Editing -

Working on editing the latest iteration of Hot heads. Deciding on comma placement really gives me pause

Mr. Relonzio

Mr. Rolonzio would never be present at Church. In his life, Catholicism took a back seat to football. 
Each Sunday the best football game of the week was televised, and although it did not start until much later in the day, the head of the 
Rolonzio household was going to take no chance that may lead to him missing a minute of this important event. He said that he felt God would understand, but I thought he was a little fanatical in this regard. My brother once heard him say that he thought Jesus must support Leeds United, since his robes were all white and the same color as the Leeds players uniforms, but this supposedly powerful following did not explain the team's gradual slide down the first division following a recent string of defeats.

Mud Lane

by Stephen R Drage

ISBN: 13 : 978-1466291805

GRANNY'S DIET

Granny was known for not just tolerating, but favoring foods which a normal person might find insufferable. One glance at Granny's shopping bag after a trip round the local market was enough to turn the stomach of a Glasgow sewage plant worker. It would contain several items, all of which were locked into fierce competition for this years “most disgusting substance award.” There would be a misshapen lump of some sort of white rubbery gristly that Granny would call meat. Perhaps some type of decaying marine creature that the local fishmonger was about to throw away and a varied assortment of putrid vegetation and rotten fruit that could only be used to make soup for the residents of a third world prison camp. All obtained for less than the price of a bag of gobstoppers.

From: Hot heads - out later this year.

http://www.mudlane.net/

New Cover

 Here is the new cover to Hot Heads. My next book - out later this year.

Character sketch: Billy Tadcome.

Billy spent most of his time wandering round the village talking to anyone who would listen. He would then try to pursued them that all rich people were inherently evil, and that one day the working class would rise up to take their rightful place as rulers of the country. During this process everyone would get a bigger house and a newer car, and horrible things would be done to the queen. People called Billy a Commie, but Billy called himself a Worker. Everyone thought this self-imposed title was a little odd since nobody could ever remember Billy having a Job.

Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.

THE AUCTION ROOM

Dad was especially proud of his bidding skills, and had refined them over his long auction room career. They required not only a working knowledge of current antique prices but sharp observation, a keen analysis of human behavior, and a good dose of trickery. At no time were these skills brought into play more than when dad was selling, rather than buying something, and wanted to bid for it himself. Although this seemed like an odd practice when first observed, once dad’s true intent became understood, it made more sense. He did not bid in order to own it, but to encourage others to bid higher. This was called the “Run up,” but it was a dangerous game because sometimes the other bidder lost interest in the purchase as the price increased, leaving dad with the winning bid, and the obligation to purchase his own junk back. Too many times I have seen my father driving home with the same stuff that he took to sell, and a wallet lightened considerably after paying buyers commission on his own sale. I safely assumed that dad had now learned his lesson and abandoned “the run up,” because in recent months he had refrained from trying this risky maneuver, and developed a new tactic. The new approach required another family members help, and was about to be performed on his own box of “miscellaneous sundries.” It was called “the expert opinion.”

“What’s in there?” I asked my father, innocently pointing at his merchandise.

“I don’t know,” said my father in a voice loud enough to be easily overheard. “It’s heavy though!” Then picking up one of the broken tennis rackets from the top he said, raising his voice a little higher in fake excitement, and trying to sound as much like an expert as he could. “Wow! Who on earth would be foolish enough to sell this!”

Several bystanders had now stopped talking and started listening to my father.

“What?” Said I, playing my part just as we had rehearsed.

“This looks like a very rare ‘Jeffery Westerton’ tennis racket.” My fathers eyes were wide as he cradled the dusty racket and delicately brushed his fingers over the patches of mold beginning to form on the handle. He tugged on the loose strings and turned it over to look at the still damp signature. “Yes, and its even signed!” He exclaimed. Then placing it carefully back on the box, he said to me, more quietly now that he had everyone’s attention, “You wait here boy, I’m going to sell your mothers wedding ring to raise some money so we can buy it.” With that he disappeared into the crowd to find a cup of tea.


From "Hot Heads." Stay tuned for release details.

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Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.

The Other Grandmother

The heavy door swung open to a dimly lit room where grandmother sat stern and motionless in a high backed chair, chin held high and sharp gray eyes residing behind horn-rimmed spectacles. A brass handled walking stick, leaned against a round polished cherry wood reading table on which resided a large leather bound well worn bible with a tattered gold ribbon marking a passage that we would no doubt have to listen to during our visit. 

On the wall were several photographs. One used to be of Dad and Mum on their wedding day, barely visible through the fog as they leaned against their borrowed car, but Mum had been carefully cropped out of this. The rest of the wall decoration consisted of pictures of Methodist ministers from a number of different parishes. A large portrait of Winston Churchill enjoyed a privileged spot over the mantelpiece, and on the opposite side Queen Elizabeth bestowed her royal blessing upon the dimly lit room.

After bowing to Grandmother and saluting Winston, Pete and I sat motionless, side by side like wax dummies on the couch. Only the sound of rain on the window and the occasional crackle of the fire broke the stony silence.

Eventually, Dad tried to start up a conversation. It began by talking about the weather, my father offering an opinion about the Pilchard's terrible timing for their Scottish Holiday. Then the mother and son pair once again fell silent. I knew Dad wanted to offer a highly opinionated comment on the offshore fishing strike but politics, or anything perceived as such was forbidden. For fear that we would all be cursed into hell, religion was also a taboo subject. It was difficult to find any common ground. Neither of the two had any interest in sports, Dad did not know any hymns, and grandmother had never ridden a motorbike.

Mud Lane

by Stephen R Drage

ISBN: 13 : 978-1466291805

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Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.

THE HORNETS

Dad had a similar arrangement with Farmer Giles last summer, but it was not entirely successful and I was astounded to find that he had chosen to repeat a potentially hazardous experience.

“Never again!” I remember him shouting the day he returned from the woods, limping, soaking wet, with the burns on his legs visible through the singed holes in his trousers and angry red welts on his face arms and neck. As he sat down and consumed more tea and cigarettes than I had ever seen him do before, the disastrous story began to unfold. Apparently Dad had been swinging an axe to remove a particularly stubborn tree and in so doing dislodged a hornet’s nest. The hornets had viewed the destruction of their place of residence in a very unfavorable manner and attacked him with a determination and resolve seldom seen in woodland creatures. Luckily Dad had been able to seek refuge by jumping into the pungent choking smoke of the fire where he had been burning some brushwood. After proving his superiority over the winged aggressors by tolerating the flames and smoke longer than they could, he sprinted a short distance to a nearby lake and jumped in to extinguish his burning clothes. Despite his well planned strategy he received multiple hornet stings. He had also twisted his ankle as he exited the lake.

Mud Lane

by Stephen R Drage

ISBN: 13 : 978-1466291805

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Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.