LJH

Whenever I set down to write I also wonder how the bloody hell are the pieces going to fit together, this was no exception. I like to write short chapters, but the important thing is that they need to connect to the bigger picture. Inh this tale it's all about action and reaction and I'm gklad you like the pacing...thanks for the read and the comments...really appreciated...

Mrs. Minnaar met Michael and Charlie as they entered the tent and put a wry smile on her face. “A man was here, looking for you.” Michael hesitated before answering. “Sheffield.” He whispered. Mrs. Minnaar was curious. “Are you boys in trouble?” Michael told her about Peter Sheffield’s endless harassment of them. “Were two younger gentlemen with him?” He asked. “He was alone.” She remarked, then “O! Magtig..." “What is it?” Michael asked. Her f

Peter arrived on horseback at Mrs. Minnaar’s boarding house, a day later. Dark rings circled eyes that darted suspiciously about as he enquired if two young Englishman had passed this way. “Several hundred men live here. You surely cannot expect me to remember everyone.” Mrs Minnaar responded with hands on her hips. “Perhaps this will jolt your memory," he dangled a small leather pouch of coins before her. She stared at him for a long, incredulous moment before chastisi

Michael and Charlie ascended the randjie slowly to the summit and over. Before them, lay a valley of semi-parched pans, hot earth, tents, wagons and people. Within half an hour they reached the first tents with a board that said, “Mrs. Minnaar’s Boarding House”. Inside, groups of tardy, unshaven men laughed, cried, smiled, and got drunk on mampoer and malt beer. Each man had a moustache or a beard or both. Some wore hats and some wore guns. Some laughed the blues away and others had

The sun shone brighter than he had seen before and the sky had turned a deep blue. A wagon spanned the entire track ahead of him. Gordon Artkinson had galloped through the night after overcoming Peter. He had stood by and watched his friend die beneath the butt of a rifle. He could have done something…anything. He skimmed the side of the wagon and shouted at the couple at the top of his voice, “Is this the road to the gold fields?” The man shouted back it was. The woman next to him was

Peter Sheffield was finally alone. The trek into Potchefstroom was long, hard, and miserable. In the quiet saloon beside the hotel, he sat down to drown his memories of the last few days. Top of the list was guilt, and he organised a neat alibi about his missing friends. He would say John and Gordon had gone their own way, to Barbeton. He would say that he did not want Barbeton gold, but Rand gold. He would not say he had killed John Mansfield. Besides, it was self-defense.

John, on horseback, took the rear flank and Gordon was made to lead the horses on foot. Peter rotated the horses daily to preserve their strength and energy. But riding on the wagon was a luxury compared to John’s numb bum, exhausted thighs and strain in the neck and shoulders. And compared with Gordon’s blisters, riding on the wagon was a holiday. Their complaints fell on deaf ears. And at night Peter insisted that John join him in the wagon, while Gordon fell asleep under the stars, listeni

Gordon walked to the edge of the Kimberley hole, a gigantic, man made yawn in the earth. Ropes and pulleys, platforms and stairways, men crawling like ants in search of elusive diamonds. The matrix of cables and gears stretched from bottom to top, crisscrossing like strands in a spider’s silken web. Kimberley was a town of fortune seekers and millionaires who had plundered the earth for her diamonds. In an eighteen eighty report, the town had produced diamonds to the value of a $100,000 a week

Peter sighed as he sank into a tub of warm foaming water. “It has been a rough, long journey. But we have done well chapsies. We have certainly been brave, rescuing our friends from a thorough thrashing.” “But Michael is not convinced of your contract’s integrity.” Gordon Atkinson said, puffing away at a cigar in his tub. “A number of minor changes and we will have him in our full confidence once again. In the meantime, we shall consider ourselves partners and continue as s

Main hotel, host to many travelers and adventurers, was a welcome hiatus from a veldt that was foreign and wicked. The rooms were small with a single bed covered in white sheets. Dark red wallpaper adorned the walls and a chipboard wardrobe stood sentry beside a well-used basin, rimmed brown from overuse. Charlie drew open the curtains and allowed the sun to shine over Michael’s sleeping body. Michael muttered, “…I had gold in my hands. Then suddenly it…it turned to dust and slipped aw

Excercise - STYLE Make a list of your favo authors and complete this questionnaire for each. What are the titles of their books? (mention only three) Male or female? Are the protagonists' male or female? How long are their books? Is there a recurring plot or theme that runs thru all of them? What genre do they write? Where are their novels set? Which era are they set in? Are their books written in 1, 2 or 3rd person? Is character or action more prominent in their novels? Do they use more dialogue or more description? ...It would be endless to mention the defects of style among us. I shall therefore say nothing of the mean and paltry, much less of the slovenly and indecent. Two things I will warn you against, the first is the frequency of flat, unnessary epithets; and the other is, the folly of using old, threadbare phrases which...are neaseous to rational hearers, and will seldom express your meaning as well as your own natural words... Jonathan Swift Style Okay, be sure to use brevity and kick out verbosity. Nouns and verbs are the workhorses, the Clydesdales of writing...most other words are inferior. Denounce modifiers, these are leeches that suck at the pond of prose. Defend every adverb used. You may accuse me of being an adverb Nazi, but really I'm worse... This is from Nancy Kress, a columnist, and she explains that relying on modifiers was like attending a function donning a tiara, 16 pairs of earrings, four necklaces, eight rings, a bangle of bracelets and an assortment of toe rings. But times have changed haven't they? and with the streets swarming with bejewelled navels, face jewellery and head to toe tattoos, these examples about over accessorizing might not have the impact it once had. Voice is another key to style. Voice is the sound of our personality on the opage. Now add layers of music to your writing, those grace notes such as metaphor, repetition and alliteration that make the words linger and resonate. When you self edit, circle all those places that tell instead of show. In the end, understand that writing always comes back to story. A survey by the University of Wisconsin revealed that newspaper readers prefer narrative journalism. Narrative, or story, is what writing boils down to. No matter if you're writing an essay, memoir, poem, short story or article. People want to read about people. They're looking for a what next or once there was structure. We are descended from ancestors who huddled around a fire to keep the night sounds, the cold and the beasts away. And when they gathered through the centuries, they told stories to take their mind off the cold, to understand how the stars decorated the night sky or how the rivers formed. They wanted answers for why people are sometimes cruel, why innocents suffer. Stories. The stuff of life. So look hard at your writing. Search for the story in your work, for the why, the what next. Don't write to emote orlecture. Draw nearer. feel the flame. Introduce a mystery you can unravel, or subject a real person or character to jeopardy and resolve it. introduce a problem and its solutions. Show how life works by using examples we recognise and the people living them. Make us care, or better yet, worry. Wrap it up, not with a bow but with an ending that casts a final look backwards, or with someone talking or thinking or weeping, so we the readers, cannot forget. STYLE ERRORS OCCUR WHEN: The writing is forced and protracted. Spelling and grammar doesn't feel right, the reader has to wade through adverbs, adjectives, qualifiers, fancy words and unorthodox spelling. The writing is archaic, arty or minimalist. The author preaches There is less about the story and more about the construction. Repetitive sentence structure occurs. The reader feels as if he's being used as a sounding board for the author's pretensions to literary greatness The reader feels that the author is judging the characters. Your reader is not doing jury duty. he is at best the lawyer for the defence or the prosecution. :wacko:

Thank you AndyBut I beg to differ. Yours is far better and greater than the sum of this entire first coming out novel. I am working on the cheesy bits, to make them realistic and believable. In fact, I have changed the ending again! Also, I have begun adding in a triad character, by triad I mean now there is Alex, Keegs and Conrad and part of the story now involves the question, who does Keegs fall for...well, the ending says it all, it's obviosuly Alex. By adding a new character, I can increase the word count by at least ten thousand words cos at the moment the novel stands at 45000 words odd. As for the story becoming a movie...well, it's a huge dream and yes, the directror is interested, but the MS must go through the production houses committee and if all agree, then sponsors must be found. So, it's still quite a lengthy process but the excitement is still there...Thanks for reading this, and thanks for all your support. Hugs

These poems, save for one, are all dedicated to the memory of the one true love of my life who committed suicide at the age of 24. Rodney, may your soul rest in peace, and I know someday we will meet again...

Dark waves of trepidation lick around shores of indecision and the lament of the lost seagull in the undulating thermals of loneliness echo in my heart. The shipwreck of a your love lies broken on rocky ground a mute testimony to my hopes and dreams point accusingly at the slowly dawning sky. The breeze of the future caresses my emotionally stained face as I turn my back finally on the past and embrace the warm sunshine of destiny, Still brightly gold.

What happened? We were so happy in the beginning in each other's presence, whispering the words that lovers through the ages have taught us. What happened? Our private universe disintigrated into empty words and hollow promises into a hell of hurt and bitterness and im thinking was our love jusy a cheap meaningless interlude in life What happened? Love was freely given and received but trashed underfoot our passions and emotions and the joy of sharing no mo

The flickering fire light loses its warmth for you are not there to share its solace with me Dogs and cats are put to bed and as I walk towards our room shadows mock my loneliness Sheets crisp and clean embrace me as a shroud and in a tomb of longing I reach out for you There is only emptiness to remind me of your laughing presence and tears glisten on my cheeks In the small lonely hours I toss and turn murmur your name and pray that God will guide you

My Love I loved you with all my heart and soul, love, that precious, most fragile gift from God that we once shared. And yet your anguish and unhappiness from life's moral boundaries could not allow you to be mine. I didn't promise you a rose garden and we knew there would be tears and loneliness in hard times Your parting shattered all my dreams, all my hopes and life to me is an endless journey of meaningless pain... You left me for a greater man. I know who he

Gay detective Rain de Waal emerges from a ten year coma...into a world of computers and cell phones and murder.

The silence broke. 'You failed.' The Voice had made it clear, in their previous meeting, that failure was the mark of a loser. His organisation employed winners. Step-up people who never declined a mission, and walk-the-talk people who benefited from the Voice's generosity on a job well done. In this city, losers had it tough, and winners made their mark. He had boasted on many occasions that he had contacts in high places. He had contacts in low places too. Beside the stranger, two of those

Granite splashed the air. Granite dropped to the ground. Granite collected the wind in its bowels and sang through the tallest snow capped peaks. A cloud below the cliffs rippled out forever. The chopper came in on a patch of ground behind the main house. Two medics dressed in white dustcoats alighted, while inside, another passed them a stretcher and gently lifted Rain out of the chopper. The estate had been looked after by Josiah, a trusted farm hand and his young family who liv

“He’s awake.” A man’s voice echoed in the cavern of the deserted Boiler Building. Glass from the shattered windows, and fist sized bombs of concrete where the walls had been removed, lay scattered across the floors, thickened with rat shit. The municipality had erected steel girders in strategic positions to save the building from collapse. “I’ve waited a long time for him to wake up. You are to bring him to me. If he doesn’t come of his own free will, then you will make it happen. No kill

Dr. Colin Bold fell out of bed the morning Princess Diana died. Cried with joy the day the Berlin Wall fell. Laughed with Nelson Mandela during his famous walk of freedom, and cried out in horror when the Twin World Trade Towers fell. Today would turn out to be the most memorable of all. Colin’s office stood at the end of a long, bright corridor. Black and white pictures of Darwin and Curie hung on the cream walls. A pair of black pyramid lamps stood beside a four-tiered bookshelf, and the

What happens when you think you've found the man of your dreams, only to find out much later that all is not well with the choice you've made?

At the start of the weekend I had made it quite clear to Roland that he was not to come near me. Not due to any contagious medical condition, nor, for that matter, a lack of affection. I loved him, madly. He stared at me in horror and I knew I had said it wrong. It came out as an abrupt declaration grounded in frustration. It was all business. A group of bright, get-rich-quick business men, required our agency to broadcast a simple ‘people’s message’, and that message needed to be conveyed in a

STories to be devoured. A soldier's outlook on life changes in one blistering moment...A friend rejects homosexuality...An Afghan woman's dash for freedom...A son steals ten bucks...