the memory of her own happiness.
~~ because it was easier than resisting.
~~ If you only knew how loose that tongue already is for me.
~~ swirling herself around him in manic, hysterical sadness.
Yes, the writing is definitely investment grade quality, as is the characterisation, as is the story-telling. I loved it. The insights into human nature made me think of D.H.Lawrence at times.
Ron Askew
November 13, 2012
MEAT K-THUNK .. EVERY INDIE NEEDS ONE FOR THOSE DARK MOVEMBER MOMENTS WHEN THINGS STICK IN THE NIGHT
K-THUNK , my helpmeat (sp correct -eds) zombie , is now plodding awound the streets of London wired up to a couple of Toyota car batteries. I've programmed him to hand out Watching Swifts biz cards, esp to people reading kindles on the tube, esp the Metropolitan line in the Baker St and Paddington catchment area. He's got a million or so cards curtsies of that online marketeer who keeps hitting on me, so that shouldn't be a problem. The only issue if securing a good supply of K-THUNKS fave crispy dry roasted n salted fingers. Clearly one has to go some some to find supplies of such in the west. This is not China, right? Ha ha. But if you are a determined INDIE AUTHOUR such as my good self *bows* anything is possible in pursuit of THAT NEXT SALE. And so, I ham happy to report, I has secured a years supply of K-THUNKS favourite snack. That said I shall now eat my hand for an encore *bows* *genuflects* *tweets* *winks* *spins stick on plate* *spins seal on stick* *repeats repeatedly* *drops x2 rennies* *chills to a little light Rammstein* *blogs* *tweets* *repeats* *reflucts*
Back story: k-THUNK was a shape-shifting Middlesburo fan who did a 5 stretch for dissing columnists in a newswoom who shall be forever nameless. THUNK-the-lunk then reads this self-help book for under-achieving zombies.. Film work dried up for him when he bit a focus puller's arm off on a shoot at Livingston Green Studios. He was found sobbing in an Oak Wood just behind Stnalley Kubrics rambling gaff just outside St.Albans near Gorehambury Stoats. The stoats' pelts used to he available through Bleeding Heart Yard in Cov Garnden not far from where the Poetry Cafe is, where YOURS TRULY HAS NOT ONLY PERFOMED ON MORE THAN ONE OPEN MIC NITE. But that is another kettle of blogs.
Anyway, where wasn't I? K-THUNK was found in Big Stan Kubric's wood SOB-bing, having tried to dig up Big S and revive his flagging directorial career. THUNK had got it into his PVS head that he -- K-THUNK -- was perfect to the lead in NAPOLEON WAS A ZOMBO SHAPE-SHIFTING VAMPIRE FUCK.
Constable Quick of the Hertfordshire constabulary was totally on message with all this and helped THUNK dig up Stan. The saucy plod even called in the *POLICE CHOPPER* to beam its spolight down onto the dig, it being a very, very, very dark. THUNK swears that he'd offered Quick a couple of seats for the premier in Leicester Sq. Evidently, Quick was romantically linked with a big cheese -- stoats' or otherwise I know not, but am checking, unlike certain [REDAPTED] [REDAPTED] -- in the forthcoming St.Albans *FILM FESTIVAL*. You have to agreen, THUNK is a spunky zombo when it comes to pulling a stroke. Quallo, as we say East of St.Pauls, not that I've ever been there in this life.
Anyway, should you be sitting on the Met/District/Circle n Hammerhorror line in the run up to Crimbo with your Hamleys carrier bags or whatever, and should my zombo and #1 fan lurch your way with a biz card for Watching Swifts you should be very alarmed as he does bite and is non too keen in the old orthodontic orthodoxy dept. That is to say his mouth is in worse shape that that of a Kimono Dragon, Kimono Komodo whatever.
My best advice is that you be alert to the possibility of his presence and 6) get off at Eusless Road, 2) change carriages, 7)shape shift into an indie nutrino, 9) pull the communications breakdown and tell Jimbo Page to ramble on cos big Robbo is no way gonna go for a 30 gig world tour.. Failing which.. Failing which..
I tweet you not, this indie authour biz is a quallo game to be in cos you can be whatever you wanna be, ain't right, THUNK, my old zombean fruit bat?
LET THE RECORD SHOW K-THUNK nodded -- great strands of glutinous spittle dangling from his jaws like crazy crane hawsers -- and muttered but the one word: "Quallo boss, quallo."
Back story: k-THUNK was a shape-shifting Middlesburo fan who did a 5 stretch for dissing columnists in a newswoom who shall be forever nameless. THUNK-the-lunk then reads this self-help book for under-achieving zombies.. Film work dried up for him when he bit a focus puller's arm off on a shoot at Livingston Green Studios. He was found sobbing in an Oak Wood just behind Stnalley Kubrics rambling gaff just outside St.Albans near Gorehambury Stoats. The stoats' pelts used to he available through Bleeding Heart Yard in Cov Garnden not far from where the Poetry Cafe is, where YOURS TRULY HAS NOT ONLY PERFOMED ON MORE THAN ONE OPEN MIC NITE. But that is another kettle of blogs.
Anyway, where wasn't I? K-THUNK was found in Big Stan Kubric's wood SOB-bing, having tried to dig up Big S and revive his flagging directorial career. THUNK had got it into his PVS head that he -- K-THUNK -- was perfect to the lead in NAPOLEON WAS A ZOMBO SHAPE-SHIFTING VAMPIRE FUCK.
Constable Quick of the Hertfordshire constabulary was totally on message with all this and helped THUNK dig up Stan. The saucy plod even called in the *POLICE CHOPPER* to beam its spolight down onto the dig, it being a very, very, very dark. THUNK swears that he'd offered Quick a couple of seats for the premier in Leicester Sq. Evidently, Quick was romantically linked with a big cheese -- stoats' or otherwise I know not, but am checking, unlike certain [REDAPTED] [REDAPTED] -- in the forthcoming St.Albans *FILM FESTIVAL*. You have to agreen, THUNK is a spunky zombo when it comes to pulling a stroke. Quallo, as we say East of St.Pauls, not that I've ever been there in this life.
Anyway, should you be sitting on the Met/District/Circle n Hammerhorror line in the run up to Crimbo with your Hamleys carrier bags or whatever, and should my zombo and #1 fan lurch your way with a biz card for Watching Swifts you should be very alarmed as he does bite and is non too keen in the old orthodontic orthodoxy dept. That is to say his mouth is in worse shape that that of a Kimono Dragon, Kimono Komodo whatever.
My best advice is that you be alert to the possibility of his presence and 6) get off at Eusless Road, 2) change carriages, 7)shape shift into an indie nutrino, 9) pull the communications breakdown and tell Jimbo Page to ramble on cos big Robbo is no way gonna go for a 30 gig world tour.. Failing which.. Failing which..
I tweet you not, this indie authour biz is a quallo game to be in cos you can be whatever you wanna be, ain't right, THUNK, my old zombean fruit bat?
LET THE RECORD SHOW K-THUNK nodded -- great strands of glutinous spittle dangling from his jaws like crazy crane hawsers -- and muttered but the one word: "Quallo boss, quallo."
November 8, 2012
Tai Chi Italy's FORBIDDEN FRUIT 101 EROTIC POEMS ~ a review
Tired of frotting the bacon? .. making the two-backed beast? .. doing the ugly? .. making the beast with four, six, eight legs? .. marriage, relationship, partnership a bit, you know, like that much loved but threadbare old rug you tossed into the skip the other day ?????
Perhaps you need a little - LOUD CRACK OF THE WHIP! - refresher on the sheer delights of - BEG SLAVE! - a little top up in what it is to be alive, vigorous, active down south in the rumpy-pumpy department of life's great carnivale.
Tai Chi Italy's FORBIDDEN FRUIT will - I tweet you not - set your blood charging round your vital organs that little bit faster.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT comprises 101 of the finest erotica verses you cld ever hope to be tied naked to a chair by.
There's one about a nurse's uniform.. 'starched .. tiny apron .. bulging breasts .. B-I-G buckle' Oooer! I say! OOOO! ERRR!
And one with this alluring line.. 'hardened toffee flavoured nipples'
And this.. 'She needs her priest, the princess need her beast'
Don't get the wrong idea though. The great thing about this powerfully penned and frank outpouring of sheer erotic force is the range of humanity it captures.
Some of the poems are astonishingly tender. There is one with invocation, 'So love me. Heal me. Teach me. I beseach thee.'
There is an intellectual feel to some of the poems, too. One contrasts the merits of a healthy eroticism with the evils of porn.
There is great wit, mishievous lewdness, sheer craving .. and, ocassionally, some sadness, too.
Above all though, FORBIDDEN FRUIT is an inspired capturing in finely crafted words of sensual passion, of a key aspect of what it is to be fully alive.
We are sexual creatures. We are only alive because someone else had sex. We spend much of lives driven by sex one way or another, for better or worse. But there is more to it than sex. Animals have sex. Nothing wrong with that. We are animals, too. But there is defiitely more to it than that. Eroticism goes beyond plain vanilla sex. It seems to be a form of life art. There is something about eroticism which seems quintessentially human, some need to improve, beautify, enhance our experience of life. I can't quite put my finger on the nipple of this notion - LOUD CRACK OF WHIP, BAAAAAAAAD BOY, TRY HARDER! ..
Perhaps eroticism is our attempt to distill our higher delight in sex, to draw more pleasure from it by focusing on intensely, to relive what we may have done and what we crave to do. It can certainly be stimulative, espresso writing. Yes, each poem in FORBIDDEN FRUITS is a shot of erotic espresso.
This surely makes it important to us all to some degree. For is the art of living not about improving on the basics in all ways? Is that not why we need our poetry, art, books, music and films? Erotica is a part of all this. We need it because it can improve our lives. Tai Chi Italy's forceful collection is an excellent example of modern erotica. At no point when I was reading it did I think it overstepped the mark. I feel that every warm-blooded woman and man will find something among her verse to please them.
I have about 10 especial faves among the 101. But I am not going to tell you which as you should have a read yourself and choose your own. Meanwhile, would you just put your milky white wrists into these handcuffs please, I promise this WILL hurt .. but in a way that, erm ..
Tai Chi Italy's poems will make you smile, weep, smirk, wince, weep, howl and breath the quicker, depening on whatever it is that, erm, rocks your ocean liner.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT is vigorous writing, but for those who love poetry there are some deft poetic dabs to be found in the collection, too.
R J Askew
Perhaps you need a little - LOUD CRACK OF THE WHIP! - refresher on the sheer delights of - BEG SLAVE! - a little top up in what it is to be alive, vigorous, active down south in the rumpy-pumpy department of life's great carnivale.
Tai Chi Italy's FORBIDDEN FRUIT will - I tweet you not - set your blood charging round your vital organs that little bit faster.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT comprises 101 of the finest erotica verses you cld ever hope to be tied naked to a chair by.
There's one about a nurse's uniform.. 'starched .. tiny apron .. bulging breasts .. B-I-G buckle' Oooer! I say! OOOO! ERRR!
And one with this alluring line.. 'hardened toffee flavoured nipples'
And this.. 'She needs her priest, the princess need her beast'
Don't get the wrong idea though. The great thing about this powerfully penned and frank outpouring of sheer erotic force is the range of humanity it captures.
Some of the poems are astonishingly tender. There is one with invocation, 'So love me. Heal me. Teach me. I beseach thee.'
There is an intellectual feel to some of the poems, too. One contrasts the merits of a healthy eroticism with the evils of porn.
There is great wit, mishievous lewdness, sheer craving .. and, ocassionally, some sadness, too.
Above all though, FORBIDDEN FRUIT is an inspired capturing in finely crafted words of sensual passion, of a key aspect of what it is to be fully alive.
We are sexual creatures. We are only alive because someone else had sex. We spend much of lives driven by sex one way or another, for better or worse. But there is more to it than sex. Animals have sex. Nothing wrong with that. We are animals, too. But there is defiitely more to it than that. Eroticism goes beyond plain vanilla sex. It seems to be a form of life art. There is something about eroticism which seems quintessentially human, some need to improve, beautify, enhance our experience of life. I can't quite put my finger on the nipple of this notion - LOUD CRACK OF WHIP, BAAAAAAAAD BOY, TRY HARDER! ..
Perhaps eroticism is our attempt to distill our higher delight in sex, to draw more pleasure from it by focusing on intensely, to relive what we may have done and what we crave to do. It can certainly be stimulative, espresso writing. Yes, each poem in FORBIDDEN FRUITS is a shot of erotic espresso.
This surely makes it important to us all to some degree. For is the art of living not about improving on the basics in all ways? Is that not why we need our poetry, art, books, music and films? Erotica is a part of all this. We need it because it can improve our lives. Tai Chi Italy's forceful collection is an excellent example of modern erotica. At no point when I was reading it did I think it overstepped the mark. I feel that every warm-blooded woman and man will find something among her verse to please them.
I have about 10 especial faves among the 101. But I am not going to tell you which as you should have a read yourself and choose your own. Meanwhile, would you just put your milky white wrists into these handcuffs please, I promise this WILL hurt .. but in a way that, erm ..
Tai Chi Italy's poems will make you smile, weep, smirk, wince, weep, howl and breath the quicker, depening on whatever it is that, erm, rocks your ocean liner.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT is vigorous writing, but for those who love poetry there are some deft poetic dabs to be found in the collection, too.
R J Askew
November 7, 2012
DRAGONFAERIE ~ my review of a classic YA quest story combining great storytelling and some fine wriring
Christopher Cooke's DRAGONFAERIE is an enjoyable YA adventure quest about Will, a teen who is abducted from his home in Iowa by a goblin who springs from his wardrobe and whisks him off to another world. His abductor forces him to run for two days and continually torments him, speaking in rhyming couplets.
Will in saved by Anlia, a teen girl warrior who becomes his stern mentor and trainer during their journey through a divided land. The team is complete when they are joined by Merry McBride, an apprentice wizard, at which point the adventure begins in earnest.
The introduction of the trainee wizard, really made the story for me becuase he provided a foil to the martial and romantic tensions between Will and Anlia. The three also form a close band, with the friendship between Will and McBride being an especially strong feature. McBride's familiar is a priceless creation.
The three face all manner of deadly struggles with dragons, monsters and enemy guards as they steal their way through enemy lands. The tension builds as the story evolves strongly, especially in the second half, with moral challenges, dilemmas and surprising twists that put through ordeal after ordeal of increasing severity.
The author's writing skills are as strong as his storytelling. Here is a passage from torwards the end of the story. The trio are contemplated a forbidding city they must pass through:
"They sat in silence for a while, their cheeriness ebbing as the first shadows of dusk began reaching across the land. Night birds began flying, chasing insects through the sky. Crickets began to sing and far off, a wolf began to howl. The gate to the city was closed as the sun dropped below the horizon, leaving the world in blue darkness."
Will pines for home increasingly as the story progresses, thinking often of his parents. But his relationships with his new friends will make it difficult for him to leave them. And at the end he learns something from the Dragonfaerie that changes everything.
I am not a natural reader for YA being an OA, but once I got into this story I found that I was easily taken along by the quality of the storytelling and the charm of the story and the many human facets to it. I would be happy for my YAs to read this story and I would definitely be tempted to read the next volume of the saga because the author was still bossing my curiosity at the very end.
Ron Askew
Will in saved by Anlia, a teen girl warrior who becomes his stern mentor and trainer during their journey through a divided land. The team is complete when they are joined by Merry McBride, an apprentice wizard, at which point the adventure begins in earnest.
The introduction of the trainee wizard, really made the story for me becuase he provided a foil to the martial and romantic tensions between Will and Anlia. The three also form a close band, with the friendship between Will and McBride being an especially strong feature. McBride's familiar is a priceless creation.
The three face all manner of deadly struggles with dragons, monsters and enemy guards as they steal their way through enemy lands. The tension builds as the story evolves strongly, especially in the second half, with moral challenges, dilemmas and surprising twists that put through ordeal after ordeal of increasing severity.
The author's writing skills are as strong as his storytelling. Here is a passage from torwards the end of the story. The trio are contemplated a forbidding city they must pass through:
"They sat in silence for a while, their cheeriness ebbing as the first shadows of dusk began reaching across the land. Night birds began flying, chasing insects through the sky. Crickets began to sing and far off, a wolf began to howl. The gate to the city was closed as the sun dropped below the horizon, leaving the world in blue darkness."
Will pines for home increasingly as the story progresses, thinking often of his parents. But his relationships with his new friends will make it difficult for him to leave them. And at the end he learns something from the Dragonfaerie that changes everything.
I am not a natural reader for YA being an OA, but once I got into this story I found that I was easily taken along by the quality of the storytelling and the charm of the story and the many human facets to it. I would be happy for my YAs to read this story and I would definitely be tempted to read the next volume of the saga because the author was still bossing my curiosity at the very end.
Ron Askew
October 28, 2012
DEEP IN ST.ALBANS ABBEY SCRIPTORIUM, 1339
here goes .. this just a writerly jam session .. Orlando Furioso is a pen name I use occasionally ..
DEEP IN ST.ALBANS SCRIPTORIUM, 1339
(two monks toiling taking a tea break from illuminating bibles, late one dark late November afternoon. Note: Bishop's Finger is a strong dark ale)
BROTHER JAYDEN: I tweets you not bruv, this guy strolls in, crazy mother, got the biggest kissass carp you've ever see. This big! Carpus mirabilis. S'truth! God's hooks!
BROTHER ROGER: Yeah, yeah. You been at the Bishop's Finger again Brother Jayden?
BJ: Nah bruv, God blind me! THIS! big. Two days to cook..
BR: Pass the gold leaf brother.
BJ: No can do, bruv. Used it on a bit of freelance.
BR: What?!
BJ: N.C.D. gold-leafed out.
BR: Listen, Brother Jayden, when the abbot hears, you're going to end up shovelling his night soil. Or the rood screen, up on the rood screen.
BJ: God's hooks! Bibles, bibles, bibles, bibles, year after year, nothing but 'The sins of Israel and Judah .. Deuteronomy .. reproof of the shepherds'. I tweets you not bruv, that dude man! Was from the twenty-first century, man! Just walks in! What you looking at me like that for bruv?
BR: (rolls eyes heavenwards) Holy Mother, save me from this poor deluded sinner!
BJ: Loook at this freebie the dude laid on me. Signing on fee.
BR: What's that?
BJ: iPhone.
BR: I?
BJ: iPhone. Look. Inter-centurial-internet-con!-nec!- tiv!-it!-eeee! Wanna see?
BR: (gazes at phone, which Jayden has set to a free online porn site) AGGGGGGGGGGGGH! The four-legged-two backed beast! (staggers back) Let me look again.
BJ: Hot babes, frotting the bacon.
BR: (looks over shoulder guiltily) Brother Jayden, let me see, one more glance, so I know what to pray for salvation from. Please.. Thank you.. What is she doing now? Gates of heaven! Ahh, now there's another one! What devilish work be this? Let me see. No, I can't look. Let me see, let me see! They are alive in there! Tiny devils in.. I don't know what..
BJ: Nah bruv, just an iPhone. They all have 'em in the twenty-first century.
BR: Devil's boy you!
BJ: Listen up bruv, I tweets you not, there's a wedge in this for u, you-n-me bruv. We're going to be R I C H bruv.
BR: Rich?
BJ: As earls.
BR: How so?
BJ: The guy, Orlando Furioso, he's this big shot indie author, you know a bike that robe you worked with in France..
BR: What, Geoffrey Chaucer?
BJ: Roger, Roger. My man wants me, us, to do a job for him. God blind me! I swear to you the carp could've swallowed Jonah's freakin' whale like some freakin' abbot's anchovie. This big! As succulent as a virgin's..
BR: Brother Jayden! We are in the abbot's scriptorium, were he to hear a word of this..
BJ: Sorry bruv, as succulent as the abbots pate!
BR: Brother Jayden! (draws closer) Go on.. The riches..
BJ: Orlando Furioso's, like, this crazy author from the twenty-first century. Don't! ask. He wants me, us, to, like, erm, illuminate his oeuvre, make God's light shine from his fundament.
BR: Brother Jayden! Go on.. The riches man, the riches!
BJ: Ten pounds a piece, enough to quit this living hell..
BR: I wish you wouldn't say such things. Go on..
BJ: ..a hundred hides in some sleep shire, sheep! Become sheep barons! Buy a wife, yesssssss Brother Roger, your very own maidenhead to frot. S'truth God send him.
BR: How many books does said authurial palladin crave?
BJ: Fourteen. You do ten. I do four. You being my devil in this device. And you being quicker.
BR: Yet I only get the same as you.
BJ: Yeah but, yeah but, I'm, like, his agent here, K? No me, no deal, no deal no sheep, no wives, no nuffink, K?
BR: K.
BJ: K then. Coolio.
BR: Might one see that cunning piece of devilment again?
BJ: All in good time Brother Roger-the-Roger. I'll let you look after you finish each book, K?
BR: K. When do we start?
BJ: Soon as the abbot goes off to devastate France with the king. K,we'll be behind with the bible quota when he gets back, but that won't matter as we'll soon be R I C H enough to naff off, K?
BR: Our vows? You saw what befell Brother Kyle when he tried to leave for his lady-of-St-Albans-town. Ordeal by torture. You helped me heap the weights on him until he..
BJ: S'why we've got to get out of this place bruv. It's crshing us.
BR: Speak for yourself. I'm up for spicer when Brother Ferkin dies.
BJ: Do you want to see the four-legged-two-backed beast again or not? I take it that's a yes. Good! Don't look so worried, Orlando of the future will square the abbot away with a series 7 Beamer. All will be well, we're going to be R I C H, rich as earls. Morphic reasonance, bruv. Right here, right now, sweet dreames are made of this, it's a beautiful day bruv!
(more anon)
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DEEP IN ST.ALBANS SCRIPTORIUM, 1339
(two monks toiling taking a tea break from illuminating bibles, late one dark late November afternoon. Note: Bishop's Finger is a strong dark ale)
BROTHER JAYDEN: I tweets you not bruv, this guy strolls in, crazy mother, got the biggest kissass carp you've ever see. This big! Carpus mirabilis. S'truth! God's hooks!
BROTHER ROGER: Yeah, yeah. You been at the Bishop's Finger again Brother Jayden?
BJ: Nah bruv, God blind me! THIS! big. Two days to cook..
BR: Pass the gold leaf brother.
BJ: No can do, bruv. Used it on a bit of freelance.
BR: What?!
BJ: N.C.D. gold-leafed out.
BR: Listen, Brother Jayden, when the abbot hears, you're going to end up shovelling his night soil. Or the rood screen, up on the rood screen.
BJ: God's hooks! Bibles, bibles, bibles, bibles, year after year, nothing but 'The sins of Israel and Judah .. Deuteronomy .. reproof of the shepherds'. I tweets you not bruv, that dude man! Was from the twenty-first century, man! Just walks in! What you looking at me like that for bruv?
BR: (rolls eyes heavenwards) Holy Mother, save me from this poor deluded sinner!
BJ: Loook at this freebie the dude laid on me. Signing on fee.
BR: What's that?
BJ: iPhone.
BR: I?
BJ: iPhone. Look. Inter-centurial-internet-con!-nec!- tiv!-it!-eeee! Wanna see?
BR: (gazes at phone, which Jayden has set to a free online porn site) AGGGGGGGGGGGGH! The four-legged-two backed beast! (staggers back) Let me look again.
BJ: Hot babes, frotting the bacon.
BR: (looks over shoulder guiltily) Brother Jayden, let me see, one more glance, so I know what to pray for salvation from. Please.. Thank you.. What is she doing now? Gates of heaven! Ahh, now there's another one! What devilish work be this? Let me see. No, I can't look. Let me see, let me see! They are alive in there! Tiny devils in.. I don't know what..
BJ: Nah bruv, just an iPhone. They all have 'em in the twenty-first century.
BR: Devil's boy you!
BJ: Listen up bruv, I tweets you not, there's a wedge in this for u, you-n-me bruv. We're going to be R I C H bruv.
BR: Rich?
BJ: As earls.
BR: How so?
BJ: The guy, Orlando Furioso, he's this big shot indie author, you know a bike that robe you worked with in France..
BR: What, Geoffrey Chaucer?
BJ: Roger, Roger. My man wants me, us, to do a job for him. God blind me! I swear to you the carp could've swallowed Jonah's freakin' whale like some freakin' abbot's anchovie. This big! As succulent as a virgin's..
BR: Brother Jayden! We are in the abbot's scriptorium, were he to hear a word of this..
BJ: Sorry bruv, as succulent as the abbots pate!
BR: Brother Jayden! (draws closer) Go on.. The riches..
BJ: Orlando Furioso's, like, this crazy author from the twenty-first century. Don't! ask. He wants me, us, to, like, erm, illuminate his oeuvre, make God's light shine from his fundament.
BR: Brother Jayden! Go on.. The riches man, the riches!
BJ: Ten pounds a piece, enough to quit this living hell..
BR: I wish you wouldn't say such things. Go on..
BJ: ..a hundred hides in some sleep shire, sheep! Become sheep barons! Buy a wife, yesssssss Brother Roger, your very own maidenhead to frot. S'truth God send him.
BR: How many books does said authurial palladin crave?
BJ: Fourteen. You do ten. I do four. You being my devil in this device. And you being quicker.
BR: Yet I only get the same as you.
BJ: Yeah but, yeah but, I'm, like, his agent here, K? No me, no deal, no deal no sheep, no wives, no nuffink, K?
BR: K.
BJ: K then. Coolio.
BR: Might one see that cunning piece of devilment again?
BJ: All in good time Brother Roger-the-Roger. I'll let you look after you finish each book, K?
BR: K. When do we start?
BJ: Soon as the abbot goes off to devastate France with the king. K,we'll be behind with the bible quota when he gets back, but that won't matter as we'll soon be R I C H enough to naff off, K?
BR: Our vows? You saw what befell Brother Kyle when he tried to leave for his lady-of-St-Albans-town. Ordeal by torture. You helped me heap the weights on him until he..
BJ: S'why we've got to get out of this place bruv. It's crshing us.
BR: Speak for yourself. I'm up for spicer when Brother Ferkin dies.
BJ: Do you want to see the four-legged-two-backed beast again or not? I take it that's a yes. Good! Don't look so worried, Orlando of the future will square the abbot away with a series 7 Beamer. All will be well, we're going to be R I C H, rich as earls. Morphic reasonance, bruv. Right here, right now, sweet dreames are made of this, it's a beautiful day bruv!
(more anon)
reply | edit | delete | flag*
