I have always been hesitant about blowing my own trumpet when it comes to my writing.
When I was a professional hairdresser I never really had to advertise, my adverts walked around for me, and fortunately my work appealed to enough women that I was usually busy most days. Word of mouth being the best advert there is I believe.
When Jeremy Clarkson of Top Gear says how wonderful a particular car is you can bet the manufacturer is jumping for joy. And when he says something uncomplimentary you can bet they are cringing, phoning their lawyers with a view to sue or phoning the factory demanding modifications!
But let’s be honest, how often do you see adverts for books? Not that often I suspect and I’ve certainly never seen one on the telly.
I am truly very fortunate and a bit bemused to tell the truth that of the people that have read my published work they have only said good things. Some even made the time and effort to post their compliments on my publisher’s website.
The excerpt below is a short piece that was published last year in a short story compilation titled Mercury Silver.
Click on the picture on the sidebar and follow the link.
There. That’s as much as I can muster for blowing my trumpet. I much prefer a quieter instrument, like a flute!
As always,thanks to P’kaboo
The Sword in the Stone.
This is a tale of heroes. Not modern day heroes. You know? Ones that wear pink or yellow shirts and tight pants cry “Coooeee!” as they arrive at your front door , TV camera crew in tow and a bottle of the most powerful bog cleaner in the world, right at the exact moment you were going to throw a wobbly because the toilet is blocked.
‘Oh, my heroes!’ you squeal.
No. Not this type.
Neither are they the type to scale mountains, cross the seven seas
merely to leave a double-decker box of dark chocolates on your bedside table.
If they were this type of hero it would be a safe bet they would have already opened the box and scoffed the second layer.
So, alas once again, no.
And these heroes are not the type to wear their underpants over their trousers, either.
Although, to be truthful one of them wore his underpants on his head for a while. These days, he is much more circumspect when around strong liquor. Or at least liquor he cannot pronounce the name of.
These heroes go way back. Back along the mists of time. Before bog-cleaners, pink shirts, and boxes of chocolates. Back before the Days of Yore, Our day, My day and Them Were The Days. In fact, back before Days of Our Lives. Yes, this tale is that old.
So, dear reader, envisage the scene I am about to unfold.
In a clearing in a forest a short distance from what appears to be a rocky outcrop, lies a huge boulder. Pale morning sunlight has just begun to penetrate the canopy. Birds are a-twitter; small noses are poking out of burrows or from behind thickets. Flowers are flowering, buds are budding and leaves are… staying where they are.
Somewhere in the distance can be heard the faint sounds of singing. You catch a snatch of tune. To your untrained ear it sounds like, ‘Hi Ho, something or other.’ Was that a scream? Did you hear a cry of “Aaaargh”? Could it be that a Hi Ho-er missed their footing and fell down a mineshaft? Alas, we will never know.
There is a crunch of leaves as one of our heroes’ steps from behind the boulder.
This is Reg the Dra. Reg is a fearsome sight, guaranteed to strike fear into the hearts of four-year-olds everywhere. In poor light.
To read the rest follow the link below….