Sundays always drained the energy from Carlton's already weakened limbs. He spent many 'Lord's days' staring at events streaming past him, not interacting with anyone or anything. The only colour in his life came from the haunted dreams of thorns and dirt, that brought on insomnia to escape from their cloying graps. His loosened insecurity rooted him to the spot in grey shaded rooms, the buzz of life lifting into the air outside.
Carlton sighed and got out of his chair. He walked through the kitchen, putting the kettle on as he passed, and ventured out into the backyard. His domain. A one room flat and a square of stained, crippled concrete. Not much to show for 37 years in the world. In the distance music echoed from the neighbours, tinted by the smell of barbeque. They invited Carlton, but his self imposed bubble cocooned him in isolation
The kettle boiled and he went through the motions of making a cup of tea, sitting down to stare at the TV. The images flowed passed him; a highway of information. He crouched on a disused dirt track. His retreat got worse over the years. His bike sat rusting in the yard unused, unloved. Weeks now drifted past in a blur; rise, work, leave, sofa, sleep. A carousel of mediocrity. The tea scolded. He thought of loss and missed chances, closing the curtains to lock out the world for another evening.
#
Monday drifted by followed in rapid succession by its siblings, drawing him closer to another weekend. Out of curiosity he ventured into the yard and looked at the despondent motorbike in the corner. The vehicle sat there for two years, weeds and earth trying to reclaim the mineral from the oil, the rubber from the tyres.
He spent the afternoon playing with the old bike, coaxing the engine away from the path of returning to component parts and back to being a way to escape. Hours accelerated in a flurry of oil changes, derusting and swearing. He stood back and smiled. Time to feed fuel into the tank.
#
The heat on the walk to the petrol station wore him down like waves against a beach; relentless and unforgiving. But he had his petrol ready to bring life back into the bike. The old BSA's single cylinder first echoed through the streets before the war. This type of bike, the M20, dragged troops through France and towards Germany. Carlton appreciated the irony in its new role. Petrol in the tank he advanced the ignition, primed the carb and stood up on the kickstart, bringing his weight down on the mechanism, till the engine jumped into life.
He retrieved his helmet from the life strewn cupboard under the stairs and, not bothering to lock the mausoleum of a house behind him, rode down the street.
#
The overgrown hill drowned in brambles, twisted under stone cast skies. Hawthorn tress burst out of the scrub, dragging the sharpened landscape into the air He left the bike on the road, its fuel tank empty. This place looked different in his dreams, the scent dank and drowned with decay and silt. Leaves half rotten danced a ballet before becoming impaled. The ground hid beneath snaking tendrils of the plants that ruled this slope; above the sun flew on its decent. He took off his jacket and walked across the thorns drawing blood from his legs and torso as they started to gather round him, the voices coming fully in his mind. Sanity and insanity bled into each other, no longer a duality but an irrelevance. The earth called for his sacrifice; a hymn of blood scratched into his skin. The voices collected bodies to them, clothed in acorns and leaf mulch, stagnant and drifting Their forms separated in the breeze coming back together many times through the hours. He watched them arrive and go over three days, no longer feeling the breeze. On the ninth day he opened his eyes and tasted the soil in the roof of his mouth. The voices were now in his skin, turned dirt and root. Time no longer occured, always here below the earth.
#
The sun caught the dew on the field, that glittered spraying up from the long grass. The wind grabbed the fine mist and spun into spirals and mazes in the air. Carlton couldn't see this where he lay in the clay, his flesh stone, cracked and split in the steady movement of the bedrock. His muscles twisted cords of limestone, embedded with the fossils of long dead creatures; and his eyes stared blind up into the sky of roots and soil that lay above him. This world lay hidden under crop, plough soil and loam. His world now, until the wind exposed him and the rain eroded him into dust.
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Friday, February 18, 2011
FICTION: Brittney the Ugly Protestant by Steven Barnes
What a mess I’m in, how am I going to tell my family who are the leaders of the new IRA and full grown Catholic’s that I’m in love with a Protestant? Brittney, the most beautiful women in school, okay she’s not beautiful to most people but they can all go to hell. Who am I? I’m called Steven and everyone thinks that I’m the next leader in the IRA, I’m not and Brittney knows I’m not. Brittney is everything to me and I can’t stand to be without her, I’m sitting at the lunch room waiting for her and there is sweat pouring down my face because you could call this a proposal. I got a 70 trillion dollar ring that I bought with my father’s “donate to the new IRA," bank account; an account that I stole. I’m going to ask Brittney out with this ring, who knows? Maybe if I get lucky I’ll become a husband. My dad is going to kill me when he finds the ring on Brittney’s finger. I’m not hungry but I’m acting like I am eating a grilled cheese, I put it near my mouth but it doesn’t touch my lips. After a few minutes I put it down on the plate, and look at my suit and hope Brittney will like it.
My dress coat is grey and my dress pants are grey, my dress shirt is blue and my dress shoes are brown. This is the only way I know how to dress, professional. I take everything with a death in the family mentality; everyone hates it, even Brittney doesn’t like it and that made me change real quickly. No can lighten up the mood, except Brittney. Women have never been able to resist me and it is so annoying, they are all whores. With their short skirts and T-shirts that are half ripped off and you can completely see their stomachs. That is the kind of women a terrorist has to look forward to, because of our views on women and the ethical issues of classy women, we stay away from the tom boys and marrying kind of girls, I try not to be a pervert but that’s how I was raised. I was taught to smack girls on the butt and pick on them and all that shit that women like Brittney don’t like and when a see Brittney I don’t know what to do so I smack Brittney on the butt when I lose my self in temptation. But I have never hit a woman in an attempt to hurt one or bombed a building, it’s too cowardly. Why do that when you could extort people in your town? (I have never extorted a business that is owned by a woman) We can make more money that way and the enemy does not get recruits, let them bomb us so we get more solders. However I am never taken seriously, my family does not want to end the war; we have become rich off of it, why go back to being farmers? My socks are green to show people that I’m in a good mood; the color of my socks tells people if they can mess with me. (I’m very calm but once you piss me off it’s over) I reach for my back and feel the 9 inch sword that I have to my back, (Because of weapon cost now or days only the military can have even carry a pistol) I use to love that sword but when Brittney started to shiver when I pulled it out to show her it I started to hate that blade. My family is the richest Catholic family in North Ireland, (due to our terrorist activities) Brittney’s family is the poorest Protestant family in North Ireland (due to the economic problems in the United Kingdom) and I hate it. It's bad enough that she's Protestant but then add to the fact that she lives in a shack and my family will do back flips when they find out that I’m in love with Brittney. (If they don’t try and kill me first) Well, they can do their back flips soon enough.
I look around the lunch room, for a school in North Ireland it's not that bad. There are no rats or bugs around like in other schools, the walls are painted green and my picture is on the left wall to honor the fact that I am the first Catholic since the British gave up the south of Ireland to enter this school. (If you think racism is bad in the United States you should go to Ireland) The school is crowded with people; the whole school is in this room. This isn’t America after all, the school doesn't have a name but we call it Beaker Memorial High School, Brittney came up with that name but no one knows that but me and her. There are four rows of 20 tables, the tables are round and I'm in the front row and center so Brittney can see me when she gives the lunch lady her eating number and goes to look for a seat. The kitchen is attached to the lunch room to south end of the lunch room, there are two lines and at the end of those lines is a computer with a lady at it, you tell her your number and you look for a seat. Your lunch is free here because people here are rich, unless you have a love sick best friend that would do anything for you which is Brittney's case. God, I love that woman! While I am thinking this, I hear someone crying, it's coming from the lunch line so I lean my head to get a better look and in the south west corner on the room with her knees on her chest and her face buried into her knees is Brittney, a teddy bear with no head is next to her and my brother Scott is walking to his table in the back row with the missing teddy bear head on fire resting on his tray and he's laughing hysterically.
Brittney looks prefect, except the crying and her face buried in her knees. She is wearing a blue striped polo shirt and black jeans. Her tennis shoes are white and have holes in them, odd; since I bought her red high heels that cost 100 dollars but then again, she told me she would not wear them unless something big came up because she hates to dress up like she’s special. She had those cute glasses on that I love, she doesn’t wear makeup because I don't like that well at least I hope that's the reason. Maybe Brittney just don't want me to talk about her looks so she just wears what I like to shut me up, we have been friends since fifth grade and I fell in love with Brittney the second l laid eyes on her. Well, I got to be honest, there is a reason Brittney don't want me to talk about her looks. People had always called her Brittney the Ugly Protestant, I hate that name! I want I flirt with her so bad it's like a knife in my back and I can't pull it out or I'll die. The Flirting Knife I call it, you have to look at Brittney in two ways, the way I see her and the way everyone else does.
Everyone else sees the ugliest girl on the planet that doesn’t have a tire belly, (In fact she is extremely skinny and that may make her as ugly to most people) her brown hair is always in a mess and she keeps it down. Because of that it's always in her face and she keeps pulling in back but it's no use, to the rest of the world that hair is sloppy and no guy would want to pull it back and kiss the top of her head. Her eyes to the rest of the world gives off a boring stare, no guy in their right mind would stare into those dull orbs. Her skin, to everyone else is like the gravel in the park. It’s rough and she's got a touch of acme, again, no guy wants to touch her. Those glasses she wears are so geeky; people just want to beak them and her smile. That horrible awful smile, her teeth are so crooked that her smile makes you want to throw up. Let me guess, awful, right? Well, beauty is determined by the eyes of the beholder, here is how I see her…
The Brittney I know is perfect, that ugly mop of hair is a perfect strain of silk. I would do anything to pull her hair back and kiss that perfect head of hers. Hey eyes, those shining and bright orbs that I constantly stare into and it scares Brittney and she tells me to stop because she thinks I'm picking on her. If only she knew how beautiful she is! Her skin, yea the acme is there but that makes her who she is, her skin is softer then silk to me and Brittney has to yell at me because there are times when I can't stop rubbing her leg. Her smile, oh, that pretty smile, I don't even notice the teeth being crooked. To me her smile is the best smile in the world. But she hardly ever smiles and there are days that I won't go home until to see that smile run across her face. As for her glasses, to me they give her a Yale professor look, and she looks even more amazing with the glasses, I won't let her leave home without them. When she asks why I'm so determined to see her with those glasses on I tell her a lie and say that it's unhealthy to have them off her face. That’s true but I think she's pure sexy with them on. Brittney’s best feature is her smell, the scent of pumpkins is so addicting once it’s in my nostrils I start to float. Sometimes when she walks by me I want to smack her on the butt (not like me at all) but she would be very offended and I hate it when she’s mad at me, because she is always mad at herself when she's mad at me. She always says.
"I'm so sorry Steven! I guess there is a reason I'm called the Ugly Protestant, you were tempted by my whore like ways, please don’t hit me Steven! I swear I won't do it again!" Brittney begs when I do something perverted.
Hit her? Can I even yell at her without feeling like I just made a deal with the devil? Hurting her defies my laws of physics! A part of me dies every time she begs to me like this, I have to look into her eyes and see her smile to stop myself from crying on the inside. (I have never actually shed a tear once in my whole life,) I want to punch myself every time she puts herself down, I blame myself because I'm the stupid Catholic who can’t help but shame that only thing that means anything to me. This is the amazing woman I know that I call Brittney, but what about my brother Scott? What kind of person is he? Well, don't expect a ladies man like me...
Scott would be the first person to rat me out if he knew my feelings for Brittney, he's a brain dead Catholic and to make it worse he's a brain dead Irish Catholic which means he's a jackass, a drunk and a lazy bum who I have served many times. Unlike me, Scott is all for the dyeing for Ireland thing but he's too caught up in the killing Protestants bullshit and to be a good terrorist you need to let go of the hate. It's awful that I know how to be a terrorist but I have been around all of the big groups in Terrorism; PLO, Swords of Gaza, and KGB you name a group and I have probably met them. Before you start I'm not going to be the leader of the IRA, now if everyone in my family was dead but me and Scott they would force me to be the leader. I'm just a family member of the IRA, not even an associate. Scott is wearing a blue suit to show off to his friends, his black dress shoes are shining. His 7 inch blade is on his back and he's telling his friends why he burned the bear.
"That Bitch has been hanging around my brother for far too long, what if Steven has been buying her things? The shame it would bring to the Catholics would be too great! Now Brittney knows to tell Steven no when he offers her money..." Scott explains and his friends nod and tell him good job, a priest who was listing says that the Mother Mary has blessed him.
Same usually shit, I thought.
Now if Brittney was not there and needed me I would have gone up to Scott and started a fight but there was no time for that. I draw out my sword and stab my sword into the ground, pick up my tray of food and walk over to Brittney, she is whimpering and shivering and I have to pinch myself. The entire lunch room turns around and becomes silent; I sit next to her on the floor and the smell of grilled cheese makes Brittney sit up. When she looks at the food she has to look away and I scoot it to her.
"Eat," I say and Brittney looks up.
"Steven??" Brittney shocks and I nod.
"Are you sure? I mean... you really want me to-" Brittney begins and I have to cut her off.
"SHH! Yes, I want you to have it and I want you to sit next to me, do you want me to carry you to our seat?" I interrupt and Brittney nods, I place my hands under her thighs and lift her off the ground and hold her like a mother holds their infant child, I walk over to our table and set her down in my chair. (I forget my food on the floor and someone else grabbed it and consumed my food) I sit down in the seat across from her and Brittney cries even harder than she did before, at first I don't know what's wrong but she pulled a chair by her for me to sit in and I didn't sit in it.
"How could I be so stupid?" I ask and I get up and sit in the seat next to her, the seat I was supposed to sit in, I then wipe the tears from her eyes she gives me a smile and I start to feel whole.
"I'm sorry," I apologize.
"It's okay, I forgive you," Brittney replies.
"I'm sorry about the bear," I apologize.
"It's okay, stop saying sorry because it's not your fault, how have you been?" Brittney relies.
"I'm... good, had to take care of some bikers who were riding around the church during confession but I'm good," I lie, the only bikers I have been taking care of was my nervousness.
"You didn't hurt them too bad, right?" Brittney asks she hates it when my jobs get rough.
"I didn't hurt them at all, they were lost and I pointed them in the right direction, I have been following your advice," I comment and she smiles, I would walk on water to see that smile.
"Keep smiling Brit, it makes my day ten times better," I reply.
"You make me smile like I never had before, thank you Steven," Brittney reply's.
"I'll always make you smile, I try really hard every day and savor every time you do," I say and she does the unexpected, she kisses me on the forehead, I turn red, crimson red.
"Again, thank you," Brittney says and she notices that my skin has turned into tomato skin.
"Steven, you look cute when you blush," Brittney smiles and I turn even redder.
"Thanks... umm... you look good!" I stutter.
"You really think so?" Brittney asks and for some reason she started to become irresistible.
"Yes, why do you ask? Don’t you think you look good?" I ask.
"Well, I have never heard someone say that I look good until I meet you, it doesn't matter if anyone tells me that, what does matter if you say I look good," Brittney admits and I can't get any more redder.
I don't know what to say, but I know what I want. I want her so I lightly touch her face, and now she's blushing, if she thinks I look cute when I blush then she freaking adorable! We’re a pair of bright tomatoes and we have become an amusing sight for the lunch room, (But people carry on little side conversations to fool the teachers) even if we're from different sides on the Irish world people still think it's cute to see a happy couple having a moment, well we're not a couple yet but we will be in about five minutes.
"Say Brittney?" I ask.
"Yes Steven?" Brittney asks.
"Who do you want to be your first boyfriend?" I ask and she looks down.
"I can be honest with you right?" Brittney wondered.
"Of course, You can tell me anything, I won't laugh or get mad, I will be happy as long as your happy," I lie, the only happy I want her to be is with me.
"Scott," Brittney replies, I'm trying to not sound jealous but I can't help it, she like my brother? The same guy who caused her to cry not just 20 minutes ago? That's why she was crying, she is in love with Scott! I want to dig myself a hole and live there, I turn around and look at Scott and he’s smiling that smile only a jack ass Irish man could give But it’s not like I haven’t dealt with this before. I have stolen a few girls from my brother before, it’s just that it didn’t mean as much to me as it does now, I turn around to face my love and tell her what I think of her crush.
"Why do you want to go out with that jerk?" I ask and Brittney raises her left eyebrow at me.
"I thought you would be happy with any guy I chose as long as I was happy?" Brittney asks she's got me.
"Anyone but him, he made you cry so you can't go out with him!" I protest.
“You don’t lie very well, there is only one man that you’re going to approve of and that's you! Now tell me the truth!" Brittney demands, we both stopped blushing, Scott is at the edge of his seat.
"Yes, the only man you should have is me but I can’t have you," I snap and Brittney looks at me disappointed, we are having out first fight.
“Why not, What if I said I wanted you? Would you not take me?” Brittney asks.
“You don’t deserve me damn it!” I protest.
"If anyone doesn’t deserve someone’s love it’s me not deserve yours!" Brittney snaps.
"Look at you Brit! You look amazing! You don't need a stupid Catholic telling you what to do, I'm not worthy of being with you! There are 4 million people in this damn country and you want me!? I'm a terrorist Brit! There is no reason for you to-" I began and Brittney is quick to cut me off, Scott face is blood red but tells his friends to see how things unfold. I’m not sure what he’s madder about; Brittney back talking me or my want for a Protestant.
“You’re joking right, a stupid Catholic telling me what to do?! Steven, do you hear yourself? We both know what would happen if we went out; you would buy me everything, you would take me to candle light dinners, you would be defending me from every bully in Ireland, I know there Is nothing you would not do for me, there is nothing you won't do for me now! You have been trying to hide it for years but you can't any longer! Just say it, tell me how you really feel!" Brittney demands and I sigh.
"Brittney, I love you," I confess and the entire room gasps except Brittney
"Did you think I didn't notice, dear?" Brittney comments, she's smiling at me and I smile back.
"So you love me too?" I ask.
"If I didn't love you then I would have slapped you just now but... I need to say it anyway, Steven, I love you," Brittney confesses and the room awes, Scott and his friends storms out. I think when my brother saw how the crowed reacted he realized it was pointless to try and stop us. He was going to let us be happy, (Or he was getting my dad) I said a silent prayer in my mind.
The school seems to approve of our relationship, I thought.
"I got something for you," I say and Brittney again raises her eyebrow at me.
"You already told me your feeling, what else do you have in store for me?" Brittney comments.
"Give me your hand," I say.
"Why?" Brittney asks.
"Come on, Please!" I beg and she gives me her hand and I walk her to the middle of the lunch room, Brittney is blushing again.
"W-what are you doing?! I-I don't like being the center of attention!" Brittney protests, she didn't know that she was for the last 30 minutes.
I wanted to write 'Steven will always love his Brittney' on the west wall of the lunch room, but due to school rules I had to settle with a 70 trillion dollar diamond ring. I get everyone’s attention and began my speech,
"Brittney, when we first meet I knew that I was going to grow old with you," I start, I then wait for the expecting awe the crowd gave and Brittney's face to look like a ripe tomato.
"I was looking around for a present for you when I got the guts to ask you out, nothing normal would do... I had to surprise you, I wanted to give you what you give me every day, my unconditional love," I continue, I stop when I hear Brittney awe along with the crowd, when they stop I continue my speech.
"I was going to paint our names on the west wall but the school would not allow that," I blush and every one laughs, that would be going too far. What I did was probably even more nuts then that.
"So... I got you this," I get down on one knee and pull out a small jewelry box and Brittney looks at me like I'm nuts.
"Steven? W-what is this?!" Brittney demands.
"Open it," I urge.
Brittney slowly opens the box and sees the diamond ring, when she does she has to put her hands over her mouth, she's speechless, I had catch the ring because she dropped it. The crowd is smiling at my proposal, it wasn't meant to be a proposal but if she was going to say yes why not ask?
"Brittney, will you marry me?" I propose.
“Are you asking me to marry you or are you asking me to be your girlfriend?” Brittney asks
“I want you to be my wife,” I reply.
"Before I answer let me ask a question,” Brittney says.
“Go for it,” I respond.
“I know you love me, but do you really want to marry me? I know you know my nickname so why go through all of this? Steven, maybe you haven’t noticed it but I’m… ugly, I don’t want you to be embarrassed with me holding you in public… You can back out any time,” Brittney explains, I am ready to interrupt her but I don’t and as soon as she is finished I know what to say.
“Brittney, when have I ever called you by your nick name? When have I ever called you ‘Brittney the Ugly Protestant’?” I ask.
“Never,” Brittney replies.
“I never will either,” I say.
“Why? It’s the truth,” Brittney asks.
“No, it’s not! You’re the most beautiful woman in the world! The ice to my cream! Every time I see your face my heart races and I start to fidget, I don’t know what you have done to me but I love it! I don’t want it to end, I don’t want what we have to go away, I have never been more sure about wanting to marrying someone as I had been right now with you,” I explain and Brittney looks like the most perfect ripe tomato.
“Then… yes, yes I will marry you Steven, “accepts Brittney and I take her hand and put the ring on her finger, for some reason Brittney is laughing the blush is gone and the blush appears on my face, Why is she laughing at me?
“Why are you laughing?” I ask.
“You put the ring on the wrong finger dear,” Brittney comments and I get even redder. Every one laughs, the embarrassment is like a 500 pound weight on my shoulder. How could I screw up such a romantic moment? Yet at the same time it’s a good feeling because this was a very stressful moment and it felt good to ease the tension and I just did something stupid to do that, and this is a damn good screw up. It’s kind of weird; the weight almost sinks into my skin to get rid of the burden.
“What finger did I put the ring on?” I ask.
“The index finger,” Brittney giggles.
“I’m a moron,” I sigh.
“Let me show you what finger you’re supposed to put the ring on,” Brittney says and points to the right finger, I pull the ring off the index finger and slide the ring on the wedding finger.
“I can’t believe I did that!” I exclaim.
“Dear, no one is perfect, besides you said you wanted this to be special, how many girls can brag that their man doesn’t know what finger to put their wedding finger on?” Brittney asks and I smile.
“Your right,” I agree and nod at her she smiles and nods back then she puts her arms around me and kissed me. The crowd claps and we stay there for a while, there were things that needed to be solved. How would our families react to the marriage? Would we have to run away? Where would we go? Do we have the money to support each other? But that all can wait, we were in each other’s arms and we were happy. I had turned the Ugly Protestant into a happy one…
My dress coat is grey and my dress pants are grey, my dress shirt is blue and my dress shoes are brown. This is the only way I know how to dress, professional. I take everything with a death in the family mentality; everyone hates it, even Brittney doesn’t like it and that made me change real quickly. No can lighten up the mood, except Brittney. Women have never been able to resist me and it is so annoying, they are all whores. With their short skirts and T-shirts that are half ripped off and you can completely see their stomachs. That is the kind of women a terrorist has to look forward to, because of our views on women and the ethical issues of classy women, we stay away from the tom boys and marrying kind of girls, I try not to be a pervert but that’s how I was raised. I was taught to smack girls on the butt and pick on them and all that shit that women like Brittney don’t like and when a see Brittney I don’t know what to do so I smack Brittney on the butt when I lose my self in temptation. But I have never hit a woman in an attempt to hurt one or bombed a building, it’s too cowardly. Why do that when you could extort people in your town? (I have never extorted a business that is owned by a woman) We can make more money that way and the enemy does not get recruits, let them bomb us so we get more solders. However I am never taken seriously, my family does not want to end the war; we have become rich off of it, why go back to being farmers? My socks are green to show people that I’m in a good mood; the color of my socks tells people if they can mess with me. (I’m very calm but once you piss me off it’s over) I reach for my back and feel the 9 inch sword that I have to my back, (Because of weapon cost now or days only the military can have even carry a pistol) I use to love that sword but when Brittney started to shiver when I pulled it out to show her it I started to hate that blade. My family is the richest Catholic family in North Ireland, (due to our terrorist activities) Brittney’s family is the poorest Protestant family in North Ireland (due to the economic problems in the United Kingdom) and I hate it. It's bad enough that she's Protestant but then add to the fact that she lives in a shack and my family will do back flips when they find out that I’m in love with Brittney. (If they don’t try and kill me first) Well, they can do their back flips soon enough.
I look around the lunch room, for a school in North Ireland it's not that bad. There are no rats or bugs around like in other schools, the walls are painted green and my picture is on the left wall to honor the fact that I am the first Catholic since the British gave up the south of Ireland to enter this school. (If you think racism is bad in the United States you should go to Ireland) The school is crowded with people; the whole school is in this room. This isn’t America after all, the school doesn't have a name but we call it Beaker Memorial High School, Brittney came up with that name but no one knows that but me and her. There are four rows of 20 tables, the tables are round and I'm in the front row and center so Brittney can see me when she gives the lunch lady her eating number and goes to look for a seat. The kitchen is attached to the lunch room to south end of the lunch room, there are two lines and at the end of those lines is a computer with a lady at it, you tell her your number and you look for a seat. Your lunch is free here because people here are rich, unless you have a love sick best friend that would do anything for you which is Brittney's case. God, I love that woman! While I am thinking this, I hear someone crying, it's coming from the lunch line so I lean my head to get a better look and in the south west corner on the room with her knees on her chest and her face buried into her knees is Brittney, a teddy bear with no head is next to her and my brother Scott is walking to his table in the back row with the missing teddy bear head on fire resting on his tray and he's laughing hysterically.
Brittney looks prefect, except the crying and her face buried in her knees. She is wearing a blue striped polo shirt and black jeans. Her tennis shoes are white and have holes in them, odd; since I bought her red high heels that cost 100 dollars but then again, she told me she would not wear them unless something big came up because she hates to dress up like she’s special. She had those cute glasses on that I love, she doesn’t wear makeup because I don't like that well at least I hope that's the reason. Maybe Brittney just don't want me to talk about her looks so she just wears what I like to shut me up, we have been friends since fifth grade and I fell in love with Brittney the second l laid eyes on her. Well, I got to be honest, there is a reason Brittney don't want me to talk about her looks. People had always called her Brittney the Ugly Protestant, I hate that name! I want I flirt with her so bad it's like a knife in my back and I can't pull it out or I'll die. The Flirting Knife I call it, you have to look at Brittney in two ways, the way I see her and the way everyone else does.
Everyone else sees the ugliest girl on the planet that doesn’t have a tire belly, (In fact she is extremely skinny and that may make her as ugly to most people) her brown hair is always in a mess and she keeps it down. Because of that it's always in her face and she keeps pulling in back but it's no use, to the rest of the world that hair is sloppy and no guy would want to pull it back and kiss the top of her head. Her eyes to the rest of the world gives off a boring stare, no guy in their right mind would stare into those dull orbs. Her skin, to everyone else is like the gravel in the park. It’s rough and she's got a touch of acme, again, no guy wants to touch her. Those glasses she wears are so geeky; people just want to beak them and her smile. That horrible awful smile, her teeth are so crooked that her smile makes you want to throw up. Let me guess, awful, right? Well, beauty is determined by the eyes of the beholder, here is how I see her…
The Brittney I know is perfect, that ugly mop of hair is a perfect strain of silk. I would do anything to pull her hair back and kiss that perfect head of hers. Hey eyes, those shining and bright orbs that I constantly stare into and it scares Brittney and she tells me to stop because she thinks I'm picking on her. If only she knew how beautiful she is! Her skin, yea the acme is there but that makes her who she is, her skin is softer then silk to me and Brittney has to yell at me because there are times when I can't stop rubbing her leg. Her smile, oh, that pretty smile, I don't even notice the teeth being crooked. To me her smile is the best smile in the world. But she hardly ever smiles and there are days that I won't go home until to see that smile run across her face. As for her glasses, to me they give her a Yale professor look, and she looks even more amazing with the glasses, I won't let her leave home without them. When she asks why I'm so determined to see her with those glasses on I tell her a lie and say that it's unhealthy to have them off her face. That’s true but I think she's pure sexy with them on. Brittney’s best feature is her smell, the scent of pumpkins is so addicting once it’s in my nostrils I start to float. Sometimes when she walks by me I want to smack her on the butt (not like me at all) but she would be very offended and I hate it when she’s mad at me, because she is always mad at herself when she's mad at me. She always says.
"I'm so sorry Steven! I guess there is a reason I'm called the Ugly Protestant, you were tempted by my whore like ways, please don’t hit me Steven! I swear I won't do it again!" Brittney begs when I do something perverted.
Hit her? Can I even yell at her without feeling like I just made a deal with the devil? Hurting her defies my laws of physics! A part of me dies every time she begs to me like this, I have to look into her eyes and see her smile to stop myself from crying on the inside. (I have never actually shed a tear once in my whole life,) I want to punch myself every time she puts herself down, I blame myself because I'm the stupid Catholic who can’t help but shame that only thing that means anything to me. This is the amazing woman I know that I call Brittney, but what about my brother Scott? What kind of person is he? Well, don't expect a ladies man like me...
Scott would be the first person to rat me out if he knew my feelings for Brittney, he's a brain dead Catholic and to make it worse he's a brain dead Irish Catholic which means he's a jackass, a drunk and a lazy bum who I have served many times. Unlike me, Scott is all for the dyeing for Ireland thing but he's too caught up in the killing Protestants bullshit and to be a good terrorist you need to let go of the hate. It's awful that I know how to be a terrorist but I have been around all of the big groups in Terrorism; PLO, Swords of Gaza, and KGB you name a group and I have probably met them. Before you start I'm not going to be the leader of the IRA, now if everyone in my family was dead but me and Scott they would force me to be the leader. I'm just a family member of the IRA, not even an associate. Scott is wearing a blue suit to show off to his friends, his black dress shoes are shining. His 7 inch blade is on his back and he's telling his friends why he burned the bear.
"That Bitch has been hanging around my brother for far too long, what if Steven has been buying her things? The shame it would bring to the Catholics would be too great! Now Brittney knows to tell Steven no when he offers her money..." Scott explains and his friends nod and tell him good job, a priest who was listing says that the Mother Mary has blessed him.
Same usually shit, I thought.
Now if Brittney was not there and needed me I would have gone up to Scott and started a fight but there was no time for that. I draw out my sword and stab my sword into the ground, pick up my tray of food and walk over to Brittney, she is whimpering and shivering and I have to pinch myself. The entire lunch room turns around and becomes silent; I sit next to her on the floor and the smell of grilled cheese makes Brittney sit up. When she looks at the food she has to look away and I scoot it to her.
"Eat," I say and Brittney looks up.
"Steven??" Brittney shocks and I nod.
"Are you sure? I mean... you really want me to-" Brittney begins and I have to cut her off.
"SHH! Yes, I want you to have it and I want you to sit next to me, do you want me to carry you to our seat?" I interrupt and Brittney nods, I place my hands under her thighs and lift her off the ground and hold her like a mother holds their infant child, I walk over to our table and set her down in my chair. (I forget my food on the floor and someone else grabbed it and consumed my food) I sit down in the seat across from her and Brittney cries even harder than she did before, at first I don't know what's wrong but she pulled a chair by her for me to sit in and I didn't sit in it.
"How could I be so stupid?" I ask and I get up and sit in the seat next to her, the seat I was supposed to sit in, I then wipe the tears from her eyes she gives me a smile and I start to feel whole.
"I'm sorry," I apologize.
"It's okay, I forgive you," Brittney replies.
"I'm sorry about the bear," I apologize.
"It's okay, stop saying sorry because it's not your fault, how have you been?" Brittney relies.
"I'm... good, had to take care of some bikers who were riding around the church during confession but I'm good," I lie, the only bikers I have been taking care of was my nervousness.
"You didn't hurt them too bad, right?" Brittney asks she hates it when my jobs get rough.
"I didn't hurt them at all, they were lost and I pointed them in the right direction, I have been following your advice," I comment and she smiles, I would walk on water to see that smile.
"Keep smiling Brit, it makes my day ten times better," I reply.
"You make me smile like I never had before, thank you Steven," Brittney reply's.
"I'll always make you smile, I try really hard every day and savor every time you do," I say and she does the unexpected, she kisses me on the forehead, I turn red, crimson red.
"Again, thank you," Brittney says and she notices that my skin has turned into tomato skin.
"Steven, you look cute when you blush," Brittney smiles and I turn even redder.
"Thanks... umm... you look good!" I stutter.
"You really think so?" Brittney asks and for some reason she started to become irresistible.
"Yes, why do you ask? Don’t you think you look good?" I ask.
"Well, I have never heard someone say that I look good until I meet you, it doesn't matter if anyone tells me that, what does matter if you say I look good," Brittney admits and I can't get any more redder.
I don't know what to say, but I know what I want. I want her so I lightly touch her face, and now she's blushing, if she thinks I look cute when I blush then she freaking adorable! We’re a pair of bright tomatoes and we have become an amusing sight for the lunch room, (But people carry on little side conversations to fool the teachers) even if we're from different sides on the Irish world people still think it's cute to see a happy couple having a moment, well we're not a couple yet but we will be in about five minutes.
"Say Brittney?" I ask.
"Yes Steven?" Brittney asks.
"Who do you want to be your first boyfriend?" I ask and she looks down.
"I can be honest with you right?" Brittney wondered.
"Of course, You can tell me anything, I won't laugh or get mad, I will be happy as long as your happy," I lie, the only happy I want her to be is with me.
"Scott," Brittney replies, I'm trying to not sound jealous but I can't help it, she like my brother? The same guy who caused her to cry not just 20 minutes ago? That's why she was crying, she is in love with Scott! I want to dig myself a hole and live there, I turn around and look at Scott and he’s smiling that smile only a jack ass Irish man could give But it’s not like I haven’t dealt with this before. I have stolen a few girls from my brother before, it’s just that it didn’t mean as much to me as it does now, I turn around to face my love and tell her what I think of her crush.
"Why do you want to go out with that jerk?" I ask and Brittney raises her left eyebrow at me.
"I thought you would be happy with any guy I chose as long as I was happy?" Brittney asks she's got me.
"Anyone but him, he made you cry so you can't go out with him!" I protest.
“You don’t lie very well, there is only one man that you’re going to approve of and that's you! Now tell me the truth!" Brittney demands, we both stopped blushing, Scott is at the edge of his seat.
"Yes, the only man you should have is me but I can’t have you," I snap and Brittney looks at me disappointed, we are having out first fight.
“Why not, What if I said I wanted you? Would you not take me?” Brittney asks.
“You don’t deserve me damn it!” I protest.
"If anyone doesn’t deserve someone’s love it’s me not deserve yours!" Brittney snaps.
"Look at you Brit! You look amazing! You don't need a stupid Catholic telling you what to do, I'm not worthy of being with you! There are 4 million people in this damn country and you want me!? I'm a terrorist Brit! There is no reason for you to-" I began and Brittney is quick to cut me off, Scott face is blood red but tells his friends to see how things unfold. I’m not sure what he’s madder about; Brittney back talking me or my want for a Protestant.
“You’re joking right, a stupid Catholic telling me what to do?! Steven, do you hear yourself? We both know what would happen if we went out; you would buy me everything, you would take me to candle light dinners, you would be defending me from every bully in Ireland, I know there Is nothing you would not do for me, there is nothing you won't do for me now! You have been trying to hide it for years but you can't any longer! Just say it, tell me how you really feel!" Brittney demands and I sigh.
"Brittney, I love you," I confess and the entire room gasps except Brittney
"Did you think I didn't notice, dear?" Brittney comments, she's smiling at me and I smile back.
"So you love me too?" I ask.
"If I didn't love you then I would have slapped you just now but... I need to say it anyway, Steven, I love you," Brittney confesses and the room awes, Scott and his friends storms out. I think when my brother saw how the crowed reacted he realized it was pointless to try and stop us. He was going to let us be happy, (Or he was getting my dad) I said a silent prayer in my mind.
The school seems to approve of our relationship, I thought.
"I got something for you," I say and Brittney again raises her eyebrow at me.
"You already told me your feeling, what else do you have in store for me?" Brittney comments.
"Give me your hand," I say.
"Why?" Brittney asks.
"Come on, Please!" I beg and she gives me her hand and I walk her to the middle of the lunch room, Brittney is blushing again.
"W-what are you doing?! I-I don't like being the center of attention!" Brittney protests, she didn't know that she was for the last 30 minutes.
I wanted to write 'Steven will always love his Brittney' on the west wall of the lunch room, but due to school rules I had to settle with a 70 trillion dollar diamond ring. I get everyone’s attention and began my speech,
"Brittney, when we first meet I knew that I was going to grow old with you," I start, I then wait for the expecting awe the crowd gave and Brittney's face to look like a ripe tomato.
"I was looking around for a present for you when I got the guts to ask you out, nothing normal would do... I had to surprise you, I wanted to give you what you give me every day, my unconditional love," I continue, I stop when I hear Brittney awe along with the crowd, when they stop I continue my speech.
"I was going to paint our names on the west wall but the school would not allow that," I blush and every one laughs, that would be going too far. What I did was probably even more nuts then that.
"So... I got you this," I get down on one knee and pull out a small jewelry box and Brittney looks at me like I'm nuts.
"Steven? W-what is this?!" Brittney demands.
"Open it," I urge.
Brittney slowly opens the box and sees the diamond ring, when she does she has to put her hands over her mouth, she's speechless, I had catch the ring because she dropped it. The crowd is smiling at my proposal, it wasn't meant to be a proposal but if she was going to say yes why not ask?
"Brittney, will you marry me?" I propose.
“Are you asking me to marry you or are you asking me to be your girlfriend?” Brittney asks
“I want you to be my wife,” I reply.
"Before I answer let me ask a question,” Brittney says.
“Go for it,” I respond.
“I know you love me, but do you really want to marry me? I know you know my nickname so why go through all of this? Steven, maybe you haven’t noticed it but I’m… ugly, I don’t want you to be embarrassed with me holding you in public… You can back out any time,” Brittney explains, I am ready to interrupt her but I don’t and as soon as she is finished I know what to say.
“Brittney, when have I ever called you by your nick name? When have I ever called you ‘Brittney the Ugly Protestant’?” I ask.
“Never,” Brittney replies.
“I never will either,” I say.
“Why? It’s the truth,” Brittney asks.
“No, it’s not! You’re the most beautiful woman in the world! The ice to my cream! Every time I see your face my heart races and I start to fidget, I don’t know what you have done to me but I love it! I don’t want it to end, I don’t want what we have to go away, I have never been more sure about wanting to marrying someone as I had been right now with you,” I explain and Brittney looks like the most perfect ripe tomato.
“Then… yes, yes I will marry you Steven, “accepts Brittney and I take her hand and put the ring on her finger, for some reason Brittney is laughing the blush is gone and the blush appears on my face, Why is she laughing at me?
“Why are you laughing?” I ask.
“You put the ring on the wrong finger dear,” Brittney comments and I get even redder. Every one laughs, the embarrassment is like a 500 pound weight on my shoulder. How could I screw up such a romantic moment? Yet at the same time it’s a good feeling because this was a very stressful moment and it felt good to ease the tension and I just did something stupid to do that, and this is a damn good screw up. It’s kind of weird; the weight almost sinks into my skin to get rid of the burden.
“What finger did I put the ring on?” I ask.
“The index finger,” Brittney giggles.
“I’m a moron,” I sigh.
“Let me show you what finger you’re supposed to put the ring on,” Brittney says and points to the right finger, I pull the ring off the index finger and slide the ring on the wedding finger.
“I can’t believe I did that!” I exclaim.
“Dear, no one is perfect, besides you said you wanted this to be special, how many girls can brag that their man doesn’t know what finger to put their wedding finger on?” Brittney asks and I smile.
“Your right,” I agree and nod at her she smiles and nods back then she puts her arms around me and kissed me. The crowd claps and we stay there for a while, there were things that needed to be solved. How would our families react to the marriage? Would we have to run away? Where would we go? Do we have the money to support each other? But that all can wait, we were in each other’s arms and we were happy. I had turned the Ugly Protestant into a happy one…
POETRY: Schoolhouse by George Moore
Somewhere in China
a schoolhouse burns
an old woodframed schoolhouse
that kindles and explodes
consumes
as the news of it consumes
kindles explodes
a human moment increased
by the decrease of single possibilities
and the word that carries it
crosses water
that could not be carried
an ocean was no enough
insight only in the aftermath
for the news says this is this
no more comment
but the violinist’s note
the poet’s first word
the engineer’s revolutionizing eye
in democratic urgency
kindled and exploded
consumed
three hundred young lives
beginning and ending in a word
that is itself like a vacuum
sucking life from the air
that wraps the earth
and claps its hands
in a tremendous jolt of nothingness
holding the hundred year old wood
taken from an now invisible forest
and built into a schoolhouse
that kindled into shame
the world hiding
another image
failed by the language of now
translated into a hunger
all who can hear must have.
POETRY: Blue Highway Blues by George Moore
Desert stations all boarded up
along a route once milk and honey,
now silence broken by rolling clouds
of dust, a landscape almost laughing
in a wheeze of wind. The highway
running out to the edge of nothing,
and then beyond, to some old idea
of heaven, fertile lands just over
the next rise. Black claw carved
in the sandstone cliffs, petroglyphs
overlaid with Spanish graffiti.
This is where the road begins
to decay, in a thread of desert
wilderness, forgetting its origin name.
People trickle in. Café’s cloudy
water stands in scratched plastic cups.
The girl behind the counter smiles.
Last man on the planet? Screen door
slams, then swings into a song.
It doesn’t matter much what you ride,
if you end up here you’ve come too far.
Gas? A hundred miles east she says.
The sign hangs on a single nail. Nobody
stays but those who can’t escape.
Ask for Jack, you won’t see it, old
highway 66 is all closed up. Road’s
a spur in the flank of the sun, she says,
Dust Bowl days are returning.
POETRY: No Zen Poem by George Moore
It’s not enough
to drop the capitals
anymore, breaking
lines up and down
the page,
not enough giving up
clichés, only to recast
their shadows
in romantic fragments
or the scramble
of word eggs. Not
enuf to mimic the fast
talking street lingo,
drum beat of a
windmill,
not enough to
place restraints
on the dread sign!
The poet must
bust open the brain,
drain out those
burnt synapses,
flush the mind’s
mulled wine and start
again with java
injected
into the heart,
the big muscle
that beats time
out of its cave
and hangs on
human history.
FICTION: GhostGlasses By Shane Ward
In the waning hours of an uneventful day, Mr. Henderson, a black-haired, scruffy individual, was being pursued by a ghostly figure that lingered at the edge of his vision.
His terrifying ordeal began when he had discovered a pair of sunglasses that allowed him to see into the spirit world. Now trapped in a situation that shattered reality, Henderson bolted through his local street, uprooting angry bystanders who shouted phrases like, "asshole," and "watch where you're going, moron."
The scent of death polluted the air while white-silhouetted spirits haunted the streets. Henderson's clothes, drenched in his own sweat, gripped his frame like a plastic bag, stifling his escape. The shadowy creature followed him relentlessly, until he tripped on a broken sidewalk and came tumbling to the ground. His sunglasses, the only way to see the spirit world, fell off.
With his heart thumping, Henderson struggled to find his shades and slowly became aware of a ghostly a presence. Teetering on the edge of panic, the only thing he remembered was it walking! It only walked with a bat! He knew that outrunning the creature was possible, but he couldn't see it. Then, an eerie silence fell.
After a few seconds, all hell broke loose. First a chilling voice, like wind blowing across the end of a bottle, taunted him. Then out of nowhere, a hurricane of pain ripped through Henderson's body as he was grabbed, tossed into the air like a rag doll and dragged through the streets, mowing people over like a bowling ball through pins. The sudden impact with the wall of a nearby shop stopped his howling cries. Stunned onlookers screamed, others fled in all directions. The blood was plastered on the wall like confetti.
Several hours had passed and the immediate area was cordoned off by police cruisers and marked tape. Even though it looked like a normal, run of the mill shooting, a small crowd of curious onlookers gathered along the sidewalks.
An unmarked vehicle pulled up and two investigators stepped out. The first was called Samuel Blake. He was a typical, down-to-earth family man with two children. His partner, Richard Hammersmith, was cockier than most men and would often jump into situations that would require unorthodox methods to bail him out, or so he thought. But now wasn't the time to dwell on matters like that as the gruesome sight proved.
Searching for someone to update him on what had happened, Samuel spotted the constable in charge. “So what have we got today?”
“Nothing much. Looks like a run-by shooting. Our investigators are taking pictures of the scene and we'll have the body loaded within ten minutes.”
Richard bent over and prodded the body with a pen. “Yep, looks like he's dead, alright.”
“Really?” asked Samuel sarcastically. “And how did you work that out, Sherlock?”
“It was an educated deduction. Anyway…what's his name?”
“Umm,” Samuel shuffled his notes, “it's Alex Henderson. He's thirty-one, from Restmore Crescent.”
“Cause of death?”
“Not sure at this moment; they're taking the body for an autopsy and should know in a few hours. But initial reports stated he was shot.” Samuel casually walked over to the bloodstained wall and poked the chunks of brain matter with his pencil. He'd seen many crime scenes before and this one didn't seem unusual, just another senseless killing added to his already overflowing list of unsolved cases on his desk.
Richard interjected, breaking his train of thought. “Anyway, I've been researching that problem you asked me to look into.” He pulled out a brown folder. “It looks like your doubts were warranted. I took some pictures of your wife and…neighbour…but you won't like what you'll see.”
Samuel took the folder tentatively. He had the feeling that something was wrong with his relationship and the information inside the folder would confirm his fears. The folder was sealed, but curiosity forced him to open it.
The first picture was a high-resolution image taken through the bedroom window. Samuel wondered, for a split second, why he was so close to the window, but then he saw the picture of his wife bent over on all fours, being penetrated by an older man. It was enough to force him to forget everything. He leaned on the vehicle and swayed slightly, handing the files back to his partner. It would be something he'd never forget and his love for his 'beloved wife' slowly drained away. Hatred slowly began to fill the void. How could the dirty slut do such a thing? His hands balled into fists. The dirty…!
He promised to confront his 'faithful' wife later, but now things needed to be done. Samuel walked over to the body bag that was being shoved in the back of a van, and made some closer inspections. The victim's personal belongings were stuffed into an evidence bag and Samuel jotted down his grim reports.
“Witnesses stated that he was running away from something,” Richard pointed out as he leaned on the van's rear door.
“What's he running from?”
“No one knows. They said he was frantic, chaotic and just plain mad.”
“Huh…that's probably the entire population of this city.” Samuel glanced at the scene and did some mental calculations. His thoughts were tangled with that of his wife and work. He was a rational man who'd trained his mind to control such hatred. So he closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten.
Richard peered into the van and showed his eagerness to return to the office. “So, any second thoughts on this case?”
“No, just some things that haven't added up yet.”
“Nothing adds up in this job,” Richard said dryly as he turned away.
“It does help if you do some work.”
“I always work hard.”
“Of course you do,” Samuel lied.
“What does that mean?”
“You need some motivation, Richard.”
“Yeah, I see your motivation…” Richard's eyes locked on a few young women in the crowd and an ironic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I'm going to take some witness statements. I'll see you back at the office.”
*
The precinct was chaotic as people raced around, trying to make sense of the sudden rush of crimes that flooded the offices that evening.
Richard leaned on the processing desk and grabbed a brown paper bag that contained the personal belongings of one Alex Henderson. But when he saw the clipboard of a newly processed prisoner, Richard couldn't resist a distasteful comment at him, something he would often do without thinking. “Make sure you don't drop the soap in the shower. We always welcome new prisoners,” he sneered.
He smiled as the prisoner was tossed onto the nearest chair and then strolled over to his partner's table. Once he got there, Richard dumped the contents over the desk and made himself comfortable.
The nifty sunglasses fell in a perfect position to allow the sun to reflect a slight tint of blue in the lenses. But it didn't draw the attention of the detectives, not yet.
“My bitch of a girl called me again,” Richard said coldly, shifting several items on the desk. But his partner failed to respond.
After a moment of silence, Richard asked, “You okay, boss?”
“It's nothing.”
"Rubbish, I know you're thinking about your wife.”
Samuel sat rigorously at his desk, with his back facing the window, on the thirtieth floor. He liked it that way; the fresh breeze would cool his back and allow him to see the rest of the office. He placed his hands on top of the brown file that contained his wife's pictures and thought long and hard about tossing the whole thing in the bin. After an incredibly short moment, he paused and had another idea; he could use the pictures as proof when he finally went home. As he pocketed the most disgusting picture, Samuel's attention shifted to the mismatched items on his desk.
“What's this stuff?”
“Oh, they belong to Alex Henderson…you know… his personal belongings.” Richard turned when a rustle broke out over the idle murmurs of the room. Some prisoners protested about the delay, some just wanted to cause trouble. But it soon became uninteresting and made his attention wander back to his partner. “Yep, another day at the office… So, who's doing the paperwork on this?”
Samuel studied the remark for a moment and felt his irritation sharpen into blunt words: “You do it!”
Richard sighed disapprovingly and leaned back on the hardback chair. Spotting the sunglasses, he felt a sense of exhilaration as the blue tint beckoned him.
“Wow! look at these. Something for my private collection.” Richard picked up the sunglasses with his thumb and forefinger and extended the temple arms.
His mind drifted, as if he was hypnotised, and with a slow, constant movement, he raised the protective eyewear and announced, “I always wanted to do this… You'll be term…”
Richard's sudden silence indicated that something was awfully wrong and he stood there like a stone statue. His smile vanished. His skin changed to a milky-white shade with a sick undertone of green. Then, as if the glasses had burned his eyes, his partner threw them onto the desk and he spoke feverishly, raising a shaking hand. “W-W-What the fuck was that! D-D-Did…?” His hand hovered over the desk. “Y-You better try them on, there's something you should see!”
Samuel had never seen his friend in such a state. What did he see? Why was he like this? He thought.
With vigilance, Samuel looked at the glasses propped up against a stack of files on his desk and considered wearing them. After all, it's only a pair of sunglasses…
He leaned forward and touched the glasses. Upon contact, a chill slithered along his arm. He tried to suppress the urge to shiver and a demonic force in the deepest recesses of his mind encouraged his idle curiosity. Put it on! Put it on!
So, without considering the consequences, he slipped them on…
The moment he opened his eyes, the entire room had sunk reluctantly into a slumber of green, with a chilling collection of misty-white figures that haunted their arid landscape like possessed zombies. His colleagues still lingered in the background, unaware of the grizzly sight that occupied their space.
Unable to believe what he was seeing, Samuel nudged the glasses down his long nose and peeked over the top. The room returned to normal and he quickly dismissed the whole hallucination. But when he put them on for a second time, the morbid landscape returned, causing him to stumble back, nearly falling out the window.
Samuel froze, rooted to the spot. It was one of the creatures that drew him in first - it dragged itself through his personal space and then vanished through the outer wall. He turned to the window to catch a glimpse of the creature falling, but the panoramic view made him gawk in shock.
The sun faintly penetrated the clouds, casting strange, leaping shadows throughout the city. The streets were covered in a slurry of moving milk that curled and shifted across the roads. White silhouetted spirits dropped like lemmings out of buildings, merging with the tide on the street. Then something caught his attention. Something threatening, about two blocks away. It looked dark and completely out of place.
Still unable to grasp the view, Samuel removed the glasses and gazed upon the metropolis. Everything appeared normal. However, deep down he knew the truth, and the glasses had something to show him, a warning. So he tried them on again.
Suddenly, he leapt into the air. The shadow that had been two blocks away was now at the bottom of the building. His heart raced and his blood pounded in a rising crescendo around his eyes. Clutching the window's ledge, Samuel's hands throbbed with terror.
He blinked and the creature leapt five floors, closing the gap between his life and impending doom. A few seconds later, the hooded mist wielded a five foot club and used it to climb the building. The urge to blink became so powerful he couldn't resist. The moment he blinked again, the creature jumped another five floors, as if unhindered by gravity.
Now he felt his heart throbbing out of control. The creature was closer, much closer and it seemed to want him. Perhaps this is what happened to Alex Henderson? His death didn't make any sense, so was this thing responsible? What does it want from me?
He stepped back from the window and accidentally blinked; something that resembled a demonic hand clung from the window frame and there was little, if nothing, Samuel could do to stop it.
“T-T-The thing… It's…” stuttered Samuel, eyes locked on the 'shadowy haze' that began to crawl through the window. As it came closer, Samuel tumbled over his chair and the glasses fell off. Shit!
Richard nudged forward to help his partner, but before he had the chance to complete a word, he was instantly dragged along the floor at an unbelievable speed, uprooting desks and blowing people over like a storm. Samuel watched in horror as his friend was eventually hurled up the far wall and then squashed into the crawlspace between the floors. Panels snapped, fell to the floor and shattered into fragments.
Samuel found the glasses under his desk and slipped them on.
Staring in awe, he could only stand and watch as the creature yanked Richard's white soul from its body and along the ground in an entanglement of shadows. But the vision that haunted him most was the incomprehensible stare the shadowy giant gave before vanishing through the wall. It had no face, just those red, glowing eyes inside its hooded head.
When reality finally caught up with him, blood rained down from the ceiling and everyone scattered in panic. Individuals stampeded through the exits, others fainted on the spot. But the inspector remained motionless. Then someone nudged him out of his trance.
“Samuel! Wake up, what the hell happed?” His vision unwillingly returned from the shadowy world as his associate tugged on his shoulder.
All around, the remaining people still scattered like frightened birds. Hot blood rained down from the ceiling as the putrid smell of death rose up from the tiled floor.
At his feet, Samuel watched his friend's life's essence trickle through the tile joints, until the blood came to a stop. He looked at his colleague, but the words he wanted to say failed to come out.
“I-I-Saw something…” He tried to explain, but was cut off when someone shouted an evacuation order that was apparently due to some terrorist attack. A start of a cover-up, probably.
*
Samuel listened to the tense exchange of words down on the street. Floodlights and helicopters instantly surrounded the building, but he knew it was a lost cause; they could not see the creature.
By now, Samuel knew that something was going to happen. First, this creature probably killed the civilian, Alex Henderson. Then, his partner Richard succumbed to the same fate. It was all linked to the sunglasses that he had in his pocket and there was no doubt in his mind that this creature would be after him next. But his question was, when?
He slipped on the sunspecs and was almost knocked over by the vision of the spirit world. There were thousands of white spirits strolling around like misplaced souls. The very sight of them was unnerving to watch. Samuel removed the glasses but the faint smell of the after-world still lingered in his nose.
It took twenty minutes before the all-clear was given to enter the precinct. At last Samuel could discover what had happened to his friend and find out how much the rest of the force actually knew about this event.
As the last of the investigators left the area where the incident took place, Samuel wandered over towards the spot where his friend had been killed. Paths of dried blood slithered across the ceiling, originating from the corner that was Richard's final resting place.
The air had an eerie chill as he stared at the blood-soaked corner. The stench of the room became overwhelmingly stifling. Memories of the vivid ordeal flooded back and he knew that the creature was still out there. He knew that informing his colleagues about the sunglasses would put them at risk, if they believed his story in the first place. No, he had to do something and grieve his friend's death at a later date. He held back his bitter sadness and pressed forward.
After talking to a few people, and then some more, Samuel finally decided to return home. At least the battle could be waged in an isolated spot and away from any overseers. He decided to leave a note that would provide all the information the police would need and taped evidence would be set up. His home would be the perfect spot, because his attempts of filming his cheating wife would provide all the cameras he would ever need. Perhaps he could encourage his wife to wear them…
*
Walking up the driveway to his home, Samuel noticed someone plunging hastily through the local bush. Upon closer inspection, he recognised that face. It was Nick. His own wife grinned and waved that bastard off. Now she looked satisfied, like the cat that caught the canary. No guessing what they'd been up to. Now time to confront her.
He stormed into the house, flung his keys onto the side table and stared at his wife. The scent of semen rose from her short, silky skirt and the tips of her hard breasts spoke for themselves.
“Was that our friendly neighbour out to satisfy your sexual desires?”
“W-W-What? No. What?” She looked surprised, unprepared for his entrance.
“I saw him leaving the house in the middle of the night,” he nudged closer. “And I can smell his fucking scent on you!”
He pulled some pictures out of his pocket. “I've also seen these!”
She strolled forward and snatched the images from his hand. Staring longer than necessary, she finally tossed the images back. Sure enough, they were snapshots of her screwing the next-door neighbour. Not any randy shots; these were real, deep, penetrating images showing that she did more than enjoy the ride.
“I've seen husbands and wives cheating before, but these? I've never seen anything so disgusting. You…” He leaned on the desk, unable to look at his spouse.
She placed the images on the table and finally snapped, seeing no point in holding back anymore. “He's a better lay than you, and at least he's always around.”
Samuel released an ululating howl of hate and left the house towards his car. With hatred churning deep within his heart, he hit the steering wheel and finally started the engine, racing out the drive, never to look back. He'd had enough of that woman and that incident was the last straw. But his plan was now messed up. How was he going to record that thing? Samuel hoped there was still enough time to clear his mind and return home for the encounter.
It was while he was driving on the main highway that he noticed the first sign of something strange: just a feeling. He glanced at all three mirrors, but saw nothing. Must be the nerves…he thought.
But when he saw the shades on the passenger seat, the urge to use them came back, more compelling than ever. With his left hand on the steering wheel, Samuel picked up the glasses and realised something. It's dark. How can I see anything? But the glasses yanked at his hand, pleading to be worn.
Once he put on the sunglasses, Samuel jerked the wheel so hard that his car swerved over all three lanes of the interstate. All around him, white silhouettes of spirits wandered across the haunted road. Mowing through the ghostly shapes with his vehicle, Samuel glanced at the centre mirror and saw them sink reluctantly into the darkness, like shadows in the corner of his eyes.
But at the end of the interstate, which branched off onto smaller roads, he noticed something lingering near a lamppost. As he sat in traffic that was leading up to some pointless roadwork, he studied the dark figure.
As children in the neighbouring car stared at him - probably wondering why someone would wear sunglasses in the middle of the night - Samuel clenched his jaw and sank deeper into his seat. But once he looked towards the lamppost, the figure had gone. He surmised that it had been some trick of the light, but the sudden spark from the roadwork revealed it!
First it remained motionless in front of his car. Then it slithered towards the vehicle's engine block. Those feverish eyes looked at him with such intensity, death hung over it like a shroud. It looked so fiercely at him, Samuel felt the creature pull at the very strands of his essence. He began to hear the thrashing of his own heart and its red, glowing eyes just stared with infuriated power. Then it disappeared.
In the space of just a few seconds, Samuel looked around for the ghostly figure that was nowhere to be seen. But when the workmen released another storm of sparks, the creature jumped out of the darkness like a jack in the box. But this time, it appeared in front of his dashboard. Samuel abandoned his car and legged it down the street.
Time had no meaning; the thing was hot on his trail and every time he looked away, it would jump, leap and hurl itself towards his last location. He would dart up stairs and turn corners, hoping to slow it down, but realism hit him like a hammer blow. The laws of physics did not apply to this creature because it could simply walk through walls and glide up stairs. To make matters worse, Samuel could only see it with the assistance of artificial light. Darkness was the perfect disguise for the creature.
As he turned a shadowy corner, a swarm of people cheered and celebrated the fireworks celebration, completely unaware of the terror that was amongst them.
Clambering through the crowd, Samuel was hot, too hot. He was confronted with the possibility of death and this tugged at his essence, filling his mind with unanswerable questions. Samuel tugged at his collar with sweat dripping from his forehead. Everywhere he looked, people pushed and shoved all around him, trying to get a better view of the fireworks. Samuel knew the horde of people had no idea the entity was following, stalking him.
Fireworks and high-powered lights allowed him to see the creature more vividly than he liked. The inky shadow dragged its heavy bat through the crowd unhindered. Samuel pulled out his 9mm pistol and fired indiscriminately at the nightmare, but the bullets only disfigured, like rain drops on sand. It still came for him. People panicked and ran in all directions, others were dead on the street.
Samuel continued to empty his 9mm clip, loaded another and another until he'd nearly ran out of ammo, but the creature continued on its lethal quest.
By this time he'd lost all rationality and was cornered into a high-rise structure. Once the creature showed its emaciated arm through the outer wall, the investigator immediately climbed the staircase.
Halfway up, Samuel glanced down over the railing and saw the creature jump, swing and leap from one staircase to the next. He pumped his legs to the maximum, and bolted to the roof.
By the time he got there, a searchlight from a circling helicopter momentarily blinded him. He shielded his eyes and looked up. Then a voice called out for him.
“This is the police, put down your weapon and surrender.”
The chilly air blew in Samuel's face and the din of the helicopter became disorienting. He knew the creature would come for him soon and the only way it could appear on the roof was through the door he was watching. Yes, he thought, I'll cover the door. This will be my last stand.
Abruptly, and without warning, the side doors swung open and SWAT teams barged through, guns hissing in their hands. “Lay your weapon on the ground now!” one of the officers said. He edged forward, weapon ready.
Samuel concentrated on the main door; the SWAT teams were little more than dark shadows in the background, just like the white silhouettes that dragged their feet. They were all harmless. I'll save them from the creature, he vowed.
Teams surrounded the lone investigator, weapons primed for firing. One of the men stepped forward, holstered his weapon and tried to calm the situation. “My name is Carl. I'm here to help you, Samuel.”
Then Samuel saw it. The dark figure slowly, erratically dragged itself out onto the rooftop. First came its huge club, then its wraithlike arm, then a misty shoulder, then the rest of its body covered in darkness, masked by a mist of feverish aura.
The officers remained motionless with their weapons drawn, unaware of the creature that was in the middle of them.
“D-D-Don't you see it?!” Samuel yelled.
“It's right behind you,” he raised his weapon, “Look out!”
Suddenly everyone opened fire and Samuel was mowed to the ground in a hail of bullets. He didn't stand a chance. The pain, twitching, and cutting of bones caused the condemned investigator to fall backwards. His pulverised eyes stared at the creature's hooded head. It's dark red eyes that were set deep in darkness pulled at his soul. Then he saw nothing as the glasses fell off and plunged over the edge of the building.
Samuel's body had not even reached the roof's edge before his soul was dragged into oblivion.
*
Down on the street, a group of rowdy teenagers, who were up past their curfew, loitered in the ally below. Some talked about girls, drugs and the frenzied police commotion above.
Then, one curious teenager spotted the sunglasses rolling off the bins and decided to explore. Thinking they were cool, he picked them up and the blue tint of the lenses beckoned him.
His terrifying ordeal began when he had discovered a pair of sunglasses that allowed him to see into the spirit world. Now trapped in a situation that shattered reality, Henderson bolted through his local street, uprooting angry bystanders who shouted phrases like, "asshole," and "watch where you're going, moron."
The scent of death polluted the air while white-silhouetted spirits haunted the streets. Henderson's clothes, drenched in his own sweat, gripped his frame like a plastic bag, stifling his escape. The shadowy creature followed him relentlessly, until he tripped on a broken sidewalk and came tumbling to the ground. His sunglasses, the only way to see the spirit world, fell off.
With his heart thumping, Henderson struggled to find his shades and slowly became aware of a ghostly a presence. Teetering on the edge of panic, the only thing he remembered was it walking! It only walked with a bat! He knew that outrunning the creature was possible, but he couldn't see it. Then, an eerie silence fell.
After a few seconds, all hell broke loose. First a chilling voice, like wind blowing across the end of a bottle, taunted him. Then out of nowhere, a hurricane of pain ripped through Henderson's body as he was grabbed, tossed into the air like a rag doll and dragged through the streets, mowing people over like a bowling ball through pins. The sudden impact with the wall of a nearby shop stopped his howling cries. Stunned onlookers screamed, others fled in all directions. The blood was plastered on the wall like confetti.
Several hours had passed and the immediate area was cordoned off by police cruisers and marked tape. Even though it looked like a normal, run of the mill shooting, a small crowd of curious onlookers gathered along the sidewalks.
An unmarked vehicle pulled up and two investigators stepped out. The first was called Samuel Blake. He was a typical, down-to-earth family man with two children. His partner, Richard Hammersmith, was cockier than most men and would often jump into situations that would require unorthodox methods to bail him out, or so he thought. But now wasn't the time to dwell on matters like that as the gruesome sight proved.
Searching for someone to update him on what had happened, Samuel spotted the constable in charge. “So what have we got today?”
“Nothing much. Looks like a run-by shooting. Our investigators are taking pictures of the scene and we'll have the body loaded within ten minutes.”
Richard bent over and prodded the body with a pen. “Yep, looks like he's dead, alright.”
“Really?” asked Samuel sarcastically. “And how did you work that out, Sherlock?”
“It was an educated deduction. Anyway…what's his name?”
“Umm,” Samuel shuffled his notes, “it's Alex Henderson. He's thirty-one, from Restmore Crescent.”
“Cause of death?”
“Not sure at this moment; they're taking the body for an autopsy and should know in a few hours. But initial reports stated he was shot.” Samuel casually walked over to the bloodstained wall and poked the chunks of brain matter with his pencil. He'd seen many crime scenes before and this one didn't seem unusual, just another senseless killing added to his already overflowing list of unsolved cases on his desk.
Richard interjected, breaking his train of thought. “Anyway, I've been researching that problem you asked me to look into.” He pulled out a brown folder. “It looks like your doubts were warranted. I took some pictures of your wife and…neighbour…but you won't like what you'll see.”
Samuel took the folder tentatively. He had the feeling that something was wrong with his relationship and the information inside the folder would confirm his fears. The folder was sealed, but curiosity forced him to open it.
The first picture was a high-resolution image taken through the bedroom window. Samuel wondered, for a split second, why he was so close to the window, but then he saw the picture of his wife bent over on all fours, being penetrated by an older man. It was enough to force him to forget everything. He leaned on the vehicle and swayed slightly, handing the files back to his partner. It would be something he'd never forget and his love for his 'beloved wife' slowly drained away. Hatred slowly began to fill the void. How could the dirty slut do such a thing? His hands balled into fists. The dirty…!
He promised to confront his 'faithful' wife later, but now things needed to be done. Samuel walked over to the body bag that was being shoved in the back of a van, and made some closer inspections. The victim's personal belongings were stuffed into an evidence bag and Samuel jotted down his grim reports.
“Witnesses stated that he was running away from something,” Richard pointed out as he leaned on the van's rear door.
“What's he running from?”
“No one knows. They said he was frantic, chaotic and just plain mad.”
“Huh…that's probably the entire population of this city.” Samuel glanced at the scene and did some mental calculations. His thoughts were tangled with that of his wife and work. He was a rational man who'd trained his mind to control such hatred. So he closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten.
Richard peered into the van and showed his eagerness to return to the office. “So, any second thoughts on this case?”
“No, just some things that haven't added up yet.”
“Nothing adds up in this job,” Richard said dryly as he turned away.
“It does help if you do some work.”
“I always work hard.”
“Of course you do,” Samuel lied.
“What does that mean?”
“You need some motivation, Richard.”
“Yeah, I see your motivation…” Richard's eyes locked on a few young women in the crowd and an ironic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I'm going to take some witness statements. I'll see you back at the office.”
*
The precinct was chaotic as people raced around, trying to make sense of the sudden rush of crimes that flooded the offices that evening.
Richard leaned on the processing desk and grabbed a brown paper bag that contained the personal belongings of one Alex Henderson. But when he saw the clipboard of a newly processed prisoner, Richard couldn't resist a distasteful comment at him, something he would often do without thinking. “Make sure you don't drop the soap in the shower. We always welcome new prisoners,” he sneered.
He smiled as the prisoner was tossed onto the nearest chair and then strolled over to his partner's table. Once he got there, Richard dumped the contents over the desk and made himself comfortable.
The nifty sunglasses fell in a perfect position to allow the sun to reflect a slight tint of blue in the lenses. But it didn't draw the attention of the detectives, not yet.
“My bitch of a girl called me again,” Richard said coldly, shifting several items on the desk. But his partner failed to respond.
After a moment of silence, Richard asked, “You okay, boss?”
“It's nothing.”
"Rubbish, I know you're thinking about your wife.”
Samuel sat rigorously at his desk, with his back facing the window, on the thirtieth floor. He liked it that way; the fresh breeze would cool his back and allow him to see the rest of the office. He placed his hands on top of the brown file that contained his wife's pictures and thought long and hard about tossing the whole thing in the bin. After an incredibly short moment, he paused and had another idea; he could use the pictures as proof when he finally went home. As he pocketed the most disgusting picture, Samuel's attention shifted to the mismatched items on his desk.
“What's this stuff?”
“Oh, they belong to Alex Henderson…you know… his personal belongings.” Richard turned when a rustle broke out over the idle murmurs of the room. Some prisoners protested about the delay, some just wanted to cause trouble. But it soon became uninteresting and made his attention wander back to his partner. “Yep, another day at the office… So, who's doing the paperwork on this?”
Samuel studied the remark for a moment and felt his irritation sharpen into blunt words: “You do it!”
Richard sighed disapprovingly and leaned back on the hardback chair. Spotting the sunglasses, he felt a sense of exhilaration as the blue tint beckoned him.
“Wow! look at these. Something for my private collection.” Richard picked up the sunglasses with his thumb and forefinger and extended the temple arms.
His mind drifted, as if he was hypnotised, and with a slow, constant movement, he raised the protective eyewear and announced, “I always wanted to do this… You'll be term…”
Richard's sudden silence indicated that something was awfully wrong and he stood there like a stone statue. His smile vanished. His skin changed to a milky-white shade with a sick undertone of green. Then, as if the glasses had burned his eyes, his partner threw them onto the desk and he spoke feverishly, raising a shaking hand. “W-W-What the fuck was that! D-D-Did…?” His hand hovered over the desk. “Y-You better try them on, there's something you should see!”
Samuel had never seen his friend in such a state. What did he see? Why was he like this? He thought.
With vigilance, Samuel looked at the glasses propped up against a stack of files on his desk and considered wearing them. After all, it's only a pair of sunglasses…
He leaned forward and touched the glasses. Upon contact, a chill slithered along his arm. He tried to suppress the urge to shiver and a demonic force in the deepest recesses of his mind encouraged his idle curiosity. Put it on! Put it on!
So, without considering the consequences, he slipped them on…
The moment he opened his eyes, the entire room had sunk reluctantly into a slumber of green, with a chilling collection of misty-white figures that haunted their arid landscape like possessed zombies. His colleagues still lingered in the background, unaware of the grizzly sight that occupied their space.
Unable to believe what he was seeing, Samuel nudged the glasses down his long nose and peeked over the top. The room returned to normal and he quickly dismissed the whole hallucination. But when he put them on for a second time, the morbid landscape returned, causing him to stumble back, nearly falling out the window.
Samuel froze, rooted to the spot. It was one of the creatures that drew him in first - it dragged itself through his personal space and then vanished through the outer wall. He turned to the window to catch a glimpse of the creature falling, but the panoramic view made him gawk in shock.
The sun faintly penetrated the clouds, casting strange, leaping shadows throughout the city. The streets were covered in a slurry of moving milk that curled and shifted across the roads. White silhouetted spirits dropped like lemmings out of buildings, merging with the tide on the street. Then something caught his attention. Something threatening, about two blocks away. It looked dark and completely out of place.
Still unable to grasp the view, Samuel removed the glasses and gazed upon the metropolis. Everything appeared normal. However, deep down he knew the truth, and the glasses had something to show him, a warning. So he tried them on again.
Suddenly, he leapt into the air. The shadow that had been two blocks away was now at the bottom of the building. His heart raced and his blood pounded in a rising crescendo around his eyes. Clutching the window's ledge, Samuel's hands throbbed with terror.
He blinked and the creature leapt five floors, closing the gap between his life and impending doom. A few seconds later, the hooded mist wielded a five foot club and used it to climb the building. The urge to blink became so powerful he couldn't resist. The moment he blinked again, the creature jumped another five floors, as if unhindered by gravity.
Now he felt his heart throbbing out of control. The creature was closer, much closer and it seemed to want him. Perhaps this is what happened to Alex Henderson? His death didn't make any sense, so was this thing responsible? What does it want from me?
He stepped back from the window and accidentally blinked; something that resembled a demonic hand clung from the window frame and there was little, if nothing, Samuel could do to stop it.
“T-T-The thing… It's…” stuttered Samuel, eyes locked on the 'shadowy haze' that began to crawl through the window. As it came closer, Samuel tumbled over his chair and the glasses fell off. Shit!
Richard nudged forward to help his partner, but before he had the chance to complete a word, he was instantly dragged along the floor at an unbelievable speed, uprooting desks and blowing people over like a storm. Samuel watched in horror as his friend was eventually hurled up the far wall and then squashed into the crawlspace between the floors. Panels snapped, fell to the floor and shattered into fragments.
Samuel found the glasses under his desk and slipped them on.
Staring in awe, he could only stand and watch as the creature yanked Richard's white soul from its body and along the ground in an entanglement of shadows. But the vision that haunted him most was the incomprehensible stare the shadowy giant gave before vanishing through the wall. It had no face, just those red, glowing eyes inside its hooded head.
When reality finally caught up with him, blood rained down from the ceiling and everyone scattered in panic. Individuals stampeded through the exits, others fainted on the spot. But the inspector remained motionless. Then someone nudged him out of his trance.
“Samuel! Wake up, what the hell happed?” His vision unwillingly returned from the shadowy world as his associate tugged on his shoulder.
All around, the remaining people still scattered like frightened birds. Hot blood rained down from the ceiling as the putrid smell of death rose up from the tiled floor.
At his feet, Samuel watched his friend's life's essence trickle through the tile joints, until the blood came to a stop. He looked at his colleague, but the words he wanted to say failed to come out.
“I-I-Saw something…” He tried to explain, but was cut off when someone shouted an evacuation order that was apparently due to some terrorist attack. A start of a cover-up, probably.
*
Samuel listened to the tense exchange of words down on the street. Floodlights and helicopters instantly surrounded the building, but he knew it was a lost cause; they could not see the creature.
By now, Samuel knew that something was going to happen. First, this creature probably killed the civilian, Alex Henderson. Then, his partner Richard succumbed to the same fate. It was all linked to the sunglasses that he had in his pocket and there was no doubt in his mind that this creature would be after him next. But his question was, when?
He slipped on the sunspecs and was almost knocked over by the vision of the spirit world. There were thousands of white spirits strolling around like misplaced souls. The very sight of them was unnerving to watch. Samuel removed the glasses but the faint smell of the after-world still lingered in his nose.
It took twenty minutes before the all-clear was given to enter the precinct. At last Samuel could discover what had happened to his friend and find out how much the rest of the force actually knew about this event.
As the last of the investigators left the area where the incident took place, Samuel wandered over towards the spot where his friend had been killed. Paths of dried blood slithered across the ceiling, originating from the corner that was Richard's final resting place.
The air had an eerie chill as he stared at the blood-soaked corner. The stench of the room became overwhelmingly stifling. Memories of the vivid ordeal flooded back and he knew that the creature was still out there. He knew that informing his colleagues about the sunglasses would put them at risk, if they believed his story in the first place. No, he had to do something and grieve his friend's death at a later date. He held back his bitter sadness and pressed forward.
After talking to a few people, and then some more, Samuel finally decided to return home. At least the battle could be waged in an isolated spot and away from any overseers. He decided to leave a note that would provide all the information the police would need and taped evidence would be set up. His home would be the perfect spot, because his attempts of filming his cheating wife would provide all the cameras he would ever need. Perhaps he could encourage his wife to wear them…
*
Walking up the driveway to his home, Samuel noticed someone plunging hastily through the local bush. Upon closer inspection, he recognised that face. It was Nick. His own wife grinned and waved that bastard off. Now she looked satisfied, like the cat that caught the canary. No guessing what they'd been up to. Now time to confront her.
He stormed into the house, flung his keys onto the side table and stared at his wife. The scent of semen rose from her short, silky skirt and the tips of her hard breasts spoke for themselves.
“Was that our friendly neighbour out to satisfy your sexual desires?”
“W-W-What? No. What?” She looked surprised, unprepared for his entrance.
“I saw him leaving the house in the middle of the night,” he nudged closer. “And I can smell his fucking scent on you!”
He pulled some pictures out of his pocket. “I've also seen these!”
She strolled forward and snatched the images from his hand. Staring longer than necessary, she finally tossed the images back. Sure enough, they were snapshots of her screwing the next-door neighbour. Not any randy shots; these were real, deep, penetrating images showing that she did more than enjoy the ride.
“I've seen husbands and wives cheating before, but these? I've never seen anything so disgusting. You…” He leaned on the desk, unable to look at his spouse.
She placed the images on the table and finally snapped, seeing no point in holding back anymore. “He's a better lay than you, and at least he's always around.”
Samuel released an ululating howl of hate and left the house towards his car. With hatred churning deep within his heart, he hit the steering wheel and finally started the engine, racing out the drive, never to look back. He'd had enough of that woman and that incident was the last straw. But his plan was now messed up. How was he going to record that thing? Samuel hoped there was still enough time to clear his mind and return home for the encounter.
It was while he was driving on the main highway that he noticed the first sign of something strange: just a feeling. He glanced at all three mirrors, but saw nothing. Must be the nerves…he thought.
But when he saw the shades on the passenger seat, the urge to use them came back, more compelling than ever. With his left hand on the steering wheel, Samuel picked up the glasses and realised something. It's dark. How can I see anything? But the glasses yanked at his hand, pleading to be worn.
Once he put on the sunglasses, Samuel jerked the wheel so hard that his car swerved over all three lanes of the interstate. All around him, white silhouettes of spirits wandered across the haunted road. Mowing through the ghostly shapes with his vehicle, Samuel glanced at the centre mirror and saw them sink reluctantly into the darkness, like shadows in the corner of his eyes.
But at the end of the interstate, which branched off onto smaller roads, he noticed something lingering near a lamppost. As he sat in traffic that was leading up to some pointless roadwork, he studied the dark figure.
As children in the neighbouring car stared at him - probably wondering why someone would wear sunglasses in the middle of the night - Samuel clenched his jaw and sank deeper into his seat. But once he looked towards the lamppost, the figure had gone. He surmised that it had been some trick of the light, but the sudden spark from the roadwork revealed it!
First it remained motionless in front of his car. Then it slithered towards the vehicle's engine block. Those feverish eyes looked at him with such intensity, death hung over it like a shroud. It looked so fiercely at him, Samuel felt the creature pull at the very strands of his essence. He began to hear the thrashing of his own heart and its red, glowing eyes just stared with infuriated power. Then it disappeared.
In the space of just a few seconds, Samuel looked around for the ghostly figure that was nowhere to be seen. But when the workmen released another storm of sparks, the creature jumped out of the darkness like a jack in the box. But this time, it appeared in front of his dashboard. Samuel abandoned his car and legged it down the street.
Time had no meaning; the thing was hot on his trail and every time he looked away, it would jump, leap and hurl itself towards his last location. He would dart up stairs and turn corners, hoping to slow it down, but realism hit him like a hammer blow. The laws of physics did not apply to this creature because it could simply walk through walls and glide up stairs. To make matters worse, Samuel could only see it with the assistance of artificial light. Darkness was the perfect disguise for the creature.
As he turned a shadowy corner, a swarm of people cheered and celebrated the fireworks celebration, completely unaware of the terror that was amongst them.
Clambering through the crowd, Samuel was hot, too hot. He was confronted with the possibility of death and this tugged at his essence, filling his mind with unanswerable questions. Samuel tugged at his collar with sweat dripping from his forehead. Everywhere he looked, people pushed and shoved all around him, trying to get a better view of the fireworks. Samuel knew the horde of people had no idea the entity was following, stalking him.
Fireworks and high-powered lights allowed him to see the creature more vividly than he liked. The inky shadow dragged its heavy bat through the crowd unhindered. Samuel pulled out his 9mm pistol and fired indiscriminately at the nightmare, but the bullets only disfigured, like rain drops on sand. It still came for him. People panicked and ran in all directions, others were dead on the street.
Samuel continued to empty his 9mm clip, loaded another and another until he'd nearly ran out of ammo, but the creature continued on its lethal quest.
By this time he'd lost all rationality and was cornered into a high-rise structure. Once the creature showed its emaciated arm through the outer wall, the investigator immediately climbed the staircase.
Halfway up, Samuel glanced down over the railing and saw the creature jump, swing and leap from one staircase to the next. He pumped his legs to the maximum, and bolted to the roof.
By the time he got there, a searchlight from a circling helicopter momentarily blinded him. He shielded his eyes and looked up. Then a voice called out for him.
“This is the police, put down your weapon and surrender.”
The chilly air blew in Samuel's face and the din of the helicopter became disorienting. He knew the creature would come for him soon and the only way it could appear on the roof was through the door he was watching. Yes, he thought, I'll cover the door. This will be my last stand.
Abruptly, and without warning, the side doors swung open and SWAT teams barged through, guns hissing in their hands. “Lay your weapon on the ground now!” one of the officers said. He edged forward, weapon ready.
Samuel concentrated on the main door; the SWAT teams were little more than dark shadows in the background, just like the white silhouettes that dragged their feet. They were all harmless. I'll save them from the creature, he vowed.
Teams surrounded the lone investigator, weapons primed for firing. One of the men stepped forward, holstered his weapon and tried to calm the situation. “My name is Carl. I'm here to help you, Samuel.”
Then Samuel saw it. The dark figure slowly, erratically dragged itself out onto the rooftop. First came its huge club, then its wraithlike arm, then a misty shoulder, then the rest of its body covered in darkness, masked by a mist of feverish aura.
The officers remained motionless with their weapons drawn, unaware of the creature that was in the middle of them.
“D-D-Don't you see it?!” Samuel yelled.
“It's right behind you,” he raised his weapon, “Look out!”
Suddenly everyone opened fire and Samuel was mowed to the ground in a hail of bullets. He didn't stand a chance. The pain, twitching, and cutting of bones caused the condemned investigator to fall backwards. His pulverised eyes stared at the creature's hooded head. It's dark red eyes that were set deep in darkness pulled at his soul. Then he saw nothing as the glasses fell off and plunged over the edge of the building.
Samuel's body had not even reached the roof's edge before his soul was dragged into oblivion.
*
Down on the street, a group of rowdy teenagers, who were up past their curfew, loitered in the ally below. Some talked about girls, drugs and the frenzied police commotion above.
Then, one curious teenager spotted the sunglasses rolling off the bins and decided to explore. Thinking they were cool, he picked them up and the blue tint of the lenses beckoned him.
FICTION: She Who Comes With a Guitar By Arthur McMahon
Blue sky sits atop red sand like oil on water, stretching across the vast horizon, undulating under the high noon heat of the shimmering yellow sun. The stark contrast across the boundless desert rests unbroken in all directions. Not a mountain, not a rock or tree stands tall enough to disrupt the limitless expanse.
The center of the emptiness holds a single man to whom this view belongs; a tall man with a lifetime of age that shows on his pockmarked face. Uncut black hair mirrors the color of his slanted eyes. Brown boots flap open at the toes, blue jeans patched with an assortment of other cloths, a sweat-stained white shirt drapes over his shoulders, ripped open at its sides and sleeveless, and a wide-brimmed tan hat crowns the man's thin frame. Among the dozens of buildings that line a single road, he is the only soul that remains.
The town floats on a sea of sand. The man wanders his island with his goat, his only companion and source of nourishment. He walks as he does every day and stops to stare at the horizon, always hoping to see a way to something better. Sense of time destroyed, it's been long since anything new has traveled in the distance.
But this day a new shape dances in the distant waves of heat. The man stands at the edge of town as he does every day, but now he finds reason to wait. The figure draws closer, and the man remains. At the end of vision to be called a dark speck, now a shimmering star growing larger as if fed by the sun. As the shape becomes more clear, the figure of a person is shown, soon a woman with a large package strapped to her back. The man does not stir.
A mocha-toned woman in a ruffled white dress approaches the man. Her beauty noticed, but not so much as to startle a man. Atop her curly, golden-brown hair sits askew a large, white hat with enough brim to shade most of her body. Strapped to her back is a black guitar that almost absorbs the sunlight around it.
“Allow me some of your water, kind sir, and I will play a song for you,” says the woman. The man holds to his position and gives no response. “Please sir, some water. A song is all I have to give in return, but I play well.”
His face is hard, but not by intention; it has aged that way. He mimics a drinking motion and makes a sound that she doesn't understand.
She tries to repeat what he had said, but realizes she doesn't know the word and settles on repeating his motion. “Water, yes. You do not speak English then?” Confusion lights his dark eyes and he shakes his head, then motions for her to follow.
As they walk down the street, the woman takes in the dilapidated homes. Windows are not only cracked, but dark and motionless. Shudders have fallen to the ground, and most of those that haven't are hung askew. The pale, red dirt of the desert has taken over the wooden buildings, blasted into sheets that cling to the walls.
Wooden boards squeak with the mice that hide in their shade, and the wind causes the structures to creak. No other sounds stream into her ears, no children laughing, no everyday clamor. There isn't enough sound here for a town. The smell that hangs in the air is only dirt and old wood. There is no smell of men, of baked goods, no smell of cloth or dirty children, no smell of a town at all.
The man ties his goat to a deck and walks into a building that appears less weathered than the others. Approaching the building, the woman would have known it was a home before ever meeting the man. Light flickers through the cracks in a wood stove and the air inside the home is moist with the steam of recently boiled water. The home exudes a subtle smell of spices and dried meats.
“Wotter?” The man says as he holds up a pot of cooled water to the woman.
“Yes,” she says. “Water. Thank you.” He takes one sip from the worn iron pot before handing it to her. The woman takes several big gulps before coughing in her haste. The man smiles and sits in a chair next to a window. His wrinkles are more pronounced in that smile, but the woman sees a youth to the man in this moment. The joy on his face breaks its former hardness as he breaks through his loneliness.
“Do you have more, sir? I'd like to fill my water skins before I depart.”
“Mo?” he says.
“Yes, more water. Please, if you do.”
The man sits there for a moment, considering his thoughts, and then stands up and walks her over to the window. Outside stands a large water tower. At its base protrudes a pump and several large spigots. If that tower is full, the man could live off it until the end of his days. The woman smiles at him and runs outside to fill her skins.
The man puts some more water on the stove and watches the beautiful woman that has graced his happiness with her presence. He has not seen another person in a long time and is glad for the interaction with her and the sight if nothing else. He sits in his chair and appreciates her as the water begins to boil. The woman glances back into the window and gives him another smile. How it warms his heart, how good it feels just to receive a smile from a pretty lady after all of these years. If this moment were to last until the end of time, he would be fine.
When the woman comes back into the house she is excited to see that the man has prepared a pot of tea for her of some soothing spice that she had never smelled before. She thanks him before taking a sip. The tea melts away her worries and is relaxing. The man drinks as well. He smiles and closes his eyes as the tea warms him.
The woman wanders the house as the man naps during the hottest hours of the day. By the fire stove lays a pile of wooden boards and shingles, torn away from nearby buildings and used to heat the man's home and his food. Large amounts of grains and dried meats adorn the cupboards of his kitchen. Several boxes of ammunition rest under a desk in the main room, and a hunting rifle hangs on the wall nearby.
She lays her guitar and other belongings on the main room desk and leaves the home, walking about the empty town. Not a person in sight. She sees a few of the places where the man had been gathering wood from and soon stumbles upon a long abandoned general store. The shelves are almost bare, aside from an area of canned goods and some large sacks of rice. Paper clippings hang on the wall near the entrance, crinkled and yellowed with the shirk of the uninhabited. Much of the stories are illegible, but what is (along with the large headlines) is enough for the woman to piece together some of the town's history.
The town is named “Tohk's Find” after the gold mine it was founded near. A large mine it was, but predictions fell severely short and findings became sparse. It had collapsed upon a dozen of the miners and no one thought it worth digging up again. A railway was scheduled for construction to connect Tohk's Find with its nearest neighbors, but after the collapse the project was abandoned. Townsfolk fled back to the city, vacating their homes and heading back east on their wagons.
The dates on the papers say that nearly three years have gone past since the mass desertion, three years that the chinese man who speaks little English has remained alone. Tears fall as she finishes reading.
She returns to the home and finds the man holding her guitar. He is feeling it's smooth, black surfaces as his eyes survey the extravagantly designed, pearly-white frets. Images of skulls, streaming notes, sharp eyes and more all repose under a large etching of the full moon amongst the clouds. It is magnificent.
The sun has passed its peaks hours, reddening the sky to mimic the crimson dirt of the desert.
“I said I would play a song for you,” the woman says as she approaches the man and slowly wraps her arms around the instrument, “and now I know what song I want to play.”
The man sits in awe. When the woman holds the guitar, her white dress holds the same designs as the etchings on the neck of the guitar. Ornate impressions that tickle him with fright, but overwhelm him with their beauty. She begins to play.
The woman looks into his eyes as her arm strums the strings. The man is captivated and unable to look away from her. She holds a slow rhythm, a simple mix of chords and notes that any person could play, but the tune is so unique no one before has ever put them together. The acoustic sounds enliven the images, and as the woman moves they seem to dance and sing. The music flows from the guitar and streams around the man, seeming to cause the air around him to laugh and to cry.
She holds her gaze steady; it is soft with emotion but strong with conviction. As he watches her, smells of sweat and fear fill him, smells of fresh baked bread, of horses and of men. The laughter grows stronger and the crying multiplies. Men shout and women whisper. The emptiness within him fills with the sounds of her guitar, with her beauty and her song. The notes soften, the rhythm relaxes. The song that lasted a lifetime is now at an end. The woman stands there and smiles; the images on her dress fade.
The man wants to cry, but he is unsure why. The woman eyes the window with a smirk, and the man follows her. Outside the window is night. The sky is a dark blue lit by the full moon. But below the sky, there is motion. Candles flicker in windows, horses stand hitched next to their troughs, women walk with men, and children run in the streets. Together the man and the woman walk outside. She holds his hand tight with excitement. He drops to his knees and lets the happy tears fall.
The center of the emptiness holds a single man to whom this view belongs; a tall man with a lifetime of age that shows on his pockmarked face. Uncut black hair mirrors the color of his slanted eyes. Brown boots flap open at the toes, blue jeans patched with an assortment of other cloths, a sweat-stained white shirt drapes over his shoulders, ripped open at its sides and sleeveless, and a wide-brimmed tan hat crowns the man's thin frame. Among the dozens of buildings that line a single road, he is the only soul that remains.
The town floats on a sea of sand. The man wanders his island with his goat, his only companion and source of nourishment. He walks as he does every day and stops to stare at the horizon, always hoping to see a way to something better. Sense of time destroyed, it's been long since anything new has traveled in the distance.
But this day a new shape dances in the distant waves of heat. The man stands at the edge of town as he does every day, but now he finds reason to wait. The figure draws closer, and the man remains. At the end of vision to be called a dark speck, now a shimmering star growing larger as if fed by the sun. As the shape becomes more clear, the figure of a person is shown, soon a woman with a large package strapped to her back. The man does not stir.
A mocha-toned woman in a ruffled white dress approaches the man. Her beauty noticed, but not so much as to startle a man. Atop her curly, golden-brown hair sits askew a large, white hat with enough brim to shade most of her body. Strapped to her back is a black guitar that almost absorbs the sunlight around it.
“Allow me some of your water, kind sir, and I will play a song for you,” says the woman. The man holds to his position and gives no response. “Please sir, some water. A song is all I have to give in return, but I play well.”
His face is hard, but not by intention; it has aged that way. He mimics a drinking motion and makes a sound that she doesn't understand.
She tries to repeat what he had said, but realizes she doesn't know the word and settles on repeating his motion. “Water, yes. You do not speak English then?” Confusion lights his dark eyes and he shakes his head, then motions for her to follow.
As they walk down the street, the woman takes in the dilapidated homes. Windows are not only cracked, but dark and motionless. Shudders have fallen to the ground, and most of those that haven't are hung askew. The pale, red dirt of the desert has taken over the wooden buildings, blasted into sheets that cling to the walls.
Wooden boards squeak with the mice that hide in their shade, and the wind causes the structures to creak. No other sounds stream into her ears, no children laughing, no everyday clamor. There isn't enough sound here for a town. The smell that hangs in the air is only dirt and old wood. There is no smell of men, of baked goods, no smell of cloth or dirty children, no smell of a town at all.
The man ties his goat to a deck and walks into a building that appears less weathered than the others. Approaching the building, the woman would have known it was a home before ever meeting the man. Light flickers through the cracks in a wood stove and the air inside the home is moist with the steam of recently boiled water. The home exudes a subtle smell of spices and dried meats.
“Wotter?” The man says as he holds up a pot of cooled water to the woman.
“Yes,” she says. “Water. Thank you.” He takes one sip from the worn iron pot before handing it to her. The woman takes several big gulps before coughing in her haste. The man smiles and sits in a chair next to a window. His wrinkles are more pronounced in that smile, but the woman sees a youth to the man in this moment. The joy on his face breaks its former hardness as he breaks through his loneliness.
“Do you have more, sir? I'd like to fill my water skins before I depart.”
“Mo?” he says.
“Yes, more water. Please, if you do.”
The man sits there for a moment, considering his thoughts, and then stands up and walks her over to the window. Outside stands a large water tower. At its base protrudes a pump and several large spigots. If that tower is full, the man could live off it until the end of his days. The woman smiles at him and runs outside to fill her skins.
The man puts some more water on the stove and watches the beautiful woman that has graced his happiness with her presence. He has not seen another person in a long time and is glad for the interaction with her and the sight if nothing else. He sits in his chair and appreciates her as the water begins to boil. The woman glances back into the window and gives him another smile. How it warms his heart, how good it feels just to receive a smile from a pretty lady after all of these years. If this moment were to last until the end of time, he would be fine.
When the woman comes back into the house she is excited to see that the man has prepared a pot of tea for her of some soothing spice that she had never smelled before. She thanks him before taking a sip. The tea melts away her worries and is relaxing. The man drinks as well. He smiles and closes his eyes as the tea warms him.
The woman wanders the house as the man naps during the hottest hours of the day. By the fire stove lays a pile of wooden boards and shingles, torn away from nearby buildings and used to heat the man's home and his food. Large amounts of grains and dried meats adorn the cupboards of his kitchen. Several boxes of ammunition rest under a desk in the main room, and a hunting rifle hangs on the wall nearby.
She lays her guitar and other belongings on the main room desk and leaves the home, walking about the empty town. Not a person in sight. She sees a few of the places where the man had been gathering wood from and soon stumbles upon a long abandoned general store. The shelves are almost bare, aside from an area of canned goods and some large sacks of rice. Paper clippings hang on the wall near the entrance, crinkled and yellowed with the shirk of the uninhabited. Much of the stories are illegible, but what is (along with the large headlines) is enough for the woman to piece together some of the town's history.
The town is named “Tohk's Find” after the gold mine it was founded near. A large mine it was, but predictions fell severely short and findings became sparse. It had collapsed upon a dozen of the miners and no one thought it worth digging up again. A railway was scheduled for construction to connect Tohk's Find with its nearest neighbors, but after the collapse the project was abandoned. Townsfolk fled back to the city, vacating their homes and heading back east on their wagons.
The dates on the papers say that nearly three years have gone past since the mass desertion, three years that the chinese man who speaks little English has remained alone. Tears fall as she finishes reading.
She returns to the home and finds the man holding her guitar. He is feeling it's smooth, black surfaces as his eyes survey the extravagantly designed, pearly-white frets. Images of skulls, streaming notes, sharp eyes and more all repose under a large etching of the full moon amongst the clouds. It is magnificent.
The sun has passed its peaks hours, reddening the sky to mimic the crimson dirt of the desert.
“I said I would play a song for you,” the woman says as she approaches the man and slowly wraps her arms around the instrument, “and now I know what song I want to play.”
The man sits in awe. When the woman holds the guitar, her white dress holds the same designs as the etchings on the neck of the guitar. Ornate impressions that tickle him with fright, but overwhelm him with their beauty. She begins to play.
The woman looks into his eyes as her arm strums the strings. The man is captivated and unable to look away from her. She holds a slow rhythm, a simple mix of chords and notes that any person could play, but the tune is so unique no one before has ever put them together. The acoustic sounds enliven the images, and as the woman moves they seem to dance and sing. The music flows from the guitar and streams around the man, seeming to cause the air around him to laugh and to cry.
She holds her gaze steady; it is soft with emotion but strong with conviction. As he watches her, smells of sweat and fear fill him, smells of fresh baked bread, of horses and of men. The laughter grows stronger and the crying multiplies. Men shout and women whisper. The emptiness within him fills with the sounds of her guitar, with her beauty and her song. The notes soften, the rhythm relaxes. The song that lasted a lifetime is now at an end. The woman stands there and smiles; the images on her dress fade.
The man wants to cry, but he is unsure why. The woman eyes the window with a smirk, and the man follows her. Outside the window is night. The sky is a dark blue lit by the full moon. But below the sky, there is motion. Candles flicker in windows, horses stand hitched next to their troughs, women walk with men, and children run in the streets. Together the man and the woman walk outside. She holds his hand tight with excitement. He drops to his knees and lets the happy tears fall.
BOOK REVIEW: The Leopard
Title: The Leopard
Author: Jo Nesbo
Publisher: Random House
RRP: $24.95
ISBN: 9781846554001
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 624
Description:
Harry Hole is back and this time he's back from very, very far away. Another gripping instalment in this prize-winning and acclaimed series by the internationally #1 bestselling crime writer in Norway.
Two women are found murdered in Oslo — both of them have drowned in their own blood. What mystifies the police is that the puncture wounds in the victims' faces have been caused from the inside of their mouths. Kaja Solness from Homicide is sent to Hong Kong to track down a man who is the Oslo Police Department's only specialist on serial killings. The severely addicted detective has tried to disappear in the vast, anonymous city. He is on the run and haunted by his last case, the woman he loves, and creditors alike. His name is Harry Hole.
About this Author
JO NESBØ is a musician, songwriter, economist and author. His first crime novel featuring Harry Hole was published in Norway in 1997 and was an instant hit, winning the Glass Key Award for best Nordic crime novel (an accolade shared with Peter Høeg, Henning Mankell and Karin Fossum). The Leopard is the sixth of Nesbø's novels to be translated into English.
Review:
The Leopard is the eighth book by Jo Nesbo, but only the sixth one translated into English. For some reason the first two books by this award winning Nordic author have not yet made it into English. It would be great to see how the inspector, Harry Hole, developed as a character from the initial inception in the first book – The Bat Man, into the second – The Cockroaches, before the third one, The Redbreast was finally translated into English.
Anyway, The Leopard sees Inspector Harry Hole recovering from the horrific events that unfolded in the previous book, The Snowman. He is coping with the demons in the seedy world of the opium dens in Hong Kong, where he is found and convinced to go back to Oslo. Only the news of his father in hospital on death’s doorstep sees Harry willing to go back to his old job and a new case.
With Hole back in Oslo, things are very different to when he left it at the end of The Snowman, and he is like a fish out of water with the new structure and divisions of the police service. This element adds even more conflict and turmoil to the story, which is already loaded with this via the serial murder case and condition of his father.
Great book with an excellent pace.
Author: Jo Nesbo
Publisher: Random House
RRP: $24.95
ISBN: 9781846554001
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 624
Description:
Harry Hole is back and this time he's back from very, very far away. Another gripping instalment in this prize-winning and acclaimed series by the internationally #1 bestselling crime writer in Norway.
Two women are found murdered in Oslo — both of them have drowned in their own blood. What mystifies the police is that the puncture wounds in the victims' faces have been caused from the inside of their mouths. Kaja Solness from Homicide is sent to Hong Kong to track down a man who is the Oslo Police Department's only specialist on serial killings. The severely addicted detective has tried to disappear in the vast, anonymous city. He is on the run and haunted by his last case, the woman he loves, and creditors alike. His name is Harry Hole.
About this Author
JO NESBØ is a musician, songwriter, economist and author. His first crime novel featuring Harry Hole was published in Norway in 1997 and was an instant hit, winning the Glass Key Award for best Nordic crime novel (an accolade shared with Peter Høeg, Henning Mankell and Karin Fossum). The Leopard is the sixth of Nesbø's novels to be translated into English.
Review:
The Leopard is the eighth book by Jo Nesbo, but only the sixth one translated into English. For some reason the first two books by this award winning Nordic author have not yet made it into English. It would be great to see how the inspector, Harry Hole, developed as a character from the initial inception in the first book – The Bat Man, into the second – The Cockroaches, before the third one, The Redbreast was finally translated into English.
Anyway, The Leopard sees Inspector Harry Hole recovering from the horrific events that unfolded in the previous book, The Snowman. He is coping with the demons in the seedy world of the opium dens in Hong Kong, where he is found and convinced to go back to Oslo. Only the news of his father in hospital on death’s doorstep sees Harry willing to go back to his old job and a new case.
With Hole back in Oslo, things are very different to when he left it at the end of The Snowman, and he is like a fish out of water with the new structure and divisions of the police service. This element adds even more conflict and turmoil to the story, which is already loaded with this via the serial murder case and condition of his father.
Great book with an excellent pace.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
BOOK REVIEW: The Worry Solution
Title: The Worry Solution
Author: Dr Martin Rossman
Publisher: Random House
RRP: $27.95
ISBN: 9781846042850
Release Date: February 2011
Description:
A new approach to beating stress and anxiety, using the very latest findings from neuroscience combined with practical techniques
DESCRIPTION OF BOOK
Our brains are hardwired to worry, but we can learn to worry less. Modern stresses have as much to do with what we think about as what happens to us. Yet in a world of information overload and numerous demands on our time, it can be hard to keep our anxious thoughts in check.
The Worry Solution teaches you how to relieve stress and anxiety by training your imagination. Using the very latest findings from neuroscience combined with simple techniques, this acclaimed guide will help you re-programme the conversation between the thinking and feeling parts of your brain. Discover how to significantly reduce worry and anxiety, and enhance your confidence and happiness for the rest of your life.
Review:
The Worry Solution is a short self help book covering three basic principles of deep breathing, imagery and positive thinking. While none of these techniques are new, the manner in which Rossman writes may reach a person who hasn’t yet learnt these techniques.
Rossman goes through the various aspects of our emotions, such as worrying, stress and anxiety and examines the common causes of these feelings. He also explains how to change the way you think and feel by changing your outlook on life. Step by step techniques to changing your life and dealing with challenging situations and their subsequent emotional responses are also covered by Rossman.
The Worry Solution also covers how not all worry is bad for you. In certain circumstances worry protects you and is helpful, but to a certain point. Knowing when worry is taking your emotions to a hazardous level and you need to free yourself from this pattern and change the way you think.
Overall, this book had some good tips in it.
Author: Dr Martin Rossman
RRP: $27.95
ISBN: 9781846042850
Release Date: February 2011
Description:
A new approach to beating stress and anxiety, using the very latest findings from neuroscience combined with practical techniques
DESCRIPTION OF BOOK
Our brains are hardwired to worry, but we can learn to worry less. Modern stresses have as much to do with what we think about as what happens to us. Yet in a world of information overload and numerous demands on our time, it can be hard to keep our anxious thoughts in check.
The Worry Solution teaches you how to relieve stress and anxiety by training your imagination. Using the very latest findings from neuroscience combined with simple techniques, this acclaimed guide will help you re-programme the conversation between the thinking and feeling parts of your brain. Discover how to significantly reduce worry and anxiety, and enhance your confidence and happiness for the rest of your life.
Review:
The Worry Solution is a short self help book covering three basic principles of deep breathing, imagery and positive thinking. While none of these techniques are new, the manner in which Rossman writes may reach a person who hasn’t yet learnt these techniques.
Rossman goes through the various aspects of our emotions, such as worrying, stress and anxiety and examines the common causes of these feelings. He also explains how to change the way you think and feel by changing your outlook on life. Step by step techniques to changing your life and dealing with challenging situations and their subsequent emotional responses are also covered by Rossman.
The Worry Solution also covers how not all worry is bad for you. In certain circumstances worry protects you and is helpful, but to a certain point. Knowing when worry is taking your emotions to a hazardous level and you need to free yourself from this pattern and change the way you think.
Overall, this book had some good tips in it.
BOOK REVIEW: The Fallen Blade
Author: Jon Courtenay Grimwood
Publisher: Orbit
RRP: $29.99
ISBN: 9781841498454
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 432
Description:
A new voice and a new angle on the fantasy genre.
Venice in the early 15th century is at the height of its power. In theory Duke Marco commands. But Marco is a simpleton so his aunt and uncle rule in his stead. They command the seas, tax the colonies, and, like those in power before them, fear assassins better than their own...
On the night their world changes, Marco's fifteen-year-old cousin is praying for deliverance from a forced marriage. It is her bad fortune to be alone in the chapel when Mamluk pirates break in to steal a chalice, but it is the Mamluks' good luck - a Millioni princess is a much greater prize. In the gardens behind the chapel, Atilo, the Duke's chief assassin, dispatches his latest victim. Having cut the man's throat, he hears a noise and turns back.
He finds a boy crouched over the dying man, drinking from the wound. The speed with which the boy dodges a thrown dagger and scales a wall stuns Atilo. And the assassin knows he has to find the boy. Not to kill him, but because he's finally found what he thought he would never find. Someone fit to be his apprentice...
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jon Courtenay Grimwood studied at Kingston College and has worked as a freelance writer for magazines and newspapers including the GUARDIAN. He has been shortlisted for the Arthur C. Clarke Award twice and the BSFA Award for Best Novel seven times, winning twice. He lives in Winchester with his wife, novelist and editor of RED magazine, Sam Baker.
Review:
The Fallen Blade is not just another book in the ever-popular vampire genre. It is set in historical Venice and mixes up actual history with vampire lore, creating a very believable and exciting world.
Set in the 15th century, we find Venice ruled by decendants of Marco Polo and also inhabited by vampires, werewolves, magicians and a dark and seedy underworld of assassins and gangs.
Atilo Il Mauros is head of an organisation known as Assassini, the secret service of Venice’s ruling family. Through searching for one of the kidnapped royals, Atilo encounters a young man, Tycho with unnatural abilities. Each character is developed slowly over the course of the book with many questions left unanswered at the end, wetting the reader’s appetite for more in the second book.
The intrigue of the 15th century society combined with the supernatural creatures makes this one wild ride from front cover to back cover. Fallen Blade reads like a historical fiction novel and readers would be forgiven for not knowing where the lines of reality have been blurred and what is true. This book sets up the series quite well and I can’t wait for the next instalment.
BOOK REVIEW: The UFO Diaries
Author: Martin Plowman
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
RRP: $24.99
ISBN: 9781741759815
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 320
Description:
A funny, weird and hugely entertaining memoir of travelling around the world in search of UFO landing sights, UFO believers and abductees.
Description
When postgrad student Martin Plowman became fascinated by the weird world of UFOs, alien abductions and conspiracy theories, he didn't realise it would lead to an amazing seven-year journey that would take him thousands of kilometres across the world.
In his quest to uncover the mystery at the heart of people's fascination with UFOs, Martin met surprisingly grateful alien abductees in Mexico, reluctant UFO 'witnesses' in Roswell and secretive mountain ufologists in Chile.
Both funny and profound, The UFO Diaries is the kind of book Bill Bryson and Douglas Adams might've written if they'd been abducted on the same flying saucer. Part travelogue, part memoir, part social history, it won't matter whether you believe or disbelieve in UFOs - you'll just be dazzled by your journey into the world of high strangeness.
About Martin Plowman
Martin Plowman became interested in UFOs as a child. While he's a non-believer he decided to write his Cultural Studies PhD in the phenomenon of Ufology. When he received his PhD he made national news, including The Age, the SMH, The Australian, The Herald-Sun, MX, The Canberra Times, Channel 10 news, Sunrise, a dozen radio stations all over the country and even Irish radio. He lives in Melbourne and has been known to wear a flanno, but has never been seen in public wearing Ug boots.
Review:
Let me start by saying that the author does not believe in UFO’s, so if you are worried that this book is going to be written by someone with weird and wonderful beliefs, be at ease. Plowman has taken seven years to write this book and done extensive research into the fascination with aliens and UFO’s. I actually became interested in reading this book because of the comment that Shaun Micallef wrote about the book stating it was quite humorous.
Plowman conducts interviews with people all around the world who claim to have been abducted by UFO’s or have witnessed in Roswell and Chile.
Apart from the factual information collected by Plowman the book is written in a humorous and light hearted manner, making if very different from any other book out there on UFO’s. The book is written like a travel diary of the author’s adventures in search of those who claim to have had encounters out of this world.
Not a bad, light read with a twist of humour.
BOOK REVIEW: The Cypress House
Title: The Cypress House
Author: Michael Koryta
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
RRP: $32.99
ISBN: 9781742375472
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 432
Description:
With a hurricane bearing down, a journey to Florida becomes an inescapable nightmare. But the storm isn't the only danger. Three strangers stranded at the Cypress House - an isolated Gulf Coast boarding house - must also face an unseen and even deadlier force that means certain death for all of them...
Description
Arlen Wagner has seen it in men before - a trace of smoke in their eyes that promises imminent death. He is never wrong.
When Arlen awakens on a train one hot Florida night and sees death's telltale sign in the eyes of his fellow passengers, he tries to warn them. Only 19-year-old Paul Brickhill believes him, and the two abandon the train, hoping to escape certain death. They continue south, but are soon stranded at the Cypress House - an isolated Gulf Coast boarding house run by the beautiful Rebecca Cady - directly in the path of an approaching hurricane.
The storm isn't the only approaching danger, though. A much deadlier force controls the county and everyone living in it, and Arlen wants out - fast. But Paul refuses to abandon Rebecca to face the threats alone, even though Arlen's eerie gift warns that if they stay too long they may never leave.
From its chilling beginning to terrifying end, The Cypress House is a story of relentless suspense from 'one of the best of the best'.
Awards
Envy the Night was selected as a Reader's Digest condensed book in 2009 and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Best Mystery/Thriller. Koryta has also won the Great Lakes Book Award for Best Mystery and has received nominations for the Edgar, Shamus, and Quill Awards.
About Michael Koryta
Michael Koryta's first novel, the Edgar Award-nominated Tonight I Said Goodbye, was published when he was just twenty-one and was followed by Sorrow's Anthem, A Welcome Grave, Envy the Night, which won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize and The Silent Hour and his most recent book, So Cold the River. His works have been translated into twenty languages. He lives in Bloomington, Indiana, where he has worked as a newspaper reporter and private investigator, and in St. Petersburg, Florida.
Review:
My first introduction into the literary world of Michael Koryta came last year with his brilliant novel, So Cold The River. The Cypress House is the second book by Koryta and just as well written as So Cold The River.
The Cypress House is set in the age of the Great Depression in Indiana and follows the story of Arlen Wagner, a man who can see when a person is going to die by a smoke rising out of them. Arlen was sceptical about his own ability, but after being a soldier in WWI and seeing the amount of death and those enemies who were not going to die anytime soon, he comes to accept his powers.
One more than one occassion Arlen escapes danger by seeing the signs of a tragedy before it occurs, such as when he begins to see smoke pouring out of everyone on a train he is on. He later discovers that the train heads straight into a hurricane.
This book was an enjoyable read with many pages of suspense and thrills.
Author: Michael Koryta
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
RRP: $32.99
ISBN: 9781742375472
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 432
Description:
With a hurricane bearing down, a journey to Florida becomes an inescapable nightmare. But the storm isn't the only danger. Three strangers stranded at the Cypress House - an isolated Gulf Coast boarding house - must also face an unseen and even deadlier force that means certain death for all of them...
Description
Arlen Wagner has seen it in men before - a trace of smoke in their eyes that promises imminent death. He is never wrong.
When Arlen awakens on a train one hot Florida night and sees death's telltale sign in the eyes of his fellow passengers, he tries to warn them. Only 19-year-old Paul Brickhill believes him, and the two abandon the train, hoping to escape certain death. They continue south, but are soon stranded at the Cypress House - an isolated Gulf Coast boarding house run by the beautiful Rebecca Cady - directly in the path of an approaching hurricane.
The storm isn't the only approaching danger, though. A much deadlier force controls the county and everyone living in it, and Arlen wants out - fast. But Paul refuses to abandon Rebecca to face the threats alone, even though Arlen's eerie gift warns that if they stay too long they may never leave.
From its chilling beginning to terrifying end, The Cypress House is a story of relentless suspense from 'one of the best of the best'.
Awards
Envy the Night was selected as a Reader's Digest condensed book in 2009 and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Best Mystery/Thriller. Koryta has also won the Great Lakes Book Award for Best Mystery and has received nominations for the Edgar, Shamus, and Quill Awards.
About Michael Koryta
Michael Koryta's first novel, the Edgar Award-nominated Tonight I Said Goodbye, was published when he was just twenty-one and was followed by Sorrow's Anthem, A Welcome Grave, Envy the Night, which won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize and The Silent Hour and his most recent book, So Cold the River. His works have been translated into twenty languages. He lives in Bloomington, Indiana, where he has worked as a newspaper reporter and private investigator, and in St. Petersburg, Florida.
Review:
My first introduction into the literary world of Michael Koryta came last year with his brilliant novel, So Cold The River. The Cypress House is the second book by Koryta and just as well written as So Cold The River.
The Cypress House is set in the age of the Great Depression in Indiana and follows the story of Arlen Wagner, a man who can see when a person is going to die by a smoke rising out of them. Arlen was sceptical about his own ability, but after being a soldier in WWI and seeing the amount of death and those enemies who were not going to die anytime soon, he comes to accept his powers.
One more than one occassion Arlen escapes danger by seeing the signs of a tragedy before it occurs, such as when he begins to see smoke pouring out of everyone on a train he is on. He later discovers that the train heads straight into a hurricane.
This book was an enjoyable read with many pages of suspense and thrills.
BOOK REVIEW: The Diviner’s Tale
Title: The Diviner’s Tale
Author: Bradford Morrow
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
RRP: $32.99
ISBN: 9781848875715
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 320
Description:
A mother experiences visions of a young girl's murder in this dark gem of a thriller...
Description
Walking a lonely forested valley on a spring morning in upstate New York, having been hired by a developer to dowse the land, Cassandra Brooks comes upon the shocking vision of a young girl hanged from a tree. When she returns with authorities to the site, the body has vanished, leaving in question Cassandra's credibility if not her sanity. The next day, on a return visit with the sheriff to have another look, a dazed, mute missing girl emerges from the woods, alive and the very picture of Cassandra's hanged girl.
What follows is the narrative of ever-deepening and increasingly bizarre divinations that will lead this gifted young woman, the struggling single mother of twin boys, hurtling toward a past she'd long since thought was behind her. The Diviner's Tale is at once a journey of self-discovery and an unorthodox murder mystery, a tale of the fantastic and a family chronicle told by an otherwise ordinary woman.
When Cassandra's dark forebodings take on tangible form, she is forced to confront a life spiralling out of control. And soon she is locked in a mortal chess match with a real-life killer who has haunted her since before she can remember.
About Bradford Morrow
Bradford Morrow is the author of numerous acclaimed works of fiction and poetry, including Ariel's Crossing and Giovanni's Gift. He is also the founder of the literary magazine Conjunctions, which he has edited since 1981. He received a Guggenheim fellowship in 2007 and is a professor of literature at Bard University.
Review:
The Diviner’s Tale is an unusual combination of mystery and the supernatural. The novel starts with a diviner, Cassandra Brooks, searching for water on a fairly remote property. After coming across a young girl, hung from a tree, she calls the police to report her finding. By the time the police arrive the body has disappeared. While this seems strange, the plot thickens when the police find a girl wandering in the woods who fits the description of the one Cassandra said she found hanging from a tree.
Morrow has written a mighty fine tale of suspense and thrills here with some well developed characters. The MC’s sons are written a bit above the age they are said to be, but that was easy to overlook with the many other great parts of this book.
Having never read any of Bradford Morrow’s books before, I found this one to be an excellent introduction to a new author. I will be on the lookout for other books by Morrow to purchase now and can see the author being added to my favourite list.
Author: Bradford Morrow
RRP: $32.99
ISBN: 9781848875715
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 320
Description:
A mother experiences visions of a young girl's murder in this dark gem of a thriller...
Description
Walking a lonely forested valley on a spring morning in upstate New York, having been hired by a developer to dowse the land, Cassandra Brooks comes upon the shocking vision of a young girl hanged from a tree. When she returns with authorities to the site, the body has vanished, leaving in question Cassandra's credibility if not her sanity. The next day, on a return visit with the sheriff to have another look, a dazed, mute missing girl emerges from the woods, alive and the very picture of Cassandra's hanged girl.
What follows is the narrative of ever-deepening and increasingly bizarre divinations that will lead this gifted young woman, the struggling single mother of twin boys, hurtling toward a past she'd long since thought was behind her. The Diviner's Tale is at once a journey of self-discovery and an unorthodox murder mystery, a tale of the fantastic and a family chronicle told by an otherwise ordinary woman.
When Cassandra's dark forebodings take on tangible form, she is forced to confront a life spiralling out of control. And soon she is locked in a mortal chess match with a real-life killer who has haunted her since before she can remember.
About Bradford Morrow
Bradford Morrow is the author of numerous acclaimed works of fiction and poetry, including Ariel's Crossing and Giovanni's Gift. He is also the founder of the literary magazine Conjunctions, which he has edited since 1981. He received a Guggenheim fellowship in 2007 and is a professor of literature at Bard University.
Review:
The Diviner’s Tale is an unusual combination of mystery and the supernatural. The novel starts with a diviner, Cassandra Brooks, searching for water on a fairly remote property. After coming across a young girl, hung from a tree, she calls the police to report her finding. By the time the police arrive the body has disappeared. While this seems strange, the plot thickens when the police find a girl wandering in the woods who fits the description of the one Cassandra said she found hanging from a tree.
Morrow has written a mighty fine tale of suspense and thrills here with some well developed characters. The MC’s sons are written a bit above the age they are said to be, but that was easy to overlook with the many other great parts of this book.
Having never read any of Bradford Morrow’s books before, I found this one to be an excellent introduction to a new author. I will be on the lookout for other books by Morrow to purchase now and can see the author being added to my favourite list.
BOOK REVIEW: Paradoxical Undressing
Title: Paradoxical Undressing
Author: Kristin Hersh
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
RRP: $35.00
ISBN:
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 336
Description:
A powerfully original memoir of pregnancy and mental illness by the legendary founder of the seminal rock band Throwing Muses, 'a magnificently charged union of Sylvia Plath and Patti Smith' - Guardian
Description
Kristin Hersh was a pretrnaturally bright teenager, starting university at fifteen and with her band, Throwing Muses, playing rock clubs she was too young to frequent. By the age of seventeen she was living in her car, unable to sleep for the torment of strange songs swimming around her head - the songs for which she is now known. But just as her band was taking off, Hersh was diagnosed with schizophrenia.
Paradoxical Undressing chronicles the unraveling of a young woman's personality, culminating in a suicide attempt; and then her arduous yet inspiring recovery, her unplanned pregnancy at the age of 19, and the birth of her first son.
Playful, vivid and wonderfully warm, this is a visceral and brave memoir by a truly original performer, told in a truly original voice.
About Kristin Hersh
Kristin Hersh is an American songwriter and guitarist. She founded the seminal art-punk band Throwing Muses at age fourteen and is widely recognised as an indie rock pioneer. She is a mother of four, and lives in New Orleans.
Review:
If you don’t know who Kristin Hersh or Throwing Muses are, you will still find this autobiographical piece of literature. Hersh’s book is a graphic account of her life as a talented, but emotionally unstable teenager and her fight with schizophrenia. Paradoxical Undressing is quite an eye opener to another side of life, especially if you have never known anyone with a mental illness or have a child with such a condition.
Kristin formed her punk band, Throwing Muses, when she was only fifteen, yet she was homeless and living in her car only two years later. Her life was full of torment and mental anguish even though her extraordinary was the other side of this coin. Hersh attempted suicide and then became pregnant soon after at the age of only 19. By the time she was twenty, Hersh had experienced more than more people do over a normal lifetime.
I enjoyed this read although it was quite a tragic tale of a talented woman.
Author: Kristin HershPublisher: Allen & Unwin
RRP: $35.00
ISBN:
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 336
Description:
A powerfully original memoir of pregnancy and mental illness by the legendary founder of the seminal rock band Throwing Muses, 'a magnificently charged union of Sylvia Plath and Patti Smith' - Guardian
Description
Kristin Hersh was a pretrnaturally bright teenager, starting university at fifteen and with her band, Throwing Muses, playing rock clubs she was too young to frequent. By the age of seventeen she was living in her car, unable to sleep for the torment of strange songs swimming around her head - the songs for which she is now known. But just as her band was taking off, Hersh was diagnosed with schizophrenia.
Paradoxical Undressing chronicles the unraveling of a young woman's personality, culminating in a suicide attempt; and then her arduous yet inspiring recovery, her unplanned pregnancy at the age of 19, and the birth of her first son.
Playful, vivid and wonderfully warm, this is a visceral and brave memoir by a truly original performer, told in a truly original voice.
About Kristin Hersh
Kristin Hersh is an American songwriter and guitarist. She founded the seminal art-punk band Throwing Muses at age fourteen and is widely recognised as an indie rock pioneer. She is a mother of four, and lives in New Orleans.
Review:
If you don’t know who Kristin Hersh or Throwing Muses are, you will still find this autobiographical piece of literature. Hersh’s book is a graphic account of her life as a talented, but emotionally unstable teenager and her fight with schizophrenia. Paradoxical Undressing is quite an eye opener to another side of life, especially if you have never known anyone with a mental illness or have a child with such a condition.
Kristin formed her punk band, Throwing Muses, when she was only fifteen, yet she was homeless and living in her car only two years later. Her life was full of torment and mental anguish even though her extraordinary was the other side of this coin. Hersh attempted suicide and then became pregnant soon after at the age of only 19. By the time she was twenty, Hersh had experienced more than more people do over a normal lifetime.
I enjoyed this read although it was quite a tragic tale of a talented woman.
BOOK REVIEW: Get Great Marks for Your Essays, Reports and Presentations
Title: Get Great Marks for Your Essays, Reports and Presentations
Author: John Germov
Publisher: Allen & Urwin
RRP: $18.99
ISBN: 9781741754520
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 192
Description:
The bestselling student guide to writing at university, updated to include extensive coverage of online research strategies, computer tools and different types of writing tasks.
DescriptionNot sure how to begin writing? Four assignments and only four weeks to go before the deadline? Then this book is for you.
Find out the rules of the essay-writing game: how to muckrake for information, write drafts, handle references, and do analysis. Discover where you win and lose marks. Learn how to take the right short cuts and make the most of your time.
Get Great Marks for Your Essays, Reports, and Presentations tells you all you need to know to write successful essays and reports, and create attention-grabbing presentations in the social sciences and humanities.
This third edition is fully revised in response to readers' suggestions and includes extensive coverage of online resources, tips for getting the best from your computer tools, and guidance on how to pitch to your audience.
'This guide is great. I had a lot of trouble passing my essays. After reading this book I found I wasn't alone. This book has helped me to understand how to improve my writing... It's easy to read and it's pretty cool too!' - Student comment
About John Germov
JOHN GERMOV is Associate Professor, Dean of Arts, and Deputy Head of the Faculty of Education and Arts at the University of Newcastle. He has many years' experience teaching undergraduate students and is the author/editor of 14 books.
Review:
Get Great Marks for Your Essays, Reports and Presentations is a great book for the university student who needs some help on essay writing. The book is structured into a topic for each chapter, giving an excellent detailed analysis of the essential elements of a well written report.
You will get details on how to conduct research, prepare charts and graphs, how to structure a clear and concise document and references.
If you follow through this book, you will improve your chances of getting a high mark in your next paper.
Author: John Germov
Publisher: Allen & UrwinRRP: $18.99
ISBN: 9781741754520
Release Date: February 2011
Pages: 192
Description:
The bestselling student guide to writing at university, updated to include extensive coverage of online research strategies, computer tools and different types of writing tasks.
DescriptionNot sure how to begin writing? Four assignments and only four weeks to go before the deadline? Then this book is for you.
Find out the rules of the essay-writing game: how to muckrake for information, write drafts, handle references, and do analysis. Discover where you win and lose marks. Learn how to take the right short cuts and make the most of your time.
Get Great Marks for Your Essays, Reports, and Presentations tells you all you need to know to write successful essays and reports, and create attention-grabbing presentations in the social sciences and humanities.
This third edition is fully revised in response to readers' suggestions and includes extensive coverage of online resources, tips for getting the best from your computer tools, and guidance on how to pitch to your audience.
'This guide is great. I had a lot of trouble passing my essays. After reading this book I found I wasn't alone. This book has helped me to understand how to improve my writing... It's easy to read and it's pretty cool too!' - Student comment
About John Germov
JOHN GERMOV is Associate Professor, Dean of Arts, and Deputy Head of the Faculty of Education and Arts at the University of Newcastle. He has many years' experience teaching undergraduate students and is the author/editor of 14 books.
Review:
Get Great Marks for Your Essays, Reports and Presentations is a great book for the university student who needs some help on essay writing. The book is structured into a topic for each chapter, giving an excellent detailed analysis of the essential elements of a well written report.
You will get details on how to conduct research, prepare charts and graphs, how to structure a clear and concise document and references.
If you follow through this book, you will improve your chances of getting a high mark in your next paper.
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