General Fiction

Brogan is beginning a six year sentence for the manslaughter of a prison officer.  He is unrepentant and is temporarily lodged in the derelict former execution wing of the prison where he is held. A battle of wills and wits ensues. He suspects that he is being subjected to an elaborate treatment programme designed to shock him into remorse and rehabilitation. But all is not as it seems.

'E' Wing

‘Killing Senior Officer Stewart was murder, plain and simple. And we both know, Brogan, that you should have been given Life.’

Brogan glared his defiance at the Governor and sensed the unease of the younger of the two prison officers who had brought him from his cell. He almost spat his reply. ‘The point is that they chose to call it Manslaughter and six years is what I got.’

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Cyril has an obsession with birds; the feathered kind you understand. The problem is that he neglects his wife and though he has created a  seed mixture that his birds absolutely adore, will his wife want to remain with a man who prefers twitching to kissing?

A Bird in the Hand

Cyril taught History at the local community school but he knew far more about birds. The feathered kind, you understand. It couldn’t possibly be the other.

If you saw Cyril, you’d understand why. He was an unassuming, humble man. You could pass him in the street and not really notice him as he seemed to blend in with the scenery. Nothing at all remarkable to look at; grey hair, grey eyes and even a grey complexion, sallow and lacking in any healthy colour. Very slim and tall; he wore suits all the time and rarely smiled. He also scratched his head quite a lot. His pupils were constantly sniggering that he had dandruff or nits, but they didn’t realise that it was actually a nervous complaint he’d had since his youthful days.

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A man is haunted by the 35-year institutionalization of his older brother.

A Brother's Love

In the hodgepodge that passes for my life, there has been one constant: my love for my older brother, Barton. Through my marriage and divorce, through the death of my father and my mother's hasty remarriage, through my numerous "career" changes, through the dissatisfaction and restlessness and loneliness that paint my life, there has been Barton. There's no doubt in my boozed-up mind that I would have let go a long time ago, and not minded my drowning one bit, if it wasn't for Barton. I stay in this city, live alone in a small apartment, because I couldn't bear to be far from my brother.

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A young school cadet goes to a fairground looking for the kind of girl about whom he has heard other cadets talk.  Camellia doesn't exactly fit the description but she does provide him with a sought after opportunity.

A Company of Boys

I was the youngest of the school cadet force at the summer camp and socially unacceptable to my peers, so, on Saturday, I took a bus alone into town, intending, like the others, to meet one of the anticipated hordes of vacationing mill girls.

As I strode into the pulsating fairground, Frankie Vaughan sang of secrets ‘Behind the Green Door’.

Rides went round and round, up and down and in and out, allowing girls to scream out for attention, pretending excitement and manufacturing fear.  Assorted music blared from a multitude of speakers.

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Tells how Senior Aircraftsman John Newton, an engine mechanic by trade, came to be working in RAF Changi’s Technical Wing Disciplinary Office and how he schemed to make his unofficial position permanent.

A Cushy Number

I flew into RAF Changi, Singapore on a moonlit April evening in 1961. After twenty-one hours cooped up with a score of squabbling RAF families, I desperately needed fresh air. Stepping eagerly onto the aircraft’s gangway, I took a deep breath – and choked. You can cut Singapore’s atmosphere with a knife. Even at nine in the evening humidity tops ninety percent.

Having spent a restless night sharing a hut with a tribe of lively cockroaches, I reported to the Station Warrant Officer’s headquarters to collect my blue ticket. Still itching with revulsion, I bent the admin sergeant’s ear. “That vermin infested transit billet should be condemned, Sarge. It’s bloody disgusting.”

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There are those rare times in life when by choice or chance we come across exceptional individuals. One mundane late afternoon on the way home from work Mr. Delehant experienced one of those rare encounters. "People like this, like him, redeem my faith in the goodness of humanity. But I must add that in all my years I have been exposed to much more cruelty than kindness. Still, one can hope." (Dan Delehant)

A Dog's Death

I was driving home from work early one evening. It was already dark, since it was December. The traffic was heavy but moving fast on a familiar avenue. I was in the right lane doing about forty or forty-five. The car in the left lane beside me suddenly veered towards me so that its right fender nearly clipped my driver door.

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My footfalls may be heavy now - but they were not always so.  I was, in fact, quite the traveller.  I've supped seated sur le Seine, dined direckt am der Danube and bakarak Bosphorus... and I'm really not that much of a foodie.

As I look back on those travels now, I wonder if I've really learned anything along the way.

Join me for a quick one, shared by "man's best friend", and I'll see if I can't pass any of its "wisdom" on.

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A young child’s heart; a punk looking squirrel; an old rusted key; lead a broken family to a journey that promises more. Little Pete takes them to the quiet sea of the hidden heart.

A Forgotten Key

Surely there are promises and joys that wait unknown to us in days and years, and even the moments ahead. With this assurance of something more, the knowing of a need or hope soon to be realized, it is just and natural that more often than not, our eyes and hearts are cast there: in these tomorrows we’ve yet to know. How boldly and beautifully this is portrayed in the color and want of children’s dreams, how safely their eyes are turned to the morrow. Still, amidst this simple truth, it is at times not only necessary, but also wise that we turn and find what was lost, in the moments and years now hidden.

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A man writes of his infidelity in a letter to his wife.

A Letter to Barbara

It was just after four o' clock in the afternoon when I went into the study. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the French windows, missing the desk, but highlighting my favoured leather armchair. I switched on the CD player and selected Elgar, the Cello Concerto played by Casals. The melody always consoled me when I was feeling sad.

I sat at the desk, selected a sheet of ivory notepaper and picked up my favourite pen. After gazing briefly through the window and relishing the shimmer of the flowering Magnolia stellata, I began to write.

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A worried airman makes a confession to Newton. He has lost his RAF Identity Card, known as a ‘1250’. It turns out he is not alone. Joining in the investigation, Halliday falls foul of the people who are stealing the cards which could gain saboteurs access to British service establishments.

A Loss of Identity

I was chuckling over an advert for a magic potion in Singapore’s Straits Times

—“Are you Listless; Do You Suffer from the Early Morning Blues”— when, for the first time in days, Flight Sergeant Ellison came into the office. Despite his rest, Chiefy still looked decidedly pasty-faced. I vacated his desk but left the paper.

‘Morning, Chief. How are your kidneys?’ I pointed to the advert. ‘You should try a spot of Wang’s Elixir.’

Chiefy pulled a face as he sat in his chair. ‘All right, Newton, one sarky remark, but only one, yes?’

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All things can change in a moment; in a blink of the Devil's eyes or the whisper of Angels always near.

A Passing Quiet Cloud

Jen was still sleeping; their dog wasn’t though; he opened one eye from the foot of their bed and watched Mark as he was leaving the bedroom too quietly. Jinx closed his eye and Mark quietly, closed the bedroom door. From a dream, Jen reached to Mark, and gently touched his pillow.

The small cottage that had recently become Mark and Jen’s home was viewed by neighbors as something strange and misplaced; it was one third the size of the other homes on their block and had no garage or lawn. Somehow though, it had passed the laws and the codes, and a builder with a vision of his own had smiled when the last shutter was in place.

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Newton and Halliday’s seaside supper is spoilt by the sight of a man terrorising a small girl. Incensed by the horrifying scene —unusual, even in sixties Singapore— the airmen attempt to rescue the girl; a humanitarian act which leads them to a part of the city very few Europeans see.

A Roti at Dawn

Halliday stared over my shoulder, loaded chopsticks halfway to his mouth. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘What’s going off here?’

Pete Murphy and I followed his gaze. A small, ragged child was running across the road, making for the tables standing under the stars. I clicked my tongue in disapproval; even in Singapore City, little girls should be fast asleep in their beds at three in the morning.

Ours was the nearest table to the road. Suddenly we had a fugitive hiding amongst our legs.

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Set in the 1950s, an experience which changed the life of a teenage boy.

A Rough Game

The dirt sat on the privet hedge like dark grey snow. There was enough lead in the dust on the window sill of the house to kill a dozen babies. A continuous presence of coal smoke meant that in the winter it was dark by three o clock in the afternoon. That was the way it was in the Black Country in the 1950s. People went out and left their doors unlocked .There was no fear of theft. No one owned anything worth stealing, except perhaps that week’s rent which was left either behind the clock, or in the biscuit barrel, on the sideboard. The rent collector usually came on a Friday teatime, after all Friday was pay day.

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After the death of his mother, Curtis’ abusive father takes him aboard his fishing vessel where they live in discordance. Armed only with a mysterious diary page written by his mother, Curtis accosts love and disaster and is forced to confront loss, search for happiness, and ponder the meaning of coincidence.

A Spoonful of Happiness and Ashes

Whatever piece of furniture father heaved into the hall assured me there would be no sleeping tonight. I lay under my blanket holding my breath as my father’s drunken rampage echoed down the hall. The clamor of wood, plates and profanities filled my room like thunder. The upheaval comforted me because it was familiar. It had reminded me countless times that my nightmares were fantasy, but it never protected me from father’s drunken wrath.

The cacophony ceased. I held my breath in fear. Moments ticked past, and I refused to blink knowing he’d hear it. What was he doing? Why did he stop? A rustle. A footstep. A cough. Nothing. Only the pounding of my heart against my rigid lungs.

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Floyd is a survivor. He wishes he weren’t. He is scarred by memories he cannot shake and tired from his daily battle with arthritis. What is a man supposed to do when all he has is pain?

A Walk in the Park

Spring in New York. From the eerie evening quiet of Downtown to the teeming streets north of Central Park, the city basked in unseasonal heat. Yesterday’s rain was forgotten and the storm forecast for tomorrow wasn’t worth worrying about. Tourists tussled with salarymen for seats outside cafés in the Village and kids hurled themselves round the Heckscher playground half-watched by their chattering nannies.

Floyd Henson stood on the Bow Bridge in the centre of the park and watched the couples in their rowboats struggling and laughing.

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Understanding reality has a downside.  Humans are weak, we are needy, we are foolish, and we are temporary.  How do we dare live, love and call our endeavors art?  The author here offers a way.  Grab the rope and hang on for we need hope like we need... air.

Air

Fate can be a funny thing – and by that, I don’t mean humorous, not all the time, not at all.  Let me show you:

Once upon a time a young man, not yet in his teens, was sitting, watching a stream of bubbles break the surface of a small, dark backwater.  This bend in the river made a lake, which prior to that day, was known only for good fishing.  Young Ellis waited.  As dawn’s colors moved toward rain-cloud gray, the bubbles became fierce.

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Some disaffected National Servicemen from RAF Changi’s Tech Wing are being incited by Communist agitators to stir up trouble in Singapore City. Worried that strikes and riots might be triggered, Sergeant Rushton from Changi’s Station Warrant Officer’s headquarters charges Newton with sorting it out. He and Halliday hatch a plan.

All Aboard the 'Changi Flyer'!

As usual, it all started with the phone call.

‘Tech Wing Discip – how can I help?’

‘Sergeant Rushton, Station Warrant Officer’s Office – that you, Newton?’

‘In the flesh, Sarge –’ a bad tempered grunt came over the line, ‘and a very good morning to you too.’

‘You won’t think it’s such a good morning when you hear what I’ve got for you.’

I sighed. ‘Bringer of bad tidings, are you? Go on, Sarge – do your worst.’

‘Two-o-clock this morning the last bus back from Singapore was smashed up by a mob of drunken Europeans. The police put a stop to it, took some names and sent the idiots on their way.’

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An annoying little man strikes up an unwanted conversation on a bus. He seems to enjoy the attention. His needs are complicated and urgent.

All Change

‘Used to subscribe meself,’ the little man shared conspiratorially as I half-heartedly turn a page, bored with the formulaic plot and unimaginative use of language.

‘Mmm?’ I replied. It was ill-considered for a closed response. He judiciously leaned into an acute bend in the road without grasping either support rail or seat grip.

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A man diarises a trip to Italy during which he falls in love with the town in which he stays and a woman who lives there, but there’s a surprise in store for him.

Amalfi Sojourn

Mike, you there?  I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch for a while.  I’ll explain all to you later.  Right now, I’m in Amalfi, Italy.  I’ll start a word-document to diarise events and then send it to you later.

Ciao (see, I’m already going ‘native’)

……………

Sorry I left without saying anything, but things just got too much for me.  Sally and her bloody lawyer never stopped hassling me and I almost gave too much away in an effort to get them off my back.  Thankfully, my lawyer is as much a piranha as hers and he stopped me from being foolish.

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This is a heartfelt story about celebrating our uniqueness and feeling good in our own skin. Told through the eyes of an ex - circus sideshow freak, we watch as Amanda finds her true potential and passion through a friendship that will last a lifetime.

Amanda

I love Halloween. The seasons are changing, the air is crisp. The leaves on the trees become a myriad of iridescent colors as intense as a firework at the point of first explosion. Now I’m not what you would call the best looking man in the world so I can truly appreciate beauty like this. You see, I worked my whole life in the circus ... I was a ... well ... how do you say ... oh I’ll just come out and say it ... I was a freak.

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Nobby Clarke (‘A Hell of a Lot of Power’) is being financed by Big Joe (‘The Men from the Moon’) to run a saloon car race meeting at ‘The Back of Beyond’ on Changi Camp. Newton and Halliday suspect Big Joe is rigging the races – but how to prove it?

An Ace in the Hole

Halliday planted the two glasses on the table. Sitting opposite me, he looked around the Union Jack Club’s crowded function room, as if to check no one else was listening, before saying, ‘You remember Joe Stukely?’ Servicemen from all over the island came to Singapore City for Saturday’s Tombola Night.

I pulled my beer toward me. ‘Big Joe Stukely – the poker player? The bloke who lost his car to Chan?’

‘Aye.’ Halliday jerked his head. ‘He’s over there, with his pals. It’s not poker any more. He and his mates are running a book.’

‘So our Joe is into organised betting now, is he? What on? What comes last at the Singapore Races?’

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A desperate man kidnaps his son to extract ransom from the boy's mother, the wife of a mob boss.

An Unforeseen Wrinkle

Kidnapping David Paulino was easy.  A theatrical store helped me select and purchase a wig, false nose, beard and make-up for what I told them was my upcoming role as General Custer.  To add conviction, I hired the appropriate uniform and accessories.  At a different shop, I purchased a pair of very dark, wraparound sunglasses.

I watched David wave goodbye to a London bound 747 that carried his girlfriend, Gillian.  The nineteen-year-old then spent every night getting drunk at the bars and clubs in the centre of town.  I put on my disguise, donned a pair of gloves, hired a panel van from ‘Rent-A-Wreck’ and followed him for several nights.

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It’s 1923. The legacy of the Great War is evident at an afternoon tea-party in a London square. Mrs Kentisbury tries to speak to her lost son; Clarissa asks for guidance on whether she should marry again; and nine-year-old Beatrice encounters an angel in the garden.

Angel

“Do I have to go, Mamma?”

I’d finished lessons for the day and had been looking forward to reading by the nursery fire. I squirmed at the itchiness of the grey worsted material of my winter coat as Nanny buttoned it up and sat the matching hat on top of my head. The only consolation was the white muff Uncle Bill had just given me for Christmas – it was so soft and fluffy that my hands were more often patting it than tucked in.

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Out to dinner one evening Alana is introduced to a man her mother says is the father she never knew. Alana is reluctant to accept him wondering why he has suddenly appeared in her life. He has offered to help pay her tuition fees but at what price?

Are You My Father?

Alana scraped her chair back. She stood up and looked searchingly at the man sitting across the table from her at the restaurant. His complexion was a shade darker than her own honey-brown. She tried to visualize him as a younger man, his balding head with a full crop of black hair, his hanging jowls with firm cheeks but could not. Alana watched his Adam's apple rise and fall. Mesmerized by his iridescent black eyes angry tears stung her brown ones when she couldn't find a scrap of resemblance between them.

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How Alec Morton's life is changed by the intensity of his dreams and the death of his cousin.  A taut, compelling narrative, dealing with the interweaving of dreams and reality.

Baggage

Alec Morton approaches the cashpoint machines outside the railway station.  He trundles his suitcase, on wheels, behind him; his other hand rests, lightly, on his shoulder bag.  There are queues at all three machines.  He tags onto the shortest one, sets the suitcase down and reaches into the shoulder bag for his wallet.  A glance at his watch tells him he has fifteen minutes before the train is due to arrive.  Should be ok, he thinks.  He still has to buy his ticket, but the queue ahead of him seems to be moving quickly.  He brushes away a few beads of sweat from his brow.  There is a clear blue sky, and the noonday sun is at its hottest.  He looks forward to relaxing, on the hour-long journey into London.

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