Archive for February, 2017


February 27, 2017 Leave a comment
I haven’t written a ‘serious’ novel for years. Now, nearing 70 I thought I would explore the darkness enveloping society. It’s very experimental and the sentence structure is ‘choppy’ deliberately. There is also a hidden detail to the narrator. Is anyone else experimenting? This is all I am going to post, but would love some comments on how it ‘feels’ to you. Perhaps just another cathartic piece to put into the “trunk?”
This man, he’s wearing a black homburg hat. His coat, a black greatcoat, heavy, resists the bitter wind and responds only to the movement of his feet. His feet. He is wearing patent leather shoes in spite of the gnarly weather. The howling wind, and sluicing rain affect him not at all.
The hat hides his face, though he walks without head bent into the slicing, ice rain.
He is the Dark Man. The man of my nightmares. Even in plain sight, he gathers shadows around him.
He crosses the street against the lights. The world moves in slow motion. There is no blaring of horns. The traffic appears to be unaware of his presence and he crosses without incident. There is a girl, waiting at the crossing for the green man. As he passes he gives the appearance of waving slightly. She looks up from the driving rain and he shoots her in the face. There is no loud retort. The gun is silenced. The man in the homburg and heavy greatcoat continues on his way in no hurry. The girl has fallen to the ground and a torrent of blood runs into the gutter. The street is awash with people, all walking heads bent. No one hears the slight crinkly pop. No one sees the man in the homburg and the greatcoat except me. I am standing in the doorway of a closed cafe waiting to bump into a stranger and skim their credit cards. The man in the homburg and the heavy greatcoat and patent leather shoes is not my business. I am afraid of him. She is dead. Completely. There is no point in my sprinting across the road to render assistance. The Dark Man has gone before the girl screams. She is with her young man. He holds an umbrella over her, bowing to an old age of chivalry. I imagine his face turning white. He is dressed well, in a Burberry coat, she, in a long, but lightweight black
Ann Demeulemeester hooded raincoat. She screams and screams and screams. I wish I were on their side of the street. I smell money on them even at this distance and fumble with my pocket skimmer wondering whether I should take the chance. The chance is not worth it and I merge further into the doorway. The man is now raising a cell to his cheek. I would have expected earbuds. He talks frantically. He wants to wave and gesticulate, but he gallantly holds the umbrella over his love, perhaps afraid that she might wash away in the deluge never to be penetrated again by his ardour.
Then the street is awash with lights, blue and red, flashing and strobing so that I must look away lest I engage in an epileptic fit.
A businessman in a felt Dress Hat hurries on my side of the street. I step out and bump into his chest, holding my small skimmer like a cellphone against his inside breast pocket. I assume he is right handed. “Did you see that?” His voice is excited and afraid. “Yes.” I say, smoothing him down, calming him. Checking his pockets. “There is nothing to be done. Be calm. You might yet have a heart attack. Be calm.”
The businessman smiles briefly, a smile as watery as the weather. “Yes. Yes. Of course. Thank you.” We speak only briefly, but he quiets sufficiently to thank me again and then shuffles off, perhaps to his office to ponder the incident. Perhaps to his wife to engage her in the detail and huddle together naked in fear of a world gone insane.
Beauchamp is waiting at home. She corrects people when they say Bow Champ. “Beecham” She says. She is readying for work. She has just spent money on a curved duty belt, designed for the female anatomy. It does not dig into the hips. She checks her sidearm and her ASP. They need to be quickly accessible. Then she checks her cuffs. We share an apartment but not a bed. Sometimes I think of raping her, but the way she looks at me it would not be rape. It would not excite. We remain chaste. I do not bring women home. Beauchamp suspects that I am gay and I do not disavow. She absently checks her glock for the second time. I have learned that it can load both 9mm and .40 calibre. She wears a light cotton blouse with a pocket over each breast. She asks me to fasten the flap over each pocket. The little black buttons are small and I spend a little value time fumbling each one. Her nipples are like teats, long and rubbery. My fingernails scratch each one lightly while I tend to her dress. Each small intake of breath generates a lightning rod directly (censored.) Her eyes take on an almost imperceptible squint. She thinks I don’t see, or perhaps care. But I see everything. After all, was it not I alone who observed that casual murder by the man with the homburg and greatcoat? Who shot the girl in the face. A sliver of fear suggests this may be true.
“Fix me?” Beauchamp sits backwards on a simple kitchen chair. Her legs splayed. Her arms along the topmost spindle. Her chin on her arms. She lives two lives. That of the soft, tactile, scented maiden. That of the tight, wound up, disciplined, strict administrator of the law no matter her personal opinions. I am the vice. Ah! You think I mean vice! “Come on! Fix me! I’m going to be late again!” The fixing begins. Taking heavy full-bodied red hair, separating out hanks. Slowly. The feel of hair is silk on silk. A synapse ignites a wish to feel it on exposed, but yet hidden skin.
The hanks are plaited overtight. Extreme. Beauchamp squints, but she wants it to be like this. When finished she will coil it against her skull. Hands now upon her shoulders. She is tight. Coiled up. Then gone. Behatted and wearing dark glasses.
The computer is shared. Beauchamp locks up a few folders but her porn history is effortless to access. TOR takes precedence. USB connects the skimmer and for a while at least, there is cash in the wallet. Beauchamp’s porn is of the romantic preference. Simple and naïve. Women may instigate. She is however, a cheat. A thief. She has downloaded copyright material. Copyright exists in the work. Porn too. When/if I decide to rape her, the camera will record and upload.
Beauchamp is good at what she does. She takes her training seriously. Each weekend we go together to the range to use handguns. She has a broad knowledge of such things. She can make her own ammunition. There are two assault rifles in a combination safe under her bedroom carpet. Lumicyano and a camera opens the safe. Her fingerprints are easily read. There are sex toys too, but of the simple, non-extreme kind. One of them entices me. A latex vibrating butterfly with a wireless remote control. Intriguing.
There should be something about the murder on the television. Channel surfing finally finds an item on Fox. The place, the time is right. Only one man comes forward for the camera. It is the man I skimmed. “The SUV came around that corner.” Pointing. “Had these big wing mirrors. Like the ones you use if you’re hauling a caravan. “Slammed her right in the face! Man! It was horrible.” He pauses as if deciding if he should continue. He does. “I was so busy watching that I bumped into someone . I said did you see that, and they said yes.” His description was naturally way off. My hair is red, not blonde. My long hair was under my woollen hat. It was blue, not black. My hat that is. I am confused because not only can he not give an account as to my looks there is no hatted man. I am not surprised with his description of my person. I however, saw no SUV at all. I saw what I saw. I saw a man in a homburg and greatcoat. His gun was a 9mm Beretta 92FS. There is little recoil. Even at distance handguns are familiar. Beauchamp is a remarkable teacher and a remarkable shot.
When Beauchamp works nights, I watch a little TV, often falling asleep in my chair. The channels are repeating the same old garbage. Rambo 111, Lethal Weapon, Back to the Future 2. Stallone, Willis, Mel Gibson, and Michael J Fox. They have become bores.
I settle on Lethal Weapon. It is better than the others, and the shopping channels. The news channels make no mention of the man in the hat. Perhaps I was mistaken in the drowning rain. Even though it was daylight, the sky was crowded with low black clouds. A dark day, a dark man, and I in a dark mood. Of course. The evil thoughts about Beauchamp disperse. Overproof rum aids the disconnect. She is a sweet girl who still believes in the innate goodness of humanity. When the sun shines we walk together in the parks and the city. She is without parents, but has a sister in Boston. Her sister is married to an accounts manager in advertising. They have two childen and a dog called spot. They are without imagination. The dog is a Dalmation. The children, named Britney and John. I presume Spears and Lennon as their inspiration.
Soon sleep intervenes and the rattling, pounding gunshots through the big sound system fade into nothing at all. Dreams offer surcease from dark thoughts.
Categories: an eclection


February 25, 2017 Leave a comment

When I was a child my parents, and their parents had suffered through a Great Depression and two world wars. My father was in the airforce. He flew every kind of aircraft from spitfires and hurricanes to old tiger moths. We grew up in the remnants of bombed buildings. We roamed the beach finding unexploded bombs and bullets. We helped the infirm and the war weary, old before their time. My mother counselled us to embrace peace and tolerance. But sometimes we must fight. Even at the risk of our freedoms.

Today the world is at a tipping point. The United States of America is unwittingly embracing fascism, and we must fight for the freedom of expression. The US President has now banned the major news agencies from covering his press conferences! If a press conference cannot be reported on by major news agencies, then we leave the commentary to those who are of one opinion only. That of the President. This is no longer democracy. It is dictatorship. It is the rebirth of fascism.

In the new rules on temporary entry to the United States it will be required (optional at the moment) to give your social media status so that your data can be mined to find out if you have any anti-US attributes. I do not. I have anti US President attributes. Trump has become the fascist that we were always warned about.

My mother taught us tolerance, and warned us that we must create a world of harmony. It is hard, in these days to be cowed by the rhetoric of the President of the United States when he speaks about stealing the oil from other nations, about forcibly deporting ‘undocumented immigrants.’ Today I am speaking out. I WILL fight against the actions of a dictator regardless of their nationality, (including my own.).

In the sixties there was a revolution of sorts, and it has been forgotten or not known by many that there was a great uprising against war. This video of Jimi Hendrix and his “Star Spangled Banner,” is an amazing piece of commentary.

Here is the full speech of Donald Trump’s rambling, incoherent CPAC speech.

Are these the words of a mad man? Or a man with a vision? If it is the words of a man with a vision, then his vision is of insanity and disaster.

This week the US government enacted a law which can take away all the property and possessions of any person who acts in protest. Even a peaceful protest. If you so much as carry a banner or, as they did in the sixties, put a flower down the barrel of a National Guardsman’s gun, you can lose everything you possess. Confiscated by a supposedly democratic government.

Millions now lose their health care (Obamacare). America is sadly a laughing stock. Sadly because it is anything but something to laugh about. The most dangerous man of the 21st Century is in the most powerful position on the planet. And he is raiding the coffers. Just watch the market rise! It’s good for the stock market. But remember the thirties, and what followed. I grew up in the remnants of that war. It is time for the courageous young to stand up, speak up, and defend every right we fought to give you!

Categories: an eclection


February 20, 2017 Leave a comment

Most developed countries are talking policies that use slogans relating to JOBS and WORK. They simply do not understand that within ten years few people will be employed or working. There will of course be more leisure time. Leisure time is useless if a man or woman has no money because technology is doing the work they would once have done. Google has a good idea. The only jobs waiting for our youth will be to come to the aid of technology.

But how do all the millions of people who need to eat, have holidays, buy houses, and contribute to the wealth of corporations manage to buy anything? People are becoming obsolete at great speed.

Here is a thought. If you have no job you have no money. If you have no money you cannot spend it on goods. If you do not spend money on goods, the corporations who manufacture the said goods will not thrive. Quickly the world will go broke.

It is time to begin to talk about how we relate to money. How we will be paid in the future. Already writers like me can no longer make a living doing what we do. Journalists are no longer  in much demand. News is collected via social media, a few staff journalists, and a great number of ‘citizen journalists’ who get paid in little more than a bask in the sun for a short while.

How on earth are we going to manage? Money has to be. Money is really only created the moment you spend it. If you don’t have adequate money to spend, you can’t create wealth, and wealth is held in enormous quantities by a very small percentage of the population . There has to be a limit point, a tipping point. I think it is coming sooner than later.




Categories: an eclection

Cover blurb for Eats and Treats

February 20, 2017 Leave a comment

I was recently pleasantly surprised to get a lovely blurb for the print version of Eats and Treats from my friend and author Dora Bona . Being my best friend has nothing to do with the fact that she wrote the blurb. One thing she is not, is dishonest.


It has sometimes been a bit of a bug in our relationship going back now over 23 years, that we have spent so much time and effort trying to make each other better writers. Does anyone else have a living, breathing muse? When I write these days, she is always foremost in my mind. What would she say about this? What would she like/dislike about that? Why does she have such a necessity to rage about the apostrophe. Whatever, it make me a better writer and over the years I sincerely hope that I have extended her willingness to explore the dark that is inside all of us.


There’s an old saying about truth being stranger than fiction and it often applies when there’s a really REALLY good story to be told. This one is true.

This is a story of endurance: a man stripped of all his considerable worldly possessions and driven to live on a remote mountain where he builds a home from logs and scrap metal. Sort of like Moses, only he’s not Jewish.

It’s a story of joy: he creates a simple, serene life, devoid of gadgets like a toilet, running water, electricity, human companionship or any form of communication with the outside world. He does however have two dogs. One is blue, and the other is very black. Both are his constant companions.

It’s a story of heartache: a man who epitomises the mantra of the 70’s, ‘make love not war’, yet whose life on the mountain becomes enmeshed in bitter battles for supremacy. Dominated by greed-driven conflicts with uninvited neighbours. And eventually culminating in a psychotic drug-fuelled attack on his life until his ultimate final reckoning.

It’s a story of pain: a man wracked with deep physical, emotional and mental pain. Not the transient sort – the lifelong, grinding, burrowing, relentless sort that has teeth sharper than Stephen King’s evil clown, Pennywise.

But more than anything, it’s a story of survival: a man clawing his way back into civilization, inch by inch, constantly shedding old burdens and taking on new ones, negotiating forks, bends and ditches in the road until finding trust again, and coming to rest in his own personal utopia.





Categories: an eclection