The Luminari Launch

This weeks sees me finally getting my finger out and publishing The Luminari. This is a story I've been working on since November 2020 (what!?) and is Jake Jones's 3rd case after The Old Mice Killer and The Coffee Cup Killer. Happily it is the first of Jake's adventures to reach novel length, coming in at 54k words. 

In it, Jake investigates a mysterious cult in the desert, alleged by his new client Lucida Grande (shortly before she is incapacitated by a poison-laced cigarette) to be brain-washing members and stealing their personal savings and identities, replacing them with font names. He is tasked with finding her sister, Gill Sans, which sounds simple enough. At first.

I blatantly stole the idea from fellow West Lothian Writer, Nadine Little, and ran with it. She seems to have given me her blessing and magnanimously refused accepting ten percent of the profits, unless I make it big. Nadine also was kind enough to write a brilliant foreword for the book, as well as gave lots of great feedback advice and many hours of her time checking for errors (any that remain are definitely mine and not hers).

After approaching several agents and publishers with the story and seeing it rejected time and again, I confess I became disheartened. Felt I was knocking on Heaven's door until my knuckles bled. One or two publishers were tempted but put off by the fact that it wasn't the first in a series, but the third. Was it ever destined to see the light of day? They say you should never give up, and I told myself to keep going until I got at least 100 rejections. Which is easier said than done. The inner child in me was beginning to think, "Screw this," for which I harshly chastized it and told it to get back up the chimney and keep sweeping, dammit.

The light was going out of my writing life. I'm sure you'll agree there's a big soulful difference between creating colourful characters, dropping them in amusing situations and enjoying watching them dig themselves out, versus compiling multiple sightly different pitches to send out to established people in the publishing industry morning after morning, guardians of the golden goose, only to be knocked back again and again. 

For this reason my heartfelt thanks goes out to Twitter pal Andy Crosby, who saw value in, and convinced me to return to, the project. The Luminari will therefore be published under the Raptor Filmz banner (my small media business), as with the first two.

You can pre-order The Luminari ebook here and through the power of science it will be beamed directly to your device on Wednesday 17th May.

The paperback version will be live from Wednesday 17th May too. Those of you who think it's already live are mistaken. It can't be. That would be improper. 

I'm even currently wrestling with the document to craft a hardback version, and recording an audiobook too just for the heck of it. I've already received a proof of the 6" by 9" hardback and it's very nice I have to say. Just needs a few tweaks here and there before finalising.

The audiobook is a whole nother beast. Recording the story in the voice of Jake Jones (who turns out is from a fictional city crossed between Brooklyn and Boston) and maintaining consistency, is not easy. Add to that so many other characters who are from completely random places around the world (decided purely on whether I can do the accents or not) just pours more petrol on the pyre of pandemonium. Why is Freda from Liverpool? Why? No reference is made to this in the text. Why did she move to the US and decide to look after young offenders? Why has her accent not been Americanized? Why have Big Caslon's jaws been wired together? It makes no sense. And not only do I have to do impersonations of characters, I have to do impersonations of Jake doing impersonations of those characters, as he is the one telling the story... It makes me want to pull my hair out, and hopefully you yours.

Anyway, it's a lot of fun and it certainly adds a whole new dimension to the story. Many thanks to John Perivolaris for his mic vocal popper shield that enabled me to get this done. Hopefully it will be completed this week.

So on Wednesday 17th May at, let's say, 12 noon, I'll do a livestream to mark the launch, probably on my Facebook page. If you have any questions you'd like to ask me about the writing or publishing of The Luminari, or any of the Jake Jones stories, please email me at chrisryoung75@gmail.com or just ask me in the livestream.

Looking forward to seeing you then!

A Day

Well, it's been a surprisingly good day.

Came to without much difficulty after a sober, not so late Friday night.

Son is recovering from covid therefore no school, so no rush to finish homework or get ready.

Took car to garage due to unpleasant rattling underneath floor and dropped it in at 9am saying hi to the guys.

Dropped a couple of Archers into the charity shop.

Went for coffee in the old cafe and did some proof-reading of The Luminari, chuckling despite myself at bits I'd forgotten writing.

Got a call halfway down my cup that car was already fixed.

Went back to pick it up (bumping into fellow West Lothian Writer and Film-maker Susi J Smith outside said charity shop) and they said a heat shield had come undone possibly due to going through water too fast (which I do recall doing). Didn't charge me.

Drove to car park behind Scotmid, kindly manoeuvring out the way of another car, the driver of which gave me an appreciative wave. Car no longer rattling.

Purchased some bread rolls and cartons of OJ.

Went for a walk around the graveyard of the old overgrown Kirk with my camera, but ultimately felt it was wrong to take any photos.

Thought about life and death, permanence and longevity, and counted my lucky stars I'd made it to 47, as back in the 1800s it didn't seem a given, or today.

Walked back to car where I put the seat back, wound down the windows, turned up the volume and listened to some Kaiser Chiefs asking me why I was so sad and reassuring me that sex makes everything better while proofreading more Luminari.

Drove home with unrattling car.

Actioned new edits on Luminari and scrolled social media until lunch.

Made myself a couple of rolls, a pot of tea and consumed while reading more of Billy Connolly's excellent autobiography, 'Windswept and Interesting'.

Prepared for lesson and went out for walk.

Narrowly avoided being roped into buying alcohol for underagers at the garage. Continued my stroll imagining what I'd do if I'd been confronted with a knife.

Had a nice good lesson.

Got an absurdly high after-buzz. Smashed out a few folk songs loudly on harmonica and guitar without realising wife had gone to bed.

Chatted briefly with son's friend through his earphones while in middle of Switch gameplay.

Powered by the hunger, came downstairs and made several hummus on crackers with sliced mini toms.

Continued amending blinds, now finished the whole right hand side.

Sat down with a cup of green tea and wrote this.

Got movie night and possibly a glass of wine to look forward to.

It's good to be alive.

Page To Screen

Been a productive couple of days. 

West Lothian Film on Monday saw the enactment (and then re-enactment) of chapter 2 of the script version of The Luminari. It's great to hear the dialogue expertly ready out, and really interesting how things evolve in the translation from page to screen. Forces me to think more clearly about dialogue and how characters in a story should react to each other. 

For example, in prose you can get away with a character not replying to a snide remark, but in a script it seems wrong, like they are an NPC - a Non-Player Character : an AI in a video game that just stands there not doing anything or wanders around ignoring inputs from real players. See, I'm real down with the kids' funky lingo these days. Not to be confused with NCP, the National Car Parks around Edinburgh.

Also I decided to combine chapter 2 with the ending of chapter 3 as it seemed to give the scene a stronger finish. Having Jake provide a voiceover adds to the noir detective film style of the era and is another opportunity for fun.

We even discussed animation options and how to bring Jake and the other characters to life on screen.

Last night saw the reading of chapters 51"Elevator Pitch" & 52 "Intermission" at West Lothian Writers and I got some great feedback to apply. What works, what doesn't work, what only works for 50% of the readers, etc. Reading to an audience also really focuses the mind because you find yourself thinking, "Jeez, this is taking so long, why am I even including this?" and you feel guilty for taking up so much of the allocated meeting time reading stuff which is not all that great or critically important.

I've started sending The Luminari out to agents and publishers and it's a nail-biting and challenging process. All I can really do is hope the story and style appeals to someone, somewhere. Plus it must be weird for a prospective publisher to be introduced to a story at volume 3. Why didn't I start with volume 1: The Old Mice Killer, I ask myself.

Well, The Old Mice Killer was just a novella at 16,500 words, largely unpublishable due to brevity, and Jake and I were still finding his our feet. The Coffee Cup Killer was more advanced at 32,000. For some reason the Luminari has just expanded and grown to 55k like some alien techno-blob swallowing Tokyo, growing with every skyscraper and municipality it devours, immune to RPGs fired at it from the Japanese Self Defence Forces (editors). Perhaps my writing endurance has increased, like long-distance running. Or maybe I have lost the art of keeping things short and sweet.

Finally, unable to withstand the temptation any longer, I have uploaded The Luminari to Amazon in order to purchase a proof copy and see how the book looks, feels and smells in my hands, and to give it one more final polish.

Wish me luck.

The Prodigal Daughter by Jeffrey Archer - A Book Review

I always pick up a Jeffrey Archer whenever I spot one. I saw this in a charity shop in Moffat or Biggar on a camping trip and even though it seemed the protagonist was a woman, fished in my pocket for a quid and shuffled out of the shop with it under my arm like a goblin having stolen some treasure from Aladdin's cave.

Don't I like stories where protagonists are women, I hear you ask? Maleficent, Aliens, Silence Of The Lambs and Spirited Away are some of my favourite films, so that can't be strictly true.

Do I think men can't write convincing female characters, I hear you ask? Well, maybe, maybe not. They say write what you know, but they also say write what you don't know. So who knows.

Do I think the book was marketed towards women and so would have little for me to enjoy or empathise with? Maybe a little.

When I was a kid my Mum always had issues of Woman and Woman's Own lying around the house, and I used to flick through them and think, 'There is nothing in here for me' - a 12 year old boy - 'except for the competitions.' I read somewhere (probably in a book entitled 'How to Win at Competitions') that the secret to winning competitions is entering them. Lots of them. So I entered as many competitions as I could get my hands on, several from Woman and Woman's Own. And did I win anything? No. Not from them. But I did win a mug from a competition in Your Sinclair or something like that for my sketch on how Andy Capp's hairstyle might look under his cap. I remember drawing a very colourful mohawk. So I guess I am an 'award-winning artist.'

Anyway, whatever my chauvinistic, preconceived ideas about the book, I bought it, didn't I? And why? Well, a) because Jeffrey Archer, despite ending up in prison for perjury and perversion of the course of justice, and being a conservative, writes damn good novels and has constantly delivered on plot, humour and character in the past. It would be no exaggeration to say that Mr Archer's arrows hit the bullseye consistently when it comes to good, solid fiction. (See what I did there?) B) the cover had a red cloth, a white thorny rose and a president's seal on it. Not the usual soft, bright pastel shades on a cover aimed at the middle-aged housewife demographic. And c) there were also two duelling enemies in it called Kane and Abel. Wasn't there already a book about them, or a movie? Oh yeah, the bible. No, I mean another one.

Suffice to say, I was intrigued. And so should you be.

I imagined from the title and book cover that it was about a young woman who started out good and kind, then lost her way, became an evil sorceress, and then came back to save the day just before the final curtain falls. Was I close? That would be telling. Also sounds a bit like the plot for Maleficent.

Anyway, 'The Prodigal Daughter' (published 40 years ago in 1982) was great. I loved it. I laughed, I cried, I gripped the pages in triumph, I held them in slack disappointment, I followed the life, loves and career of Florentyna from her teddy bear christened Franklin D Roosevelt who gets his arm torn off and covered in ink, to her final golf game that she loses on a technicality. Her life is a real rollercoaster.

I don't know how he does it. I don't know how he weaves his tale into history so skilfully you end up asking yourself, did that really happen? You can't see the join between fact and fiction. It's flawless. It's so detailed. Nothing is missed. I don't know how a British writer can know so much about American politics. I don't know how long he takes to write a book but it seems he fires them out effortlessly. 

Hats off to you, sir.

Notes On Hellscraper

This story began as a series of writing exercises when I was living, single and alone, with a lot more time on my hands, in my one bed apartment in Kanagawa near Tokyo, Japan in 2006, called the 'Top Of My Head'. The premise was to write whatever came off the top of my head for an hour and see what came out. What did this time was a short story about a futuristic assassin called, "Another Day At The Office." It ended as the protagonist climbed onto his rock bike having obtained a personnel shifter, and rode back down the surface of the skyscraper. 

Years later and on a different continent, I included the story in a printed A4 binder full of tales called 'Hidden in The Old Stone Wall' and gave it to a fellow West Lothian writer to read. 'Another Day' fell into his 'Needs Work' category. He commented that he wanted to see more of the central character and his world.

As I hoped to self-publish 'Hidden in the Old Stone Wall' sometime before I died, expanding 'Another Day' became a priority.

Around that time I was giving another fellow writer feedback on his science fiction, asking, "How do people live? Are they inhabiting skyscrapers high up in the clouds or living in shafts deep in the ground?" I don't think he applied my suggestions, so when I received the signpost about 'Another Day' I decided to turn these thoughts to my own story.

I spent a ridiculous amount of time with spreadsheets calculating terminal velocities of falling humans in different positions (spread-eagled or bullet-straight, accelerating or in free-fall) and discovered that the fastest speed a human has ever skydived was 373 mph by Henrik Raimer in 2016 or 601 km/hr (167m/s) in the upper edges of the atmosphere. I put this towards how high a future skyscraper had to be and calculated floors fallen per second and all that, and in the end just thought 'Fuck it. It's high. It all happened fast. It's just a story. That'll do." When I ran the scene past West Lothian Writers they confirmed this. No-one cares.

After finishing the re-write I decided the tale merited a better title and figured it was all about getting into his home shaft, which now seemed the most interesting and futuristic element of the story. It was basically an inverted skyscraper, so I wondered if a hell-scraper was a thing. I googled it, and the word appears in one other place, to describe an architectural work in Madrid, Spain in 1972. I figured the link was tenuous enough to use the word as a title and there you have it.

I was in two minds about the "Sayonara, fuckface" line. At one point I deleted it and exchanged it with, "Goodbye, Mr Grant," only to find that the story immediately lost something. It became boring, bland, insipid, like a cup of weak, lukewarm tea you'd immediately pour in a nearby pot-plant. Is that all the protagonist could think of to say when his family, life and livelihood hung by a thread?

Around that time I began to realise no-one was likely to buy an anthology of short stories from a writer they hadn't heard of, and decided to switch tack and submit some stories individually to magazines where they might fit in thematically and therefore hold more value by adding to the publication.

I sent it off to a couple of places (it was enjoyed but rejected by Neon (a great online literary fiction magazine, check it out) who responded that although they liked it, felt it didn't fit in their publication. When I read their magazine I agreed, but their positive response encouraged me to keep trying elsewhere.

After hearing about StarShipSofa in an email from either Federation of Writers (Scotland) or West Lothian Writers (I forget which) saying they were open to submissions, I gave it a shot, crossed my fingers and waited.

Just when I was about to lose hope, I couldn't believe my eyes when I received an acceptance email in my inbox.

What followed was another few months of waiting as I did my best and failed to stop thinking, wondering, hoping what the story would sound like read by an American voice artist as an audiobook. Every second Wednesday I logged in to StarShip and found someone else's name on the featured story banner. I bit my knuckles. I chewed my nails. I pondered the imponderable.

Finally there it was. I couldn't wait a moment longer - I leapt into the podcast and listened with bated breath. I loved the host's reaction to the title of "What The Maid Sawed" and settled down as Hellscraper was read in an suave, hard-boiled tone by Mike Boris, with a high quality recording and wide array of voices (especially impressed by the robotic ones). But as he continued, one thing became clear: he'd put a lot more into his reading than I had into my writing, which I felt paled in comparison. Each word he spoke was done so with care and attention, whereas I flung words out haphazardly like buckshot, hoping to hit a target. 

I decided to take more care with my words from that point on.

One last thing: Mirligo, the name for the assassin's daughter, comes from the archaic Scots word mirligoes, meaning vertigo or dizziness.

Thoughts for other aspiring writers: Don't give up. Keep trying. Believe in yourself. Join writing groups. Sign up to newsletters. Knock on doors. Listen to feedback. Polish. Someone out there wants your work. Set a time aside daily for writing and stick to it.

You can listen to Hellscraper, delve into a huge back catalogue of awesome SF stories, or maybe even consider supporting writers & voice actors by setting up a regular Paypal donation to Starship Sofa here. Hope you like it!

Burning the Candle

It's been a good week.

Last night, after a ten-day abstention from alcohol, I thought I'd treat myself to a couple of Stellas and a film. So I sat down and searched through Amazon Prime Movies, rated 15 or 18, four stars or above, and scrolled down to 'End Of Watch' (2012) with Donnie Darko (Jake Gyllenhaal) and that Mexican chap who's really good (Michael Peña, actually American), an LAPD drugs cartel cop thriller. I think the phrase 'From the writer of Training Day' may also have swayed me (David Ayer).

I'll be honest, the opening scenes kind of put me off a bit, but I stuck with it as I had a feeling this could be part of the character arc in the story, as the cops seemed to be really blasé and shallow, and I feared a repeat Jarhead performance. (To be fair to Jake Gyllenhaal I think I watched that on a plane) But as things began to unfold I realised 'shit was going to get heavy' pretty soon.

The camera shots were very shaky at times, presumably to express the chaos of the situation, and added to the tension, not knowing which was up. You just knew everything was going to go badly wrong. And even when things went right, you still knew things were going to go ... badly wrong, just from a greater height.

But some of my favourite themes running through Training Day appeared here as well, especially 'honour among police' as well as 'honour among thieves'. Ayer really cuts to the heart with this one, and the finalé (coupled with the alcohol) left me a broken and weeping man.

But damn, that was good. 9/10.

Michael Peña was nominated for the Independent Spirit Award for Best Supporting Male for his performance in this film.

What else have I been up to?

Decided to start a new script for West Lothian Film since 'What The Maid Sawed' had run its natural course. So on Thursday I got another idea for what seemed to be at first sight an amusing and potentially leg-having cross-genre story. But I can't tell you the title because that would give the whole thing away and you might run off with it yourself, write an award-winning script and film and produce it and win several oscars in the time it takes me to finish it myself.

Suffice it to say I rattled out the first scene yesterday, we read it at the group and it got a couple of laughs. So I'm satisfied.

I also finally completed the edit of a 30 minute documentary about my visit back to St Andrews last summer, which has been on my to-do list for six months. 30 minute seems a bit long now and I doubt many will watch it to the end, but I don't know how to cut it down further. Ideally I suppose, it should be under twenty minutes. I might have another stab at it. Unfortunately in parts the sound is affected by the wind, but do I want to try to re-record everything and do a redub? Will it look and sound natural? I guess all I can do is try. Won't make it any worse eh?

That's all I can think of at the moment. Trying to get back up to 100% attendance at my writing desk to finish off 'The Luminari', but there is a constant battle between my desire to stay up late and my desire to get up early. In order to get up at 6:15am I need to physically climb into my bed at 10pm, read for a bit, and lights out at 10:15pm. Who does that? Eight hours. Sounds easy, doesn't it? But it ain't. I need to sacrifice one for the other. I have to give my finger to the night. (Sounds like a Chris de Burgh song).

Anyway, I shall keep you posted.

The Dead Broad - A Short Story

This popped out of my head one day in 2001 when I was living in Japan. I was frustrated by my inability to stop smoking, and how in the grand scheme of things whether or not someone smokes is not really that big a deal.

"Okay, fine!" I said, and grabbed my jacket.

   As the door slammed behind me, I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and lit up, pausing only to shove open the gate on my way out the garden.

“Manipulative bitch,” I mumbled to myself while striding down the empty street. She had a nerve, she really did. Talking to me that way. I couldn’t believe it! After all we’d been through together. After all I’d sacrificed for her. I shook my head in disbelief. 

“The world is a dark, dark place,” I spat, to no-one in range.

As luck would have it, it was dark, the time being a little before 11 pm. And here was I, yet again, scouring the streets like vermin, searching for scraps, leftovers, of respect. Because that was all it seemed I was worth.

I puffed and raged, raged and puffed, and it wasn’t long before I could feel my anger begin to subside.

At last I came to rest, sitting on the low wall of a churchyard. 

It could be worse, I mused, gazing round at the headstones before the church building. I could have croaked. I could have been born in the nineteenth century, kicked the kettle nigh on fifty years ago and now be fodder for maggots and beetles buried six feet under in an old, wet, rot-bitten coffin, grinning through lipless, nicotine-stained teeth.

I blew smoke through my nose. I knew my method of obtaining optimism wasn’t the same as other folk’s, but it seemed to help me feel a little better when I was down.

Then it occurred to me she might have a point. Had I not gotten rat-faced last night I probably wouldn’t have slobbered all over the nearest bit of cream puff I could lay my saliva glands on. Still, one night of debauchery is no excuse for giving up alcohol entirely, now, is it? That’s just ridiculous. Where did she get that Jekyll and Hyde syndrome bollocks from? Hello? She spends too much time reading those magazines, and watching those goddam afternoon TV shows for the dead, or mentally dead, or at least some part of their brain must be dead to sit in all day glued to that fucking box watching people in tall hats show them how to spice their sardines and juice their lemons.

I flicked the stub into the graveyard where it bounced off a headstone sending a satisfying shower of sparks out into the grass.

Then I sighed and sat with my head in my hands.

Perhaps she was right. Maybe I do drink too much. I’m no spring chicken any more, that’s for sure. I patted my paunch. More like a Christmas turkey. All right then, I decided, for the sake of my wife, and my liver, I will give up alcohol for ever. No more nights out with the lads — more quality time at home playing scrabble with her indoors and expanding my intelligence reading, what were those things again, oh yeah, books. And no more hangovers. Thank God! Those are some things I will never miss. 

This is it. No more beer. Here begins my NEW LIFE!

That’s when I heard a noise behind me. 

It sounded like a sandcastle being kicked over by an old man  coughing up his insides.

I turned round. And there, dragging itself out of its grave — the one I’d flicked the cigarette butt at — was a corpse.

I watched it make its progress, myself unable to move a muscle, as the cadaver laid one knee, and then another, on the ground next to its grave, before rising shakily to its feet. Dressed in what had no doubt been its favourite red dress during life, the corpse staggered in my direction. It — she — no, it — was perhaps three years gone. It was hard to gauge, having never actually seen a dead body before, least of all one walking around the land of the living like it owned the place. As she approached me, I saw my unfinished cigarette butt between her teeth.

She stopped just short of the wall, placed one semi-skeletal hand on the small of her back, used the other to remove the cigarette from her mouth, leaned back and disgorged a terrible, lung-rattling cough up into the starlit sky. Then she looked at me.

I tried to think of something to say, but could not.

“Fancy a drink, deary?” she spluttered.

“A-All right,” I replied, clearing my throat. “Think I could use one.”

We went to the Ship and Anchor pub, just down from the church and on the left. 

It crossed my mind how churches and pubs had been common features of towns and cities throughout the ages, but failed to make any other connection. Perhaps people needed God and beer.

She was slow at walking. Bits of her kept dropping off as we made our way downhill. As we passed the opening to the park, a couple of stray dogs threatened to take her leg off. A few people stopped and stared. One woman screamed. Someone, amusingly, shouted that we should call for an ambulance.

We sat at the bar, which had quickly emptied when we’d opened the door.

“What’ll it be?” asked Mick, glancing sideways at the woman-corpse-thing.

“I’ll have a large whatever comes to hand first,” I said.

“And for the,” he paused, “lady?”

“A G and T, my darling,” the corpse said, grinning. “Ice but no lemon, thank you.”

We consumed our drinks. I drank mine, she spilt hers everywhere. Mick wiped the bar.

Suddenly the door burst open. I turned round and saw my wife standing there, her face full of love and forgiveness. “Danny!” she cried, and ran towards me. “I’m sorry! I should never have told you how to live your life. Please come home, I hate it when we fight. I’ve got something for you.” 

She smiled that smile, and gave me a huge hug.

I'd tried to block her view, but she saw over my shoulder.

“Who’s THAT!” she yelled, jumping back, her face drained of blood.

I swallowed and shrugged. “I dunno. Just some broad I gave a cigarette.”

This and other daft stories and poems will appear in the anthology 'Hidden In The Old Stone Wall' coming soon (hopefully).

© Chris R Young 2021

A Preview from Jake Jones & The Puppy Master

And that's how I found myself on a Greyhound headed west.

It was such a relief to get out of the City. Layers of wrapped up frustrations I never knew I had peeled away via the rumble of the wheels and the browns and beiges of the fields rolling by. I’d forgotten what the horizon looked like. 

My phone buzzed. It was Freda, the social worker in charge of Grizzy’s case; a precocious young black male I’d kinda taken under my wing since our misadventure with The Coffee Cup Killer. 

But that’s another story (available on Amazon).

“Freda,” I said.

“Jake.”

“What’s up?”

“Grizzy’s in trouble again.”

“What’s happened?”

“Another fight. Group of whites in the gym hall. Not sure how it started.”

“Is he okay?”

“Few lumps and bruises. Cut above the eye.”

“Sounds like a bit o’ healthy rough and tumble.”

“‘Cept he put two of the other kids in the hospital wing. He’d filed down a sharp piece of metal he got from somewhere. Used it as a knife.”

Dusty, abandoned office down at the docks. Grizzy and Latte tower over me. The shine in Latte’s eyes matches the gleam on his blade. “I’m gonna cut you up.” 

Hell of a role model. 

“Self defence?” I hazarded.

“End of the day it doesn’t matter who started it. You know the house rules. He’s getting his privileges taken away.”

“Shit, Freda, I gotta get him outta there.”

“No time soon. Not with this going on.”

“What’s he supposed to do, let himself get beat up?”

“Jake, one of those kids is in a critical condition.”

“Putain branlette!” I said, punching the headrest in front of me. Then I took a breath, got hold of myself. “Pardon my French.”

“It’s okay. Just thought you ought to know.”

“Thanks Freda, I appreciate it.”

I hung up and watched a combine harvesting a field of corn spit it down a chute into a trailer being pulled alongside.

I’d barely hung up before my phone rang again. The screen announced, ‘Roger Dingwall’.

“Jesus Christ, Jones!”

“Nice to hear from you too, Roger.”

“What the hell just happened?”

“A combine harvester spat a bunch of corn down a chute into a trailer being pulled alongside.”

“I been getting calls, emails, texts up the wazoo!”

“Sounds uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, it was. Who the hell are The Luminari?”

“Don’t know yet. That’s what I’m on my way to find out.”

“Listen Jake, I’m all for helping you but I’d appreciate a little warning next time you promise my firm’s gonna invest in some shady religious cult.”

“A million bucks.”

“A million what now!?”

“Come on Roger, it’s a nice round number. Or rather one short thin number followed by six nice round numbers.”

“Are you out of my tiny mind!?”

“Look, calm down Roger before you pop a valve. I didn’t make any promises. I’m just danglin’ ‘em in front like a carrot. A gold carrot. A million gold carrots.”

“Well make sure it stays that way. For God’s sake don’t sign anything!”

“Come on Roger, gimme some credit, I’m not a total moron.”

“You’re not? When did that happen?”

“Putain de connard ingrat!” I shouted, punching the headrest in front of me.

“Huh?”

“Pardon my French,” I said, taking a breath to calm down. “Look Roger, are we forgetting I saved your life during ‘Nam?”

“Yeah you saved my life once. Once! And you’ve called in about a hundred damn favours!”

“Would you rather I’d just left you lying there with your toe stuck in the tap?”

“It woulda come out eventually! It was just swollen!”

“Said the priest to the hooker.”

“This is the last time, Jake, the last time, got it!?”

Click.

Things were moving along nicely.

Then the guy in front of me stood up, spitting vitriol at me in French, quickly followed by his female partner, a tour guide and most of the other passengers.

Suddenly the coach screeched to a halt throwing up a plume of dust. Peering out the dirt-smattered windows it was clear that we were far from civilisation. The empty road stretched for miles towards each horizon.

But it was hard to appreciate the view with a bus load of Frenchies hot under the collar, berating me unforgivingly for my bad French.

I glanced up to see the driver — a grey-skinned, lithe, wiry chap in a uniform three sizes too big for him — stomping speedily down the aisle towards me.

“Allez!” he barked, gesturing abruptly with his thumb towards the coach door.

And that’s how I found myself stranded in the middle of nowhere at the side of a long deserted road.

Excerpt from The Puppy Master © Chris R Young 2020. All rights reserved.

Blob Of Mud

 Blobs of mud

shouldn't thud.

They squash and squish

and squirm and squelch

like blood or cud

but shouldn't thud.

Blobs of mud

rise from sludge!

Two arms and legs

dripping, dull

torso, skull,

with groans and moans

it pulls from mire

each limb higher

free from earth

and of it;

mud.

Sensing lights

and life of town,

it lifts a foot and

puts it down -

makes its way

due west with haste;

cruising, oozing, losing

paste.

People peer and leer

and glare and stare!

They know not what

to make of mud-like

creature,

schmoozing there.

They poke with sticks.

throw bricks.

One kicks

and loses shoe

in blob of mud.

It sticks -

the schmuck!

It's stuck,

and off he hops

with leg-like limb

held high and dry.

Amorphous blob!

They gape

at shapeless formless

unformed shape.

Semisolid viscous lava,

facial java,

balaclava.

Then rises sun.

The warmth of day

heats the clay.

With every ray,

weapons of the angry mob,

each sobbing yob

and stone they lob

no longer throbs.

The outer crust

of muddy blob's

now hard like rust!

Rebounds the blow

of each foe's toe.

Each crack and whack

just bounces back!

One sharp rock 

cuts a cow -

a harmless sow -

in pastures new

lays dead now too.

But newfound stony shield

hinders motion -

doesn't yield!

Epidermis,

thicker more,

inch by inch

pervades the core

until at last

the blob of mud

a statue stone!

One last push

by boorish mob

and effigy upends

with thud

in midst

of squashy cud 

and squishy blood.

© Chris R Young 2020 All rights reserved.

'Coffee Cup Killer' Launch Delayed

Unfortunately, due to last minute editing adjustments and unexpected printing times, the official launch of novella 2 of the Jake Jones Sleuth-Hound series 'The Coffee Cup Killer' will be pushed back to Monday 26th October. I'm very sorry about this.

But if you haven't already, now is the perfect time to read novella 1 'The Old Mice Killer', which has been updated as a new edition, to get into the zone. You can snap it up as a paperback (£3.99) or ebook (£1.77).

I'm hoping to go live on Facebook on Monday and answer your questions about the new chapter in Jake Jones' adventure, so if you have anything you'd like to ask, please leave them in the comments. 

Thanks, and see you then!

The Coffee Cup Killer

I’m very happy to announce that my new novella ‘The Coffee Cup Killer’, the next episode in the Jake Jones Sleuth-Hound saga since ‘The Old Mice Killer’(2017), will be published by Raptor Filmz on Friday 23rd October! It will be available as an ebook on Amazon and Kobo (£2.99/$3.99) and a paperback from Lulu.com and myself (£5.99/ $7.75).

Jake Jones is a sleuth-hound in a city full of femme fatales, drug cartels, corrupt cops, dirty politicians and dangerous power-lords. He has a nose for trouble and he follows it always. But what starts out as a simple stalker case spirals into something much worse, as Jake finds himself embroiled in the latest spate of bloody murders to plague the city - those of the Coffee Cup Killer...

Many thanks to everyone who has offered insight, advice and encouragement to help Jake Jones on his journey.

A Watched Kettle ...

 Waiting for a response from agents and/or publishers for a month or even two, is hard.

Checking your inbox and finding nothing but nothing each morning can really be quite disheartening. But people in the publishing industry are overwhelmed with manuscripts in their in-tray and it takes time; I understand that. There’s nothing else for it but to wait patiently, or even begin some new project.

Being a firm believer of the power of positive visualisation, however, I have decided to imagine the letter that I hope to receive from an agent or publisher in the next few days.

Dear Mr Young,

I would like to apologise wholeheartedly for keeping you waiting but I would like to thank you sincerely for sending us the synopsis and first three chapters of your hilarious and original work, ‘The Coffee Cup Killer.’ We at the office were falling about in gales of laughter and awe. Somehow you have captured the angst of the whole world by harnessing the absurdity of the current situation by using the seldom double-swung double-edged sword of double sarcasm. Wonderful. Poetic. A Chandleresque dog detective in a spoof-noir world of talking animals? Never since Homer’s Iliad in dactylic hexameter has any literary work fully captured the imagination of the planet. May we be the first to congratulate you on such an epic novella and inform you that we shall encourage the Nobel Prize Committee that they need look no further in selecting their next winner. Congratulations in advance. Suffice it to say that we would like nothing more than to have our names associated with yours from now on, in fact we’d like to pay you for the honour, your reverence. Please accept this advance of £15,000 which we trust will cover you and your family comfortably so you can focus on the much anticipated sequels The Puppy Master, The Red Herring and Jeers of Derision, in order to deliver them to the best of your comedic genius and at your earliest convenience to your billions of fans-to-be worldwide.

Ha! I can dream I suppose...

The Coffee Cup Killer : Chapter One

For the sheer heck of it, to find out how it sounds and to celebrate finishing the first round of editing, I read out the first chapter of The Coffee Cup Killer, The Second Jake Jones Mystery, on video. Then I added noir jazz music and black and white old film effects. Because why not?

The Coffee Cup Killer A Jake Jones Mystery Prequel to The Old Mice Killer Coming Soon ... https://www.facebook.com/ChrisRYoungAuthor https://twitter.com/ChrisRYoung1 https://blog.chrisryoung.co.uk © Chris R Young 2020 Music : MrSnooze https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYOvAO1rAM0

2020 Hindsight

Well, it's that time of year again, when we look back at what we've achieved and forward to what we want but fail to change. Casting my gaze around my office I see barely-glanced-at A4 print outs with things like:

Goals for 2019

Write a book (Aa Apple) - failed, but I've begun compiling my 2000-2020 compilation of short stories called Hidden In The Old Stone Wall, which will hopefully be ready early 2020

Coffee Cup Killer – failed, but I've written a few more chapters and figured out a few more in my head, plus have some checked at West Lothian Writers with some great feedback

Don't Give Up – success! I have not given up.

Plant bushes in front garden – failed. But I have planted 20 tree seeds in pots in the green house, Hopefully they sprout in the spring

Publish another short story - failed. But Thick as Thieves is out now published in a compilation called Knucklehead Noir by Coffin Hop Press.

I also, as if that wasn't enough, can see another A4 print out right next to it that says:

2019 New Year's Resolutions

Good Hour Every Day : Music, Language, Write – failed

Speak Japanese every even day – failed

Exercise 3 times a week – failed

No alcohol – failed

Work 9 hour days – 4-4-1 – failed

Tai chi every morning – failed, but did do it a lot of mornings

Go to bed at 10:30pm - failed

Wake up at 7am – failed

Seven fruit and veg a day – failed

Spend less money – failed

More family time – failed

More garden time – failed

Save money – failed

One coffee max – failed

More water – failed

Be more patient – failed

Cook more – failed

Write one letter a week – failed

Reduce plastic waste – I think we actually may have succeeded with this one with our use of ecobricks to insulate the loft rafters. So much so that my wife was getting sick of ecobricks scattered around the house and stopped buying plastic bottles of orange juice.

Walk more – failed

More board games – failed, although we did play Risk with a few of the local kids which seemed to go quite well. "World domination, kids! It's what it's all about!"

I only looked at and read these sheets of paper twice. Once when I put them up at the end of 2018, and again just now. So I can safely say that didn't work. 

Perhaps I was unrealistic in my goals. Just too many. My most successful year of fulfilling New Year's Resolutions I think was a couple of years ago when I only had one:

Don't be an Asshole

which was later downgraded to :

Try not to be an Asshole

So what then can we take away from this? It's better to have a goal and risk it unmet, than to have no goal and achieve nothing. Then again it's quite nice and less stressful to achieve goals that one had not really set out on achieving. But too many targets and you miss them all. As I believe it was Confucius who once said 

“The dog that chases two rabbits catches neither.”

So with this in mind then, let's try to gather a list of NYRs that are both achievable and easy to remember. 

I think I'm going to split these up into three parts: Vows, Goals and Regimen. (Already sounding too much)

2020 Vows, Goals & Regimen

Vows

I vow not to fly in 2020

I vow to drive as little as possible and less than last year

I vow to expand my vegetable garden and grow more in it

Goals

To complete Hidden In The Old Stone Wall

To either find an agent and/or publisher for or self publish Hidden In The Old Stone Wall

To complete The Coffee Cup Killer

Regimen

Early to bed, early to rise

Write 250 words every day

Exercise at least once a week

One thing I realised in 2019 is that it's almost as hard for me to go to bed early as it is to get up early, and that these things are two sides of the same coin. It actually takes effort to go to bed. It's taken me 44 years to get my head round this (and I still haven't). You'd think it would be easy to climb into a nice warm snug area and read a good book until you get sleepy, by which point you're already in prime position to nod off. 

But no. I have to play Firefight on Halo OTSD until 3am. Then hate myself and climb the stairs of shame, brush the hairy teeth of tardiness, pull off my clothes of disorganisation, drop my underwear into the laundry basket of humiliation, climb into a freezing cold, draughty bed of despair, read for a few uncomfortable moments and then extinguish the light of disgust and lie there with feet of ice seeing flashbacks of popping grunts and failing to knock out big blue hunters by elbowing them on their armour.

But, happily, some goals I completed in 2019 by accident are:

The planting of 20 native British tree seeds with my son

The first draft compilation of 'Hidden in the Old Stone Wall'

The setting up and running of 6 Saltire Open Mic Nights with Steven Dakers

Successfully (I think) held the 2019 Scottish Short Film Festival in July

Had my iPhone stolen and reverted back to Nokia, thereby healing repetitive strain injury in right wrist

Began a petition and Facebook page to try to save Carmondean Library

Wrote the song Halloween Blues and covered I'm Yours, Friday I'm in Love and El Condor Pasa

Popped my busking cherry
Popped my stand up cherry

Got a dangerous metal bench moved from the local playground

Wrote a nice email to Hannah Bardell MP about the wildfires in Australia

That's about it

In my younger days I used to buy a day-to-a-page diary from John Menzies and try my best to fill it in over the course of the year (I still have these). Then on New Year's Eve I'd sit down and enjoy reading through it all again and ponder life's imponderables. But alas I don't do that any more. Mostly because I always felt guilty about not being able to keep up with my diary writing and wasting all that paper, so instead I switched to jotting in undated notebooks whenever the notion took me. Just found them and there's a few pages from 2019 so I'll take a wee stroll down memory lane and see if there's owt worth sharing.

Sunday 9th March

Ye gadzooks! Another day in the valley and I only have T minus three minutes to figure out what's wrong with my life!

• No motivation,

There! That was easy!

Monday 11th March

I have nothing to say. Everything I have to say has been said before by better minds than I. Half the stuff I say I regret, and the other half is divided into thirds - funny stuff, informative stuff, and stuff people don't want to listen to.

    But on the whole most of the stuff I say is better left unsaid. Even the funny stuff I say is not wanted or lends anything worthwhile to the debate.

   So what is worth saying?

   Nobody wants to hear the truth, and nobody wants to hear lies. What does that leave?

   Silence.

Saturday 13th April

Went to the library and my son picked up two books at random to appease me - one about space and the other called Business Finance for Kids.

In the post office he bought some super sour candy called 'Hazardous Waste' which I tried too and it almost tore my mouth apart.

Wednesday 1st May

Struggled to leave my bed at 7:45am this morning. Decided to not decide whether to have a day off today.

Wednesday 22nd May

Today my son said his teacher humiliated him for not knowing his fractions or how to simplify 63/77ths. He was quite upset about it and said he couldn't remember exactly what she'd said because he'd tried to block it from his mind. I just tried to help him practise some fractions and then talk him through his emotions, relating to him a bit how primary school teachers traumatised me when I was a kid. Knocking my head together with Neil Law's and staring at me with excess mascara. I still feel nervous even now when going into the primary school to pick him up

   Anyway, he seemed to cheer up a bit after that.

   Personally I have lost faith in the present Scottish education system. Hardly any homework, days off galore, free time on Fridays which are half days anyway. What the fuck? No wonder he doesn't know his fractions.

Wednesday 6th June

So why the hell am I starting up an Open Mic Night?

Saturday 15th June

Played chess against the computer while listening to Rage Against The Machine.

Thursday 10th October

My son came home and lit up the household with his laughter and songs as usual.

Saturday 26th October

Okay. In an effort to clear my mind of the scum layer of thoughts and crabbit emotions encrusting the upper regions of my psyche, I am now endeavouring to write some diary here in my own dining room in my own house in the peace and quiet of my own family's absence.

Monday 4th November

This is the only thing I know for sure. The date. Nothing else is certain. Nothing else is written.

There. That was fun.

But no matter your successes or failures of 2019, or your goals, resolutions and hopes for 2020, I wish you all peace, harmony and happiness for the coming year. See you on the other side :)