Kerry Greenwood comes to Rotunda in the West

It's all about the extracts - 'The Watchmaker'

Sixteen eclectic short stories on Kindle for USD$2.99

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Today’s extract is from Joshua Holland’s The Watchmaker…

THE YEAR IS 1765 and I am making my first watch. My father is hovering over my shoulder, making sure I do not make a mistake. It takes me over three hours to craft and, while it is basic in design, I am fiercely proud. So is my father, who hoists me on his shoulders and parades me around the village and proclaims my achievement. They say blessings and give both him and I pats on the back for our fine work. Back at home, my father says I can keep the watch. I hold it tight and thank him. I place it in my keepsake box.

The year is 2072 and I have jumped again. I seem to be drawn to this period and its people. I have a girlfriend and many good friends. I am living two lives. I am at my girlfriend’s home. She looks at me and says she loves me and never wants to let me go. I smile at her and lie, telling her I will never leave her. I know I will jump again. She knows as well, but seems to enjoy hearing the lie. We make love.

The year is 1769 and my father is dead. Raiders attacked our village and burnt down our home. My father perished saving me. I stand at the edge of my home, watching the flames dance around the wreckage. The only thing I am able to save, apart from the clothes on my back, is my first watch. I cry as I remember my father and all he taught me. I hold my watch close to my chest. Many of the other villagers were attacked. Some come to console me and put out the fire. The village priest pulls me in against his cloak, hugging me and saying reassuring words about God. I continue to cry.

The year is 2075 and I am married. My new wife and I stumble over the threshold of our honeymoon suite and laugh. I pick her up and carry her to the bed. We look each other in the eye. I smile at her. She smiles at me. I never want this moment to end. We make love all night. In the morning I get up and go out to the balcony. My stomach churns as the familiar feeling washes over me. I am going to jump again. I call out to my wife, but it is too late.

About the Author

A random collection of cells, sinew, nerve endings and grey matter came together to form a consciousness of infinite possibility and wonder. It taught itself to read, write and speak in a beautifully lyrical cacophony of sound and meaning. Then it started drinking too much sugary drinks and playing too many video games. Its name is now Joshua Holland and it resides somewhere in the ichor of the internet.

READ the entire story in it’s all about the writing available on Kindle for USD$2.99 at www.amazon.com/dp/B00AVS9AR0/ref=cm_sw_su_dp.

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It's all about the extracts - 'Words on the Page'

Sixteen eclectic short stories on Kindle for US$2.99
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Below you'll find a sample of my short story Words on a Page...

WHAT YOU ARE READING is about, well, nothing really. Rather than a traditional story, the following is an exercise in developing my writing style while attempting to keep you entertained. There’ll be no settings for you to imagine, no heroes for you to follow and no villain to make your blood freeze in your veins. Plot: nope. Theme: strike two. Dialogue? That’s right, no dialogue either. But you can hear me whispering in your ear, can’t you? No, not in your ear, in your mind. I may not be able to say your name or today’s date, but I am here with you, speaking to you. And you are replying, aren’t you?

Go ahead and laugh—I am.

Like a Tolkienesque wizard of wonderful words, I am in your mind pulling the strings connected directly to your emotions—the gateway to your soul. At first this may seem like an apt assumption, but I see myself more as a Jedi apprentice. I am in a Jedi writing mind-meld, my pen an azure blade of pure energy.

With little conscious thought, I arrange letters into words and those words into sentences of varying lengths to evoke pace and tension. My pen weaves intricate patterns on the page as if it were a natural extension of my body, each stroke so precise it appears as though the words are creating themselves and I am merely the vessel.

Do or do not: there is no try.

Notice how each paragraph contains a series of sentences that add meaning upon meaning in a logical progression of thought until the last, which ties the whole idea together and prepares you for the next; and how the words flow with contrasting sound and rhythm. Some statements grab your attention. Others remain as long-winded as ever, allowing you to dwell on what I’m saying. They are intentionally arranged this way to downplay their importance, distract you from the many subliminal messages and create, in you, a sense of unease and confusion.

Inflection, suggestive power, rhythm and cadence: these are the weapons at my disposal.

So far the mood has been quite casual—inviting—and not at all alarming. But now that I’ve brought this to your attention, you might expect things to change. Don’t worry, I’m not using mind tricks on you. This is foreshadowing at work.

About the Author

Editor and contributor Emanuel Cachia won the 2011 Melton Short Story Competition, was Highly Commended in the 2010 competition and the 2010 Henry Lawson Literary Awards and was on the short listing panel for the 2012 Ada Cambridge Prize for Biographical Prose. He is a freelance editor, book producer, workshop facilitator and, when time allows, an avid gamer. He has a Diploma of Professional Writing and Editing, is studying a Bachelor of Communications and dedicates his writing to his wife and two children, who mean worlds to him.

PURCHASE this story and fifteen others for US$2.99 www.amazon.com/dp/B00AVS9AR0/ref=cm_sw_su_dp. 

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It's all about the extracts - 'In Too Deep'

The below is from Craig Henderson’s In Too Deep…

WHAT IS IT ABOUT CHRISTMAS that you want to nail it to a cross and set fire to an effigy of all that has been taken from you?

What phoenix would rise from the ashes of Christmas past and, clasping you in its talons, wheel off into a sky ripped asunder by the conflagration of all your hopes and dreams?

This is how it begins, questions taunting me between the half-light of sleep and wakefulness. I’m aware of my body twitching, snaking out its feelers into the unknown.

When the dreams begin they’re so vivid, truth and myth, legend and lies merge until there is no longer a clear indication of reality, of experience or fabrication, only further questions dragging me back into the vortex of denial.

Water rushes by in a never ending wall of white noise, blanketing the sounds of revelry that are already a distant memory. Naked apart from her bikini bottoms, she kneels in the icy river, hands cupped as she flings water over her head in some silent benediction.

You watch the water streaming over her breasts, her head flung back to the heavens like she’s part of a Sports Illustrated photo shoot. This hurts more than her words, this flaunting of what is no longer yours, perhaps never was. At the same time, you’re aware of a total lack of contrivance in her actions. Her mind operates on some instinctual level you have never been able to penetrate, no matter the promise of her body.

And yet, this realisation brings no relief, only adds to the sense of disbelief sucking your world inward with the inexorable pull of gravity, as you stare at her crumpled clothes beside you on the bank, nonchalantly discarded like your heart.

Part of you wants to stride out and thrust her beautiful face under the surface, snap her out of this madness with the threat of something unimaginable. But to touch her would be to die, you know it as clearly as the water that seems to have borne all this from out of nowhere, over some horizon you have never seen and cannot envision. 

It’s beyond comprehension. You’re a few feet from the only person you care about, and so alone you can hardly breathe. Isolated in a world far removed from all you know. Stranded by a high tide you didn’t see coming, deposited amongst the flotsam of your own expectations.

Heart threatening to explode in your ears, you turn and strike out into the undergrowth, oblivious to the voice that no longer has a face, to the light-hearted banter drifting like smoke on the wind, taunting you with its irrelevance. Darkness settles through the forest, a whispered revelation. Branches slap at your body, ineffectually, painlessly, after her words.

I burst out of the forest, the dream, to the sound of banging downstairs.

Almost tripping down the steps, I rush to the front door and then hesitate, contemplating the implications. It’s her, I know it, coming back to me as I knew she would. Taking a deep breath, I pull the door open, but there’s no one there. The screen slams in front of my face, yawning open again with the breeze as I stand there, bewildered. I think of ripping it from its hinges, but a light comes on in the flat opposite, so I drag it shut, close the door and slump on the lounge.

The heat forces me back upstairs, where the ceiling fan distributes the warmth evenly around the room, sucking the moisture from my body as it does so. I reach out to her side of the bed out of habit, pulling her pillow to my chest as if I can squeeze life out of the hopes and tears distilled within it.

Rolling onto my back, I hug her to me, watching the fan revolve with such concentration the blades stall and send the room spinning into orbit.

Why did you offer up your heart so readily? I love you, you’d said, three words that had fallen on deaf ears and returned to haunt you with the spectre of your own longing. Could you not see what you’d thought had been love welling up inside, constricting each breath, quickening your pulse—had been merely anxiety? The desperation of a lifetime of loneliness, the neuroses of unreturned feelings that flowed like charged particles beneath the surface of your skin.

About the Author

Craig Henderson has written several prize-winning short stories, notably the joint winner of the 2012 Trung Sisters Creative Arts Competition, one of six winners in the 2012 National Year of Reading Learn to Read Writing Competition, and highly commended in the 2012 Ada Cambridge Prize for a Biographical Short Story and the Melton Short Story competitions for 2010, 2011 and 2012. His work has also been published in Offset magazine and various other magazines and websites. He has always been fascinated by the power of the written word to explain what common sense cannot, is studying Professional Writing and Editing part-time and is a full-time child wrangler.

PURCHASE this story and fifteen others for US$2.99 www.amazon.com/dp/B00AVS9AR0/ref=cm_sw_su_dp.

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It's all about the extracts - 'Reach for the Moon'

The following is from Tuan Ho's Reach for the Moon…

IN A WORLD STILL GROWING, where cars and boats abounded, but not planes or any kind of air travel, a young boy named Jerry was sad, not because he lived in a town where everyone hated his family, but because he couldn’t see his father for a very long time.

His father was taken into the back of a police car and shipped to a secluded island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, one he shared with the world’s most dangerous criminals. And Jerry did not know why. His mother tried to explain what his father did, but he was too young to understand.

Jerry lived alone with his mother. He walked to school each day, not understanding why the other kids teased him. One day, as he was walking home from school, a man he had never seen before stood in his way.

The man was dressed in black with a black cloth wrapped around his face, revealing only his eyes. ‘Are you the boy?’

‘Sir, what boy?’

‘The boy of the father they sent away.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘There’s something you need to know. Your father was a good man, he never did anything wrong. They just didn’t want anyone to know.’

‘Sir, know what?’ Jerry asked.

‘The secret. Here, sit down next to me. I’ll tell you a story, but make sure you don’t tell anyone.’

Jerry sat down on the bench and the man told him why they sent his father away.

Jerry’s father was a man named George. Everyone around town knew of George because he had a special talent. He was born with super-strong shoulders that could carry anything on them: people, cars and even boats. He could hold it all.

And, because of this, he became a very rich man. Normal everyday townsfolk and rich kings and queens from faraway lands paid him lots of money to move things that couldn’t be moved: a giant elephant that fell down a well and a young prince’s car made of solid gold that had become stuck on an icy road, making it impossible for any person or machine to retrieve, and Watson the Whale from the seaside town Sargar, who had become stranded on a beach after being cast out from the aquarium for eating so much and no longer being able to jump through flaming hoops like a circus lion. George faced these challenges without stress and completed them with ease, and his wealth grew through the stratosphere.

One night, while George was lying on his lawn, looking up at the moon, he wondered if humans would ever travel to the moon. This thought excited him so much he sprang to his feet and reached for his phone and called his friends to ask them to call their friends.

The next morning, in the city square, George was surrounded by thousands of people. The following hour, he was joined by thousands more. Once they were gathered together, George told them what they were there for. It was for a historic event. One no one had attempted before.

It was to reach the moon…

About the Author
Tuan Ho is just another human who lives on planet Earth and enjoys doing fun things like feeding ducks, cycling like it's the end of the world, eating delicious food and, most of all, writing. He often stumbles upon inspiration while sitting in silence, listening to the stillness of life, or enjoying a relaxing shower. Other stories strike him like lightning.

PURCHASE this story and fifteen others for US$2.99 www.amazon.com/dp/B00AVS9AR0/ref=cm_sw_su_dp.

ORDER your hard copy for $15 including worldwide postage by emailing me – payable via PayPal, bank transfer, money order or bank cheque.

Craig Henderson returns tomorrow with an extract of In Too Deep, runner-up in the 2012 Ada Cambridge Prize for Biographical Prose, and published in the 2012 Willy Lit Fest anthology and Platform magazine.

Thanks for visiting,

Emanuel