Saturday, 17 December 2011

Christmas Story 2011


Was I doing the right thing?  Only time would tell.  I had told no one of my decision, for they would think I had lost my mind, having worked hard all year towards this honour, and now about to give it all away.
There he stood apart from the rest, his eyes searching for even a hint of friendship on the faces of his peers.  He had been born different.  It was not his fault but it denied him the parity which the others took for granted.
I smiled as his eyes found mine and his whole face lit up with a broad grin.  Here was one for whom life was a struggle; one born without talent, one born different, but one who still found a reason to smile.
He walked over to me, his steps springing with excitement.
“I bet you’re looking forward to the awards ceremony tonight,” he enthused.
I tried to play it down because I knew that he knew that he would never be so honoured.  Never, that is, until this year.
“You might win an award yourself,” I ventured.  “You never can tell.”
“Oh I’ll never win an award.  There is far too much talent out there.  I’ll bet you get one though.”
“What me?”
“Oh come on, you’re the best dancer that has ever been!  You’re bound to win!”
It was true that I had won this award a number of times, but this year I had thought about it long and hard.  It is easy to shine when you have talent.  Everybody likes you and life is good.  This one was born different which made him stand out for all the wrong reasons.
The others shuffled together, occasionally glancing in our direction and laughing.  They were so unkind to him that they would not even utter his name.  I had to refer to him as ‘the unfortunate one’ which was far kinder than the names they called him.  When we were together, I called him my friend.
I glared back at the group who then looked away and wandered off together.  I still commanded respect as one who had won the award more times that anyone else.  My friend noticed the glare.
“Oh don’t worry about them.  They really don’t mean any harm.  It is Christmas after all.”
Even with all the bullying and name calling, he still refused to say anything bad against any one of them.  That was the point at which I decided to follow through with my plan.  I would go to the boss and tell him that if I won an award, he should give it to my friend.
I hesitated before entering the office.  He was a good man but his sheer size frightened me.  He sat on a chair, his belly pressed up against the desk and a big cheery smile on his face.  He listened intently to my suggestion.  I made certain not to make it sound like I was expecting an award.  He sighed and spent a few moments in deep thought before he replied.
“That is a very noble and generous offer.  Every year I honour the best eight.  The ones who have excelled in some way throughout the year.  You’re a dancer.  You have worked hard and achieved a high level of skill.”
“Yes but that’s only because I was born with a talent that I enjoy doing.  He has no talent but still he does his work and remains cheerful, even though he has very few friends and through all the bullying.  Don’t you understand the difference it would make to his life if he were to win an award?  Everybody would love him!”
I realised that I had raised my voice to a very great level and now that I had finished talking, there was an ocean of silence, only to be broken by the boss sighing once again.
“I understand what you’re saying but unfortunately there are no awards simply for being good.  That brings its own rewards.  Think of how hard you have worked all year for this honour, but now you want to turn it down; the reward for being good far outweighing the award for being the best at something.  It would however stop all the bullying if he were so honoured.”
He stood up and moved his massive form across the room towards the window.
“If only there were a way to give him an award.  If only we could find something that only he could do.  If only......”
He stopped in mid-sentence and remained absolutely still for a moment, staring out of the window.  Then I heard a deep rumbling which grew and grew until the very room vibrated.  A deep belly laugh shook his whole body and I backed away in fear and confusion.  He was laughing so hard that he struggled to regain his chair.  I didn’t understand and so I left the office feeling sad that I had not been taken seriously.
The evening of the ceremony had arrived and we all gathered on the lawn in front of a temporary stage on which the winners would stand.  The fog had worsened and we jostled for position to get the best view.  Then the boss arrived with his notes in his hand and the names of those to be honoured.  My name was the second to be called and, proud though I was to have been honoured so, I would still have swapped places with my friend.  The cheering died as the boss held up his hands for silence.
“This year I am sorry to say, we have run into difficulties.  It is a very dark day for our little community as we are in danger of not being able to fulfil all of our orders on time, and you all know what that would mean.  I have been wracking my brains trying to think of a way out and at last I have found the one who, if he accepts this award, can lead us forward and save the day.”
The hopefuls were all looking round, wondering who was among them that could rise to such an occasion.
“This award is number nine and the greatest ever given.  It is for one who is trustworthy, hard working and reliable.  One who will lead us out of this darkness and steer us in the right direction.  The winner of this award is........... Rudolph.

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Website opening

I will have my new website up and running shortly.  In it will be all the links you will need to contact me or view my books.  I would love you all to drop in and have a look.

Saturday, 6 August 2011

More from 'The Diary of an Innocent'

The girls decided that they wanted to build sandcastles, so I took them to a nearby gift shop to buy buckets and spades and of course, flags for the sandcastles.  These were chosen with extreme care as the little people who would take over the castles later, would have to know which ones belonged to them.  Building sandcastles is a craft that I rediscovered a few years previously. It required the right amount of water mixed with the right amount of sand and the right story to go with the building project.  If I had boys, the castles would probably have been at war with each other.  The girl’s stories however, were usually of princes and princesses, and their ensuing betrothal.     Today was no exception and the castles were well under way, when Emma noticed something missing.
“Daddy,” she said in panic.  “Where are they going to get married?  We have to build a church!”
“Mummy can build us one over there,” I said as I nudged Alison’s leg and pointed to a spot on the sand. 
“Oh no she can’t!” was Alison’s instant reply.
I gave her a puzzled look.
“That’s the main road past the castles.  You can’t build a church in the middle of the road!  How would the horses get round it?”
I had not realized she had been following the plot!
“Yes, silly daddy,” said Chloe.  “You choose where it goes mummy.”
“And I thought that I was supposed to be the master builder!”
Alison, as always had a reply.
“You be the builder and I’ll be the planning office.”
“Yes,” said the girls in unison, although I am certain they did not have the least idea of what a planning office was.
The work was eventually completed.  Mummy had a little trouble with the steeple but we all helped out and with a little more water, many hands and a hastily found excuse for not building it very high, it was just left to me to complete the story.
“What time do you think the little people will come tonight, daddy?” whispered Emma
“About seven o’clock.”  Alison’s quick reply took me by surprise.  I had opened my mouth to answer, but her sudden reply prevented me from closing it as I turned to look at her.
“Just about the time little girls go to bed?”
Of course, Silly daddy!

Thursday, 28 July 2011

New award for Beyond Dark Waters

Author Des Birch receives the ePublishing Consortium “Writers Award of Merit”
Beyond Dark Waters by Des Birch
Beyond Dark Waters by Des Birch presents a totally original story precept.  The author succeeds in weaving facets of life that all face including fear, misunderstandings, courage and compassion.  The main character is transformed into the necessary forms to understand how all of life is connected.  It is rare to find a book that can be highly recommended by many.  Beyond Dark Waters goes beyond this expectation and should be mandatory reading for all people.
Beyond Dark Waters is hereby recognized for story originality, depth of interwoven plotlines and delivering a significant message during the rights of passage into adulthood.  Des Birch has achieved an accomplishment with this book as well as other published works has earned him the ePublishing Consortium Writers Award of Merit
Des Birch was born in Limerick, Eire but moved to England when he was a baby. He moved from Buckinghamshire to Norfolk when he was ten, but attended a private school near Southampton. He has two children whom he has raised on his own since they were ten and eight respectively. He works in engineering but has gained a BSc and a Dip. Pol. Con. with the Open University. He also gained a TEFL diploma with which he spent two years teaching in Spain. Des now lives in Norwich with his wife Julie.  He is also the author of The Redemption, The Diary of an Innocent and Different Eyes.

Friday, 22 April 2011

Naughty Story

            The queue was long in the dark, dismal room.  People waited like sheep, standing in endless lanes, occasionally shuffling forward, only to continue with their lonely vigil.  ‘They’ were in charge; ‘they’ said when you could move forward to your fate.
            She looked around her nervously.  Officials in plain clothes stood around nonchalantly, but she knew that they were really secret police.  Cameras viewed them from every wall, watching for the slightest hint of change in the faces of the men and women, resigned to their fate.
What would it be like this time?  She glanced around her again, but he was not there.  Perhaps nothing would happen!  More people entered the room, their looks immediately compliant with their surroundings.  She shuffled forward again.  As the angle of her view changed, her eyes were drawn to the dark panelled door.  Her heart missed a beat, for she knew what lay behind that door.  She had been taken through it before.  She shuffled forward again, rounding one of the bends, when she saw him.  His back was to her but she would know him anywhere.  This tall, blond, muscular man in a plain white, short-sleeved shirt; the man who had first led her through the dark panelled door.
She stood there looking at the ground, trying not to call attention to herself.  Perhaps he would not notice her.  She looked at the long queue in front of her and as he turned and smiled, she knew the fate that awaited her.
“Come with me,” he said as he took her roughly by the upper arm and led her towards the panelled door.
She made a weak attempt at struggling, but it was more for show than as a serious attempt to break free.  There were looks of pity on the faces of the others, but also of relief that it was not they who were being led away.  Suddenly, boredom was what they sought.
She was pushed into the almost empty room as the blond man closed the door.  There was a large table in the centre with restraining straps at the four corners.  She backed up against the wall, a cold shiver running over her skin.
“Are you ready to hand over the book now?” he asked as he stood in front of her.
She stood silent, her eyes lowered.  He took off his shirt in readiness for the task ahead, his muscles bulging.
“I see that you’ve not yet come to your senses!”
He spun her round to face the wall, leaning her forward to balance on her hands.  She was paralysed in that position as his hands slid around her body and began to unfasten the buttons on her blouse.
“Are you sure you won’t hand it over?” he asked as he lowered her arms, slipped off her blouse and unclipped the catches on her bra, sliding it from her shoulders and dropping it to the ground.
He turned her round to face him.  She made no effort to cover her naked breasts.  His hands cupped them, squeezing the nipples.
“I do have ways of making you hand it over,” he said menacingly.
“Then you’d better do your worst, Claus,” she said as she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips onto his.
Her trembling body was obedient to every touch of his powerful arms.  His hands and mouth contorted her body until she cried out in ecstasy.  He easily picked her up, her limp body resigned to his will as he placed her on the table.  She obediently stretched out on the cold surface,   as he restrained her wrists with the straps.  Then his hands tore at the rest of her clothes until she lay naked, feeling the straps being tightened around her ankles.
Now he could slow down, teasing her body with his hands and lips, certain in the knowledge that she couldn’t escape.  She moaned at his touch.
“Please!” she begged; “Oh please!”
She thought of the people standing in the queue who would hear her pleas.  They would feel pity at a young girl being tortured.  If only they knew!  The door was not locked.  Anybody could just walk in and see her lying there spread-eagled naked on the table.  Perhaps they would join in with the ‘torture’ and Claus would have to let them, otherwise their secret would be known.  Her feelings grew more intense at this thought.
He lay on top of her and she gasped as he entered her.  He moved slowly at first, agonisingly slowly until her body strained at the bonds.
“PLEASE!” she begged.
The people in the queue would once again feel pity for her.  His movements grew faster and more powerful.
“Are you going to hand over the book?” he gasped.
“No! No! No!  Oh GOD, Nooooooo!
“Are you sure?”
Yes! Yes! Yes!  Oh GOD, Yessssssss!
Suddenly she was dressed again and standing at the front of the queue.  She obediently handed the book to the woman behind the desk.  The woman glanced at her, tearing out the first page and stamping the military insignia on it.
She picked up the book and returned it to her bag.  Putting her money in her purse, she headed for the front door.  The blond man held it open for her.  She tapped him on the arm and he bent down to hear what she had to say.
“You were magnificent!”
“Thank you madam,” replied the bemused man.  “We’ll see you again next week.”
“Oh I do hope so,” she said, as she left the post office and looked forward to the next pension day.

Saturday, 9 April 2011

Well well, it's a bit from Different Eyes.

A friend of mine once asked me to help her to write a story.  She said that she wanted to write it from the perspective of her three-year-old daughter.  She told me some amusing stories about her offspring, as well as some of the naughty things she got up to.
Her daughter was in the kitchen with us and had to be told constantly not to open the cupboards.  Later, when her little girl was taking her afternoon nap, I asked my friend why she thought her daughter would not listen.  She put it down to a childhood phase of disobedience.  I could not tell her that she was thinking from an adult perspective; I had to show her.
I asked if I could use some ingredients from her cupboard; that I wanted to make a cake.  She went to get them for me but I said that I would find them myself and that she should sit on the floor and see life from a child’s viewpoint.  She duly obeyed and I began to bang around on the worktop, ignoring any requests at telling her what I was doing, instead telling her that she would find out in the end.  It was six-and-a-half minutes before I heard the cupboard door open.
“Naughty!” I said
The look of realisation on her face was a picture.  Now when she bakes, her little girl sits on the worktop and ‘helps out’.

More from The Redemption.

“Well, are you up to the challenge then, Emma?”
The coach’s voice rang out like a high court judge asking for a plea.  If she took the challenge of this trial and failed, she would have lost against these bullies forever.  If she did not take up the challenge, they would know that they could treat her however they liked.  She knew that Tom was the fastest swimmer, and during their many training sessions she had come very close to his times.  But would she be able to beat these girls?  They were the best that the school had to offer and they knew it!
“Yes sir.  I’ll give it a go.”
Tom smiled while the girls glowered at her.  How dare she challenge them?
They stood huddled in a group whispering while casting the occasional glance in Emma’s direction and laughing.  Tom stayed by her side.
“You go on the end lane and I’ll be in the lane next to you.  Just keep pace with me and I know we’ll beat this lot!”
Mr. Black clapped his hands and everyone had found a lane before the echo had died out.
“Get to your marks.”
Emma glanced across at Tom.
“Don’t you let me win!”
Tom smiled back at her.
“Not a chance.  You’ll never beat me!”
Pheep!  The whistle sounded to start the race.  The cold water seemed to wash away her remaining doubts, and Emma settled into her usual relaxed strokes that she had practiced so often with Tom.  She felt more confident with him beside her and was comforted every time he glanced in her direction.  The pace was quite fast, but Emma kept up with Tom, trusting him to keep pace with the rest.  The first fifteen laps went like clockwork and the two friends kept level with each other.
Just after the turn into lap sixteen, Tom began to pull away.  Emma increased her pace to keep up, knowing that there would be another increase on each of the next two lengths.  At the second increase in pace, Emma began to think about the finish.  This was not simply her against her friend, who would always just about beat her.  This race was far more serious!  This was about beating the girls who had constantly made her life a misery.  Adrenalin fed her muscles as the hatred of these girls grew inside her.  This was all about ending her torment!
There was renewed energy in her kick off as she made the turn into lap eighteen.  She knew it was too early to sprint but her anger prevented her from holding back.  There was nobody else in the pool.  She had forgotten about Tom. All she felt was anger in every stroke.  She turned into length nineteen, still sprinting as though her very life depended on her getting to the finish.  It was as though she was trying to beat herself!  Towards the end of the lap, she felt her energy waning.  The turn was slower, but this was her one and only chance to beat them!  The taunts roared through her brain, pumping renewed energy to her muscles.  She pictured the girls faces and struck out, as though at them.  Then her hand hit something solid, and the race was over.
“Jesus Emma!” panted Tom when he finally reached the end.  “Jesus!”
She looked back at the girls still swimming.  She had beaten them by at least half a length.  She pulled herself onto the side so that she could watch their faces as they finished, but each one avoided her gaze.  She had won this battle but she knew that she had not yet won the war. 

Friday, 8 April 2011

Here's a section from The Redemption.

Everybody leant forward in anticipation of learning something, about that which they all pretended to know.  Danni continued with her narrative.
“All a man thinks about is himself.  He begins by groping your tits like stress-balls.  Then he wants you to do all disgusting things to him.  Finally, when he’s ready, he pushes his fingers inside you a few times and tells you that he knows that you are ready.  Then he lies on top of you, spreading your legs until you think your hips are coming out of joint.  Any moan, groan or gasp of pain you make is taken as a compliment because he thinks he’s turning you on.  Finally, when your joints are stretched to breaking point and your breathing is restricted by his weight on top of you, he starts shoving it in.”
There was utter silence until Sam’s voice whispered:
“What’s it like?”
“Can you imagine being stabbed, time and time again, each one deeper than the last?  You cry out in pain, but again he treats it as a compliment.  The more you struggle for your very survival: to breathe, to stop your joints from coming apart or even to escape his breath, the better he thinks he’s doing.  In the end, you try to utter words of encouragement while he slobbers over your neck, just to make him finish quicker.”
Everybody was now staring at Danni in shock.  Many of the girls at school claimed to be sexually active and many apocryphal stories were bandied around, but this was no story.  If the way she told it did not make it plain, the tears in her eyes sealed its authenticity. 

Wednesday, 6 April 2011

Part of my new children's book.

We seemed to be travelling for ages and I knew that we were well clear of the lake.   Then we entered a tunnel which led out of the water and into a darkish area that looked like sleeping quarters.  I was in the otter’s holt!
Owen put me down roughly on some leaves and told me not to move.  He knew I would obey.
It was the loneliest place I had ever been.  I stared at the dark tunnel, waiting for the slightest movement that would tell me someone had entered the other end.  What had I done wrong?  If I knew this, I might at least have been able to work out an excuse.  I certainly could not be accused of not learning what I was supposed to be learning, for I had no idea what that learning was supposed to be!
The sticks at the entrance to the tunnel began to vibrate and I knew the time for guessing was over.  The entrance now jerked back and forth more vigorously and then a huge hairy head squeezed its way through, quickly followed by an enormous body.  The great otter stood there staring down at me while the other two wriggled into positions either side of her.
“I’m ready to hear your explanation now!” she said.

Monday, 28 March 2011

Questions I was asked about my first book.


What prompted you to write this particular book – what was the inspiration behind it?
Some years ago I knew a woman who had spent her whole life blindly following a religious code.  When she was dying, she admitted to me that she did not really believe, but did not know what else there was.  She looked to me for help, saying that she was frightened of not knowing what would happen to her.  I reiterated the teachings of her religion, more or less saying that she was simply having last minute nerves and that everything would work out as she had been taught.  I told her this for the best of reasons but I wrote this book so that I would never again have to lie to a dying person.

Do you write in a special place or have a special system for writing?
When I set out to write a book, the story comes last.  Firstly I decide what I want to say.  Next I decide on the best setting to portray this.  Then I decide on the types of characters that would best demonstrate this point.  Lastly I invent a tale in which to wrap it all up.

What did you find most difficult about writing this particular book?
Trying to choose a few simple points from the plethora of anomalies in life.

What do you consider to be the best quality of this book?
Its simplicity.  As an author, I believe it is my job to explain, rather than the reader’s job to strive to understand.  That way the reader can immerse his/herself fully in the story without worrying about aspects which are not clear.  It is my job to do the hard work so that my readers don’t have to.

Is there a particular central message you want to convey to readers?
If you have strong beliefs about the way you should live your life and about what will happen when you die – fantastic!  If however you are led into saying that you believe because of fear or coercion, read this book.  You don’t need to be afraid!  Living a good life requires common sense not blind faith in a supreme being.  As for what happens when you die...... I’ll tell you that as well.

Of what facet of the book are you most proud?
The fact that I was selected to be the one to write it.

If you began to write this book again would you do anything differently?
Yes, I would stop worrying about it and enjoy the process more.  This book was written by countless characters I have come across in my everyday life.  I simply formed it into a story and put a few words down on paper.

Do you have any advice to pass on to aspiring authors?
If you want to write a book, there are many writing courses and clubs that you can join.  If your English is a little weak, you might benefit from taking a TEFL diploma.
If you HAVE to write a book, you will find your own way, and never let anybody tell you that you are wrong!

As an author, is there a book you wish you had written yourself?
No.  There are countless wonderfully written books out there, each containing a little piece of their creator.  To wish I had written one of these books is tantamount to wanting to be that author.  With all of my many faults I have never wanted to be anybody else.

Are you currently working on any other books?
I have written a book about the differences in people’s realities and how this affects their reactions to their surroundings.  The story concerns a plane crash and the attempts at survival among the (mainly) children involved.
The latest book I have written is a children’s book and is very special to me.  It is an adventure story which includes how to handle bullying, drugs, smoking and many other challenges.  It also explains photosynthesis and the energy cycle, in a way that young people can easily understand.  I am currently writing a sequel in which the young hero grows into a man, a parent and finally into an old person.  The book will end just before he dies.  My challenge is to explain adult feelings and actions to young people.
I could talk for hours about books I have planned for the future, but please just enjoy my current one.

Sunday, 20 March 2011

Taster of my new book: The Redemption. Coming out soon on Amazon. Comments?

Emma changed her mind many times while she was getting dressed.  The problem was that she could not imagine it happening; could not envisage what it would be like.  Finally she was ready.  She had found a suitable dress earlier, in one of the suitcases that they had retrieved from the plane and even a small bottle of perfume.  She had decided to take the route up the rocks from the side she was on.  This would lead her up to the lookout rock from where she could then climb down to the coach’s cave without being spotted by the others.  With a giant breath to steel her nerves, she picked up the bag and began her trek up the rocks.
There was still a vague light on the horizon when Emma arrived at the lookout rock.  It was a particularly beautiful sight with the orange colour leaching over the edge of the world, to be replaced by the grey skeleton of the clouds before they too finally succumbed to the darkness.  When Emma was very young she remembered feeling sad that the sun had to leave at the end of the day.  She smiled at the memory.  It came from a different time; a time when everything else was so safe and happy that she could not think of any reason why the sun should ever have to leave.  Somebody told her that it had to sleep but that it sent its sister (the moon) to watch over us at night.  Somebody else told her that if the sun did not go out at night-time, we would not have the opportunity of seeing how beautiful the moon was.  Emma preferred this explanation.  She always thought that if she were a celestial body, she would look more beautiful at night.
Daylight had now disappeared and the harsh glow from the moon left Emma feeling empty and alone.  She had not felt like this about the night for many years and something told her that this would be the last time she would ever feel this way.  By the time the morning came she would have become a woman and would have no more need for such childish thoughts.
She shivered, even though the night air was warm.  She would go in a minute.  It was so peaceful sitting there on the rock with nobody to interrupt her thoughts.  She was caught in a time bubble.  Nobody knew where she was, or even cared for that matter.  How had she ended up on a rock on an island in the Philippines, staring out to sea, watching the moonlight shimmering over the softly breathing water?  How had she arrived at the stage in her life when she would lose all of her youth in a dark cave, so far from home?
Another shiver shook her body and she stood and looked over the edge where Danni had fallen to her death.  She might have hated the girl but at that moment Emma had a lot of respect for her erstwhile adversary.
She stooped to pick up her bag, took a deep breath and started the climb down to the cave, and to her fate.

Sunday, 13 March 2011

Preface to my new children's book. Would love your comments.

Winter was over.  The snow had gone but the sun had not yet chased away the frost that froze time in the grassy shadows under the bushes.  The air was crisp with chill and anticipation as glints of sunlight flashed across the top of the lake, energising the water and promising the World its annual rebirth.
As I placed one tentative foot on the path between the lake and the small river that silently slid past it, I felt the ground tremble.  Mother Nature was not yet ready to release her grip on spring’s freedom.  Instead, she held it tightly to herself as the leaves were held in buds on the trees, ready to blossom forth when her signal released them.
As always, Mother Nature released the Snowdrops first.  They gathered in small groups, whispering in the silence of the chilled air, heads bowed in secrecy, lest anyone should discover their mysteries.  They were aware of my presence as I crept past, yet they never turned a petal.  They would not tell that I had been here.
A loud ‘crack’ echoed across the lake, repeated again and again as the Mallard duck called to his mate.  The sound seemed out of place around these still waters.  It was as though it should have been reserved for summer, when the clamour of young families of different species rocked the air itself.
I listened in silence and gradually distant bird song fell in soft flakes all around me.  Every living thing was awakening, everything knew its place.  Preparations were being made, old mates found and dances practiced to attract new ones.  All of this was being conducted covertly.  Nothing had begun yet, no signal had been given.  But everything was moving into the starting position.  As muscles strained and tensions grew, Mother Nature would make one final inspection.  When, and only when she was satisfied that everything was in its place, would she then release her grip and allow everything to spring into life.
Then the struggle would begin in earnest.  Leaves would burst forth to paint the canopy.  Plants would push through the soil, grass unroll as a carpet and the air would become alive with the sounds of creatures happy simply to exist.  Then Mother Nature would beckon in all the migrants, swelling the skies with sights and sounds.  What a wonderful time to be alive!
But for now the bow was still tight.  The tension in the air was almost unbearable!
The ground vibrated and I crouched behind a bush as a giant creature slowly lumbered past, oblivious to all the sights and sounds around it.  I would be all right as long as I kept still because its eyesight was poor.  It would not smell me either as this sad lumbering giant had lost most of its senses. A sound from the lake caused me to turn my head and witness a jumping trout, seemingly suspended in mid air, its shape transcribed by an arc of rainbow water above it.  We would go fishing today!
I skipped across the path and slid into the soothing water of the narrow river.  Once back in the Holt, my mate was excited.  I told her about my trip, but she could already taste it from licking my coat.  I mentioned the lumbering beast.  She said that she had heard that Man, (as it was called) did not hibernate because it had to stay awake counting the days to know what season it was.  I laughed, but part of the theory did ring true to me.  What a sad life it must be when you can’t feel the seasons turning around you.

Saturday, 12 March 2011

Old knowledge

Hi everybody.  Firstly, let me thank you for clicking on this blog.  I am Des and am about to put my third book on Amazon.
I feel very privileged at being able to write something that others enjoy and by which they might also gain.  I am now in my fifties and feel that I have learnt many things in life which might benefit others.  Isn’t it ironic that just when we come to the stages in our lives where we have most to give, nobody seems to want to listen?  This is where the storyteller has the edge.  People remember stories and a good storyline can be a convincing argument.
In my first book The Diary of an Innocent’, I wanted people to understand that most of the major problems in the world have been orchestrated (or at the very least supported) by powerful bodies with their own agendas.  We are told what to think and how to act.  It is the story of a man who finds the diary of a catholic priest and how reading it affects his life.  He doesn’t hold the same beliefs as the priest, but in the end, he realises that there is room for all beliefs and lifestyles, and this knowledge makes his life very much richer.
My second is a book of short stories, cemented together by a light-hearted chat.  I have called it Different Eyes’ because that is the way a writer has to view the world, if he is to write anything of interest.  Hopefully, by explaining how some of the stories actually came about, potential short-story writers will benefit.
The book I will soon release is called ‘The Redemption’.  It demonstrates how different people perceive a situation in different ways, causing them to act out of all proportion to the position in which they find themselves.  Wouldn’t life be far more pleasant if we could see an adverse reaction by somebody, and nor react adversely to it?
The Redemption tells the story of a school swimming team and their coach who survive a plane crash in the South China Seas.  The story is told mainly from the points of view of one of the survivors and the coach, documenting the different viewpoints each one takes.
I have many more books that I want to write, and if people are still kind enough to read them, I will consider myself very privileged.