Extract One

Everybody always wants something, from the gentleman at the other end of the phone line who wants to know when the next best time to call back will be to Mark who already had what he wanted. He just had to get rid of this utterly inconvenient distraction. He had no idea when the next best time to call back would be, so Mark simply picked a number between one and ten. It was a simple method, no doubt about that. But the quickest and most effective considering the urgency of the situation. “Five. Call back around five o’clock; I am sure someone will be in by that point.” He spoke calmly and assertively like one would in a business meeting. Then he slowly put the phone back down, making sure to press the red end call button on the way. He turned round and headed back into the kitchen. It was brand new, gleaming. That fresh wooden smell was still hanging around gently. The kitchen looked brand new and rather expensive, with its huge American style stainless steel fridge and mahogany cupboards, which inside held many quirky and intricate drawers and storage spaces. There was a tall and thin glass fronted door. Through which you could see shelves full of champagnes, wines and other party beverages. His hostage sat slouched in front of the glass fronted door, still unconscious as far as Mark could tell. The man’s blue tie and his silk white shirt were stained with the blood dripping from his nose.

 Six minutes ago Mark had knocked on the door, with a couple of good thumps to make sure he was heard over the din of the large flat screen and surround sound system in the living room. His target had come to answer the door without as much as a sound. The only check that was made was a fast glance through the spy hole to check whether his visitor was male or female. The door handle squeaked round slowly and as the man opened the door four or five inches he began, “Who are...” He was stopped short. As Mark’s heavy boot sent the door crashing into his skull. He fell back, head thudding into the tiled floor. Knocking him out cold. The man was bleeding from two separate places; the first being his nose and the second being the cut on the back of his head. Both injuries had occurred during Mark’s introduction. Mark preferred to introduce himself in the manner which he intended to conduct this short relationship between himself and the gentleman who lay in front of him bleeding. And of course it would be moronic to introduce himself with any form of personal which is traceable. As it turns out the best way to introduce yourself as a violent person, is to be violent.

Update

This next piece is an extract from a bit of writing im working on at the moment. Enjoy.

Letter Bombs and Beer Riots

There have been many notable things to happen in the news in the last few weeks and months, some have been deeply worrying and particularly troublesome for those involved. As for the rest of us watching on from the sidelines it has been another series of events that grabs our interest either because it’s exceptionally humorous or because it confirms our suspicions that most men are cowards.

 The cowards in question are the men that sent letter bombs to Neil Lennon, Trish Godman and Paul McBride QC for no other reason than the fact that they are associated with Celtic Football Club. It is no surprise to me that this kind of extreme behaviour has reared its infectious head in Scottish football. Nowadays we live in a world where more and more people find the need to express dissatisfaction or anger through the keyboard. People can tweet, status update and blog about their thoughts and feelings until there is nothing left to tell, probably because they feel that they can reach a much larger audience by telling hundreds of online ‘friends’. But it becomes just another form of school yard bullying when groups of people get together to start malicious campaigns of hate against one man. And the Scottish Governments plan to enforce a new law on sectarianism on the internet has so far only served one purpose: to legitimise the hatemongering behaviour. As enforcing laws against it means it will never go away, my guess is that the idiots who are the culprits would find another way to amuse themselves if they were just ignored. The legislation is not needed, but it will probably be enforced and with it long gone are the days when the letter sent to the points of view page is just an angry one.

On a lighter note though, I found the story that emerged from a Tesco store in Greenock last week to be particularly funny. Tesco were offering three cases of beer or cider for just twenty pounds, but due to some form of computing error the offer was going through tills at only eleven pounds. As word spread this sparked bargain fever for customers looking to take advantage of the great deal, nowhere more so than in Greenock, where police were called because of heavy congestion and traffic jams in the car park. Apart from the obvious funny side, the thing that worries me about the situation is that the Scottish Government plans, now that it has gained a majority in parliament, to set a minimum pricing for alcohol. Which will drive up the price. Soon enough the police in Greenock and all over Scotland will have to deal with riots in the streets about the common man not being able to afford his weekend binge or the common woman, scraping her savings just to put a meal and a glass of wine on the table.

Update

The next piece to go up was written a while ago, as a lot of stuff I have been writing has been on hold during exam season. I have updated the piece though and hope that you will still enjoy it.

Many Thanks

Many thanks to author Andy Briggs for taking the time to read the blog. I was very grateful for his positive and encouraging feedback in the post that he made on his own website http://www.trappedbymonsters.com/2011/05/creative-writing/. His comments are hugely encouraging, especially coming from a successful professional writer such as himself. It has given me the inspiration to start writing a few new pieces which will be posted very soon.

Flying Home

It is not very often that I have awoken from a restful siesta to find myself sitting above the clouds, watching them in their seemingly great mass rolling and swaying, dipping and rising just as the sea does. There is a special feeling about it, being higher up than anyone else, being able to see that gorgeous streak of orange rising gently into a cosmic green, which transforms as instantly as it appears to that familiar sky blue and finally fading into the black wilderness of deep space. It’s peaceful and it’s heavenly, it gives you a taste of what the deities must feel like when they are perched up here looking over our world.

Then suddenly the plane begins to jolt and shake around you, tearing you violently away from the soft ambience of the cushioned white paradise. Your heart begins to race. Faster and faster. It beats off the inside of your chest. The cabin shudders left, with screeches and cries of metallic pain, that makes your imagination run away with itself. It takes you places that you never want to tread, that deep dark pit of your mind. The place to be entered at your own risk, nothing good can come from letting your mind stray here. It is bitter, bleak and barren of any sense of reason or rational thought. The plane stoops, rattles and swerves right. The force makes your stomach jump and in its surprise you begin to feel sick.

Scared to death by the thought of what is to come – you see the flames crackling around scorched and barely recognisable faces, there complexions missing, replaced by the hideous black residue. You can only breathe deeply and grip the arm rests, stiffening your spine up against the seat, desperate for it to make you feel safe again. But it does no good. The plane dips towards those clouds once more, throwing the contents of your stomach upwards. Stomach retching you try to claw for the paper bags. You know one more jolt, a tiny shudder or a sudden dip will make  the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as your stomach convulses, sending its contents plummeting into the bottom of the bag. But just as it all seems so desperately close, the turbulence fades to a stop. The sea of clouds parts, the miracle happens before your very eyes and all you can do is gaze in appreciation as the roads and lights of civilisation are revealed to you in their most sparkling glory. The lit up streets etch a pattern across the earth, like the veins of the great cities. And you realise your home again.

All Fun Flying Home

Wrote a little descriptive piece of writing when I was flying home from Barcelona. Struggled on the plane because I didn't have any paper so I ended up writing it on the back of my boarding pass. Was one of those strange experiences and I just had to write it down as it happened. Anyway I hope you enjoy.