On the 21st of February my novel Righteous Exposure will be released as an e-book.It will be on sale at Amazon and Smashwords. You can read an excerpt from Chapter 1 below. Hope you enjoy it!
Prologue
Somewhere in the depths of sleep, her mind begs:
No! Please… not this again…
The plea is ignored as the dream rolls in real-time.
Her pounding heartbeat provides the soundtrack to a special screening – old fears claiming the starring role.
Twenty-three years fall away – Alita is seven years old again.
The San Antonio heat is overpowering as the July sun terrorizes the shade into thin strips around a courtyard boundary. The smell of olives hangs heavy in the air, and an ornate fountain bubbles over marble lions.
Submerged in the fountain pool, her hand is very brown against the white of the marble. She wriggles her fingers, imagining her hand is a sea creature, and then lifts it out and up to the sun.
Opening and closing her fingers against the glare, Alita marvels at the beauty of the water droplets running like mercury along her skin.
A muffled scream turns her blood to ice.
Her eyes dart towards a partially shuttered window across the courtyard.
Did the scream come from there? Mama said on no account must she go near the big house.
She runs to the window anyway, adrenaline fuelling her steps.
The house dominates her tiny frame. It is white, cool and as huge as a snow-covered mountainside. Alita needs to see inside the shuttered room but the window is just too high.
“No, please, sir, not again!”
She is sure that the voice is her mother’s, though it has the same muffled quality as the scream.
Is Mama being hurt?
A twisted olive tree near the window provides a prickly ladder and, balanced precariously, Alita peers through the shutters.
When her eyes adjust to the dim light, she sees a large bedroom, and on the bed is a man sitting astride her mama, he is tearing at the buttons on her blouse and holding his other hand over her mouth. She is crying and trying to push him off, but he is too strong. Alita feels angry and hot. She cannot see his face as he has his back to her, but she can hear him.
“Shut up, you little whore, just remember I pay you, and a good pay check it is too.”
He has undone the blouse now and is pulling down her mama’s bra straps. He slaps her face when she bites his hand.
“You just lie still if you know what’s good for you, bitch!” says the man, raising his fist.
“Please, sir, why now, after all this time?” her mama is asking, lying still as he has ordered.
“Because I can, Liliana, because I can!” the man shouts, pulling up her skirt.
Alita is scared and confused but doesn’t care if she gets into trouble for being near the house. She pulls open the shutter and screams out.
“Leave my Mama alone!”
Twenty-three years into the future, Alita the woman echoes these words, crying out in her sleep.
The man leaps from the bed and pulls Alita the child into the room; he pinches her chin hard between his finger and thumb and turns her face upwards. It hurts so much but she won’t let him see that it does. She flails at him with small fists.
Alita the woman mirrors the action, punching air as the dawn light seeps through the curtains.
“What have we here then?” the man chuckles with cold humor.
She can’t see him clearly. He has pulled the shutter inwards, hiding himself behind it. Through the slats in the shutter, his face is alternately lined with shade and sunlight. The little she can see tells her that he is white. He smells of tobacco and liquor.
“Let her go, please! I know I shouldn’t have brought her to work but I had nobody to watch her today,” her mama cries, pulling her blouse together and hurrying over.
“My Mama usually has her but she’s ill today and...”
“Shut up, Liliana! You know I won’t allow children of workers here,” the man interrupts. “You people have too many little maggots crawling about the place, won’t be long before there’s no white folks left!”
“I’ll take her now, sir, you don’t have to pay me for today,” her mama says, grasping her hand.
The man continues to hold Alita’s chin, turning her face to the sunlight.
“Mind you, Liliana; this one’s a very pretty little maggot…blue eyes, quite unusual. In fact I’d quite like her to come and work for me in a few years, I’m sure she’d be very useful.”
“Let her go, you son of a bitch!” her mama cries slapping his hand away. She picks Alita up and runs down a wide marble staircase out into the glare of the afternoon.
The man runs after them but stops at the top of the steps. Alita can hear him shouting as she buries her tear-stained face in her mama’s neck.
“You’re fired, Liliana…do you hear me!”
“I quit already, do you hear me!” Her mama shouts back. She sets Alita down, and together they run down a long gravel drive away from the big house.
1
Another shift over, Dr. Ramirez snapped off her rubber gloves and shrugged out of her white coat. She needed a shower, food and rest. Sleep deprivation cast shadows underneath her dark lashes and weariness oozed from every pore.
Ramirez rubbed her eyes, yawned and loosed her raven hair from a tortoiseshell hairclip. From her locker she took black jeans, a red blouse and trainers. Pulling on the jeans she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Damn, I look more like fifty than thirty this evening! She wondered how the older staff coped with the workload if she felt like this. Never mind, another half hour and she’d be tucked up in bed.
The changing room door flew open as she tied up her trainers. Senior nurse Caldwell, forty, flustered, and pink stepped in.
“Oh, thank goodness I caught you, Dr. Ramirez, sorry, but we need you for a while longer. Dr. Gregory’s been called away to an emergency and we need you to assess an assault victim just come in.”
“What?” Ramirez said, feeling her stomach thump to basement level. “Is there no one else?”
Caldwell stuck out her chin. “I wouldn’t ask you if there was. The victim’s a fifteen year old girl; she’s in pretty bad shape.”
The girl looked more like ten than fifteen as she lay lifeless motionless on the gurney. She was Hispanic, short, slight of build, her dark hair hanging in a limp braid. Her breath rasped on the intake and rattled on the out. A tear, slipping from the corner of her eye, traced a bloody path through a livid wound swelling on the left side of her face.
The other eye was prizefighter blue and sealed shut, her top lip matched her face.
Dr. Ramirez took a deep breath and assessed her quickly. The girl moaned as the doctor's fingers probed, though she took the utmost care to be gentle. As well as obvious bruising and a sprained wrist she suspected a fractured rib.
“What’s the story?” Ramirez asked the officer who’d accompanied the paramedics that brought her in.
“Not sure, Doc. We got an anonymous call to say that someone just saw a girl collapse on the sidewalk. No ID, she understands English, but she won’t tell us her name.”
Ramirez leaned close to the girl. “What’s your name, honey?”
Another tear escaped but she said nothing.
Ramirez tried again ¿Cómo te llamas cielo?
The girl swallowed and looked into her eyes. “Marissa,” she whispered. Even this small action ripped open the split in her top lip, blood trickled into her mouth.
“Marissa? What a pretty name. Just lie still now.”
An hour later, Dr. Ramirez sank into her comfy office chair by the window. She was utterly exhausted now. She thought about the girl she’d just attended, and closed her eyes against the sadness welling behind them. Her eyes had seen too many Hispanic children and teenagers needing her attention over the years. All had carried with them silent tales of poverty, hopelessness and despair. This most recent one, Marissa, had been raped as well as beaten.
She walked over to the water cooler and filled a plastic cup. Through her tenth-floor window the purple shades of evening were creeping over the city. Houston could be really beautiful at this time of day. The retiring Texan sun painted subtle hues of orange, yellow and red along the tips and edges of stone and aluminum.
Sand coloured skyscrapers, reflected in the stark glass of the Wells Fargo building, stretched their fun house images to the sky.
Ramirez sipped her water and even though she was almost asleep, marvelled at the scene. This was the Houston skyline. Monoliths to the modern, sprinkled with the dust of the past swept in from the plains.
Something about the soft light playing over the white walls of a smaller building to her left suddenly triggered unwelcome images. The intoxicating smell of olives filled her senses, and images of a woman long ago in a big house, frightened, ashamed and dominated, blocked out the skyline.
The memories punched hard in the gut, and Ramirez stepped back under the impact. Images of a young child, small, terrified and powerless, her face cruelly pinched between the finger and thumb of a strong hand, forced their way into her mind. Then insidiously, the vile source of these terrifying images passed briefly in front of Ramirez’ eyes too – he went by the name of Robson Cutter.
She blinked rapidly, trying to force the unwelcome images from her head, and turned to the door; she needed to get out, she needed to go home.
As she took a step forward, the floor seemed to rise under her feet. Her face drained of color and she swayed from side to side. Quickly, she grabbed the desk to stop herself from falling.
Ramirez leaned on the desk, closed her eyes and tried to take slow calming breaths. Her whole body shook as waves of nausea crashed against her stomach walls. She reasoned the cause was the eighteen-hour stint, and the emotion involved with the poor girl she’d attended. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
In a cold sweat, her stomach churning painfully, she grabbed her bag and ran out into the corridor. Dashing for the locker room, she made it to the cubicle where she dropped to her knees and vomited. As she did, the face of Robson Cutter grinned in her head.
Shaking from head to toe, she flushed the toilet and then ran water into a basin. The water felt good as she splashed her face but it couldn’t wash away the memory of that name.
When she thought of Cutter she saw hatred and misery. In her mind her mother’s face merged with Marissa’s – just another poor vulnerable young woman.
She patted her face dry with a paper towel and regarded her haunted expression in the mirror. Dr. Alita Ramirez gritted her teeth and vowed that one day; somehow, she’d avenge her mother and wipe that grin permanently off Cutter’s face.
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
Thursday, 29 December 2011
My first novel is to be published!
I have fantastic news! I am to have my novel Righteous Exposure published in e-book form by Crooked Cat Publishing in late February 2012!
They are an innovative new company and have exciting ideas for bringing new authors and great stories to the public. I signed my contract on Boxing day, and you can imagine that it made my Christmas!
I will be bringing you more exciting news about the release date as soon as I know. So exciting isn't it?
Click here to find out more about Crooked Cat Publishing, my novel and submission guidelines.
http://crookedcatpublishing.com/
Monday, 31 October 2011
The Little Big Man
The man swaggered.
He never walked or ambled like other folk, swaggering was his thing. On top of the swagger, a puffed up chest proudly thrusted. The physical stance and presence of the man silently challenged all who crossed his path.
He puffed and preened, insinuated his importance into very air that they breathed, until each person he chanced to meet felt in awe of him. These lesser folk would whisper about his mightiness in hushed tones. Some fled from his long shadow before they could be exposed as naked, unworthy, feeble...envious.
One day the man swaggered past a small child playing in a cool clear stream. The child laughed and splashed the man's expensive shiny shoes.
The man puffed out his chest, folded his brow into a furrow and wagged a fat finger at the child. "Don't you know who I am?," he said.
"Umm, people call you 'The Big Man', why don't you come and play in the stream with me, it's fun!" giggled the child.
"I am too important to play in streams, and you have wet my shoes," the man bellowed.
The child laughed again and the man felt his heart lift and fill with the simple joy of a long forgotten childhood. The child's laughter insinuated itself into the very air that the man breathed. A tickle of laughter bubbled in the pit of the puffed up chest, but the man clapped his hand over his mouth to suppress it. It would never do to be seen laughing in public. He had an image to uphold.
The man's wet feet marched him home, and once inside, he barricaded the door with every available stick of furniture. Red faced and sweating, he caught a glimpse of a little man across the hallway. What was this man doing in his house?
Swaggering forward, he was annoyed to see the little man copy his movement. How dare the impudent little wretch!
The man rolled up his sleeves, puffed out his chest and prepared to strike the little man hard across the face. The little man mirrored his every action and all of a sudden it became horribly clear that the little man was in fact his own reflection in the looking glass.
But how could this be? Everyone knew he was the big man, a man of swagger and puff, a man of stature. The man raised a trembling hand to his brow and feared his life of importance was over. "It was that child, that damned child!" he wailed aloud.
Clawing aside the barricade, he opened the door and raced back to the stream. The child had gone...but the laughter remained. It whispered in his ears, tugged at his heart strings and encouraged the tickle of laughter in his puffed up chest to swell, grow and erupt from his mouth like a shower of diamonds. The man kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks and splashed into the stream.
People from miles around heard his laughter on the breeze and in the very air they breathed. Carried on wings of joy, they ran to join him in the cool clear stream.
And from that day forward, they no longer whispered in hushed tones, or ran from the man's shadow. Instead, they lived with him as equals and they all grew strong and tall.
The little man was was at last truly big. He and all the folks often laughed and splashed in the stream...and the child led them.
He never walked or ambled like other folk, swaggering was his thing. On top of the swagger, a puffed up chest proudly thrusted. The physical stance and presence of the man silently challenged all who crossed his path.
He puffed and preened, insinuated his importance into very air that they breathed, until each person he chanced to meet felt in awe of him. These lesser folk would whisper about his mightiness in hushed tones. Some fled from his long shadow before they could be exposed as naked, unworthy, feeble...envious.
One day the man swaggered past a small child playing in a cool clear stream. The child laughed and splashed the man's expensive shiny shoes.
The man puffed out his chest, folded his brow into a furrow and wagged a fat finger at the child. "Don't you know who I am?," he said.
"Umm, people call you 'The Big Man', why don't you come and play in the stream with me, it's fun!" giggled the child.
"I am too important to play in streams, and you have wet my shoes," the man bellowed.
The child laughed again and the man felt his heart lift and fill with the simple joy of a long forgotten childhood. The child's laughter insinuated itself into the very air that the man breathed. A tickle of laughter bubbled in the pit of the puffed up chest, but the man clapped his hand over his mouth to suppress it. It would never do to be seen laughing in public. He had an image to uphold.
The man's wet feet marched him home, and once inside, he barricaded the door with every available stick of furniture. Red faced and sweating, he caught a glimpse of a little man across the hallway. What was this man doing in his house?
Swaggering forward, he was annoyed to see the little man copy his movement. How dare the impudent little wretch!
The man rolled up his sleeves, puffed out his chest and prepared to strike the little man hard across the face. The little man mirrored his every action and all of a sudden it became horribly clear that the little man was in fact his own reflection in the looking glass.
But how could this be? Everyone knew he was the big man, a man of swagger and puff, a man of stature. The man raised a trembling hand to his brow and feared his life of importance was over. "It was that child, that damned child!" he wailed aloud.
Clawing aside the barricade, he opened the door and raced back to the stream. The child had gone...but the laughter remained. It whispered in his ears, tugged at his heart strings and encouraged the tickle of laughter in his puffed up chest to swell, grow and erupt from his mouth like a shower of diamonds. The man kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks and splashed into the stream.
People from miles around heard his laughter on the breeze and in the very air they breathed. Carried on wings of joy, they ran to join him in the cool clear stream.
And from that day forward, they no longer whispered in hushed tones, or ran from the man's shadow. Instead, they lived with him as equals and they all grew strong and tall.
The little man was was at last truly big. He and all the folks often laughed and splashed in the stream...and the child led them.
Sunday, 18 September 2011
Trapped
I tell myself it’s just a clock like any other.
A machine made to mark time.
A helpful reminder of minutes and hours,
slipping past, to rise and shine –
Carpe diem.
Whispering through the night, smiling in the dark
rubbing its hands at the thought of 6:am.
Thought becomes reality, and summoning all powers of evil
it unleashes a BANSHEE WAIL !
A jackbooted marching assault on silence and senses.
Viciously shaking me awake...GET UP!
GET UP! NOW! WORK! WORK! NOW! WORK!
GET UP! GET UP! WORK!
WORK crushes my spirit long before it has
wings to fly.
At time’s inception it’s dead in
the water.
Trapped like a cog in the wheel
I roll from slumber searching desperately
for my ship to come in - unfurled freedom upon its mast.
When it does, I’ll sail away.
A machine made to mark time.
A helpful reminder of minutes and hours,
slipping past, to rise and shine –
Carpe diem.
Whispering through the night, smiling in the dark
rubbing its hands at the thought of 6:am.
Thought becomes reality, and summoning all powers of evil
it unleashes a BANSHEE WAIL !
A jackbooted marching assault on silence and senses.
Viciously shaking me awake...GET UP!
GET UP! NOW! WORK! WORK! NOW! WORK!
GET UP! GET UP! WORK!
WORK crushes my spirit long before it has
wings to fly.
At time’s inception it’s dead in
the water.
Trapped like a cog in the wheel
I roll from slumber searching desperately
for my ship to come in - unfurled freedom upon its mast.
When it does, I’ll sail away.
Saturday, 6 August 2011
Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree
If time were compressed into a sphere the size of a golf ball and whacked with a 5-iron, would it actually fly? Would it rocket across the universe, ricochet off stars; get tangled in String Theory and collapse into a black hole-in-one?
Recently, her mind mimicked a circus. Thoughts tumbled like acrobats, cart-wheeling, clambering over obstacles of reason and logic, and in finale, presented human pyramids of surrealism.
Time...there was never enough of it.
Dew covered wellingtons. She stopped in dappled sunshine, looked up. Fluttering leaves, interlacing branches, and beyond the highest canopies - blue sky. She knelt, moisture seeping through jeans. Pressing a palm to moss, she held and released. Her handprint remained, fleetingly.
Death left nothing behind except memories. There had to be more to human existence. Were we just handprints in moss?
A carpet of bluebells nodded affirmation.
A deep breath. Inhaling wisps of toadstool, hints of fern, she stood and followed the path to the meadow. The farmhouse, brown against multitudes of green, seemed alien now, yet it was home.
Nearing the orchard, a memory of a long ago spring soothed her troubled mind. In this spot, he’d enveloped her in strong arms and softly sang,
“Don’t sit under the apple tree...”
She plucked a sprig of blossom, leaned against the tree. Soon blossom would fall and apples ripen. Apples would rot, pips would grow into trees, and once again lovers would sit under them. Perhaps some would even sing softly on hushed spring nights.
She smiled. Her lips caressed the blossom.
Spring was a time for hope - the bluebells were wrong.
Recently, her mind mimicked a circus. Thoughts tumbled like acrobats, cart-wheeling, clambering over obstacles of reason and logic, and in finale, presented human pyramids of surrealism.
Time...there was never enough of it.
Dew covered wellingtons. She stopped in dappled sunshine, looked up. Fluttering leaves, interlacing branches, and beyond the highest canopies - blue sky. She knelt, moisture seeping through jeans. Pressing a palm to moss, she held and released. Her handprint remained, fleetingly.
Death left nothing behind except memories. There had to be more to human existence. Were we just handprints in moss?
A carpet of bluebells nodded affirmation.
A deep breath. Inhaling wisps of toadstool, hints of fern, she stood and followed the path to the meadow. The farmhouse, brown against multitudes of green, seemed alien now, yet it was home.
Nearing the orchard, a memory of a long ago spring soothed her troubled mind. In this spot, he’d enveloped her in strong arms and softly sang,
“Don’t sit under the apple tree...”
She plucked a sprig of blossom, leaned against the tree. Soon blossom would fall and apples ripen. Apples would rot, pips would grow into trees, and once again lovers would sit under them. Perhaps some would even sing softly on hushed spring nights.
She smiled. Her lips caressed the blossom.
Spring was a time for hope - the bluebells were wrong.
Friday, 1 July 2011
An End to the Bull
Tonight, under the light of a million stars, she would put an end to the lies. Once her reason for being, he was now a weight around her neck, draining, wounding, dragging her earthbound.
Too often she allowed the bull to sweeten the pill of bitter excuses. He must have thousands packed away in his cold little heart, and when required, there they’d be, ready. Excuses R Us – just add water - unpack and peddle.
Working late, car broke down, conference away, the wrong kind of air on the tracks. Bull, bull, BULL!
Only she could put an end to it, but what final barb?
His eyes twinkle like the stars, but she must take him by the horns - cast him to dust.
“I want an end to the bull; you tear my heart out, taunt me, trample my love beneath your hooves of infidelity.”
He snorts, paws the earth. She sees more excuses, bitter wounds ready to tumble from his lips. She smiles, lifts her eyes to his, thrusts her sword between his horns, a twist for good measure.“I don't love you anymore.”
He stumbles, falls, dies in the dust.
Too often she allowed the bull to sweeten the pill of bitter excuses. He must have thousands packed away in his cold little heart, and when required, there they’d be, ready. Excuses R Us – just add water - unpack and peddle.
Working late, car broke down, conference away, the wrong kind of air on the tracks. Bull, bull, BULL!
Only she could put an end to it, but what final barb?
His eyes twinkle like the stars, but she must take him by the horns - cast him to dust.
“I want an end to the bull; you tear my heart out, taunt me, trample my love beneath your hooves of infidelity.”
He snorts, paws the earth. She sees more excuses, bitter wounds ready to tumble from his lips. She smiles, lifts her eyes to his, thrusts her sword between his horns, a twist for good measure.“I don't love you anymore.”
He stumbles, falls, dies in the dust.
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Meet Ronan
Sorry I haven't posted for sooooo long but I have been working on a new novel and spending lots of time with the young man in the photo.
As you can see, Ronan is the most beautiful child in the history of the universe. He is of course my grandson, born on the 23rd of February this year.
When my daughter was pregnant with him, a friend on Twitter, Sandra,(@sixtiesdancer) told me that I would fall instantly love with him/her, when he/she was born. I thought hmm, of course I was really looking forward to meeting the new baby, but instant love? She was right. I was lucky enough to be there at the birth and saw him minutes later. He is so lovely, adorable, intelligent, curious, sweet...in short, perfect.
Every time I see him he's changed and at just over four months, he's already losing the baby look. I am so lucky to live close by and see him grow and develop into a little boy, with his own personality and the rest of his life ahead of him. I'm sure we will all share many happy days with Ronan.
This brings me to a project I am involved with. I have written a story which is part of an anthology, Hipp-O-Dee-Doo-Dah to raise money for Children's Hospices UK. (Click on the link on the top left of the blog for more information.)
There are lots of children in the UK who are not as fortunate as my grandson. These children and their families need our help and support in order for them to get the facilities they need.
Children's Hospices UK, relies on charity for its survival, which I personally think is scandalous.Cuts are being made in public services and poorly children have to rely on charity, while Tomahawk missiles fired in Libya and elsewhere cost £500,000 each. Storm Shadows - another type of missile cost £800,000 each. Isn't there something wrong here? Money for death can always be found, while money for life is apparently non-existent.
Once again, like so many other causes, it's left down to people like you and me to make a difference. The anthology has loads of great uplifting stories which would entertain children of junior school age. If you feel you could help in a small way by buying this anthology I, and the children would be very grateful.
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