K. Morris's Blog, page 766

Christopher Columbus Stole Credit For Discovering America

A new book claims that Christopher Columbus stole the credit for discovering America, (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/11170080/Christopher-Columbus-stole-credit-for-discovering-America.html).

A new book claims that Christopher Columbus stole the credit for discovering America, (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/11170080/Christopher-Columbus-stole-credit-for-discovering-America.html).

Something Wicked (part 3)

Below is the final part of my story, Something Wicked. For parts 1 and 2 please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2014/10/11/something-wicked-part-1/ and http://newauthoronline.com/2014/10/12/something-wicked-part-2/

 

 

Charles lay awake held fast in the arms of night terrors. The dark like a plastic bag placed over the head was suffocating. He thrashed and gasped for air. Charles tried to cry out but the sound which escaped his lips was a mere whimper.

Suddenly the intense blackness was broken by a dim light coming from the wardrobe which towered, menacingly above him.

A sound like that of claws scratching disturbed the profound silence. It couldn’t be Smudge. He had checked and the animal was definitely not in the wardrobe. Besides cats don’t generate light.

Charles lay paralysed with terror, unable to teare his gaze away from the wardrobe. Surely he was imagining it? He was certain (well almost so) that he had closed the wardrobe door properly. However it was now slightly ajar. Maybe in his desire to return to bed he haden’t shut the wardrobe properly. As the boy watched the door moved. So imperceptible was it’s motion that At first Charles doubted the evidence of his own eyes.

There was, however no doubting the reality of the arm which snaked through the gap between the wardrobe and it’s door (the latter had ceased to open leaving an apature just large enough for the arm to pass through). The white bone of the arm glinted in the baleful light emanating from the wardrobe. The skeleton wagged an admonitory finger in the direction of the boy who lay sspeechless with fear then, with a wave it withdrew into the cupboard, closing the door behind it. As the light was extinguished the child, overcome with fear collapsed in a faint.

 

—

 

Lord Brockett hurried along the narrow passage, his torch lighting the way. It was a sheer stroke of genius on his part to hit upon the idea of using the long forgotten priest hole.

Brockett Hall had been finished during the reign of Elizabeth I. The Brocketts along with other Catholic families where forbidden to celebrate mass (anyone caught practicing the Catholic religion was subject to imprisonment, torture and, frequently death). Many devout rich Catholic families continued to celebrate mass and to employ Catholic clergy for this purpose. The lay Jesuit, Nicholas Owen had overseen the construction of many priest holes which acted as hiding places for priests when the authorities raided Catholic houses in search of clergymen. Many such hiding places where concealed on staircases or in the vicinity of fireplaces, while the priest hole in Brockett Hall was hidden behind a substancial oak cupboard. A tiny apature, almost invisible to the naked eye would, when pressure was exerted open a section of the cupboard allowing a priest to pass through, close the panel behind him and escape by means of the passage along which Lord Brockett was now passing.

As a doctor Lord Brockett was aware of the heart condition from which his nephew suffered. A few more frights along the lines of that which Lord Brockett had inflicted that evening should result in Charles suffering a massive heart attack. Indeed Lord Brockett was surprised that his nephew had survived thus far unscathed.

The sombre books, the confiscation of the mobile isolating the boy from his friends and the artificial skeleton where all designed to hasten Charles’s demise.

Lord Brockett was able to observe his nephew’s reactions through the infrared camera concealed in the light fitting. The moment Charles reached out his hand to open the door Lord Brockett had ceased to tap on the back of the wardrobe. The existence of the priest hole had long since been forgotten by all accept himself and his sister, Amanda who was now dead as a consequence of her car having hit a tree.

The estate was mired in debt and those to whom he owed money where closing in. Amanda’s will left everything to her son Charles however, in the event of his death all her property passed to Lord Brockett.

“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. The boy’s death would be seen as a tragedy with he, Lord Brockett being comforted as the man who had taken in his nephew Charles only to have him tragically die under his roof” Lord Brockett said to himself.

 

—

 

Lord Brockett pulled on a rusty metal leaver. A section of brickwork swung open. Pushing aside the ivy which covered the hall, Lord Brockett entered the grounds of the hall.

A Day In The Life – RNIB Writing Competition

Last year the Royal National Institute of The Blind (RNIB) ran a writing competition with the theme “A day In The Life”, which was judged by RNIB members and the writer Natalie Haines, (for a podcast of the entries please visit http://dl.groovygecko.net/anon.groovy/clients/rnib/Vision-65-podcast.mp3).

The winning entry imagines a day in the life of Blind Willie Purvis, a blind singer/song writer who toured the pubs of Newcastle regaling the locals with his singing. Purvis’s life was an interesting one (for a short article on him please visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Purvis_%28Blind_Willie%29).

The runner up is also well worth a listen. In it Hariet Smith describes her first day attending Worcester College For The Blind. Hariet movingly describes the sense of uncertainty and loss experienced by a child attending a new school (in this case as a boarder).

RNIB’s current writing competition asks entrants to submit crime stories or court room dramas. Entries will be judged in 2015.

Book Giveaway – Eyewitness Blues

drewdog2060drewdog2060:

The chance to win a paperback copy of Tim Baker’s book, for those of you who live in the US or Canada. I live in the UK so can not enter but good luck to those of you who can. Kevin

Originally posted on blindoggbooks:

According to Mr. Big (the villain in the 1973 James Bond movie Live and Let Die) “when entering a fiercely competitive field one finds it advisable to give away free samples.”

Sounds like good advice to me – so I’m going to give away some books.

Of course, Mr. Big was giving away heroin in an attempt to corner the market…and the heroin trade is a little more cut-throat than the book business…but I still think it’s a good idea.

So to make a long story short, beginning on October 13 and running through November 13 you can enter for a chance to win one of five signed paperback copies of Eyewitness Blues on Goodreads.

The contest is open to residents of the U.S. and Canada. You will have to join Goodreads also – but that’s free and easy – and it’s a good way to find some new…

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You Would Be Barking Mad To Miss It

For anyone interested in the work of The Guide Dogs For The Blind Association, this event may be of interest. The below text is extracted from an e-mail sent to me by GDBA:

 

“Celebrate Christmas with Guide Dogs

 

London Guide Dogs’ Training School warmly invites you to our Christmas

Market on Saturday, 8th November 2014, 12midday to 4pm at Guide Dogs

Training School, 7 Manor Road, Woodford Green, Essex, IG8 8ER.

 

There will be craft stalls, kennel tours, dog demos, Christmas cards,

refreshments and you can even visit Santa Paws Grotto!

Admission is free.

 

If you have any questions regarding this event please call on

08453727421 or email

Redbridge@guidedogs.org.uk.”.

 

 

How Much Do Authors Really Earn?

Originally posted on Savvy Writers & e-Books online:

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“It doesn’t help authors to say that 70% of the book market is in print if only a small fraction of that money ends up in authors’ pockets.  What we want to see is the combined effect of royalty rate, sales volume, and sale price.  These three factors combine to give us a true picture of comparative earnings, as shown in our pie charts” says Hugh Howey, founder of Author Earnings.

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A Fantastic Report About Author Earnings

He explains: “Sports stars, musicians, actors— their salaries are often discussed.  This is less true for authors, and it creates unrealistic expectations for those who pursue writing as a career.  Now with every writer needing to choose between self-publishing and submitting to traditional publishers, the decision gets even more difficult. Online Book Retailers, such as Barnes&Noble or Amazon don’t share their e-book sales figures.”

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Website for Authors, by…

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Something Wicked (part 2)

Below is part 2 of my story, Something Wicked. For part 1 please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2014/10/11/something-wicked-part-1/

 

 

Charles reached for the knob of the bedroom door. He pulled. The door was stuck fast. With all his strength Charles yanked at the door handle. Still it refused to budge. Stepping back and surveying the door, Charles’s eyes met those of the stately raven. It sat on a ledge just above the door.

“Open the door”, he screamed at the bird.

“Never more”, the raven answered, it’s eyes burning into the boy’s.

Desperately Charles grasped the knob with both hands and pulling with all his strength once more attempted to open the door. it remained stubbornly immovable.

The bird’s eyes continued to bore into his, it’s talons tapping against the wooden ledge. The sound increased in volume until it seemed to fill his head.

“Help! Help! Go away”, Charles yelled.

With a start, the boy awoke shivering with cold. In his nightmare the blankets had fallen in a tangled heap on the wooden floor. For some time he lay in that state between dream and reality where the 2 states mingle producing a feeling which can best be described as a waking nightmare. He could feel the bird reaching out, attempting to draw him back into the world of nightmares. With a great effort Charles forced his eyes open and turning towards the door observed, with relief that no raven sat atop it.

Tap, tap, tap. If the bird wasn’t making that sound then who was. In a voice which betrayed none of the terror gnawing away at him, Charles said,

“Is that you uncle? Sorry if I disturbed you, I had the most horrible nightmare”.

No voice answered, while the tapping continued, mingling with, and, at times becoming lost in the sound of the wind which had, while the child was sleeping, begun to buffett the casements of the ancient building.

Charles thought about getting out of bed to retrieve the bedclothes. The desire to become warm once more, to snuggle up under warm blankets contended with the terror of what might happen should he dare to climb out of bed. He remembered stories of bogeymen who lurked under beds waiting to grab the legs of children who came within their grasp.

The wind eased and the sound of the tapping reasserted itself. Despite his terror Charles became aware that the noise eminated not from the door but the wardrobe which faced his bed.

Perhaps Smudge, his uncle’s cat had, somehow become trapped in the wardrobe. The animal loved to curl up among warm clothes and he had found it there previously, lying on top of a pile of jumpers.

“It will be Smudge’s claws making that noise. The poor animal must have become stuck in the wardrobe when I closed it this evening, just before I went to bed”, Charles said to himself.

All his terrors forgotten Charles climbed out of bed and padded across to where the huge old oak wardrobe stood.

“Did you get stuck in the wardrobe? You silly creature”, Charles said as he slid back the heavy wooden doors.

The wardrobe revealed only clothes. Jumpers neatly folded on shelves, several pairs of trousers, shirts, t-shirts and 4 pairs of shoes met the child’s perplexed gaze. He listened. The tapping had, as soon as he opened the wardrobe ceased and a profound silence now engulfed the room.

“I don’t like this” the boy muttered as he collected the tangled blankets and returned to bed.

Charles wished that he owned a mobile. He would like to text or instant message one of his school friends, to communicate with a fellow human being. However his uncle had confiscated his mobile,

“Mobiles fry the brain Charles. As a doctor I know these things. There have been several articles in leading medical journals showing a link between use of mobiles and brain cancer. Its for your own good Charles. If you want to talk to your friends use the landline but you will be seeing them again soon so I can’t see why you can’t wait a couple of weeks before speaking to them”.

So the mobile had been locked away in Lord Brockett’s study leaving Charles with no means of amusing himself other than the dusty volumes which sat in the bookcase in the corner of the room and solitary walks in the grounds of Brockett Hall.

Something Wicked (Part 1)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more.”

 

The boy shot bolt upright in bed. Had he imagined it? No, there it came again, a tentative tapping as of someone who seeks admittance but is uncertain of his welcome.

“Uncle, is that you?” The child asked in a quavering voice.

Dead silence washed over the boy in waves.

“I must have imagined it. That poem’s giving me the creeps. I won’t read anymore tonight”, he thought placing the moth eaten edition of Edgar Alan Poe’s Collected Works on the bedside table.

The boy turned his face towards the wall and attempted to fall asleep. Visions of Poe’s Raven swam before his eyes. It was, he felt sure watching him from the bookcase which stood in the corner of his room. For a few minutes he fought against the urge to open his eyes and look in the direction of the bookcase. The rational portion of his mind told the child that he had nothing to fear, that it was merely an overactive imagination which conjured up phantoms. However the other part of his brain screamed at him that something was amiss, that just beneath the surface of everyday life lurked something unspeakable waiting to devour his very soul.

With a supreme effort the child opened his eyes and, rolling over in the ancient 4 poster bed glanced in the direction of the heavy oak bookcase. Of course there was no raven perched atop the bookcase, which had become black with age. Only the ornamental owl regarded him curiously, it’s beady eyes appearing to bore into his very soul.

The boy dragged his gaze away from that of the bird and for want of anything better to do scanned the titles of the tomes which filled the bookcase: Brontae’s Wuthering Heights, Henry James’s The Turn Of The Screw and other such dark stories met his tired eyes. There wasn’t, the boy remarked, not for the first time, not a single humorous title among them.

“I wish I haden’t lost that copy of 3 Men In A boat that mummy gave me”, he thought.

At the thought of his mother the child buried his head in the pillow and wept. His beautiful, sweet gentle mummy would never again call him her darling and hold him close. He still remembered her scent. Wild flowers mixed with new mown grass, at least that is how he recollected her.

He recalled the police coming to his prep school and how a pretty policewoman had gently taken his hand, in the headmaster’s office,

“Charles I’m so very sorry, I’ve some very sad news. I’m afraid your mum has had an accident”, she had said.

“Is she in hospital?” he had asked.

“Yes she was taken to hospital but, I’m so very sorry, your mummy is dead. Her car hit a tree. She was taken to the hospital. The doctors did everything they could but she died soon after arriving there”, the policewoman had said.

Charles had broken free of the policewoman’s hand. He remembered running and running until, reaching the heart of the woods which bordered the school grounds he had thrown himself on the forest’s ferny ground and wept.

He dimly recollected lying there for what seemed like hours before gentle hands conveyed him to the headmaster’s house.

“He can’t go back to the dorm to stay with the other boys, not after his mother having been killed, Robert”, the headmaster’s wife had said to her husband.

“No Jo, I agree. The poor lad can stay in the guest room until his uncle arrives”, Robert had said.

“I spoke to Lord Brockett just before you came back with the poor little lad. He is coming to collect him tomorrow”, Jo had said.

Charles’s uncle had collected him on the following day and conveyed the boy to Brockett Hall in the depths of Dartmoor.

 

Notes:

 

The Raven, a poem by Edgar Alan Poe can be found here, http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178713.
Henry James’s novel, The Turn Of The Screw relates how a governess, charged with looking after 2 children in a remote location becomes embroiled in ghostly happenings. It is never clear how much of the happenings are in the woman’s imagination. For further information please see, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Turn_of_the_Screw.
3 Men In A Boat is a humorous novel, by Jerome, K Jerome about the journey of a group of friends along the River Thames. For the book please visit, http://www.gutenberg.org/files/308/308-h/308-h.htm.
Wuthering Heights, By Emily Brontae is a dark tale, set on the Yorkshire moors, of twisted love and ghostly happenings (the latter hinted at rather than being explicit). For the ebook please visit http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/768

Print Books?

Thus far I have published 4 collections of short stories and 1 longer work. All my books are available solely in ebook format.

For some time now I have been considering producing print versions of my books using the Print On Demand (POD) services of Createspace (https://www.createspace.com/). My reasons for considering POD are:

Not everyone likes ebooks and the availability of my stories in exclusively electronic format means they are not reaching people who might otherwise read them.
Even among ebook readers there exist many book lovers who also purchase traditional (print) titles. The availability of my stories in both formats enhances the choices of such readers.
There is something attractive about the feeling of permanence of print books which, to me at least is lacking in the new kid on the block, ebooks. I, personally like having books on shelves and I am far from being alone in this desire to be surrounded by physical works of fiction and non-fiction.

Having said all that,I hesitate to embrace POD as my longest story, Samantha runs to 29 pages and I am not sure whether people will pay for print books of that length. I could get around this issue by producing an anthology of my writing. However this would, I understand mean that I would lose all my Amazon reviews as these pertain to the individual titles, while an anthology is a different beast and would be reviewed as such.

In short I need to give this matter much more thought rather than jumping in feet first. Any advice from authors who have both ebook and print versions of their works available would be most welcome as would comments from readers of both formats.

 

I Am Sailing

As those of you who follow this blog will know, my name is Kevin. Yesterday I received the following text from a friend who was, at that time on his way to France via cross channel ferry,

“Just leaving Harbour. Where told the captain’s name is Kevin. Should I be worried?”

My friend’s text made me smile as, being blind there is no way in which I could hold down the job of captain. However, giving the matter a little more thought I arrived at the following brilliant solution to how a blind man might captain a ship. My guide dog, Trigger is trained to avoid obstacles so why not teach him the following additional commands:

Bark once for rocks dead ahead.
Bark twice for another vessel dead ahead and
Let out a continuous howl when the boat strikes submerged rocks or an iceberg.

Does anyone have the contact details for shipping companies please? I’m taking time out from my writing to apply for the position of ship’s captain. God save me and anyone else who sails with me!

 

Kevin