Decisions, Decisions...

April 22nd, 2008 |

Tomorrow is St Georges day. It is also 392 years since Shakespeare died on this day and it is UNESCO’s “World Book and Copyright Day” which marks Amsterdam as “World Book Capital City”.

So what to celebrate?

Do I raise a glass in celebration of my being English? What would be in that glass? Ale? Mead? Or do I go down the Shakespearian route and celebrate the bard’s work with a hogshead of something?

As an author perhaps I should celebrate by visiting my local library and have a cup of tea together with cucumber sandwiches sans crusts?

Just as I am pondering these wee problems the phone rings…

Tomorrow I shall be having an endoscopy.

Buggritt!

Strange...

April 18th, 2008 |

It was a bright sunny day and I was looking after two young girls who were off on an adventure at the nearby farm.

Being so warm, and my being in the car, I decided to have forty winks and so fell asleep and dreamt of my daughter when she was younger.

On wakening it was dark and as the girls had not returned I decided to go and look for them. My path took me towards shrieks and laughter and splashing. As I turned the corner into an old quarry I could see that they were enjoying the water – obviously warm – which was lit by yellowish lighting both on the walls and under the water.

Deciding that I had nothing to worry about as there were also other kids and adults present I decided to walk back to the car.

At that point I also decided to wake up.

I have a few questions to myself this morning:

a) how do you have a dream within a dream?

b) who’s slipping stuff into my last glass of wine before bed?

c) do I need to wrap more tinfoil around my head?

Author! Author!

April 16th, 2008 |

Sadie Jones, one of the six authors shortlisted for the women-only Orange Prize, has backed suggestions by novelists Tim Lott and AS Byatt that as the prize is “sexist” that there be a “Men Only” prize (no not that top shelf version) and I thoroughly agree with her.

But… let it not be along the lines of those books finalised for the Orange. Good grief! Angst, poverty, drownings, families falling apart. Uh! I know more women than men buy books but do they really want to read about all this misery? On second thoughts… probably. Take a look at the plot lines to many soaps: Angst, poverty, drownings, families falling apart.

If we are to have a book prize for men at least let it be along the lines of action / adventure or similar genres – the “Dangerous Book for Boys” is to be made into a movie and TV series so does that tell us anything?

Sponsors for the prize would probably end up being a brewery but unfortunately, at the moment, Carlsberg don’t do books.

The Stare - a short story

April 12th, 2008 |

The Stare – Copyright © 2008 Slim Palmer

Rudge had stared at the thing for almost twenty-five minutes – he’d looked at his pocket watch to check – and all it did was stare back at him.

Those blank features. No eyes. No mouth. No nose. No ears. No hair. And yet it just stared. Evilly stared.

The hand didn’t help. A single finger pointing at him. Not the index finger, no. The pinkie.

He’d even moved seats by one unit but the damn thing kept looking at him.

Come on Rudge, he chided, do something. Don’t just stare at it. Pick up your tools and do something.

The figure still stared.

There was a blank space on the desk in front of him waiting to be filled. “Do SOMETHING Rudge!” it screamed at him.

The figure stared and the hand pointed.

If it had hair, or breasts, or even shoes he could have done something. Made a start.

He could feel his groin getting hotter – almost to the point of being uncomfortable – and a fine trickle of sweat descended from his armpit onto his waist to be soaked up by the blue cotton shirt under the lab coat.

The figure stared and the hand pointed.

Perhaps if he moved again? Moved to the other side so that it wasn’t looking at him? But no. All the spaces were taken and it would be highly inconsiderate to cause a fuss this far into the project.

He shifted, uncomfortably in his, hard plastic, straight-backed high-chair and the figure still stared and the hand still pointed.

‘Problem Rudge?’ asked the voice behind him.

‘No, no. No problem.’ he answered, without looking around but covering the blank space with his arms.

Why me? Why now? Why… this? He continued to stare between the figure, the hand and the blank.

You’ve done this hundreds of times before. You come in. You take a seat. You look, for a few moments or so, and then you start. What was different today?

‘Twenty minutes.’ stated the voice, which had now moved to the other side of the room.

‘Shit!’ thought Rudge, ‘Come ON!’ he stared at the blank and then met the stare of the figure. ‘Little bastard.’ he muttered under his breath.

The figure stared back and the hand pointed. It was mocking him.

He had to do something to fill the blank but his palms were sweating and he knew that if he picked up a tool of the trade that it would slip out of his hand as if it were greased.

Another trickle of sweat descended waist-wards and it seemed to beat time to the scratching noises that were the only sounds in the otherwise silent room apart from his racing heart and the clock on the wall.

‘Five minutes, please.’

‘Fuuuu-ck!’ Rudge’s brain was in overdrive but all he could see was the stare and the blank. This was so important. Fail this and he would be… be just another… another… statistic.

That stare. How could something with no eyes stare? It just could. It was eating into his head and boiling his brain.

Pick. Up. A. Tool.

Just as he felt the five minutes were up he threw the blank into the middle of the room, clattering his chair to the floor in the panic, and ran away from it slamming the door behind him.

As he stormed down the corridor he crushed the piece of charcoal that he was still clutching and raised his voice which he hoped the whole sixth form could hear: ‘Bollixed by a bloody artist’s mannequin!’

Next!

April 9th, 2008 |

As regular readers of this blog - and of the Facebook page - will know I am almost finished the next book ‘Panto’ which will be published in November.

Trying to get the image for the front has been somewhat of an ordeal - search online image libraries, ask friends, etc.

Finally I get what I’m looking for and the rough cover has been produced.

Hurrah!

Sandy’s Shift - preview

April 3rd, 2008 |

Sandy’s Shift (A Short Story) – Copyright © 2008 by Slim Palmer

Tony fell out of the pub that was opposite the Stage Door to the Theatre Royal.

The show had finished some hour and a half ago as had been evident by the ‘punters’ streaming out of the side-street fire door – children in hand – from the pantomime. Some television soap-tart, as Aladdin, and another TV actor as Abanaza. Someone from a cop show – as the posters proclaimed. The kids had been smiling and laughing and their parents had grinned at them.

‘That was good, mum!’ a tot about six years old had exclaimed. The mother had smiled and nodded, probably thinking about the forty-two quid it had cost to keep her daughter amused for ninety minutes. It had gone on the credit card the same as the rest of Christmas.

‘Food.’ thought Tony. I need food. He staggered through the busy lane to the main thoroughfare and looked left and right. ‘Kebab’ was his next thought and retraced his steps past the pub and to a take-away on the corner.

‘Ah dinnae wan’ aal th’ fuckin’ rabbit-meat!’ exclaimed a voice as he entered the open door. ‘Ah jis’ wan’ th’ meat inna… thing… nan… peterbread.’ The drunk wavered and clutched at the counter as the young girl removed the offending salad from the polystyrene tray.

‘An’ put summore chilli ohn i’.’

The drunk paid his two-pounds-fifty and went off happy.

There were three other people in the queue. A young couple, looking nervously at the departing drunk and a geeky looking guy with short hair, thick rimmed spectacles and a backpack.

Tony took a deep breath. That last pint had done for him. What was it? Twelve? Fourteen? That and a couple of Jamesons.

‘Phwaaar!’ he exhailed.

‘Next?’ said the Asian guy behind the counter.

The young couple ordered a pizza and were promptly served and left.

The geek wanted a vegi-burger with salad.

‘You will have to wait, please.’ the Asian guy, wiping his hands down his white apron, told him. ‘I am not having any ready.’ and looked at Tony for his order.

‘Pepperoni pizza. Double garlic. Double mozzarella, anna chilli.’ he ordered.

‘Fourteen, twelve or nine?’ asked the Asian.

Tony considered for a moment. ‘Twelve.’ he eventually decided.

‘Five-fifty.’ said the woman that was manning the till.

After a few moments the pizza was duly delivered and Tony left the take-away, the pizza box balanced precariously on his left hand. He transferred it to the firmer grip of his right. It was hot.

Again, passing the pub which by now was empty and had the cleaning lights blazing so that the staff could tidy and empty ash-trays, he headed towards the main thoroughfare, staggering slightly.

It may be called Grey Street, he thought, but it was anything but. Singles; couples; a group of girls on a hen-night – the bride wearing L-plates and a bunch of young guys holding each other up. No-one could have been over the age of thirty.

‘Old man.’ he thought, ‘You’re an old man. At thirty-five you no longer fit.’

The pizza was burning so he moved it to his left hand and started down the street.

The way home, on the Quayside, was down Dean Street, around the corner and then he would let himself into the secure block of apartments. He weaved slightly as he progressed.

‘TWAT! Yer a fucking twat!’ he heard as he crossed the road at the junction.

A girl and a man were stood outside a late bar having an argument. The girl was swinging her handbag in the direction of the man and missing. She staggered on her high heels as she swung.

‘TWAT!’ she screamed again, ‘Tha’s my mate an’ y’ chattin’ her up!’ She swung again and this time the bag contacted with the man’s head even though he tried to fend off the blow.

He retaliated by slapping the girl with enough force to send her sprawling into the gutter where she ended with her short skirt up around her waist, revealing a pink g-string and her left breast releasing itself from the top of her plunging-neckline T-shirt. She also lost one of her stilettos that skidded off into the middle of the road.

She screamed.

Behind Tony a deep voice shouted: ‘OY! Enough!’ As he turned he saw two police officers, one male one female in stab-vests start to move forward – one of them reaching for his handcuffs.

‘Good cabaret.’ thought Tony, ‘Newcastle, Friday night, cabaret time.’ He decided to perch against the telecoms box that took up part of the corner of the junction and watch the ensuing dramatics.

The male officer went to the girl and helped her to her feet, giving her the handbag that had tipped a mobile phone and various other contents into the gutter.

The female police-person was not as gentle. She rounded on the man and in an instant had his arm twisted up his back in a thumb-lock.

‘Don’ hurt him!’ screamed the girl. ‘Benny..!’ she held out a hand as if pleading.

The man struggled as the policewoman pushed his arm further up his back and he fought against the restraint.

The handbag came into weapon mode once again as the girl swung at the WPC in trying to release the boyfriend. ‘Gerroff ‘im y’ cow!’ shrieked the girl. ‘Leave ‘im alone.’

The policeman jumped at the girl to save his colleague and wrapped his arms around her.

‘Fuckin’ pervert. Gerroff me tits!’ she cried.

By now a crowd had assembled to watch the cabaret and the junction was half full of Friday night revellers.

‘G’wan, pet!’ shouted one of them, ‘Knee ‘im in th’ nuts.’

Tony looked down as he felt something brush against his leg. It was a lop-eared, sand coloured dog with a curl to its lip.

‘A’ right, mate?’ he asked as he reached down to stroke its head.

The dog looked up with large rheumy eyes and blinked.

‘Fine, thank you. Usual Friday night I see.’ replied the dog.

The pizza box dropped out of Tony’s hand and thudded to the pavement spilling its contents

‘Oh,’ said the dog, ‘Thanks, but I’ve eaten today.’

Tony’s mouth dropped open as he watched the canine wander off across the junction and then, a short way up Grey Street, turn into an alleyway. Tony shook his head, blinked, and then turned to go home, muttering about being too drunk and it never really happened.

DOWNLOAD: the complete short story here

PODding Along

April 2nd, 2008 |

As I mentioned (about a year ago) in the previous incarnation of this site it would not be long before we have a juke box style machine in book shops whereby one can walk in, select a title, insert credit card and press button. Ten minutes later, possibly after a coffee, you return to said machine and find your book, literally, hot off the press. This is made possible by … The Espresso Book Machine.

In recent developments the people that produce the EBM have teamed up with Lightning Source, printer of multiple POD titles, in a “strategic agreement”.

Can’t be bad for book shops, can’t be bad for authors. However Amazon Com have said that if POD authors want to sell through their sites that the author/publisher will have to go through their printing arm, Booksurge…

Roll on the BookBox.