Swallows on the drainpipe

Inspired by recent events and the near-constant media drumbeat of fear, I would like to offer up the rough draft of this 7,500 word apocalyptic parable for reading / criticism.

“Hah!”    Liam turned the corner and looked up at the stippled brown mass, half as big as a man’s head, jammed between the gutter downpipe and eaves of his cottage.    A little black capped head poked out of a hole offset to one side at the top.    “Well I’ll be.”    Ageing blue eyes crinkled at tanned corners.    “Swallows eh?”    The little orange throated head ducked back into the nest and there was a riffling series of chirrups, tailing off into a buzz.    Liam ducked his buzz cut grey head as a streamlined form swooped past, out of the mud nest it had built.

“Maeve’ll have me hose you down.”    He said aloud to the nest, then paused.    “But then mebbe I won’t tell her.”    He added with a mischievous grin.    The smile disappeared as his cell phone rang.    He patted at various coat pockets and brought out the annoying oblong.    Another three rings, he flipped the phone open and fumble-answered the call. “Hello?    Oh hello lass.    How are the kids?    Are you coming over?”    Katherine, his eldest daughter, was checking up on him as she did every day.    “Oh shame.”    He tried to keep the insincerity out of his voice.    His suburban grandchildren were far too grown up for grandparents, so neither enjoyed each others company much.    Too many toys to get in the way.    “No, I’m outside, catching a little sun and doing a bit of gardening.”    He tried not to sigh.    “No, I’ve had my pills.    Yes, I’m feeling fine.”    He lied.    “Yes, I read that care home brochure.    I’m still thinking about it.”    Oh I’ll go to hell for lying like this, he thought as he ran through his usual lexicon of denials.    Why did the kids have to make such a drama out of everything?    Why did they fret so much?    He never recalled fussing his own parents like this.

The truth was different.    No, he wasn’t feeling fine.    Apart from all his normal aches and pains, the legacy of a robust youth, he hadn’t felt fine since last year when cancer had claimed Maeve.   

Secretly he hated these calls because they kept on reminding him that she was no longer in his life to share it.   

Of course Katherine meant well, but if only he could find a tactful way of telling her how much her persistent little reminders hurt, chipping away at his mental armour, draining his resolve to keep on going.   

The truth was that this little cottage in the sticks was a temple of sorts, a sanctuary he’d put his own breath and blood into building, an altar to the only goddess he would ever acknowledge, his Maeve, mother of three grown up daughters, all now bringing up families of their own.    Maeve, giver of their immortality, passer of the family flame.    Now just dust.    Liam clamped down on the thought just in case it made him cry.    Again.    He’d been doing too much of that lately.

They’d sweated and schemed to build this three bedroomed bungalow as their family home.    This isolated cottage had been a tumbledown wreck when they’d first bought it, before the girls were born, but the shell had been good and the roof timbers sound, so they had taken all their savings, mortgaged themselves to the hilt, and poured skill into the rest.

Once the girls had grown up and the mortgage was paid they hadn’t downsized so they could have time together, have the grandkids over at weekends, maybe spend some of the money they’d spent their working lives accumulating.    For an active retirement spent travelling the world, having a life while they still could.

As an additional luxury he’d even built a mini spa in the back outhouse, with a hot tub and sunken cold plunge for the grown ups.    Water for everyone to enjoy, with a nice big picture window for the bathers to sip wine and look out over wide green fields down to the trees beyond.

He’d just started digging out the outhouse floor when Maeve had first been diagnosed and finished the tiling and decoration the month after she passed.   

No, not ‘passed’, died.    Was no more.    Forever.    The bath house had never been used.    Without Maeve, his urge to travel faded.    Without her to share the adventure it just didn’t seem worth it.

Of course he secretly hoped there was a life after this one where they could be together again, but as the bird swooped back into the nest, he reflected on how brief the Swallows stay under his eaves would be.    One Summer, no more.    But that was all anyone had.    One life, one Summer, that was all.

Wincing, he recalled the often mischievous glint in Maeve’s yellow flecked opal eyes.    How they could lift him whenever his personal darkness came to call.    Without her, he found himself avoiding his own eyes in a mirror, just in case he saw her reflection because sometimes, no not sometimes, mostly, the loss was more than he could bear.

“Sorry Kath, missed that.    I was looking at the Swallows.”    He apologised to an urgent entreaty to think about selling up and spending the money on a care home where he could be looked after, properly.    Looked after my arse!    He could no more sell this place than flap his arms and fly like one of the nesting Swallows.    This was his waiting room for God, not some awful place being patronised by disinterested staff with only fading strangers to talk to.    But instead of saying what he really felt, he told her brightly,    “They’ve nested between the eaves and the downspout.”   

His face creased in annoyance at what Kath said next.    Hose down the nest?    Because they might take a couple of thousand off the sale price?    What kind of man did she take her old Dad for?    He’d never consciously harmed another living thing in his life and wasn’t going to start now. “I’ll think about that.”    He said carefully, his feelings about selling up ossifying into boneheaded resistance.    Kath could nag all she wanted.    Here he stood, and this was where he would fall.

Of course he’d tried not answering her calls last month, but after the Police had turned up on his doorstep after two refused visits by ‘Elder care’ workers, he knew that strategy wasn’t going to play.    She didn’t get that from her Mum, he grinned.      I’m the stubborn bugger in this family.   

“Kath, if you’re going to be like that, no.”    he finally dug his heels in, two could play the stubborn card.    “No I won’t hurt the Swallows.    They’ve done me no wrong.”    on the other end of the call, Kath’s cajoling voice took on an unpleasant edge.

“Look love, I’m fine.    I miss your Mum, we all do, but if I sold, I’d be betraying everything we built our lives around.    So long as I’m here I’m keeping her memory alive, that keeps me alive too.    And the Swallows help.”    he hadn’t planned to be short with her, but his thoughts had flowed straight off his tongue.    The other end of the line fell silent and bleeped to tell him she’d rung off.

Well that was a turn up.    A burring of wings and chittering chirrups past his ears announced the exit of one of the parent birds.    “All right, all right.”    Liam backed away from the nest and turned to look at the front lawn.      Did it need a cut today?    He stuffed the now-silent phone in the left hand pocket of his gardening coat and made his way to his storage shed were all he kept all the garden tools.

Sniffing at the light breeze he glanced up at the cumulus punctuated sky and smiled a little.    It didn’t feel like rain and the forecast hadn’t mentioned any for the next week, so maybe a quick run over his billiard table sward as a tidy up, and the Berberis hedge might benefit from a once over this weekend.

Checking the electric mower charge, he made sure the grass collector bag was empty.    Sandra, his youngest daughter and her husband, Spencer, had bought it for him when his old petrol mower had given up the ghost.    Something about a carbon footprint they’d said.    Whatever one of those was.    Probably something they’d seen on the telly or internet, two things he’d never really been interested in.    You got enough bad news without exposing yourself to more.

Nice lad Spencer, a bit other worldly, but he meant well. Still, the mower worked well enough on light cuts, but it didn’t cope well with long grass, nor could the battery powered strimmer that had come with it.    Still, it gave Liam an excuse to get out into the garden regularly, which had always been his exclusive domain.    Subject to pronouncements from Maeve on what bush would go where or what rose needed trimming.    But there would be no more of those, would there?    He felt a tightness clutch briefly at his chest.    Closing his eyes, Liam breathed deeply until the feeling passed.

For two hours afterwards he walked the little mower up and down, buzz cutting a neat geometric pattern in the well tended grass.    Nodding with satisfaction at the result, he emptied the grass box and added the last cuttings to the compost heap behind the shed.    Then walked out to the front to retrieve the mower.    Then he paused and partly closed his eyes, letting the world rotate around him.    Something primeval stirred in his hindbrain, telling him all was not well.    Very wrong.    What was it?

On impulse, he walked down his ten metre long drive to the road and stood between the gateposts, a scruffy sweat-shirted statue, grass stained and grubby, listening intently.    The road in front of his house was empty.    Well no surprise about that.    It was a Summer Tuesday, and the school run Mums and Dads that used this little lane as a rat run would be elsewhere.    Summer holidays, running around in town, shepherding their precious cargoes between shopping centres and various amusements.

Liam recalled his own childhood summers.    Shorts, Wellington boots and hand sized fishing nets on bamboo canes.    A bicycle if you were lucky.    Games made up on the spur of the moment with rules that changed every ten minutes.    Eating unripe apples fresh off a tree and spitting out the sour sharp flesh.      Unsupervised long walks between friends houses without a grown up in sight.    His thin lips creased lean features into a quiet nostalgic smile.

Liam sighed and waited a little longer.    A solitary half an hour later, he turned around, shaking his head.    Must be a problem up the road.    He returned to the house to make himself a solitary cup of tea and sit out in the back garden to watch the Swallows.    Off in the distance he could hear a dog kicking up a fuss, but it wasn’t so much a bark, more of a moan, a grieving sound.    Half howl, like a heart was being broken.    On and on, polluting the Summer breezes with it’s sad refrain.

Around five he went indoors to make himself a sandwich for tea.    Liam never cooked much nowadays, which kept the kitchen clean and tidy, but he was lucky that his small vegetable patch was fertile enough to produce fresh vegetables and salads from Spring through to much of Autumn, so that kept the shopping bills down.    Today’s treat was canned Salmon dressed in malt vinegar on home baked bread with thinly sliced home grown cucumber.   

Not that he’d ever been a great cook, but a trained Engineer could put his hand to most things, and baking was fun in it’s own small way.    Since Maeve had gone he’d simplified his life and kept the grief at bay by taking each task and small pleasure one thing at a time.    He’d made a form of studied elegance from his life, and never thought much about his neighbours.    Nice enough people so it seemed, but he was never much of a conversationalist, so they had lost interest after a couple of encounters and let him be.

“Book, book, book.”    He muttered softly to himself, carrying the small sandwich bearing plate into the dining room.    Liam liked reading.    So much so that the blankly looming fifty plus inch television Maeve had pestered him into buying was never switched on.    Never anything on that he cared to watch anyhow.    Placing his plate on the coffee table, he went to the bookshelves that dominated one wall and glanced along the titles.    Ah yes.    He selected a hardback and returned to his chair in the corner to indulge in his favourite sin, reading whilst eating.

As evening fell, he closed the curtains and carried on reading by lamplight until just before midnight.    Another little ritual.    Go outside, close the gate, lock the doors and set the alarm before going to bed.    All these he did, all the time looking around for what his instincts told him was missing.    The lights were off next door and the road remained silent.    Oh well, time for another few pages to see him off to sleep.

For a change, Liam slept through until seven, a rare event in itself at sixty eight years of age.    He swung sleep stiffened legs out of bed, deliberately not looking at the empty side before getting dressed in gardening clothes and going down for his ritual cup of tea.    De-activate alarm, note the morning dampness already drying on the small patio where he generally broke his fast in the warmer months.    Sniffing at the freshness of the morning air, he sat down and watched the Swallows swooping in and out of their mud nest.    Weathered features creased at the far off dog still barking.    Didn’t those people care about their animals?    Poor thing.

Closing his thoughts to the plaintive baying, Liam busied himself with the dozens of little jobs needed to keep his garden in tip-top condition.    Pruning, watering, tidying and sweeping kept him busy until lunchtime when he realised he’d heard no traffic at all this Wednesday morning.    Walking to his front gate, he opened it and walked the few steps to where he could see next doors imperfectly cut front lawn.    Should have got a cylinder mower, not that silly plastic thing they had, no wonder their grass was a mess of plantains, clover and weeds.    A few paces more past the end of the hedge and he could see something lying outside their front door.    Overhead there were a few big black birds circling, and as he watched, the black and white motley of a magpie landed on the object, digging its beak down greedily until it came up stained red and flapped away carrying something golf ball sized.

Putting his natural reticence aside he cautiously walked through their front gate to the sacklike object.    Breath froze in his throat.    It was the father, remaining eye staring up at the sky with an expression of horror, lifeless hand clutched at his throat, a thin line of dried foam around his mouth.    “Christ!”    Liam swore and tried not to be sick.    With what remained of his wits, he noticed the front door of the house was partly open.    Inside was the unmistakeable shape of a woman lying on the floor, mercifully face down, grey silky dressing gown splayed around her.   

Their three normally boisterous children were nowhere to be seen or heard, which was worrying.    Throwing his jacket over the poor man’s face, Liam hurried back home to get his phone, heart pounding, throat tight.    As he picked up the phone, he forced himself to calm down.    “You’re no good to them if you frighten yourself to death.”    he chided himself, mind silently shouting his panic into some sort of order.    Dialling the emergency number he took a deep breath.    “Hello?”

“You have reached the Emergency number.    Press one for Police, two for Ambulance and three for Fire,”    He carefully keyed the one.    “Thank you for calling the Police service emergency number.    We are experiencing a high volume of calls at this time.    Please leave a message and a number you can be contacted at after the bleep.”    The line bleeped.

“Hello.    This is Liam Collins.”    Liam reeled off his cell phone number.    “There are two dead people next door.    They have three children who don’t seem to be around.”    He carefully gave their address and conscientiously logged off.

Returning next door, Liam found a bigger tarpaulin in their garage, covered the man’s whole body against the predations of crows and magpies, then went to the front gate to await the arrival of official help.    After half an hours fruitless standing around, uncomfortable in the company of corpses, he dialled the emergency number again.    This time he requested the Ambulance service from the automated call handling system.    After that the fire brigade.    Off in the distance he could see two columns of thick smoke rising into the still afternoon warmth.    The emergency services must have their hands full to be this late.

Liam walked to and fro to the deserted road, growing increasingly frustrated with the wait.    Was the system down?    What was going on?    He got his first inkling when he walked around the house into his neighbours back garden.    The ugly sight of three children, hanging from a garden swing, ankles turning slowly, driven by the twist in the washing line around their necks.    He turned away, horrified at the sight of faces darkened with blood, eyes bulging, dark tongues sticking out.

“Oh dear God.”    Liam said, fell to his knees and vomited onto the grass.    Staggering to unwilling feet he stared with horrified eyes at the dangling corpses, uncertain as to whether he should cut them down or leave that grisly task for the Police.    There was certainly nothing he could do with no medical training.    He tried the emergency services number again, and found himself screaming “Answer me!    I’ve got three dead children hanging in the back garden of…”    His voice trailed off into sobs and the call bleeped    “This mailbox is full, please try again later.”

Infuriated, Liam stumbled into his own garage, car keys in hand.    If the emergency services weren’t answering the phone he’d go and bloody well find someone who could help.    How he would do this he had no idea, but he was going to damn well try.

Down in the town three miles down the road all the streets were empty of people.    A cat lay curled up in the middle of the road, enjoying the sun warmed tarmac, moving only reluctantly as his little grey SUV nosed toward it.    A Jack Russell terrier standing in a roadside window stared at his car, yapping soundlessly as Liam drove slowly on.    “What the hell?”    Liam found himself repeating as his neck twitched this way and that, seeking out some form of human life.

A cloud of big carrion birds circled in a the sky to his right and a whiff of hot metal and burning rubber flicked across his nostrils.    Pulling to a halt at a crossroads, he wound down the window and stared.    Down a side street, an Ambulance was burning.    He only recognised it because the word ‘Ambu’ remained on a yet-unburned section of electric yellow and blue bodywork.    No sign of the Police or Fire services.    No wonder they weren’t answering.

Reluctant to get out of his car, he slipped into gear and moved on.    There was nothing he could do here.    No-one to help.    What had happened?    Rather that explore further he went home and closed his gate behind him.

Trembling and ashen he collapsed into a garden chair he had set up so he could watch the Swallows comings and goings.    He rubbed his jaw fretfully and glanced at the little mud nest jammed between downpipe and eaves.   

The Swallows seemed to be managing all right.    There were bees in the Lavender bushes and Fuchsias.    The natural world was carrying on without a seeming care, so what had happened to the people?

Liam abruptly stood up.    Help wasn’t coming, the burning Ambulance told him that much.    There was nothing left to be done but what he thought was the decent thing.    Retrieving a spade and heavy gloves from his garden shed, he went next door and began to dig.

By late afternoon, he was tired to his bones but dragged the husbands body on the tarpaulin into the shallow pit he’d been able to dig.    Swatting intrusive crows away with the flat of his shovel, he cut the washing line to let the three little corpses thump to the ground.    Then he went back for the wife, reflecting how awful she looked, eyes wide and staring, a rictus of horror frozen on immobile features.   

Covering the pit with the tarp, he did something he hadn’t down for over a year, he prayed.    Please God, stop whatever is happening.    People are dying.    Please let it stop.    They didn’t deserve this.    And when he was finished sheltering the bodies under the earth, like all strong men do, he let unfettered tears run down his cheeks.

Leaving his shovel as an upright grave marker, Liam returned home.    He was still somewhat surprised that the power was still on and that the phone had a dial tone.    “Oh god.”    the girls.    He dialled Katherine’s cell number only to get a busy tone.    Same with Mary.    After a heart stopping few minutes, he nerved himself to contact Sandra.    Someone on the other end picked up, but all he could hear was frightened breathing.    “Sandra? It’s Dad.    Sandra?    Answer me love.”

“H-hello, Dad?”    it was Spencer.    Liam had never been more relieved.

“Spencer lad.    Get Sandra and your baby to my place.    Can you do that?”

Spencer sounded terrified.    “I-I don’t know.”

“Right.”    Liam found some more steel in his soul.    “Then I’ll come and get you.    Pack a bag lad.    Is Sandra there?”

“Yes, but she’s not well.    Neither of us are feeling very well…”    Spencer’s voice tailed off.

“Stay there, I’m coming.    Have you heard from Kathy or Mary?”

“I-I think Sandra’s talked to them.”

“In the last hour?”

“Um… I don’t know..”    Another voice, more of a snivel, made it’s presence known.   

“Put her on Spencer.”    he heard a muted sound of agreement.    “Sandra my darling, can you talk?”    he was answered by a sniffle.    “Get a bag packed, I’m going to take you somewhere safe.”

“Thanks Dad.    Oh Dad, it’s awful.”

“I know, I’ve been out.”    he spoke to her softly.    “Now do what your old Dad tells you and we’ll all be golden.    Can you do that?”

“S”    she snivelled.

“Okay.    Have you heard from Kathy and Mary?”

“Yes.”    this time Sandra’s response was stronger.

“I’ll get you and Spencer first.    While I’m on my way over, you tell them to pack a bag and hunker down, got that?    Just say Dad’s coming to get them.    Might be a bit of a squash in my little car, but if we’re sensible we’ll manage.    Have you got power and water?”

“Yes Dad, the lights flicker a bit, but the taps are still running and our toilets flush.”

“Stay where you are and keep a lookout of the window.”    he advised.    “I’m on my way.    See you in about half an hour.”

“Thanks Dad.”    Sandra sniffed.

“Right.    See you shortly love.”    Liam said and rang off.

Alone on the road, he elected to drive the back roads to the modern starter housing development where Sandra and Spencer had set up home.    Over on the towns bypass there were clouds of smoke and a tang of burning rubber and something else on the wind.    Off in the distance he thought he saw flashing blue and red lights, yet otherwise the normal noise of humanity was muted.    Still, it paid to be safe.

As he passed down the street of the cul-de-sac where his youngest daughter lived, he could see the multicoloured flickering of television screens, but still no people.    Cars parked in drives, even something that looked like a…    Liam drove a little faster until he arrived at his destination.   

Spencer came out first, hair and eyes wild, wearing stained t-shirt and shorts, face white with fear, head twitching this way and that as though looking for an invisible enemy.    He was followed by Sandra carrying their baby in it’s little carry cot, in another hand she carried a bulging black rubbish bag bouncing off her leggings, presumably full of baby care stuff.

“Come on, throw that in the back.    Sandra, you go on the back seat with the baby.    Spencer, I need you up front.”    Liam ordered.    Unlike their usual complaints and bickering, everyone did exactly as they were told.    Which was, Liam thought, surprising.    Swinging himself back into the drivers seat, He keyed the central locking and set off back the way he had come.    Spencer and Sandra stayed mute, eyes full of fright, fussing over their little boy, who seemed totally unaffected by his parents terror, gurgling and chuckling as if nothing was amiss.

Once through his own front gate and pulled to a halt, Liam finally broke silence.    “Can either of you tell me what’s been going on?”

They stared at him in disbelief.    “You don’t know?”    Sandra said.

“No.    All I know is that my neighbours and their children are dead.    I had to bury them in their back yard to keep the crows off.”

“Oh my God…”    Sandra put her hand to her mouth, red-rimmed eyes staring at him.

“Spencer?”    Liam asked.

“Haven’t you been watching the news?”    Spencer said.

“You know I think it’s a waste of time.    People gassing off about things they don’t understand.    I don’t watch it unless the sports are on, and not even then.”

“But, but…”    Spencer gasped in disbelief.    Sandra looked at her father pityingly.

“I’ve been too busy in the garden.    Or reading a book.”    He unlocked the car doors.    “Okay.    Everybody out.    I’ll get the kettle on.”

“We can’t stay here.”    Spencer declared.    “I won’t live with a denier.”

“Denier?”    Liam said.    “Well Spencer me lad.    If that’s the way you feel, you can bugger off, but Sandra and the baby stay.    They’ll be safe here.”

“Safe?”    Spencer scoffed.    “With a man who just buried his neighbours?”

“Spencer, sometimes I wonder about you.    I don’t know what killed that sweet young couple, but I don’t want to have to do the same for you.”

“Don’t you threaten me!”    Spencer’s voice went up an octave.


“You brought us here to kill us!”    Spencer’s eyes were wide and vacant, he seemed to sway on his feet like a drunk.

“Sandra.    Get the baby inside, use our spare bedroom.    Me and your husband need a little chat.”    Liam said, fighting down his own rising panic.    “No-one’s killing anyone.    And I’ve seen enough death for one day.    Come on.”    Liam opened the front door and shooed a fretful Sandra indoors.    “Not you.”    he put his hand up to Spencer.    “Follow me.”    he shut the front door and locked it.    Spencer wavered.    “Come on lad, I need you to see something.    We can have a cup of tea in a bit.”    Liam led the way to the back garden.    “Sit down and watch the Swallows.”    Spencer, stained tee-shirt flapping in the breeze, obediently sat down on one of the garden chairs to face the side of the house, staring at the wall.    Keeping a careful distance, Liam sat on the patio wall opposite.

“They’ll be ready to migrate again in another six weeks”    He said in conversational tones.    “All the way to Africa.    Thousands of miles across land and sea.    When the babies are all fat and ready.    I think there’s three in the nest.”

“Spencer.    I can see you’re frightened.”    he continued.    “But you and Sandra are safe here.    Take a breath.”    he added, trying to look as unthreatening as he could.    “Tell me all about it.”    he added gently.    “We’ve all had a bad day and I don’t want to make it any worse.    Please?”

Spencer sat in the shadow of the house, face closed in as though struggling to get his words out.    “We have to watch the news.”    he blurted, grabbing for his cell phone.

“Why?”    Liam said gently.    “Who says?”    He tried to look Spencer in the eye, but his son in laws gaze kept twitching every which way.

“We have to.”

“What’s it about?    You can tell me.”    Liam glanced up as the door to the kitchen opened, Sandra stood in the doorway, big eyed and right hand to her mouth.    “Come on Love.    Sit with Spencer, you’ve both had a bit of a fright.    Put the phone down.    I’ll call Kath and Mary when we’re done here.    Is the tea ready?”

At the mention of tea, Sandra brightened and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with three mugs on a tray.    Placing the tray on the patio table she sat down, clinging on to Spencer’s arm.    “The baby seems all right.”    Liam clumsily tried to get a conversation going.    Sandra nodded slowly, nervously watching her father as though he’d grown horns and a tail.    “Those babies sound as though they’re doing well.”    he added, thumbing at the nest to a chorus of hungry chirrups.    A parent bird swooped in.    “Wish I could judge distance like those birds.”

Sandra and Spencer seemed to relax a little.    Spencer’s fingers began to reach for his cell phone.    “Leave it be lad.    We’ll call the girls in a bit.”    Liam repeated.

“Who built the nest?”    Spencer said after a few awkward moments.

“The Swallows.”    Liam smiled.    “Funny that.    They can fly thousands of miles and build cosy nests, and we get twitchy if we don’t have our cell phones on all the time.    Makes you wonder at how clever we’re not.”   

At this, Spencer’s face relaxed a little and he gave out a half chuckle.    “Homo Stultus.    Modern man.    Lost without his gadgets.”    beside him Sandra gave her father a grateful look.    The cycle of panic had finally been broken.

“I’m a gardener nowadays.”      Liam said,    ”Latin’s something I never really learned.    Now show me some seedlings and I’m on familiar ground.”

“I said we’re not thinking man, we’re stupid man.”    Spencer explained with his more usual certainty.    “Drop me in the wilderness and I’m less talented than a monkey.”

“That would account for some of what’s going on.    I never watch television and my cell phone doesn’t do all the fancy stuff.    Today I’ve seen Ambulances aflame, everyone is dead or in hiding, can either of you tell me what’s going on?”

“You don’t know?”    Sandra seemed amazed.

“Know what?”    Liam shrugged at his daughter.

“I’ve forgotten.”    Her face clouded.    “We’re supposed to be staying indoors.    Something bad is happening.”

“That’s true enough.    Everyone is in hiding or setting fire to the emergency services.”    Liam reached over and picked up his mug.    “What are we supposed to be afraid of?”

A confused expression crept onto Spencer’s face.    “I can’t remember.”    He recovered.    “That’s weird isn’t it?    We just know we’re supposed to be afraid, but I can’t tell you why or what of.”    He frowned and exchanged puzzled glances with Sandra, who nodded.    “Thanks for coming to pick us up by the way.”      He added.

“Thanks Dad.”    she said, features gradually relaxing into her more usual enigmatic smile. Good.    Sandra was back.    They seemed to be breathing more normally.    Liam sighed an inner sigh.   

“Now we’ve got to see what’s happening with Kath and Mary.”    Liam said and took out his old fashioned flip phone.    “I’ll do it.    You two have been through enough.”    he waved them to stay seated.    “Keep your phones off.    Leave the TV off.    It’s something to do with that.”

“Yes Dad.”    Sandra giggled.    Liam gave her a gentle smile.    Welcome back love.    He nodded approval to Spencer.    “Go get yourself a shower, you’ll feel better.    You know where the towels are?”    Sandra nodded.    “Now finish your tea and we’ll see what’s what.”    Sandra led Spencer into the house, both a little shell shocked, but not as bad as they had been.   

He pulled up Kath’s number again and listened to the dial tone.    At least that and the power was still working.

“Dad!    Dad!    We’re been so worried!”    Katherine picked up on the fourth ring.

“Everyone is frightened to death love.    I had to go rescue Sandra and her husband.”

“We’ve been told to stay at home.”

“Why?    It’s a bit dodgy out there, and I’d avoid main roads like the plague, but we’re settling down now.    Everyone here’s fine”    Liam said calmly, listening to the panic in his eldest daughter’s voice.    He grimly declined to mention the bodies he’d had to bury next door.    “Who’s coming up with this stuff?”

“It’s all over the newsfeeds!”    Katherine sounded as though she was about to trip over into hysteria.    “The government are saying it!”

“Are they?    I never listen to what they say.”    Liam scoffed.

“Dad!”    She protested.    “You’re not taking this seriously!”

“Katherine.”    he said in slow, dangerous tones.    “I’ve seen people taking this seriously.    They’re the ones hanging their children and setting fire to the emergency services.”

“You haven’t!”

“Young lady.”    He put on his sternest voice.    “I have just had to bury my next door neighbours, something a man should never have to do.    That young couple and their three children.    I think you met them last year.”

“Marie-Lynn and Oscar?”

“I could never remember their names.    I spent all morning calling the emergency services and getting nothing, so instead of leaving them to the crows and foxes, I dug a hole and said a prayer over them.    God help me.”

“You did what!?”

“I found the young man lying dead in his front drive with a magpie picking at hi- him.    His wife was dead inside and their two little boys and little girl were hanging from the garden swing.    No idea what killed them and I’ve a notion they did it to themselves.”    Liam saw no reason to mince his words, although he did gloss over the Magpie plucking out that poor man’s eye.    Kath was in a bad enough state without making it worse.    “Now are you coming to me or do I have to come and get you?”

“N-no.    Bruce will drive us.”

“Stay off the main roads and keep clear of big towns.    Oh, and bring some goodies with you.    And whatever cans and dried stuff you’ve got in the cupboard.    Have you talked to Mary?”

“She’s coming to us.”

“Well when she gets to you let me know.    Looks like I’m going to need all the room I can make.”

“We’ll be fine here Dad.”

“You’re in the suburbs.    Have you checked out of the window and seen the smoke?”    He warned.

There was a pause, then a subdued “Oh.”

“See you in a couple of hours.    Stay off the dual carriageways, use secondary roads.    Switch off your phones.”    Liam added.    “Love you.”

“Love you too Dad.    Bruce will take care.”

“See he does.    I’m doing my special pasta sauce tonight.    A big batch.    Bring your appetites.    And a tent.”

“We’ve still got Bruce’s old camper van, and sleeping bags.”    Katherine offered.

“That will do nicely.    When is Mary due?”

“Any time Dad.”

“See you when you get here.”    Liam was very careful to use ‘when’, not ‘if’.   

“Yes Dad.”

“Am I nagging?”    He teased to see if his daughter was on the line, not the frightened shadow who had answered.

“Yes Dad.”

“Good.”    He allowed himself an inner sigh of relief.    “I’ll nag you some more when you get here.”

“Thanks Dad.    I mean it.”

“That’s good.    See you this evening.”    Liam rang off.    He could hear the shower tinkling inside.    “I need some gardening time.”    There was early fruit to be picked and he’d dig some potatoes in case there wasn’t enough pasta.    Always something to do.

When he tramped his cargo into the kitchen he could hear Spencer in the front room.    His son in law, now more his usual self, was fiddling with the television.    “It doesn’t work.”    He said like having a non-working television was an offence.

“I borrowed the fuse from the plug when the kettle broke last year.    Never watch it myself.”    Liam kicked his boots off before entering the room.    “Read a book why don’t you?”    He gestured at the wall filling bookshelves.

“Don’t you have Wi-fi?”

“No.    Don’t have social media either.    Just my old cell phone.    Besides, there’s no data signal this side of the hill,    Just voice.    It’s a bit of a dead spot.”    Why was Spencer so anxious?

“B-but how do you keep up to date?”

“What with?    We’re too far from the coast for tidal waves.    The closest nuclear or chemical plant is over fifty miles away.    Look lad.    I’m a pensioner with a few quid set aside.    Too old to fight any wars and I’ve paid a lifetime of taxes, plus I pay private health insurance, so apart from keep up my drivers licence and paying the bills I don’t have much to do with the news.    And I know the world is daft enough without any help from me.”    Liam said flatly.    “Now go pick up a book and take a breather for heaven’s sake.    Put on some music, I’ve got some old stuff you might like.    Ask Sandra.”    He turned around brusquely and returned to the kitchen to wash his freshly dug potatoes.

Outside as shadows lengthened he could hear a familiar regular subsonic beat.    What was that?    He stepped out onto the patio to see a helicopter in camouflage passing half a mile or so away over the trees.    He watched it until it flew out of sight.    So the Army was out was it?    Things must be bad then.    “What was that?”    Sandra stood in the kitchen doorway, biting her lip.

“Just the Army I think.    Went over that way toward the main road.”    He heard a heavier whup-whup noise heading directly toward them and the sound became deafening as a much bigger machine, this time with a camouflaged backhoe loader suspended underneath, flew right over the house.    Liam gave them a cheerful wave.    Sandra shrunk back inside the house.   

Someone must have seen him because the first machine reappeared ten minutes later and landed in the meadow outside his hedge.    A helmeted figure disembarked and trotted up to the boundary, eyeing the sharp thorned Berberis hedge.    “You all right?”    A young woman’s voice bellowed.

“Fine thanks.”    Liam told her.    “If you fancy some tea you’ll have to come round the front.    What’s going on?”

“National emergency.”    she said by way of explanation.

“I’d gathered that.”

“Have you got a phone number?”    the woman bellowed over the still running rotors.

“Sure.    What for?”

“We might need some help.    We may need volunteers.”

“Oh, right.    Why are you asking me?”

The woman doffed her helmet, revealing handsome coffee skinned features a little sweat stained from prolonged wearing of headgear.    “You’re upright and you didn’t run away and hide.”    She said in more conversational tones, favouring him with a relieved smile.    “We need some people who can keep their heads, as the rest of the population seem to have lost theirs.”

“I’m a bit pushed for space.    I’ve got the rest of the family coming over.”    He hedged.

“Okay.    I’ll check with regional command.    Hang on there, I’ll be back in a minute.”    She put her helmet back on and walked back to the helicopter.    Another flew over, and another two carrying heavy equipment toward the bypass.    The woman returned.    “Major Gwendolen Sparks.    Regional Rescue Command.”    She took off a glove and stuck her open hand over the low hedge.   

Liam shook it.    “Liam Collins.”    He added.    “Retired Mechanical Engineer.”

“Pleased to meet you Liam.”    She seemed more relieved to see him than he to see the Army.    “We’d like to set up here.”

“You’re welcome, but it’s not my field.”

“We’ll bring in our own equipment.    But we need a place with friendly natives.”

“Next door is empty.”    Liam gestured at the next door cottage.    “The family that lived there have… gone away.    It’s open.    What happened to the Emergency services?”    Either side of Liam’s thorn hedge, they walked around the line between Liam’s garden and the field.

“We don’t know.    Most of the larger towns and cities are off limits at the moment, can’t tell you anything more.”

“Can’t or won’t?”    Liam probed.

“No-one knows anything.    We’ve been told to clear the roads and I need a place to set up a local command post for senior staff.    This big field looks dry and there’s no livestock.    The nearest two farmhouses are empty.    In one we found the farmer and his whole family dead.    It’s pretty grim all round.”    She lithely vaulted the field gate into the road, landing like a cat.    Liam felt a pang of jealousy.    Oh to be young and fit.

“I had to bury my neighbours.”    Liam admitted.

“So you’ve got a strong stomach then?”

“Empty.    I left my breakfast on the ground when I saw what happened to their three children.”

“You say you buried them?    On your own?”    She seemed surprised.

“I’m not dead yet.”    Liam contrived to sound affronted.    She seemed to tense.    Then he flashed her a tiny grin.    The moment passed.

“They’ve a gate into the field at the back.”    He followed her out onto the road and pointed at next door.

“Good.”    She put her hand to her helmet and there was a crackle of conversation.    “I’ve got senior personnel inbound.    Do you mind waving them in?”    She said, as they walked up the short gravel drive, boots crunching.

“No, no.    I’ve got my own family coming.    It’ll be a bit of a crush, but we’ll make do.”    Liam showed her the way through to the back garden.

“I see what you mean.”    She nodded at the mound of turf and upright shovel.    “I’ll get a detail to move the bodies somewhere more appropriate.    Okay.    Thanks for that.”

“I’ll go direct traffic then.”

“Thank you Mister Collins.    We’ll drop you a few ration packs if you run short.”    She easily vaulted the gate and jog trotted back toward her helicopter.    As she approached the rotors sped up, and by the time she swung into the cab, the noisy machine was straining the bounds of gravity.    Liam saw the Major wave from above as it wheeled overhead and waved back.    Spencer and Sandra arrived on the road.

“Was that the Army?”    Spencer demanded.    He was freshly washed and wearing clean clothes.

“They’ll be setting up in the field for a while.    I’ve been asked to wave them in.”    Liam replied.    “Besides, Kath and Mary will be coming that way and I don’t want them stopped.”

“Bloody cheek.”    Spencer said.    “Coming here with their guns.”   

“They’ve come to help, not to shoot anyone Spencer, do grow up.”    Liam said in mild exasperation.    “All they want to do is set up a supply base to drop stuff in and go clear the roads.    I doubt if they’ll be here more than a couple of days.”

“Fascists.”    Snarled Spencer.    “They can go elsewhere.    We should protest.”

“Spencer.”    Liam looked his son in law up and down critically.    “People are dropping like flies.    Everything is going to hell in a handbasket and you’re fretting about a few uniforms and guns.    I’m happy to accept any help we can get.    If you don’t like it, go inside and read a book, help Sandra with the baby or go watch the Swallows.    Just don’t get in the way.”

“Well if that’s your attitude.”    Spencer snapped and stomped back up the driveway into the house.   

Sandra stayed by her father.    “Sorry Dad.”

“Nice lad, but not the sharpest tool in the box.”    Commented Liam and shook his head.    “Go on love.    Calm him down while I make sure the Army doesn’t end up in the wrong driveway.”    She nodded bob cut mousy hair and hurried after the offended Spencer.

The command staff didn’t arrive until mid-evening as helicopter after helicopter landed supply containers into the field.    A young soldier carrying an assault rifle dropped out of the rear of a truck and politely tapped Liam on the shoulder.    “I’ll take over sir.”    A second trooper took up station the other side of the driveway.

“Oh.    Right.    Cheers.”    At that moment Liam saw Bruce’s camper van cautiously arrive at the top of the hill, he stretched out his arm and waved frantically.    In response the van moved forward slowly until it was level with his drive.    Liam opened his gate.    “Welcome to the circus.”    he joked as a stunned looking Bruce wound down the window at the hive of uniformed activity beyond.

“Hello Dad.    Showing off are we?”    Katherine said from the passenger seat.    Now offline she had cheered up considerably.

“You know me love.    I like a bit of company.”    he laughed, genuinely pleased to see his family in good spirits.    “Excuse the mess.”    Up the road, the first soldier waved in a staff vehicle.    Liam opened his own front gate.    A mute Bruce drove the old camper van in.    Liam breathed again and closed his gate behind the careworn vehicle.    His family was safe until the craziness passed and they could all go home again.    The Army would do their job and go.    The Swallows would fly away and return next Summer.    Nothing else mattered.   

An End


I feel like I’m finally surfacing. The last year has been maddeningly frustrating due to moving continents, yet again, and the COVID restrictions, many of which seem farcical. given the current risk.

All of which has simply drained my energy and diverted attention from other projects, to the point where I am beginning to find just how out of the loop I have become. Apart from one clumsy attempt at literary blackmail, my works appear to have disappeared from public view. I prefer to think that this disappearance was down to my neglect rather than the efficacy of any would-be blackmailer.

Goodreads is completely out of date and needs revision, as does my listing on Author’s Den. Fortunately these things are now works in progress, along with “Darkness between the stars”, the third work in the Stars trilogy and my most recent addition to the fold “The Cat Tree and other stories“, the 2019 collection of my quirkier short stories containing;

  • The Cat Tree
  • Polish Ted
  • Moonlit Shadow
  • Just Another Day at the Office
  • Good Here Innit?
  • A Coelacanth in the Bathroom
  • The Hunting of the Squonk
  • Restoration
  • Honey Tells
  • Three Park Benches and a Bicycle Rack
  • Coffee House
  • Bats!

I will post some excerpts and notes on each once my Goodreads profile is sorted out and I can log back in.

Note; “Moonlit Shadow” my one and only Christmas themed short story, “Good here innit?” and “A Coelacanth in the Bathroom” were previously published in three of Legiron Books horror / supernatural anthologies.


Not much writing going on at the moment. My major focus has been our forthcoming move back to Europe. Have created a separate blog about our assorted adventures called Craicerjack Life. What that will turn into is anybody’s guess.

I don’t post much here because unless there’s a new release or development, there’s not much to say, but ‘fabblegab’ seems to have the panic over SARS/COV-2 down to a T.

For us, the future is going to be a very broad canvas. I get the feeling I shouldn’t be buying paintbrushes to fill it, but a large format spraygun.

Now I am no longer working for a Canadian Distance Learning School, there will be time for all the projects that I’ve been neglecting for far too long.

Mid September through October will be taken up with the fine detail of relocation, which I will detail with video content, on the other site.

Fabblegab, a definition

I came across a wonderful adjective the other day which is descriptive of so much. That word is ‘fabblegab’.

/ˈfābəl/ gab

noun: fable; plural noun: fables

A confusing mass of verbiage designed to deceive.

verb: fable; 3rd person present: fables; past tense: fabled; past participle: fabled; gerund or present participle: fabling

tell fictitious tales.
“I do not dream nor fable”

Happy new decade

Not just a happy new year to everyone, if as usual the deadline for saying so has just whooshed past, but happy new decade. The futures I was afraid of over twenty years ago don’t look like they’re going to happen. Which is a bit awkward when you’ve been writing dystopian sci-fi for much of that time.

Over the last week or so, having put “The Cat Tree and other stories” out in the marketplace, I have been watching lots of YouTube videos on what makes a successful writer. The first is my least favourite. It feels like the two festively dressed presenters are giving the finger to those of us who like me, are massive introverts.

For the record, according to the Myers-Briggs test I’m an INTP or ‘Fixer’. I’m really terrible at socialising and can only do it for short periods, after which I need a long lie down in the proverbial darkened room. So to all these self publishing gurus who say you need lots of reader / writer interaction, sorry, that won’t work for me. I just don’t have the emotional makeup to readily switch between creator mode and dealing with the rest of the stuff that comes with marketing. I’ve worked in marketing and hated every minute. I’m happiest out of the limelight, firmly behind the keyboard, inner eyes focussed elsewhen, my attention focussed on the story.

My favourite video, well at least so far, on the topic of writing and success is the 2016 mashup below, where successful writers are being asked about what and how they think. I particularly like the interview with Elizabeth Gilbert starting at 25:14 where she talks about the shit sandwich all writers have to eat, every day. It’s candid and revelatory. As are the three sections where Neil Gaiman has something to say.

If anybody does drop by, check out the videos and tell me what you think.

If anyone wants me, I’ll be behind my keyboard.


Have re-written “Oggie” and re-titled it as “Aug-E”. The beginning of the story has always worked well, but I was forever unhappy with the last version that can be found under the ‘Short Stories’ menu. So I chopped it in half and junked the Paul Calvin ambush story line, preferring to follow my stepdaughters comment about one of the characters, the transgender ‘Pete’. She told me she was disappointed with the original and told me I should have done more with ‘Pete’, so I switched story lines to make it more about the dynamic between the uber-male character Frank Yale and the less physical ‘Pete’.

At a shade under seven thousand words, it’s a much better read than the original and I liked the follow through from the gangland theme in the beginning. I know about gangs and how they work from my experiences in the late 70’s with some of the outlaw biker gangs in Birmingham, UK. Also, having worked with two pre-operative transgenders whilst in nursing college during the early 1980’s, I did some more research and threw in what I knew from personal experience. It seems to ring true. So I’m putting it into the ‘finished’ file.

The story emphasis in Aug-E is now more about transitions, both from the physical and psychological aspects. I’ve got an idea for some basic but interesting artwork and the ending is a lot better, but no spoilers at this point. It will form the key story from a collection of quirky science fiction short stories with the working title “Aug-E and clones”. I have the skeletons of another eleven tales that I shall be working on during January and February, hopefully with a total word count of fifty to sixty thousand words. White on black art for the cover and simple silhouette art for the inside of the hardback as before. It’s a lot simpler, far more striking, and fits in with Stobor Books general artistic ethos. Which it to keep things simple and striking.

Have finished the eBook text for the eBook version of “The Cat Tree and other stories” so should be getting an ISBN for that version in the next week of so, after which that will be released to follow up with the Hardback original which should be hitting Amazon any day now. Although if anyone wants a hard copy, I would prefer it if they bought it direct via this link. That way I get more of the royalties.

Released into the wild

Stobor books has now released my finalised Hardback edition of “The Cat Tree and other stories” for distribution. Currently only available from here for the modest sum of CAD$35.00, the hardback will be joined on Amazon and Barnes & Noble by an eBook edition in January 2020.

The rewrite of the Stars Trilogy grinds on, but in the times when I am not working at my day job, I will be putting out a collection of my short science fiction and fantasy stories, which I don’t have a working title for just yet. However, I do have around twelve four thousand word stories which should fit the bill nicely and provide some welcome diversion from all the doom and gloom in the news.

This means a lot of editing and re-writing over Christmas, but this will be my own antidote to terrible TV and far too much to eat and drink.

First on the list for revision is “Oggie”, originally written as a companion piece to the Paul Calvin themed stories. I’ve had what I think is a very entertaining idea, which means some major surgery, an amputation here, a few grafts there, but nothing that won’t make it a far better read.

Stobor Books

Stobor books, my new boutique publishing web site, is now up and running. “The Cat Tree and other stories” is published and due for general release when the main proof copy arrives and approved for general distribution.

For anybody keen to purchase a hardback copy, I appreciate that there have been long intervals where it appears that nothing has been happening, but these are delays mostly occasioned by production faults, travel and a four week illness, also holding down a part time job which temporarily drifted into full time hours and of course waiting for Canada Post.

One of the things I will do over this Christmas, as part of my own learning curve is share my experiences of the publishing and distribution process on video, hopefully enlightening any would-be authors about the quirks of putting their own work out in the marketplace.

Done and almost done

Life recently has been reduced to a box ticking exercise.

The Cat Tree and other stories draft proofed and final edit – done

Artwork design including logo for Stobor Books – done

Registration for free bar code as a publisher – done

ISBN and bar code created – done

Upload and recheck of all files – done

Proof copy ordered for final production check – done

Lie down in a darkened room – To do.

Well two weeks from now I should have my proof copy before giving the final okay on distribution so I can shift my focus back to writing once more. Or then there’s doing some brand recognition for Stobor Books. That means a number of other boxes to tick. There will be links, there will be other publicity related things. That and the eBook which I have to complete before December 12th.

Then maybe I can set aside some time for a much needed rewriting of the Stars trilogy. I’ve done the rough edit and will try to be ruthless with the next draft. In the meantime I’m going to try and place some copy with some of the science fiction magazines in the United States. That and keep on top of the day job.

No rest for the wicked.

Free ISBNs?

Well that is a turn up for the books. Quite literally. Canadian authors and publishers can qualify for free International Standard Book Numbers (Link here). Normally someone like Bowkers in the USA will charge US$25 each per 13 digit book number, or an eye watering GBP 89 From Neilsen in the UK. The only ‘price’ ISBN Canada stipulate is that the author / publisher send them a free copy for the Canadian Literary Archive.

Places like Lulu.com and other print to order houses do also offer ISBNs for free, but I’ve always had a nagging doubt that the distribution on those is limited somehow.

For the record, ISBN Canada registration was quite painless and no credit cards etcetera were requested. Although the Canadian Literary archive do say that it might take up to ten business days for processing, Stobor Books login ID came through at 4pm Tuesday 26th November, after being registered on the evening of Friday 22nd. Which I thought was quite brisk. Especially for a Government based initiative.

Will register the hardback and eBook editions for ‘The Cat Tree and other stories’ this evening when I get time to do so. Then I will create the barcodes using this site. The rest is simply finalising the layout and pressing the ‘go stud’.

Deep breath and off we go.

Update: I’m impressed. I filled in the online form and got my ISBN within thirty seconds. Fairly straightforward process too. The barcode likewise.

New Venture

Small announcement for those interested. I am launching a new venture, Stobor Books. At first this will be merely a vehicle for my forthcoming edition of ‘The Cat Tree and other stories’ and other follow up volumes on long-neglected projects.

Stobor, once I’ve ironed out all the bugs in publishing and distribution, will be a niche publisher specialising in Fantasy, Science fiction and Horror. Maybe I’ll open it up to submissions from other authors, maybe I won’t. Maybe the whole thing will be a massive flop, but if you don’t try you never find out.

Looking forward

Generally speaking I try to keep away from mainstream politics, it distracts from my narrative habits. However, I may not be interested in politics, but that alas, does not mean that politics is not interested in me.

Take for example a forthcoming and hard earned holiday in London. The planning and booking for which trip were finalised in February, with only a minor panic over accommodation in June interfering with our schedule. On my to do list from the 15th October to the 6th of November are many visits to museums and all the other cultural wonders that the UK’s capital has to offer. Afternoon teas, theatre, lectures, sightseeing, a couple of grooming interludes and a few strolls down memory lane. Three whole weeks of just chilling out and having my own form of restrained fun. By restrained incidentally, I do not mean any kinky sojourns around the more salacious streets of the capital. I leave all that to younger flesh.

While there I will also be editing down an old copy of ‘The Sky full of Stars’ to make the story crisper and more engaging, refreshing my memory prior to a wholesale rewrite of the whole trilogy. A task I have long neglected. Then I have a few quirky stories which I will be throwing at some of the more mainstream sci-fi magazines from this list. I hope some of my narrative mud will stick, or at least get some worthwhile feedback.

Also whilst in London I hope to run into a couple of very decent people I have come to know through online contact. Just for a general chat and the simple pleasure of shaking their hand. A little face to face socialising, nothing much.

Regrettably a shadow has arisen which threatens our enjoyment. The whole dreadful soap opera of the UK’s departure from the European Union. Overall, I think leaving that bureaucratic farrago is a good thing. The UK should have been freed March 31st 2019. At least according to the date set by the triggering of article fifty of the EU constitution. I have seen no good reasons for not leaving on that date. Nor should another extension to the leaving date be sought, no matter the court judgements. Courts should not interfere with the political process, nor create political law retrospectively. That is a dangerous path to walk.

This does not matter to those who do not want the UK to leave. They do not believe in democracy. At least not in any form I have ever witnessed.

In the UK we were always told that we lived in a country where the average voter had a say via the ballot box. The general rule being that the majority gives an elected government an opportunity to fulfil promises made, contingent on their party being given a parliamentary majority. Whilst those elected are not compelled to keep their word to the absolute letter, a promise to their voter base is a promise and such commitments should not be broken lightly. Failing that, what is the point? If politicians continually break faith with those that elect them, does a walk to the polling station become nothing but an exercise in outright futility?

Let me expand. When I was eighteen, I had the opportunity of voting in the plebiscite for the UK to remain in the Common Market, as the European Union was called then. To my undying shame I voted for the UK to stay in, voting that way because my older brother told me it was a good thing and that I should vote yes. That decision has haunted me for several decades. It was a bad decision, made in ignorance that I have regretted for over forty years. During that time I have had the displeasure of watching the great promise of the then EEC morph into little more than an exclusive club for the well connected and arrogant. Of laws concocted by crass bureaucrats for what seemed no more than their own self-aggrandisement. Regulation for regulations sake from an unelected commission and rubber stamped by a parliament in name only. Watching the importance of my vote diminish as European democracy began to languish and die, the sovereign bodies of all the nation states gradually becoming little more than yes men for a patronising elite, hoping against hope for their turn to ride the bureaucrats great gravy train.

Now the UK is (probably) leaving the EU, I think a great wrong is at last, I hope, being righted. ‘Deal’ or no. All precautionary mechanisms are, from the best information I have available to me, in place for Britain’s World Trade Organisation terms exit aka ‘no deal’, or more pejoratively ‘crashing out’ if one is to maintain the hyperbole. Emergency provisions have been made and supplies stockpiled. The much prophesied worst is like the weak protestation of a street corner penitents mantra that ‘the end is nigh’, it will not come to pass. Like so many of the scare stories presented as news drip fed from so many once reputable media outlets.

On the day, the greater British public may not even notice the difference. Only those involved in warehousing and distribution will notice significant changes to their paperwork. The price of some goods may even fall as suppliers will no longer be forced to use EU based distribution hubs and instead bring their products directly into the UK as they did before the EEC and later EU.

My final word on the matter is this; if the UK does leave the EU on the 31st October I will be in a London bar somewhere celebrating with a modest glass of single malt, then stepping out to see the fireworks. This promises to be a Halloween and bonfire night to remember.

There may even be a story in it.

Post published

Waiting game again. The second proof copy of “The Cat Tree and other stories” has been despatched and will reach me by the end of the month. This should finally mark the end of the writing and editing process so I can move forward into the distribution and marketing phases.

While the interminable wait goes on, I will fill the unforgiving minutes between then and now with a little motorcycle riding, before the weather really closes down in October. Did try yesterday, but when I passed the eighty kilometre marker, what had been merely a little moisture in the air turned into enough rain to make the roads damp, so, being a fair weather rider, I beat a hasty retreat down the Island Highway home to Victoria, moisture rapidly beading my visor and the front of the fairing, as you can see in the attached video. Apologies for the lack of sound, but it’s my first time using this particular camera and I’d managed to mute the microphone.

Now I’ve ridden in far worse, everything from snow, hail, torrential rain and cold that put a quarter inch breastplate of ice onto my leathers. Cold that bit through three layers of gloves within a mere twenty miles so that I had to warm my gloves on the cylinder head. The worst of those times was over thirty five years ago, but now that I am over sixty summers, my taste and tolerance for such saddle bound masochism is much diminished.

Today my wife has the car for a lunch date with friends. Looking out of my office window, I see we have sunshine, which after I finish work today at lunchtime I intend to take full advantage of.

Proof of publishing

Had a word with the printers and they are sending me a new, hopefully no missing pages this time, proof copy of my book “The Cat Tree and other stories”. They were very good about it and will expedite matters to ensure the issue doesn’t happen again.

There will be just about enough time to do the final proof edit and approval before I head off to London in mid-October. Whilst I’m over in the UK, I’ll take a little time out and re-read the proof a few times before giving the green light for distribution in early November. Just in time to be out for distribution 1st December.

The book itself has four previously published stories nestled within it’s elegant hardback cover. One is a dark little tale of mix and match mythologies, the second a plain old fashioned ghost story. The third and fourth are both comic supernatural tales meant to act as an antidote to the seriousness of life. The story behind the five thousand word tale entitled “Three park benches and a bicycle rack” is a happy little anecdote where the title came before the story. As it sometimes does. Must start doing video’s of those. Just video commentaries about where some of my stranger ideas come from.

One of the comments I did get from the printers today was that the original MSS they received had no stray codes in it that could have accounted for the missing pages, so they were going to do a little due diligence on their own internal processes. Could have just been a one-off error, but I did submit a second, and triple checked MSS via their web portal to replace the first, which had two minor errors (One formatting, one factual) which escaped the proofing process. Spelling, apart from the dialogue, is OED standard. The typesetting is mostly in nice, easy to read Times New Roman 12point, with only the headings and title being larger. Overall it’s as nice a piece of work as I’ve seen, on or off a bookstores shelving.

This is one of the things no-one tells you about when it comes to publishing. First, that the manuscript has to be pretty damn good before anyone will even so much as glance at it, second, that you as the author have to do a hell of a lot more than just write. You have to give approval for designs, layout and any changes to the text. Procrastination may be the thief of time, but publishing is a whole different animal.

After your book is listed for distribution there’s the marketing. Which even big publishers tend to leave that to the author. I recall reading world famous Auto journalist and satirist P J O’Rourke’s account of sitting alone behind a pile of his own work in some remote midwestern US mall.

Which can midwife that nagging doubt in a writers soul. You wrote the book, of course it’s good. Isn’t it? So why haven’t you sold many? Why does no-one seem interested? Or why is it already in the ‘remaindered’ section of Barnes & Noble? There may be several reasons; not least of which is timing of the release. Any press releases you send out may end up spiked in favour of something much more newsworthy, or relegated to an obscure corner where few eyes ever stray. There are so many other possibilities they are hard to enumerate, let alone describe. It may well be simply that your work is in an unfashionable part of a genre. Your standard of writing may be on a par with the literary greats, your characters fully realised figures that jump straight off the page into a readers head, but if no-one is currently interested in the topic, this might well be a reason why it is not selling. Your initial premise might even have arisen from an idea that is too far ahead of it’s time. There is no one reason for a great idea not taking off.

Writing is a tough business, especially when the world fails to immediately share your good opinion of your work. Whenever rejection hits I find there is always a certain sensation of being more than a little crushed. The wounds of rejection re-open time and time again and during the upheavals of disturbed sleep the vampire of doubt bites, sucking creative blood from aching veins, draining the impetus, disconnecting the narrative drive. After a bad episode it’s often very hard to put fingers to keyboard.

Sometimes the only answer is to just keep your head down, try another genre and never, ever give up. Because even if you never sell much, at least it won’t be because you didn’t try.

Take a walk on the dark side of Science Fiction ©

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