ORGAN SYMPHONY - Insights and excerpts

ORGAN SYMPHONY published by Rough Edges Press

Some subjects don’t go away. Organ harvesting is one of them. It crops up in the news from time to time. It’s also the inciting incident that starts this Leon Cazador novel.

Occasionally, I like to book-end a tale – with a quote or image at the beginning and echoing it at the end of the book; for this one, I chose the word ‘heartless’:

August, 2016. Lazzaretto Piccolo, Laguna Veneto, Italy

Gho Jun chuckled beneath his surgical mask and in his high-pitched voice joked, “Soon our rich client will be heartless, no?”

It doesn’t give anything away to reveal the book’s last line, here:

Carlota nodded. “Truly, Leon, those who ban people from listening to music are heartless.”

By no means exclusively, but in my books (and even some short stories) I attempt to feature places I’ve visited. Here, we go to Venice, Charleston, South Carolina, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, Stockbridge, Córdoba and Torrevieja in Spain, and Tokyo. The story ranges from 2016 to 2022.

Book blurb

Leon Cazador is on FBI liaison duty in Charleston, South Carolina when a dead child is found with a kidney missing. Suspecting an old foe, he jumps into action when a convoy of trucks with kidnapped children hits a snag, and a boy escapes. What starts out as a simple cat and mouse chase turns into a convoluted web of deceit involving an underground organ transplant ring that surpasses Leon’s wildest imaginings. He is faced with resourceful nuns and a treacherous snow blizzard, and heartless killers.

‘That scene on the frozen lake at the end of Part One was terrific! Sister Christina is another fine character’ – reader’s comments.)

There is a resolution of sorts, but also death and denial. And the evil supremo eludes discovery.

Five years later—and carrying around the weight of unresolved burdens and having acquired personal assistant Carlota (‘Leon and Carlota make a great team. I thoroughly enjoyed the book!’ – reader’s comments)—Leon runs into suspicious activity in Córdoba, Spain that makes his heart stop cold. Organ traffickers are running rampant, and an investigating team has gone missing and are liable to become unwitting donors. Eager to put an end to this corrupt organization’s misdeeds once and for all, Leon makes finding its leader his top priority. But will he and his delectable personal assistant Carlota have what it takes to bring a modern evil like no other to its knees?

‘Nik Morton is really good at creating characters and describing action scenes.’ – a reader’s comment.

Amazon UK: https://tinyurl.com/szhr9s82

Amazon US: https://tinyurl.com/y2hdryym

Organ Symphony - excerpts:

The gunmen were amateurs, standing in plain view, too cocky with their Uzi machine-guns. Leon rested on his elbows and through narrowed eyes took careful unhurried aim as the Uzi bullets spat sparks from rockery inches from his face. The Magnum slugs lifted them both off the ground and they jumped like ungainly puppets and slammed into the fender of the Chevy.

***

By chance all three stayed together, and were trucked to South Carolina. Here, Rafael was taken away – it must have been about two weeks ago – and returned with a bandage wrapped round his body. One of the older kids showed his own operation scar, proudly displaying it as a badge of honor, and said, “They start on the bits we’ve got two of – like kidneys, eyes, lungs...” The rest was left unsaid.

***

Normally on weekdays they would exercise after waking. With Carlota sitting enticingly on his ankles, he would perform seventy sit-up crunches, alternate elbow to alternate knee, followed by seventy press-ups. Carlota did the same, though she was faster than him – but then again she was younger. After breaking a sweat, they would shower. At the weekend they would refrain and instead perform tai chi in a convenient park for a complete change.

But he’d vowed that on this mini-holiday they would give that form of physical exercise a miss. “Only that form of exercise?” she queried mischievously.

“Quite,” he answered straight-faced.

***

A mountainous landscape populated by dragons strode out of the swathes of hammam’s steam and approached Leon Cazador and Carlota. Leon wasn’t surprised when Carlota stifled a gasp.

Hiroki Kuroda was tattooed over his entire torso and down to his wrists and calves. At a glance, he gave the impression that he was wearing long johns; instead, he was a walking exhibition of body art. Ray Bradbury’s Illustrated Man always sprang to mind when Leon saw him, but this was no fantasy. As a member of the Yakuza—a Japanese criminal organization similar to the Mafia, but much older—Hiroki as a much younger man had endured hundreds of hours of pain from a bamboo sliver simply to show that he could. He waved a greeting with his left hand. The little finger should have been missing at the first knuckle, but a shining substitute appeared grafted in place.

Sitting on the wooden slats of the bench, Leon wore light blue swimming shorts and Carlota, on his left, was skimpily covered by a dark green bikini she’d brought for use in the hotel pool but had yet had the opportunity to christen.

Hiroki adjusted the towel about his waist, acknowledged Carlota, and lowered his huge bulk on Leon’s right.

***

Her heart was hammering away.

She felt alone. A rookie investigator.

At least she could rely on her Spanish. Ask a policeman? Ha!

Then, roughly three paces ahead of her a man strode out from a doorway. He was dressed in loose-fitting black pants and an open-necked shirt.

She stopped at once, sensing a threat.

Her mouth was dry.

***

In the blink of an eye Leon raised the pistol and  harshly whipped Okudara’s face with the silenced barrel.

The man backed against the shelving and rubbed his chin.

“Carlota,” Leon called over his shoulder, “shoot the other guy’s knees from under him if he so much as blinks!”

Leon aimed his automatic at Okudara’s left knee. “I can even things up,” he said. “You can limp with both legs.”

***

“We haven’t packed enough clothing to go gallivanting,” Carlota said. “We were only supposed to spend a couple of days in Córdoba.”

“We’re not gallivanting,” Leon corrected. “This isn’t recreation, my dear, it’s hunting.”

She kissed him. “I like it when you put on your serious face. Sends shivers down my spine.”

He hugged her and traced his fingers down her spine. “This isn’t getting the packing done, is it?”

“There’s time for that, don’t fret, my hunter.” And there was; time for everything.

***

Once they were back in their hotel room, Leon unwrapped the brown-paper parcel. Rose had managed to meet his specifications as to size, stopping power and weight. The Beretta Model 84 weighed a mere twenty-three ounces and was only six and a half inches long, suitable for concealing on Carlota’s person. Its magazine held thirteen rounds.

To fill his shoulder holster he’d opted for a Bernardelli P-018, its magazine holding fifteen 9mm parabellum cartridges. The slightly smaller and lighter Tanfoglio TA90 snugly fitted his ankle-holster; it too held fifteen 9mm parabellum cartridges. Rose had also supplied a spare clip of cartridges for each weapon. Between them they should have enough fire-power to deal with a crop of organ harvesters, he reckoned. And they each had a silencer that would fit.

***

“You’re wet,” he observed. She wasn’t wearing a bra under her clinging white bandeau.

“I can see why you’re a private eye.” She grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to catch my death. The sun and the warm breeze will soon dry me.”

“Hope not – catch death, I mean.” He revved the boat forward.

She stood and moved to his side. “We all die, eventually, darling.”

He hugged her with one arm while steering. “Let us not hasten the inevitable, eh?”

***

That will do, enough to provide a flavour, I hope.

LEON CAZADOR - HIS LIFE

 On the occasion of the publication by Rough Edges Press of three novels featuring Leon Cazador, Private Eye – Rogue Prey, No Prisoners, and Organ Symphony, you will find below a brief biography of the character and a time-line for guidance 

LEON CAZADOR, P.I.

Brief biography

The world needs brave souls like Leon Cazador who is not afraid to bring the ungodly to justice and so help, in his own words, to hold back the encroaching night of unreason.

Leon was born on 16 February 1963 in Spain. He has an English mother (Julia), Spanish father (Paco), a married sister, Pilar, and an older brother, Juan, who is an officer in the Guardia Civil. Leon Cazador sometimes operates in disguise under several aliases, among them Carlos Ortiz Santos.

When he was twenty-one, rather than wait for conscription, he decided to jump and joined the Army, graduating as an Artillery Lieutenant. (Spain’s conscription didn’t cease until 2001). 

About a year later, he joined the Spanish Foreign Legion’s Special Operations Company (Bandera de operaciones especiales de la legión) and was trained in the United States at Fort Bragg, where he built up his considerable knowledge about clandestine activities and weapons. Some months afterwards, he was recruited into the CESID (Centro Superior de Informacion de la Defensa), which later became the CNI (Centro Nacional de Inteligencia). Unlike most Western democracies, Spain runs a single intelligence organization to combat both domestic and foreign threats. 

Part of his intelligence gathering entailed his transfer to the Spanish Embassy in Washington, D.C. There, he met several useful contacts in the intelligence community. 

At the close of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan he embarked on a number of secret missions to that blighted land with CIA operatives. By the time the Soviet withdrawal was a reality, Leon was transferred to the Spanish Embassy in Tokyo, where he liaised with both intelligence and police organizations.  

Secret work followed in China, the Gulf and Yugoslavia. 

In 1987, Leon was attached to a secret section of MI6 to assist British operatives in Colombia. 

Although he has been decorated four times in theaters of conflict, reports imply that his bravery justifies at least three more medals. 

A year after witnessing the atrocity of the Twin Towers while stationed with the United Nations, he returned to civilian life and set up a private investigation firm. 

During periods of leave and while stationed in Spain, he had established a useful network of contacts in law enforcement, notably Captain Silvano Lopez of the Guardia Civil. 

One of his early cases resulted in him becoming financially set for life, so now he conducts his crusade against villains of all shades, and in the process attempts to save the unwary from the clutches of con-men, rogues and crooks.

 

Leon Cazador’s life timeline

(His age is shown in brackets)

 

1984 - Graduated as Artillery Lieutenant in Spain’s Army (21)

1985 – Joined Spanish Foreign Legion, Special Ops Co. (22)

1986 – Joined CESID (Later to become CNI, 2001) (23)

1987 – Spanish Embassy, Washington DC (24)

1987 – Secretly deployed in Afghanistan (Soviet withdrawal May/88-Feb/89) (24)

1988 – Spanish Embassy, Tokyo, Japan (liaising with intelligence and police re Yakuza) (25)

1989 – Secretly deployed in China, providing intelligence on the protests (Tiananmen Square) (26)

1990 – Gulf War special operations. Medal. (27)

1991 – Yugoslavia – special operation then aiding the UN peacekeeping forces. Medal.  (28)

1992-1993 – special ops during Bosnian War (NATO peacekeeping began 1995); wounded/escaped. (29-30) Medal.

1994 – Hospitalized. (31)

1995 – Spanish Embassy, London (32)

1997 – Attached to MI6 adjunct International Enterprises and deployed to Colombia to investigate the formation (in April) of the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia. (33)

1998-1999 – secret operations in Kosovo, in preparation for NATO bombing campaign. Medal. (34-35)

2000 – United Nations secondment (36)

2001 – Witnesses 9/11 atrocity (37)

2002 – Leaves service. Returns to Spain and begins career as a private investigator. (38)

2003 – Relic Hunter case – now financially set for life to conduct his crusade against the ungodly (39)

2014 – Involved in Cat’s Crusade: Catalyst with Cat and Rick in Barcelona (51)

2015 – Attended wedding of Monica and Detective Francis Attard in Malta (52)

2017 – Working with FBI, Sister Cristina in Charleston, SC (December): see also Organ Symphony (54)

2018 – Involved in endangered species case: see Rogue Prey (June) (55)

2019 – Rogue Prey (July); recruits Carlota Diaz as PA; see also No Prisoners (September) (56)

2022 – The Organ Symphony case (August) (59)

 

Beginning – the hook

I’ve said it a number of times, but it’s worth repeating: beginnings of stories and novels are important. They’re the hook for the reader. 

Many film directors appreciate this too. Pull the audience in quickly and then never let go. I’ve sat through a number of movies where the start was inauspicious, plodding, revealing nothing about the characters, the environment or the story theme – and then found that eventually the story (at last!) takes hold. Nowadays, that leisurely approach rarely works in the written word. The audience, the reader, needs to be sucked in by the first paragraph or two. He or she isn’t going to invest precious time in something that doesn’t intrigue, excite interest or raise questions.

That doesn’t mean the writer should spend ages on the beginning, honing it, striving to ‘get it right’ – the beginning might well not resolve itself until the work is completed.

I’m pleased to announce that I have signed a contract with Crooked Cat Publishing for Spanish Eye, a collection of short stories about Leon Cazador, private eye. The image is taken from the Crooked Cat Facebook page announcement (it isn’t the cover): https://www.facebook.com/crookedcatpublishing

Spanish Eye makes a great companion volume to my book Blood of the Dragon Trees, set in Tenerife, also published by Crooked Cat.

These stories were previously published by Solstice, but the contract expired; an extra short story has been added, so now there are twenty-two first person tales, a couple of them award-winners, all of them previously published in magazines (though lengthened in most cases). Here below are samples of a selection of beginnings from the collection (this post would be too long to include all of them!).
 

Relic Hunters

Angel Ramos held his breath as he carefully unlatched then lifted the ornate lid off the rosewood box. A distinctive smell emerged like a palpable thing, together with a fine miasma of dust that floated in the sunbeams slanting through the hotel window. It was the aroma of old parchment or vellum that harboured the dust of centuries.

Night Fishing

Dusk fled quickly, as it does out here in the south of Spain. The warm night air was humid and still. The full moon’s reflection glinted from the calm Mediterranean. Behind me, cicadas chirruped but I barely heard them as I was concentrating on the little fishing boat out at sea, with its nightlight casting a circle of white around the stern. From the cliff top, I watched the three of them through 10x50 binoculars, and my fears were confirmed. Old Salvador Molina needed his strong sons to haul the net in because it seemed to contain a heavy object. My heart sank.
            Sometimes, the night of unreason lurks in dark recesses, waiting to cloak the good earth, and it would seem that even this honest fisherman was not immune to the importuning of this evil night.

Grave Concerns

The mass grave by the roadside was not the first in Spain to be unearthed in the last four years and it wouldn’t be the last. On each side were carobs and bright yellow and blue wild flowers, a tranquil contrast to the macabre sight before us. Men in the trench wore gauze masks over their mouths as they lifted out human bones and strips of clothing and placed them reverently on a length of tarpaulin. Behind them stood an idle mechanical earth-digger, while beyond the fields of rosemary and artichokes rose the rugged mountains, mute witnesses to what had happened about sixty-seven years ago.
        
Off Plan
I was wearing a false moustache, grey coloured contact lenses, and my hair was dyed black. My brother, Juan, wouldn’t recognize me. In fact, I had difficulty recognizing me. I was no longer Leon Cazador but Carlos Ortiz Santos. Sometimes it was necessary to wear a disguise and take on a fake name to hoodwink the ungodly. This was one of those times.

Endangered Species

He had large eyes, big ears and, surprisingly, his middle finger was very long on each hand. “He looks cute,” I said, lowering the photograph of the little aye-aye. His hair was black, and he had a long bushy tail. His eyes seemed to be expressing surprise at finding himself in a cage rather than the diminishing rain forests of Madagascar. Perhaps the daylight conditions affected him, too, which wasn’t strange really, as his kind is nocturnal. “But,” I added, shaking my head in mock concern, “my fiancée wants something a bit more exotic. Know what I mean?”

Big Noise

“You’ve come to the right person, Mr. Santos!” Darren Atkins said, speaking louder than was necessary in the tapas bar that overlooked the Plaza Mayor. “My product is the best on Spain’s south coast, take my word for it! I’m the big noise around here!” Every sentence tended to end with an exclamation. This self-styled important person was big in other respects as well. Even when I use my real name, Leon Cazador, rather than my undercover alias of Carlos Santos, I stand six feet high in my open-toed sandals; yet Atkins was a couple of inches taller than me. His Hawaiian-style short-sleeved shirt bulged because he had big muscles and shoulders. Because he had shaved his head, his big ears appeared more prominent and tended to press forward like little radar. I wondered if that feature prompted him to go into the acoustics business.

Duty Bound

A mountainous landscape populated by dragons strode out of the swathes of sauna steam and approached me. Hiroki Kuroda was tattooed over his entire torso and down to his wrists and calves. At a glance, he gave the impression that he was wearing long johns; instead, he was a walking exhibition of yakuza body art. Ray Bradbury’s Illustrated Man sprang to mind, but this was no fantasy. As a member of the yakuza, a Japanese criminal organization similar to the Mafia, Hiroki endured hundreds of hours of pain simply to show that he could. He waved with his left hand. The little finger was missing at the first knuckle.

Burning Issue

Landscape defines some towns and cities. And even the people and the small mountain town of Cocentaina were perhaps typical. So I thought as I drove Jacinto Alvarez and his wife Puri along the A7 on our approach. The town had been under siege more than once in its history and I reflected that that was how the Alvarez couple felt right now.

Pigeon Hearted

Fireworks in daytime are not particularly spectacular, but that doesn’t deter my Spanish compatriots from setting them off. The clear blue sky was momentarily sprayed with silver and red stars as the single rocket exploded above the town square. Minutes afterwards, a profusion of colours darted above our heads, but this display wasn’t the transient starburst of more pyrotechnics. The palette that soared in the sky came from garishly painted pigeons released from patios, balconies, rooftops, and gardens. In the next few minutes, the number of male birds increased to perhaps seventy.

I hope they've given you a taster for the book, due out later this year!

The late Elmore Leonard famously stated ‘never begin any story with the weather’. He meant get into the character or the action immediately. I’d agree with that – though there are other considerations. Raise a question that the reader wants answered, create a visual image that lodges in the reader’s head. The above examples probably do some of that, I believe.
 

So, that’s the end of the beginning – for now.

 

 

When the Flowers are in Bloom

I've taken a leaf out of Charles Whipple's book (see A Matter of Tea below) and will be donating all my royalties from this e-book to the survivors of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami. As will the publisher, Solstice Publishing.

My Foreword says, ‘Reading about the cataclysmic devastation that hit Japan in March, I was greatly moved by the attitude of the survivors. People of all ages went out of their way to help each other. Looting seemed a rare event. There was a determination to overcome this terrible adversity. Lives and towns would be rebuilt, eventually, even if it would take years. The people would endure.


‘It is this theme, the strength of the human spirit that I have attempted to capture over the years in many of my short stories. Some of these tales may seem sad or traumatic but, despite that, I trust that hope, love, honor and integrity shine through, transcending the blight of evildoers, disability and natural disaster.

‘As writers, we strive to walk in the shoes of our characters. Fiction writers lie in order to grasp the truth. In some small way, I hope these stories reveal truths about the human condition.’

Blurb

These twelve diverse stories travel far and wide, over the globe and through history, to examine the human condition. Whether a quest for atonement decades after the Second World War, or to repay a debt of honor, Japanese characters reveal their fragility. In Sarajevo, Bosnia or the grim projects of New York, life must go on.

Characters show us that disability is not a handicap. Forgiveness and redemption are human qualities the world is short of today, perhaps. They’re needed by those who disinter the past and graves from an old war in Spain. Birth and death – they’re here. So is honor, duty, courage and love.

All royalties which would normally go to the author and the publisher will go directly to help the Earthquake and tsunami victims.

The e-book can be ordered from the Solstice Publishing site (http://www.solsticepublishing.com/) or other online outlets, including Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/When-Flowers-are-Bloom-ebook/dp/B004ZG6IXS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=A317O7WZ1CN6AQ&s=books&qid=1304685711&sr=8-1

Writing Guide-02 - Beginnings

Whether a short story or a novel, the beginning is very important. It's probably the most edited and changed aspect of any written work. It has to do several things at once: pull the reader in, create character or atmosphere or scene, or ask a question...

Both beginners and readers often ask ‘How do you start?’ How isn’t so important as just sitting there and doing it; as they say, apply bum to seat and write. Anthony Burgess said: ‘I start at the beginning, go on to the end, then stop.’ While Mickey Spillane commented: ‘I write the ending first. Nobody reads a book to get to the middle.’

A writer has to read to understand story structure – whether in a novel or a short story. Many stories begin half-way through then you get the beginning as a flashback or through memories or character disclosure. Ideally, you should start at a dramatic high-point, though not the most dramatic high-point – you leave that for the end. The most important thing is to pull the reader into your story – because if you don’t, then you’re likely to lose the reader. The reader only has to close the book, after all. There are plenty of books out there, all vying for readers. The writer has to grab the reader so that once involved in the book’s world and characters, the reader won’t let go until the end.

There are countless stories and articles in magazines seeking the reader’s attention. People only have a limited time to devote to reading. They will cherry-pick what interests them. The same goes for books in shops. A browser will look at the cover, perhaps the blurb on the back and maybe the first page. If that first page doesn’t grab the browser’s interest, the book is replaced on the shelf. The words you’ve sweated over for days or weeks or even years, even if they get published, may only merit an initial sixty seconds of consideration from a book-buyer. Make those first words count, make them say, ‘You’re going to enjoy this book and love the characters and marvel at the plot.’ Easier said than done, true.

What kind of hook can you employ? That depends on your story. The story’s theme, place and characters can all pull the reader in. Raise a question in the reader’s mind – a question that demands an answer, which means having to read on to find out. That question can be literal, from the mouth of a character, or hinted at by the narrative, suggesting that everything is not what it seems.

Starting a story with characters speaking is a good idea, as the reader gains a great deal through speech – the character reveals himself by the way he talks, there’s interaction between people, and there’s even a hint of eavesdropping in the character’s world.

Two classic beginnings spring to mind, one from a novel, the other from a short story.

‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.’ – Nineteen Eighty-four, George Orwell.

To begin with it seems as though we’re getting a boring weather report then we’re brought up short by the significance of the clocks striking not twelve, but thirteen. What on earth is going on? we ask and read on to find out more.

‘As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.’ – The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka.

Clearly, it must be a fantasy, but it demands the reader’s attention as we learn about Gregor’s nightmarish feelings of isolation and sacrifice.

Not surprisingly, both authors have contributed words to the English language: Orwellian, Big Brother, Kafkaesque, for example.

Of course you’re not always going to manage to seduce the reader in the first sentence. But you should be trying to use every one of those early words and paragraphs to intrigue the reader, to pique her interest.

Yes, you’re bound to find published examples where the beginnings are bland or even quite ordinary. Usually, these are written by established writers who can indulge themselves because they have a ready readership. Dickens began A Tale of Two Cities with a philosophical viewpoint about the times of the French Revolution and started Bleak House with an atmospheric description of fog. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking that because a famous author does things his way, you can emulate him. You’re fresh, new and unpublished – and need every trick in the book to get noticed. That means writing a good beginning that quickly hooks the reader.

Don’t sit in front of a blank sheet of paper, though, just because you can’t think of a good beginning. Get the story – or first chapter – written. The beginning can always be changed and improved afterwards.

The following beginnings come from a selection of my published short stories.

BEGINNINGS – PUBLISHED SHORT STORIES

I CELEBRATE MYSELF
The stench was overwhelming, a mixture of mildewed fast-food, feces, rotten fruit, used sanitary towels, crumpled tabloid sheets of the New York Daily News and God knows what. I gagged and fought back the bile that threatened to lead a revolt of my stomach as I crawled over trash in the shadows. If my husband could see me now, he’d have a fit.

(Published in Beat to a Pulp ezine. This tells you the narrator is a female, probably in New York, and she's married. It also assaults the senses)

NOT TO COUNT THE COST
Up to that time I thought we could cope with anything. Until the snow struck. It wasn't the predicted heavy snowfall but a freak intense blizzard: ice spicules pummelled the canvas-covered trucks, sent up a deafening rataplan from the vehicle bonnets; the temperature plummeted to minus ten degrees. I used my black habit's voluminous sleeve to wipe a circle of visibility in the misted glass and peered out the lead truck's windscreen. Seconds ago there had been a road up ahead, with the prospect of another two hours' drive in these hostile Bosnian Mountains to the Mirvic Orphanage. Now there was just a white wall.

(Prize winning story published in Rom-Aid News and subsequently in Costa TV Times. We experience the threat of intense cold and it's a nun narrating. We know it's Bosnia and she's on a mission of mercy.)

THE END IS NIGH
All the churches in the world were full. And the synagogues. And the mosques. As an atheist I wasn’t surprised that all this prayer wasn’t working. Unfortunately, nothing else was, either. Science had no explanation. For five years now there hadn’t been a single baby born. Not one. Plants and flowers no longer bloomed. They didn’t die, they just never blossomed into flower, their leaves a dull grey.

(Published in the December issue of the Coastal Press. It's the future and disaster has struck our planet. A question is posed, and hopefully the reader will stick around to find out if there's an answer...)

NOURISH A BLIND LIFE
Not long now. My tenacious hold on this mortal coil is weakening but I have no regrets as I look down and for the first time in sixty years see myself, lying there, still trapped within that faithful, old husk. There is no bitterness in me; the poor body served me well enough, impaired as it is: it kept me going until I met her and fifteen years beyond.

(A prize winning short story based on a real life, attempting to step into another person's shoes. Published in a number of places, including this blog. Again, it poses questions and the reader should be wondering what happened to make the narrator so sanguine about his plight...)

OUTCAST
She came out of the godforsaken planet's seasonal mists, struggling under her immense weight. She wasn't welcome.

(A Christmas story commissioned for the Gatehouse Magazine. Transposing Christmas Eve to an inhospitable planet. Why wasn't she welcome?)

THE HOUSE OF AUNTY BERENICE
Purple was etched beneath her wide eyes. The slightly built girl in the shadowy doorway wore an eggshell-blue dress and apparently nothing else. Some people answer and look as if they're truly at home, in body and spirit; somehow, she didn't seem to belong, not here in this dilapidated house, not in shadow.

(Published in Dark Horizons. A character who begs to be understood. Why is she there? Questions that require answers.)

DUTY BOUND
A mountainous landscape populated by dragons strode out of the swathes of sauna steam and approached me. Hiroki Kuroda was tattooed over his entire torso and down to his wrists and calves; at a glance he gave the impression that he was wearing long johns, instead of which he was a walking exhibition of yakuza body art. As a member of the yakuza, a Japanese criminal organization similar to the Mafia, he endured hundreds of hours of pain simply to show that he could. Hiroki waved with his left hand; the little finger was missing at the first knuckle.

(A Leon Cazador story, published in the Coastal Press. Surreal image that creates a mysterious character and potential threat.)

ENDANGERED SPECIES
He had large eyes, big ears and, surprisingly, his middle finger was very long on each hand. ‘He looks cute,’ I said, lowering the photograph of the little aye-aye. His hair was black and he had a long bushy tail. His eyes seemed to be expressing surprise at finding himself in a cage rather than the diminishing rain forests of Madagascar. Perhaps the daylight conditions affected him too, which wasn’t strange really, as his kind is nocturnal. ‘But,’ I added, shaking my head in mock-concern, ‘my fiancée wants something a bit more exotic. Know what I mean?’

(A Leon Cazador story published in the Coastal Press. Again, slightly surreal till the reader realizes the description is not a man. Starts to ask questions - why the mock concern? What's going on here? Read on, I hope it says...)

Next time, I'll look at some novel beginnings.