K. Morris's Blog, page 763

Authors: You Got Searched

drewdog2060drewdog2060:

A good first post in an interesting series of follow-up posts. Kevin

Originally posted on Lit World Interviews:

You’ve Been Searched!

Think about that for a moment. Who in the world would Search you? Why?

You sent in a query somewhere.
You self published and suddenly have good numbers.

In other words, there might be people out there in the literary/publishing worldlooking forYOUR NAME. And why do they do this?

Straight Talk With Ronovan: The Search is On

Writing a great book will not always get you published or make you the success you want to be, whatever success that is. Either traditional or self published it doesn’t matter, because people are going to look for information about you.

I Search for you. Yes, when I do interviews, book reviews, anything I do about an Author, I Search. Why do I Search? Why do Agents Search? Why do Publishers Search?

Personally I have a list of names that I want to ask to interview, but…

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Aquarium

A fish in an aquarium.

Tank brightly eluiminated so he can be observed swimming, swimming.

Encased in glass.

Water just the correct temperature.

Fed, content he swims.

Happily he glides through his regulated world, for ever observed.

 

A man travels on a train,

CCTV keeps him safe from pain.

Watched he sits contentedly munching, crunching.

For “your protection, CCTV operates throughout this train/station”.

The man is grateful, feels “safe” wrapped in his protective case.

Muggers, thieves are watched along, of course with him but, having nothing to fear he smiles, tut tuts at a headline in the paper and dozes, the movement of the train lulling him to sleep in this insulated world.

He dreams of yester year. A boy growing up, unobserved, free to roam.

Waking he shakes his head sadly,

“The world is a different place from when I was a boy. We must give up a little bit of freedom for the good of society. I have nothing to fear for I’m doing nothing wrong”, he thinks glancing at the camera which observes, keeping him, and the other good people “safe” from harm.

 

A woman plants a camera to catch her cheating spouse.

She observes the cheating pair, intimate details to make your toes curl.

 

A couple place tracking software in their teenage children’s mobile devices to keep them “safe”.

 

And still the fish glides serenely, content in his observed world.

 

50percent Of Occupations To Disappear In The Next 15 Years A New Report Predicts

A new report suggests that 50 percent of occupations will disappear in the next 15 years and lists those likely to perish together with those which will survive. The report’s author’s are optimistic that people will find new more interesting occupations to replace those which perish.

I note that authors don’t appear in either list. Not sure what one draws from that! For the article please visit http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2826463/CBRE-report-warns-50-cent-occupations-redundant-20-years-time.html

A Liverpudlian In London

It is frequently remarked by northerners that Londoners are “cold”, “unfriendly” and “always in a rush. As a Liverpudlian born and bred, who has lived and worked in London since 1994 I can see both sides of the coin.

One of the grimmest portrayals of London is that of the poet, William Blake. His poem, London is unremitting in it’s critique of the poverty and exploitation which prevailed in the UK’s capital city at the time when Blake penned the poem.

 

“I wander thro’ each charter’d street,

Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,

In every Infants cry of fear,

In every voice: in every ban,

The mind-forg’d manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry

Every blackning Church appalls,

And the hapless Soldiers sigh

Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlots curse

Blasts the new-born Infants tear

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse”.

 

I have come across, admittedly in a mild form, the criminal underbelly of that great metropolis. Some 10 years ago I was walking through London’s mainline Victoria station. I am registered blind and had become lost in Victoria’s cavanous interior. A gentleman approached me and enquired whether he could be of assistance. I explained that I wanted to get to Crystal Palace to which my saviour responded that he had just returned from offering medical assistance in Bosnia, his daughter was picking him up in her car and she would be happy to offer me a lift. With a little trepidation I accepted my new found friend’s kind offer.

“I have left my luggage in the luggage lockers, can you lend me some money to retrieve it”, my saviour then said.

Dear readers I have a terrible confession to make. Despite having money in my pocket I said I had none, to which my “friend” responded that he would

“Be back in a minute”.

Readers, the moment I heard his footsteps departing, yours truly walked in the opposite direction!

The above was, almost certainly an attempt to scan me. however, not having been born yesterday I failed to fall for the seeming “kindness of strangers” trick. Such scams go on up and down the UK and in every corner of the globe. However they are more often practiced in large cities, such as London where the chances of being apprehended are remote (in a village, for example the scammer is likely to stand out like a saw thumb).

London can seem uncaring. There is a huge homeless problem in the capital. I have often walked past people sleeping in cardboard boxes on Victoria Street and in other parts of the city. On a few occasions I have given money but in most instances I have not. To the casual observer the actions of busy Londoners hurrying past rough sleepers can appear callous. However, practically speaking one can not give to every homeless person. Again giving to people begging on the street frequently (but not always) leads to one’s money going to feed a drug or alcohol habit rather than going on the purchase of food. Consequently I will readily give to registered charities such as Shelter and The Passage (the latter charity being specifically aimed at helping homeless people in and around the Victoria area). Such organisations have their accounts audited, are regulated by the Charity Commission and one can be confident one’s donation is helping those who genuinely require assistance.

I personally have experienced a good deal of kindness when traversing London. People of all nationalities have gone out of their way to assist me when lost. AgainI’ve witnessed people assisting ladys with prams to negociate the steep steps at my local station.

Londoners are, in my experience wary of falling into conversation with strangers. This perhaps flows from the number of people (real or imagined) who are out to “scam” them. On returning to Liverpool I am struck by the ready manner in which people will engage with strangers. “good morning” is, for example frequently addressed by Liverpudlians to total strangers, something which, in London rarely happens. For instance on entering the newsagents close to where my mum lives I am greeted with “hello love” despite the fact I rarely go in there due to residing in London. This puts a smile on my face and makes the day feel brighter. Doubtless some Londoners could learn from the cheery manner in which Liverpudlians greet fellow residents of that city and strangers alike.

Having been born in Liverpool the city will forever maintain a special place in my affections. However I feel at home in London. I love the vibrancy and tolerance of the city (it is a place where people of many different nationalities and ethnic backgrounds live, more or less harmoniously together). My heart is, in short split between these 2 great cities although the larger part does, I think reside in Liverpool, in the heart of Woolton Woods and Speke Hall.

 

young offender (Part 1)

The clear, sharp bark of a fox pearced the rural solitude. A blackbird sang and a magpie screeched from the uppermost branch of an ancient oak . The tree stood close to the 18th-century farmhouse, it’s boughs almost touching the building’s sandstone walls.

Jennifer Lewes stood at the open living room window, drinking in the fresh Yorkshire air. She was, Jenny thought lucky to have secured the property at a knock-down price. The previous owner had gone bankrupt and wishing to make a quick sale, in order to clear debts, had accepted her first offer.

Jenny turned from the window at the sound of heels clacking on the kitchen’s stone floor,

“I’m bored shitless” her cousin, Luan said.

“Why not go for a walk down to the village? I need some groceries. You could pop into the shop and buy them for me”, Jenny said.

“Don’t wanna do that. There’s nothing in bloody village cept old people. I wanna go back to London. There’s sod all ere”, Luan said, kicking the legg of the kitchen table.

“Don’t do that Luan, it’s an antique”, Jenny said, swallowing down the anger which she felt welling up in her.

“You don’t care about me. All you cares about is things”, Luan said raising her right foot to kick the table again.

Jenny moved in front of the girl, before she could put her intention into action. Luan glared at Jenny and before she had time to react raked her nails across her face.

Jenny raised her right hand. Trembling with emotion she glared at her cousin.

“Go on, I dares ya”, Luan said.

For several minutes the girl and the older woman stood toe to toe, fists clenched, attempting to stir the other out. The grandfather clock struck 10 am. The sound caused Jenny to recollect herself. What the hell was she doing, a woman of 25 raising her hand to a 15-year-old girl. Jenny let her arm drop,and reaching for a piece of kitchen towel began to wipe away the blood which flowed from a scratch above her right eye.

“One more outburst like that and I’ll be straight on the phone to your probation officer. Mrs Maddox can take care of you. You remember what the magistrate said, “this is your last chance. If you come before the court again you will, in all probability be sent to a young offender’s institution”. Is that what you want Luan? Well is it?” Jenny said.

Luan began to cry quietly. Despite her tough demeanour the thought of a young offender’s institution terrified her. She had heard tales of girls being driven to suicide as a result of bullying by other inmates. Stories of physical and sexual abuse made Luan feel sick to the pit of her stomach.

“Sorry Jen”, she said, looking up with tear filled eyes into the face of her older cousin.

“OK, we’ll go to the shop together and, if you can behave maybe go for a trip into Leeds afterwards. It’s not London but it’s a city and we can look around the shops”, Jenny said.

Luan’s face brightened, “I can go by meself. Give me the bus fare”, Luan said.

“You must think that I was born yesterday young lady”, Jenny said.

“I aint gonna do anything”, Luan said.

“I’m not taking the chance. The last time you went to court it was for shop lifting. Either we go to town together or you don’t go at all”, Jenny said.

Luan’s face fell.

“Well what is it to be young lady?” Jenny said.

“Suppose I aint got no choice. I’ll go with ya”, the girl replied, her face a mask of disappointment.

Epitaph On An Army Of Mercenaries By A E Housman

I like the unsentimental nature of this poem which never fails to bring a smile to my lips:

 

 

“These, in the day when heaven was falling,

 

The hour when earth’s foundations fled,

 

Followed their mercenary calling,

 

And took their wages, and are dead.

 

Their shoulders held the sky suspended;

 

They stood, and earth’s foundations stay;

 

What God abandoned, these defended,

 

And saved the sum of things for pay.”

Fireworks

As I sit at my desk I can hear the distant pounding of guns. Oops, for guns read fireworks!

Personally I can take or leave fireworks. I understand the attraction to children and the role fireworks play in celebrations such as Chinese New Year and, of course today’s event, Guy Fawkes or Bonfire Night. Unfortunately my guide dog, Trigger is not so relaxed in his view of fireworks. Like most animals he hates them.

On Saturday evening I had popped out for a couple of pints in my favourite local. On the way home heaven was rent asunder by the sound of fireworks going off. A few bangs and Trigger starts to shake, however a continuous stream of explosions causes him to freeze, begin to tremble violently and to seek shelter in the nearest building. Fortunately, when the noise started we where passing my local Sainsburys and Trigger almost dragged me in there so keen was he to escape what must, to a dog with very sensitive hearing be an incredibly distressing experience. After purchasing a few items (I didn’t really need them but felt, being in the supermarket that I should buy something) I telephoned a taxi so as to avoid Trigger having to experience the racket outside. I live some 10 minutes walk from the supermarket but, by the time the taxi arrived and conveyed Trigger and I home some 40 minutes had passed.

Today I chose to work from home in order to avoid Trigger being subjected to fireworks again. I took him out at lunchtime for a walk and he is now curled up in his bed. Unlike some animals Trigger is fine inside where the sound of exploding fireworks don’t bother him but he won’t go out again this evening, the explosions would only distress him.

I don’t wish to be a killjoy but it strikes me that fireworks should be limited to a few times a year and, possibly to designated displays only. At present, even when November 5th ends people will, no doubt still be letting off fireworks into late November/early December. Then, of course we have New Year’s Eve so Trigger won’t have a complete rest from fireworks until mid to late January. There surely must be a better way than this.

Such Things As Dreams Are Made Of

An article in today’s Daily Mail (5 November) speculates that within 15 years we may have a machine with the capacity to record dreams.

On the one hand, imagine what new vistas this could offer for authors. With the invention of such a machine writers could take their dreams and construct amazing tales. Indeed some dreams might require no tailoring being perfect examples of ready-made stories.

On the other hand, imagine the possibilities for hackers. Mr Smith has experienced a particularly salacious dream about a lady (not his wife) and Jo Bloggs, a hacker threatens to release the recording to his partner unless a large sum of money is paid by Mr Smith.

Of course the above can be dismissed as so much science fiction. Perhaps it is, perhaps not. For the article please visit http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2821686/Could-soon-record-DREAMS-Headset-uses-brainwaves-viewers-snapshots-subconscious-mind.html

The Suspect

“Bethany Marx?” Inspector Ruth Jacobs asked.

“Yes” Bethany said.

“I’m Inspector Ruth Jacobs and this is Sargent Brian Thomas. May we come in?”, the Inspector said.

“What’s this about? As you can see I was in the shower when the doorbell went. Its not convenient!”, Bethany said gesturing to the blue bath sheet draped around her.

The Inspector looked embarrassed, “I’m sorry Ms Marx but it really is important. It would be easier and more comfortable if we could talk inside”.

Bethany sighed, “Come in” she said, closing the door behind the 2 policemen and leading the way into a spacious lounge. “You won’t mind if I get dressed?”, she said gesturing to the large bath sheet.

“No, of course not”, the Inspector said.

“Oh this is Barney”, Bethany said gesturing towards a large yellow retriever which lay protectively holding a mammoth bone between it’s 2 front paws. “Usually he would be at the front door before I’d had chance to open it but, as you can see his whole attention is on that thing”, she said pointing to the bone.

“Is he friendly?”, the Sargent said.

“He loves people but he’s very protective of his food as you can see so I wouldn’t advise approaching him while he’s eating. Excuse me, I’ll be back in a minute”, Bethany said, closing the door behind her and mounting the stairs.

“I haven’t seen a bone that big before! My brother’s got an Alsatian. He gets marrow bones from the butcher’s but I don’t recall him getting one that large”, the Sargent said.

The Inspector tapped her fingers impatiently on the arm of her chair. “Brian we’re here to interview a potential suspect, not to discuss the size of marrow bones”.

The Sargent was on the point of apologising when the lounge door opened admitting Bethany, dressed in jeans and t-shirt.

“Can I offer you tea or coffee?” Bethany said.

“We’ll have coffee please with milk, no sugar”, the Inspector said.

The Sargent would have preferred tea, milky with 2 sugars but he knew better than to argue with his boss.

While Bethany busied herself in the kitchen the 2 detectives sat in silence, the Inspector consulting her notebook while the Sargent watched Barney. The dog showed no interest in the 2 policemen. Barney’s world was his bone. As the sergeant watched the dog’s powerful jaws broke off another piece. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of those jaws, the Sargent thought.

“Sorry to keep you waiting”, Bethany said, placing 2 cups of coffee before the detectives.

“Thank you”, the Inspector said. “We have come to ask you some questions about Mike Townley. He’s your boyfriend I understand. Is that correct?”

Bethany snorted, “He treats this place like a bloody hotel. I pay the mortgage and all the other damn bills while he does sweet fuck all”, Bethany said.

“So Mike Townley is your boyfriend?” The Inspector said.

“The word you are looking for Inspector is “was”. Michael Townley was my boyfriend until I kicked him out last Saturday. I’d had it up to here”, Bethany said looking towards the ceiling, “with his womanising and treating this place like a lodging house. The place is in my name. I told that wastrel to pack his bags and bugger off and he did”.

“Do you know where he is now?”, the Inspector said.

“No and to be honest I couldn’t care less. Probably shacked up with some silly tart, bleeding her dry just like he did to me”, Bethany said.

“Michael’s father has reported him missing. Did you know that?”, the Inspector said.

“No I didn’t know that but, so far as I am concerned Mike is no longer a part of my life. I couldn’t give a dam where he is”, Bethany said.

“None of your neighbours recall seeing Michael leave and we have several witnesses who testify to having heard you screaming, “I’ll fucking kill you”, last Saturday, 1 October”, the Inspector said.

“Are you accusing me of murdering Michael? Because, if you are I’m not saying another word until I have a lawyer present”, Bethany said, glaring at the Inspector.

“I’m not accusing you of anything Ms Marx, I’m merely trying to ascertain the facts”, the Inspector said.

“Look, Inspector have you never, in a state of anger said that you would kill someone? If everyone who threatened to commit murder actually went ahead and did it, the prisons would be full to bursting”, Bethany said.

“So you admit to threatening to kill Michael Townley?” the Inspector said.

Bethany stirred unblinkingly at the Inspector, “If you have evidence, then arrest me, otherwise I’d like you to leave now please”, Bethany said.

“I’d like to search the house. If you have nothing to hide, you won’t object will you?”, the Inspector said.

“Do you have a search warrant?”, Bethany said eyeballing the Inspector.

The Inspector hesitated. All the police possessed where the statements of 2 elderly neighbours who thought they had heard Bethany threaten to kill her boyfriend. One of them wore a hearing aid while the other was, the Inspector suspected suffering from dementia. No there wasn’t sufficient evidence to arrest Bethany Marx. A search of the premises might secure evidence enabling her to detain Bethany but, in the absence of a warrant she was powerless to act.

“OK Ms Marx we’ll leave now, but I’ll be back in the morning with a search warrant”, the Inspector said, her eyes boring into Bethany’s.

Bethany lead the way out of the lounge. Glancing over his shoulder, as they headed for the front door the Sargent witnessed the last mortal remains of Michael disappear down the throat of a large, yellow retriever.

Guest Blog – Women’s Shoes

drewdog2060drewdog2060:

Many thanks to Cupitonians for inviting me to write a guest post.

Originally posted on This Labyrinth I Roam!:

Some people collect stamps. Jonathan Myers hoarded women’s shoes. Neatly labelled the footwear stood on shelves in a wardrobe dedicated to the purpose.

Natalie. He remembered the girl. She had stood at a little over 5 feet 3 inches in those black stilettos, her long black hair tied up in pigtails. Martha. A slim busty Blonde wearing blue slip-on gym shoes, which now stood, neatly labelled next to Natalie’s stilettos. Jenny. Plump Jenny with her greasy black hair. She had arrived smelling of stale cigarettes and alcohol. Her white trainers now stood next to Martha’s gym shoes.

A click downstairs caused Jonathan to jump. Only the freezer going through it’s cycle he realised. He should, he thought be used to the sound by now. Lucy. Well spoken Lucy. She hadn’t been your typical prostitute. Her cut glass accent, expensive black leather handbag and those hand-made leather shoes set Lucy apart…

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