Missing – a novel.
This is my first attempt at writing a full length–well 75000 words–novel.
The idea for the book came after attending family gatherings, mostly funerals, where my relatives where strangers. These people I knew existed but never met regularly, mostly never.
When I first started school at five years old, all of my relatives lived within a twenty-mile radius. On my father’s side they were farmers, on my mother’s side they worked in engineering.
I left school at sixteen and travelled, so I was the one who disappeared, and I suspect I am the stranger in the midst.
I recently met two of my relatives the same age as me, I remember starting school with them. I always thought they were my cousins, but discovered they were my father’s cousins. You can imagine there was a long discussion about who was who and an attempt at constructing a loose family tree.
Out of the discussion came the origins for my idea for the novel Missing. I pondered the thoughts of family bonds, trust, and misconceptions.
Missing–The story is of a young woman on the quest to find her parents and discover why as a child someone had placed her into care. No one would explain why.
She finds the house in the village where she was born and from there she traces and discovers her relatives. Her investigate disturbs them as she comes closer to the truth about the whereabouts of her parents.
I have passed the novel back to the proof-reader.
Well, I need a break from it.
Alibrasphere will publish the book at the end of April or early May.
We are advised to make good choices and live our life to the full, whatever that really means.
Perhaps, your final choice will be the hardest.
I feel privileged to learn my story “Falling Stars” has been published today by the good folks at Literally Stories.
The story was selected by Leila Allison as the Sunday read. (Thank you).
Leila Allison’s thoughts on ‘Falling Stars’.
You are invited to read the story and wonder if this is a great way to go – or not.
Posted in Blog, Observational, Short Story, Uncategorized
Tagged Dignitas, Life and Death., peace, Relationships, Romantic, Short Stories, spiritual, Writing
I don’t usually read YA fiction, perhaps I should. This was an interesting read and in many ways it reminded me of watching Scooby Doo, it was fast paced and full of compounding conflict and tension. I placed a review on Goodreads and Amazon to show my appreciation for the author’s hard work.
The Magic of the Stones.
The Butterfly Stone – Laurie Bell
Tracey Master is like any other 15-year-old, she worries about her school work, has teenage crushes on boys and a supporting group of friends. She works part-time in the office of her Uncle Donald (Donny), a Private Investigator. The administration is boring, and she craves the excitement of being involved in a real live detective case. The opportunity arises when Miss Tearning hires the services of Uncle Donny to trace a piece of missing jewellery. The recovery of the necklace, the Butterfly Stone pendant seemed an easy task and Miss Tearning’s ex-lover is tricked into handing over the necklace. However, Miss Tearning goes missing and Tracey is left with the item, which attracts an unsavoury group of thieves; the Shadowman and a Red Masked magician.
This all seems like a straight forward criminal investigation, however Tracey and her family, including Uncle Donny, are not Normal – they have magical powers (Mage). They battle with their adversaries who have magical powers and are on an evil quest to own the Stone.
Tracey, her friends and Uncle Donny are drawn deeper into the mystery of the stone and each step towards understanding its powers becomes fraught with dangerous consequences. The seriousness of the situation involves the police and Agents from the M-Force to unravel the case and to stop the Shadowman from his plans.
The search to understand the significance of the necklace leads to Tracey’s ancestral history and links her directly with the power of the stone, the power the Shadowman wants to own. This puts Tracey in mortal danger and her craving for excitement becomes overwhelming full of conflict and insurmountable challenges.
I found this a fast-paced novel, almost a race to uncover the mystery that incrementally adds more intrigue as well as danger for the Mage. The need of having to attend school in between the investigations, I thought added the right mixture of teenage secrecy verses adult concern and control. Later, as the whole complexity of the situation emerges the adults do become threatened by the consequences of Tracey’s actions.
I enjoyed this YA novel and its style of internal quips from Tracey and text messaging between her friends as it captures the inflated confidence of many young teenagers.
For those who enjoy YA novels with a teenage girl as the heroine, I would recommend this as an enjoyable and exciting read.
Three Line Tales, week 100.
Photo by Manu Sanchez
The evolutionary wheel of progress rules our lives
and we stroll hand in hand secure of our future.
And although putrid, weak, evil minds of anger stalk our world
We say to them – we will survive with dignity and human fortitude.
If and Only … Your friends in waiting.
Glasgow Street Art
If and only are companions
They go hand in hand with fate
Like the dreams of millions
In retrospect, they arrive too late.
If and only trapped in meditation
Held back by dithering doubt
full of indecisive hesitation
In retrospect, just throw them out.
If and only may rule your life
with choices, hard to bare
what could have been was strife
In retrospect, do you really care?
Now if was your only thought
when you couldn’t make up your mind
of things not done or should or ought
In retrospect, if only you had more time.
Alice Wants Home – Three Line Tales
photo by Fleur Treurniet via Unsplash
‘Only the Unicorn knows your way home,’ the owl screeched. ‘Which way, which way, which way.’ It glided into the dark.
‘Wait!’ shouted Alice. Alone she looked around. No entry, one way street going both ways. A window in the yard.
She stamped her foot and wept. Could she really climb the drain pipe? But she must to find the Unicorn.
My piece below is a reflection on a well known Christmas Ghost Story.
I was never happy nor gave a festive care
When carol singers screeched outside my door.
They seemed so full of seasonal Christmas cheer
With good tidings and joy that I found such a bore.
My name is Mr Scrouge not Santa Claus.
I didn’t give presents and I didn’t send cards
Nor hung baubles or tinsel on a coniferous tree
Instead I’d count my gold and cackle aloud with glee.
Then I saw an apparition over St Nicholas’s church in town
A ghostly creature laughing, his finger pointing down
Mr Scrouge, he called, your time on Earth is running out
What use is your pointless life full of bitterness and doubt.
What do I care of others and your empty ghostly threats
I am off to the bookies now to collect my winning bets.
Then a tiny ragged boy appeared holding out an empty bowl
Sir, he said, my mother’s dying, please a penny for her soul.
And from the dirty rags in the doorway by the ironmonger Jacks
She rose up and I saw an evil face laughing on a boney rack
Her skeleton chattered, Mr Scrouge, it is clear for all to see
That death is knocking on your door, but you’ll never be free
My heart stopped beating, I shivered and felt a creeping cold
The ragged boy and mother laughed at my life becoming mould
I cried for an Angel to rescue me from this dark despotic death.
So I promised to spend my wealth to end all poverty on Earth.
The boy and mother warmed me from a pitiless lonely end
And we celebrated Christmas with all their wondrous friends
It cost me all my hard earned gold to bring them happiness and good cheer
And so the moral of my sad story to you must now be very clear.
That having lots of family and friends at Christmas is wonderfully dear.
One of my garden residents
A peaceful moment of relaxation, sitting in the garden on a warm summer day, listening to the sounds of the birds and the trees orchestrated by a gentle breeze.
I allow my imagination to tune in and compare the rustling of the leaves to the harmony of piano keys, and the sparrows tweeting sound like flutes racing through their notes. The blackbird begins calling as a lonely saxophone would.
High above me the seagulls shrill with a rough discordance that draws the agony out of a badly tuned cello, as they chase after crows cawing loud in a panicked percussion of rumbling kettle drums.
Then, when the quiet peace seems to return, there is a faint calling from an unseen flacon, I hear the interjections as if from a distant clarinet. A flurry of small branches on the hedge scratch along the wire fence lamenting as weeping violins and they are accompanied by a gentle chirping of a lonely wren. Two doves in the branches of a tree blow oboe notes to each other and the wasps around my imperial biscuits provide a background buzz like softly shaking maracas.
These sounds provide reassurance of a natural harmonious world – I dare not switch on the man made radio, not just yet!