Just re-read that previous post. What a pile of crap. I've had a couple of literary-types give it the once over and we're all in the agreement - it's pants.

 

I'll put out a version that, at the very least, will be coherent later today.

Here's the first part of that novel synosis. Remeber, the synopsis isn't the book - it's simply the entire story and characters boild down to a couple of pages. My main concern is that, together with part two, at 2000 words it's too long. Oh, and the book's aimed loosely at young adults - so if you don't get it, you're too old :). Oh, I'm also working on a new title.

 

Title: Gateway

Words (full manuscript): 84,323

Twelve-year-old Spike Sloman would have given almost anything to liven up his dull, rural life. Asked later, he may have said that having his house destroyed by a ten-foot-tall iron battle suit might have been taking things too far.

As the wreckage of his former home fluttered down around him the only question he could think was why was he the only one who could see the monstrous thing? One person knows. In London, deep within the bowls of the Ministry of Unconventional Affairs, Agent Soames knows exactly what's going on. When ordered to do something about it she goes out of her way to ensure the brightest and best are somewhere else when choosing the people she wants to investigate.

Left in the care of his friend Jude's Kong-like au pair, Kir, Spike resolves to get to the bottom of mystery with the help of a skeptical Jude and equally disbelieving best friend Singh.

Daylight reveals the behemoth to be little more than patch-work of riveted metal sporting a slightly worried expression. Only Spike knows that, as neither of his friends can see it. Charging headfirst into it in a mix of frustration and anger proves that he can also feel it - if nothing else for a few minutes. Then things get really weird.

Two men, the obese Chadis and malnourished Hobkins, appear. They claim to be from the government. Singh's inclined to believe them as, stood together, they look like a number ten.

A third man, Rufus, who would have given the impression of having stepped from the pages of a comic book had he not stumbled clumsily from behind a bush, warns the children to stay away. Within moments they're in the middle of an armed standoff.

Without warning, lightning sparks from the strange machine. Storm clouds boil overhead and a vicious wind barrels across the field.Shots ring out as the world begins to twist and writhe around them. Spike, Jude and Singh black-out, waking minutes later in an altogether different place.

One thing they know for sure – they’re not in Stoat Wood any more.

Peering out from the cover of a wall, Jude thinks that they’ve somehow landed in the middle of a historical recreation. It’s only after an encounter with Fazakerly, a local newspaper seller, that they realise life’s suddenly much stranger than they could ever imagine. They’re still in England, only one that’s a hundred years away in time a few dimensions to the left.

It’s also dangerous. Standing out like a collection of proverbial sore thumbs, they attract the attention of the local bobby who, as Fazakerly explains, is on the lookout for anyone who could be an agent of the ‘enemy’.

Lead by Fazakerly, they stumble through woodland only just escaping. Things begin to look familiar again and Spike realises they’re actually in Stoat Wood itself. At least it looks just like theirs, until Fazakerly leads Spike to a giant military base that looks nothing like the old playground that should be there. While they're off Singh comes across a strange coin. Instead of the Queen's face, there's one that would only be recognised in a certain Government department: Soames.

Explaining that he also reads the papers he sells, Fazakerly tells Spike about the great effort: a massive invasion that will lead to a new life for everyone. Best of all, he explains, the place they’re going to is just on the other side of what he calls the gate – a doorway to another world.

Spike soon realises that it's his world that's under threat and the vanguard will be spearheaded by exactly the same type of giant machine that destroyed his house. Suspicions raised by Spike’s lack of enthusiasm, Fazakerly runs off to grab the bobby that had been chasing them.

Realising their predicament, Spike concocts a plan to steal a hot air balloon moored at the base. It almost works. Spike, Jude and Singh get airborne, only to find the bobby clinging to the mooring rope. He makes his way to the basket and, in the ensuing struggle, both he and Spike are thrown overboard.

Devastated at the loss of their friend, Jude and Singh drift out of control towards London.

Crash landing in a garbage dump, Jude and Singh end up in the clutches of a brutal scar-faced man. He leads them through crowded back streets, into a horse-drawn carriage and away into the night.

Unknown to them, Spike's actually alive, if not particularly well. A fortuitous soft landing a cemetery is leads to an encounter Rufus. He confirms Spike's fears that the people of this world are preparing to take over his - and that the people behind the plot need Spike to open the gateway. He doesn't know why, but believes Spike has a special gift they need to exploit to open a gateway between the worlds.

Although appalled at being manipulated in this way, Spike's also secretly excited. He's finally important. Someone who can both save and destroy the world. He has a purpose.

Rufus leads Spike through the ruined outskirts of London where they're again waylaid by Chadis and Hobkins. Once more they try to convince Spike they're there to help, but the way they're waving their guns around makes him more than a little nervous. Help arrives in the form of the wily Mr Grip and cadaverous Mr Nail who, along with a band of heavies, lead Spike to the St Pancras hotel to meet with a man they call 'the gaffer' while Rufus deals with the Government men.

In Spike's London, Soames raids a Government research lab to steal a device known to the (now ex) researchers as the D-jump. She uses it to dispatch the head of the department to a random part of space-time, but not before he reveals that he’s already used the device to send one of his people through.

Jude and Singh are taken on board a decommissioned military frigate moored on the Thames, where they meet Captain Jane, self-confessed leader of the resistance and the only octogenarian pirate ever to take to the high seas. She explains that Spike was nothing more than the wrong person in the right place at the wrong time and during the explosion a tiny piece of exotic matter, a microwormhole, was blasted into him - leaving him bridging the two worlds. It's this that the government of her Earth will use to open the gate to its full size, killing Spike in the process.

Singh dismisses the notion that a handful of iron battle suits could somehow conquer his planet. Captain Jane quickly puts him straight. The suits, she explains, are powered by the same technology that allows them to cross dimensions also makes them impervious to anything apart from each other. Anyway, if they were the fail the fallback plan would see a deadly virus unleashed on their world - a death dealt by the hand of their Prime Minister, Angela Soames. The Captain says she’ll provide what help she can, and that they should keep an eye on the skies when they need it most.

In St Pancras, a very different story is given to Spike. The genial old gaffer explains that the invasion is actually targetted the French and Spike's only there because of a failed test of the dimension jump and they're very sorry for the inconvenience, would he also like some cocoa and a Ginger Snap? And, by the way, the questioning of Hobkins and Chadis revealed that Spike’s little friends are being held hostage, but not too worry, rescue efforts were well and truly under way. Once Spike's out of the way he reports back to his boss, the ubiquitous Soames.

Spike's not convinced by the gaffer's explanation. Rufus described England as the 'last bastion of humanity in a shattered, dead world'. While it could have been poetic license, Spike gets the feeling he's been sold a line and begins to plot his escape - just as the drugged cocoa takes effect.

Rough night last night. I suffer from insomnia on a frequent basis, but there's also something else. Bear with me if this sounds a little odd, but...

 

Frequently, when I'm sleeping, I feel something like an electric shock on my back. It's small, a jolt really, but it's enough to wake me up and force me to turn over. It also leaves me with a strange kind of anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. As long as I'm lying down it'll repeat every few minutes - once it happens I have to move. That's the strangest thing about it. It only lasts a split second, but there's no way I'm capable of staying in the same position afterwards

These 'shocks' are usually located in the back of my shoulder or, like last night, on one side of my spine. It's very odd and usually means I miss a lot of sleep as a result. I've never managed to come across any information on this (although I'm sure it's not a unique thing) - so if anyone's encountered anything like this, can they drop me a line.

 

And Patrick, yes, I'll upload that synopsis in all its limited glory this afternoon :)

Bah! Was finally going to post that synopsis today - but it's on my home PC, rather than my work laptop. Trust me, though, you're not missing much.

 

Wrote precisely nothing this weeked. I was utterly devoid of ideas. Although that may just be an excuse for being lazy. I've settled on the new project, though, the intro of which is lurking in another post somewhere. It looks set to be the most challenging thing I've ever written - so I'm going to break with my usual habits and do some plot outlining. I already have a couple of key scenes mapped, and may have a go at drafting those just to get a better feel for story and its main character.

 

I'm going to attempt to write about the process of writing. The aim of this is firstly personal - it'll help me keep a record of the process and b), very personal - it should act as a nag to get me going. I'll kick all this off during the course of the week.

 

Baby is better - at bloody last - and back to doing what she does best, kicking her legs. I suppose that's what counts as fun when you're nine weeks old.
 

 

To sex, that is. This is what it does to you. Picture taken at 3:00am this morning - so less that three hours before getting up for work.

 

Too knackered to write a proper entry today. I feel like Raymond Babbitt - only without the maths and nice suit.

 

The beard's on its way out this weekend though. I'm going to drag it into the garden and beat it to death with a hunk of two-by-four. So, yes, it means I've given up on my dreams of becoming the next Brian Blessed.

 

*yawn*

Somehow the Easter break turned out to be more hectic that working living for a living. Being back in office s the chance for some much deserved piece and quiet.

I'm trying, without success, to create a writing schedule I need more discipline. Somehow, between getting up at 5:50 and going bed a 10:30 I have to fit in 10 hours of work, 2.5 hours of commuting (including several miles on a bike) putting kids to bed, helping with housework... You get the idea.

Anyhow, here's a short story turned down by the publisher of an anthology (got the rejection note via email yesterday ). It's not hard sci-fi, which is really what they were looking for. I've got a feeling the text below is actually from an earlier draft - so apologies for typos/crapness.

Tea time at the world’s end
"More tea, Mabel?" Mrs Wilson asked, her shaking blue-veined hand already snaking its way past the scones towards the tea pot.

Mabel paused for a few seconds, as was her way, before regarding her empty cup.

"I think I will, although at little less milk this time if you'd be so kind."

She paused again and thought, with a tinge of regret, that at least she wouldn't have to worry about her bladder any more.

Mrs Wilson poured a ribbon of steaming dark tea into her friend's cup and topped it off with the merest hint of milk.

She leaned back into the curve of the rattan rocker and regarded her friend. Mabel was about her age and, like her, was a widow. They'd only known each other for a few years but that seemed like an eternity at this time of life. She couldn't say with certainty that they would have been friends had they been younger when they first met, she was most definitely not her usual type. Then again, neither was she one of the jam making Nazi's from the WI, which made her OK in Mrs Wilson's book.

Although unreasonably dippy and stunningly narrow-minded at times, Mabel's only real crime as far as Mrs Wilson was concerned, was her penchant for skirts that showed off her plump varicose veins.

Mrs Wilson struggled to keep her eyes from wandering down to them. It would have put her off her scones.

Still, right here, right now, there was nobody else she'd rather be with.

"Do you think it will happen here as well?" Mabel asked, her voice trembling more than usual.

Mrs Wilson sighed. Mabel must have asked the same question at least four times during the course of their tea.

"The man on Radio 4 said it was going to happen everywhere. So I'd imagine yes, it's going to happen here also."

''Such a shame. It being such a lovely day and all."

It was a lovely day Mrs Wilson thought. Sunlight poured through the conservatory glass while outside the trees swayed in the gentle breeze. The fact that there wasn't a storm of brimstone and lightning irritated her somewhat.

''But in Surrey, I could understand if it was South America," Mabel continued.

"Just because a person or nation is poor it does not automatically have a monopoly on natural disasters," she snapped back.

Mabel's eyes seemed to lose their focus momentarily. She leaned forward, the sure sign that some form of intellectual revelation was at hand.

"I suppose it's a bit like old Mr Wilmslow's house," she said conspiratorially.

Mr Wilmslow's house had blown up six months previously in mysterious circumstances. Although it later transpired that the daft old bugger had been siphoning gas off his neighbour's line and his patchwork connection had blown. Hardly a world-shattering act of God.

She decided to let the matter lie. Mabel's grip on reality was tenuous at the best of times and she saw no sense in shaking loose.

Mabel helped herself to another scone and asked, through a tumble of currents and crumbs, if they could put the telly on for the news.

"I really don't think we need to see what is going on, we'll find out soon enough for ourselves."

Mrs Wilson saw Mabel look down at her lap and supposed that, given the day's events, she may have come across a little harshly. She knew she was a big fan of daytime TV, especially as she didn't get out much these days.

"How about we listen to the radio instead? It's not as sensational," or vulgar, she thought. Mabel brightened up at the offer.

''Yes, why not,” she replied, “Do you think that nice Scottish chap will be on?"

''Let's see shall we." Mrs Wilson said, easing herself out of the rocker's bowl.
She switched the old Roberts set on and got nothing other than static to begin with. A careful twiddle of the dial lead to a quiet Scottish voice breaking through the white noise.

"...until the very end. Once again, I apologise for the sound quality of this broadcast. Understandably, we are broadcasting without the aid of sound engineers..."

The signal broke up, only to return a few seconds later.

"...America has fallen silent. Around Britain we’re getting reports of mass gatherings as people spontaneously take to public places.

"On the line we have Peter, who is calling from Wandsworth Common in London. Go ahead Peter."

"Hi James. The sight here is incredible. There must be thousands of people here, some are standing, although most are sitting. More are arriving every minute."

"And what are they doing Peter?"

"Talking, laughing. Many have lit candles. It's almost like a vigil.

"But it's the children who are getting the most attention. Football matches have been organised, and one couple seem to have raided a newsagents and are passing out handfuls of sweets. It's a wonderful sight."

Mrs Wilson glanced up at Mabel and looked at eyes full of tears. Of course, she thought, Mabel had a three year-old grandson.

She felt a pang of regret. She and Jeff had never got around to children, by the time they had felt ready it had been too late.

"And now over to our science correspondent Richard Murdoch, who is in Polzeath, Cornwall."

"Thank you. James. The scene here is similar to the one described by your caller just now. There's an incredible sense of peace and wellbeing. It's ... oh."

A rumble of background noise momentarily took over.

"James, we're witnessing the most incredible aurora here. It's just appeared in the sky west of us. Everywhere you look is alive with dancing colour. Of course, it's simply the leading edge of the GRB, but people are treating it like a fireworks show, with faces turned up to the heavens. It really is the most..." there was a sudden high-pitched whine followed by static.

"Unfortunately it seems as though we've lost contact with Richard. Well, it looks like we still have time for another caller."

The radio suddenly fell silent. Mrs Wilson looked up to see that, while she had been lost in her own thoughts, Mabel had shuffled over and turned it off. She watched the purple veins on her friend's legs pulsate as she hobbled back to the sofa and realised they didn't bother her anymore.

Mabel dropped into her seat, gave a sad little smile and said, "I think I've heard enough now. No sense in listening to anything that makes me feel even more anxious."

Mrs Wilson nodded. She no longer knew how she felt. There was an unexpected gap where she had expected to find fear.

She wondered how anxious Mabel really felt. Although judging by the way she was going at her third scone, she was probably doing OK.

That was the moment she looked up.

"Oh my," she exclaimed.

Through the conservatory's glass roof she saw the sky had come alive.

Tendrils of blue, red and gold snaked and snapped across the heavens. A soft green glow suffused the background.

It was quite the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Even the light inside the conservatory had changed, it seemed richer, somehow thicker.

"Do you think it will hurt? At the end, I mean," Mabel asked quietly.

Mrs Wilson smiled softly.

"No, Mabel, I really think it will be fine."

Mabel seemed to relax a little, before glancing up at the sky and reaching for the teapot.

She tipped it towards Mrs Wilson's cup.

''Bother. Tea's out. Shall I pot the kettle on?" she said, already moving to get up.

Above her, Mrs Wilson noticed vivid white flashes breaking through the serene light display.

"No," she said quietly, "I don't think we have the time."

She eased herself out of the old rocker and took a seat next to Mabel. Gently, she took her friend's hand in hers.

"I suppose it's better than rotting in a hospital," Mabel said.

Mrs Wilson nodded slowly. A distant sound, like a far-off storm, set one of the conservatory's old windows rattling.

The beautiful aurora had vanished, leaving a bland washed-out sky in its wake. All around the sound grew louder.

Mrs Wilson looked into her friend's pale eyes.

"Goodbye, Mabel," she said softly.

"Goodbye Mrs Wilson, and thank you for a lovely tea."

This blog is now officially the 8th ranked page in Google for the search query "Getting hit in the nuts". Thanks to everyone who's made this possible.

 

To celebrate this achievement, here's a video of a Swedish pole vaulter getting, erm, hit in the nuts.

 

 

 

So number one daughter brings a friend over on Friday. This friend points to a message on my daughter's chalk board (written by the cleaner) and asks who wrote it. To which my beloved first child replies "No-one, just the servant". So much for binging up with high ideals and sense of social justice.

 

Still, she did me proud last week. When it comes to religion I'm a true agnostic. This puts me ever so slightly at odds with daughter's CofE school. The class Easter project was for each child to make a book about their view of Easter. The page requires the child to write about 'how Christians celebrate Easter', so daughter writes - 'I go on an easter egg hunt'. Get in there you little pagan!

 

Being agnostic with a child at a church school also causes me to suffer from a kind of religious tourettes. Chatting recently to a parent who is about to undergo training to become a vicar, I couldn't help but punctuate the conversation with a succession of 'Jesuses' 'Hells' and 'Damns'. The problem's getting worse too. Soon, no matter what I try to say, all that will come out is: "Damn! That one Jesus-hella big Goddamn bump on that devil child's head."

 

I watched Louis Theroux getting pissed off at the God Hates Fags movement last night. I can't remember, and don't care, what church this bunch of freakballs belong too. All I know is that, if they're going to take the old testament literally, I really hope, as well as railing aganst gays, they also do:

 

1) Stone children as punishment for bad behaviour - Deuteromony 21:18

2) That they kick anyone out of the congregation if their balls have been crushed - Deuteronomy 23:1

3) That they never wear a cotton/wool mix - Deuteronomy 22:11

4) That, without fail, they put followers of other religions to the sword - Deuteronomy 13-14

5) That shell-fish is off the menu. God says so. He also says hares chew cud - Deuteronomy 14

6) Women must not where men's clothes. Oops! Some of the female anti-gay ass-hats where wearing, God forgive them, trousers  - Deuteronomy 22:5

 

And that's just a few examples from one book. The bible is full of this stuff, including useful information on when, where and what animals to sacrifice and how to do a shit. I kid you not.

 

Picking and choosing which bits to adhere to and which bits to ignore breaks at least a couple of the rules. Ditching wholesale sections could be viewed as presuming to know the mind of God - and that's the sin of pride. If there is a God, and at times like this I really hope there is, these fuckers are in for a shock on their day of judgement.