GREAT INSPIRATION

A writer's legacy

Submitted by Suraya Dewing on Wednesday 28 May 2014

Whenever a group gathers, the value of their collective purpose is multiplied many times and the capacity to do good is increased manifold.

 So it is important to join those groups that gather to educate, inform, and contribute. This was the case last weekend when over 50,000 people gathered in Auckland to listen to 150 global writers.

 They came from disciplines across all sectors…creative, mathematics, history, theology, physics, art and entrepreneurship. For example Pulitzer prize winning author, Alice Walker was there as was this year’s Booker Award winner, Eleanor Catton.

 What struck me about all these people was their humility and willingness to share insights with those who might aspire to follow in their footsteps. There is plenty of room in this world for high aspirations. The underlying message was, ‘you will join us if you work hard'. Where you start is irrelevant.  Sir Ray Avery began his journey as a runaway orphan living under a bridge in England. Sandi Toksvig is the daughter of  high achieving parents. Her father worked as the Danish foreign correspondent in New York.

 My one regret was I didn’t get to see Alice Walker whose writing and fearless work has inspired me ever since her ground breaking novel, ‘ The Colour Purple’ came out.

 These writers have proven anything is possible. They the ones to hold up as role models as their success can be ours.

 French mathematician Jacques Roubaud, at 85 years old is a European academic statesman with a huge career as a professor of mathematics and poetry.

 Although author of Mathematics (a novel) he is also a practitioner of the ‘constrained writing technique’. When he recited the poem below the inflections of his voice filled the room with ironic meaning. It was marvellous.

LIFE: SONNET

    000000 0000 01

    011010 111 001

    101011 101 001

    110011 0011 01 ….

And on it goes.

 I recall the twinkle in his eye and hear the inflections of his voice as I read it. And the French accent takes a lot of beating.

That was the beginning of what became the most wonderful two days in a long time. Jim Ali Khalili, a world leader in science was asked ‘when will the world end’. This sent a chuckle through the auditorium and set him up to debate the universe, black holes, the big bang theory and the concept of time.  Holding his hand up he said that his watch now ran at a fraction of a second slower than it had when he had his hand down. The further we move away from the centre of gravity the slower time goes….only by tiny fractions but time has to be adjusted on satellites to accommodate this change so that signals arrive back on earth within the right time frame.

 An hour with Danish/British writer, comedian and broadcaster, Sandi Toskvig was riveting.  She was entertaining, insightful and delightful. After ditching Sean Plunkett as her chair, a kind of political statement on its own, she went on to tell us about a trip she made to Kawerau to watch a woman’s boxing match. A strong exponent of women’s rights she talked about the power of boxing to make woman feel in control and able to defend themselves .

 She had many anecdotes. The one I absolutely loved was of the moon landing when she was at NASA with her parents. She came upon a visibly upset woman and held her hand to calm her.  It turned out later she was holding Neil Armstrong’s secretary’s hand. What a memory! Eventually she left the stage so that Sean Plunkett could establish the format of chairing the session. He brought her in and set about chairing the session. Every session Sean Plunkett chaired was well managed. He allowed the guest to be the star and drew them out with short, succinct questions.

 The next day was highlighted by a debate on the Gender Divide. We learned from Sandy that women still were not well represented in the senior areas of the BBC. When Booker Award winner Eleanor Catton was asked which writers influenced her the most she answered George Eliot, Jane Austen and others from that time.  That highlighted the legacy these writers leave. Imagine influencing writers, including a Booker Award winner two and a half centuries on from when you lived? Now that is Awesome

WELCOME

I would like to welcome new readers from China, India, and Lithuania to the blog. We are becoming a truly international fellowship of writers and readers. I thank you all for your continued support. If you have something you wish to post please E mail me ray@raystoneauthor.com  thank you.

Deep Water - Chapter 7 written by Mat Clarke

Mat Clarke is one of the original 'Minters' and here is chapter 7 from 'Deep Water,' a serial that became one of the most popular in the early days. Mat is still a member of The Story Mint and also runs his own writers club in Melbourne. Last year they published a book of short stories. Mat is an actor and can be seen on Australian TV in many dramas.

Another gulp of water. I gag and more water shoots into my mouth. I can’t stay up, oh god I can’t stay up. My leg hits something hard. I’m being dragged along the river floor. I can see the sky past the few inches of water above my head. I could be closer to the shore than I thought. I could stand! I wave my arms through the thick water and turn myself around and face down stream and push against the rocks below, the life jacket helps me surface. Air partially fills my lungs again. The shore is only yards away; although it’s the opposite side to where Artie has been left.

I scramble over the wet slippery obstacles until I’m back onto sun cooked rocks. Water spurts out from my stomach and I cough and shake. Everything has gone so wrong and Artie is dying. No rafts and no people are in sight but I can hear far off voices and yelling. A track leads along the river. It’s my only option. For Artie’s sake I push myself up and hobble faster than I think I should on whatever is broken in my foot. But for Artie, I have to for Artie.

‘Help! Bruce, anyone, help me, I’m over here. Hey!

My voice echoes off the walls but there is no return cry. I can hear someone screaming. Others must be hurt as well. It’s like a nightmare. It is a nightmare. Of all the stupidest trips this has to be the worst. Why couldn’t Artie just take me on a date. Why couldn’t Artie realise what I feel for him. Idiot! My hand flies to my mouth. He’s hurt and may be dead and here I am I’m cursing him. The hot sun is warm but my face is still wet. I keep crying like a pitiful child but can’t help myself. I gulp a chunk of air like it’s going to run out, sniff and try not to think of future birthdays without Artie.

The track takes a sharp turn moving away from the River. A hiss. I step back into a prickly bush. A snake the size of a cell phone is coiled and upright. It’s almost comical in its size but still scary and looks like it may just attack out of spite.

‘Help, anybody.’

My throat feels so sore. I can’t even yell out properly. I’m so useless.

But then an answer to my call and I can hear running along the path.

‘I’m here! Artie’s hurt we need to help him. Hurry.’

Then someone comes into view and stops on the other side of the small snake. He isn’t wearing the wet gear like everyone in the rafts. Instead he’s in camouflage clothes and a rifle is slung over his back. He steps forward and crushes the snake, then just stands there as if waiting for a reaction.

Mat Clarke (Australia)     copyright Mat Clarke 2012

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/deep-river

Learning to write well now a commercial necessity

Suraya Dewing is the CEO of The Story Mint. I post her latest blog here because what she has to say is important and applies to all of us, whether we are writers or readers. The Style Guide and an explanation of its use can be found at www.thestorymint.com

Submitted by Suraya Dewing on Monday 19 May 2014

I wonder if this is a universal issue.

Recently Auckland University cited a lack of literacy skills as one of the leading causes of failure at University.

As a consequence, they are raising the minimum requirements for entering. In 2009 a survey found that 25% of students lacked ‘the necessary literacy skills to succeed at University.’ That figure led them to make University entry more difficult. However, entry requirements are not as stringent as they soon will be.

There has been an improvement, but the indication is that this is not because the students have become more literate but because Auckland University has tightened its entry criteria. Now it is set to raise the benchmark again. The new rules will be introduced in 2016 which gives students plenty of time to adjust their programmes to include the required English subjects.

As a consequence of the survey findings, the University is doubling the number of English subject passes students have to have before being accepted. In particular, they will have to have some passes in grammar, sentence structure and academic composition skills.

The reasons Deputy Vice Chancellor Professor John Murrow gives for setting these criteria is that students who haven’t got some background in written skills will struggle when they get to University regardless of the area they go into. The basic written skills they are referring to are required for the sciences, engineering and business. In fact, he was saying that to perform well at University students need to be able to construct coherent sentences and paragraphs. They need to be able to present findings, arguments and reports. In short, they need to be able to write.

The Head of Careers for Western Springs College, Kay Wallace was also interviewed. She said the increased requirement would limit student’s choices and cause them great difficulty. ESOL students, in particular would be penalised. It took seven years for a student to ‘acquire full literacy’ she argued.

While she said that learning English was a process that continued throughout a student’s life, she appeared to miss the point Professor John Morrow was making. This was that students were arriving at University with a low level of writing competence which made engagement with all subjects difficult and led to a high failure rate.

The subjects that students took in preference to grammar and English composition covered topics like Health, History, and Social Studies. These gave them the necessary passes in English to get them into University. However, those passes did not prepare them for the rigour of writing essays based on strong argument, compare and contrast, as well as well-structured grammatically correct sentences and paragraphs.

It is very unfair on students to set them up to fail in this way and I am sure that was never the intention of the curriculum designers. It is far better that students are aware of a minimum standard, learn what is needed to meet it and then to enter University feeling confident and able to participate in a way that enhances their learning experience.

Some months ago I talked to my brother-in-law about the experience Chinese students have when they come to Waikato University, as I was beginning to wonder how they coped after having met some students and observed their writing skills. He said they memorised text books and that was how they got through. I found myself glazing over at the thought and a wave of admiration washed over me. My brother-in-law explained that these students didn’t understand enough English to take in what their lecturers said as the lecturers spoke too fast. They would catch a few words and fill in the gaps with what they imagined the lecturer was saying.

This week Ntec started testing the Style Guide™. They are enthusiastic supporters of it and are promoting it to their international student body. If, after hearing all this, there is one thing I want more than anything, it is that the Style Guide™ might help students to understand language structure and then give them confidence. English is the language of business. This is the reality these students face and if they want to participate in commerce then they need to know how to communicate on the same level as native English speakers regardless of whether they go back to home or stay here.

English second language

style guide writing competency

Another book from my collection. This is a really good 'How To' book that leaves no stone unturned for the serious writer who wants to get into marketing their book. From less than $3 this is really good value for money; one of those books like a dictionary - you always refer back to it.
Ray Stone



 With credit to Amazon publishing and advertising

Learn how to master Google+—the world's fastest-growing social-media service. Attract followers. Engage enchanting people. Promote your brand.

The former Chief Evangelist for Apple knows a superior product when he sees one, and he sees one in Google+. Hands down. In What the Plus!, Guy Kawasaki explains how to get started, create an enchanting profile, optimize for social searches, share posts and photos, conduct hangouts, and gain followers.

“We didn’t expect over 100 million people to join Google+ so quickly. If we had, we might have written a tutorial like this one. Lucky for us, Guy has written this wonderful introduction to Google+. Highly recommended!”

—Vic Gundotra, Senior Vice President, Social, Google

“What the Plus! is the G+ motherlode! Guy’s book will make you fall madly in love with Google+ and never look back!”

—Mari Smith, author of The New Relationship Marketing and coauthor of Facebook Marketing: An Hour a Day

“People ask me why I like Google+ better. I struggle to find the words, but Guy Kawasaki not only figured it out but shows you how to get the most out of this new social network.”

—Robert Scoble, Rackspace Videoblogger

“Brimming with tips for optimizing the Google+ experience, the author explains how to get started, find people, search by interests, manage circles (segmented relationships with family, colleagues, etc.) and streams (the flow of posts that you see), and hang out in groups for classes, press conferences, and other purposes.”

—Kirkus Reviews

PACKED WITH SCREENSHOTS THAT TAKE YOU STEP BY STEP THROUGH THE GOOGLE+ EXPERIENCE

http://www.amazon.com/What-Plus-Google-Rest-Us/dp/0071810102/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1400840643&sr=8-1&keywords=what+the+plus

Bruce Howat definitely has a style of his own. Factual and real mixed with fiction always makes for interesting reading. It also blends serenity and upheaval smoothly. This is different and moves forward with good pace. It also holds the interest and I wish there was more. 

The little brown sparrow

The little brown sparrow, jumped across the curb going under our table.  Quietly, secretly, it hopped forward to a crumb morsel, fallen from my blueberry muffin.  It darted the last few steps, picked up a crumb and bounced away to safety from the human giants.  It was too much.  Quietly I broke another price of muffin and dropped it beside my chair.  The sparrow returned, flicking its little head from side to side, checking out how safe I am.  Then at last minute grabs and off it darts again.

“What are you up too?” my wife quizzes.   I look up at the sun dancing off her bouncy, wavy red hair.  We’ve been married twenty six years and my heart still misses a beat when I look at her.  How lucky am I to have such a wonderful woman as my life partner.

She lifts her soya flat white to those beautiful lips and sips a bit more of her morning coffee.  Our local café only recently put tables and chairs on the footpath.  Paris, this is not, but relaxing and beautiful, our local community café is a catch up place for us all.  Through the gaps in the shops we see the Waitemata Harbour less than a kilometre away.

She realises what I am doing and teases me about getting in trouble with the café management for feeding the birds. 

The street is getting busier with shoppers moving up and down the footpath; no one complains about the narrowing of the footpath as they traverse past the café.  Too many of us remember the days before we had such modern luxuries and how it was a long trip into the city for a decent coffee.

I smile at Wendy, the magic as strong as ever in our relationship.  We feel part of this community and over the last twenty years have grown to feel we are locals.  There is a black screen between the parked cars and us.  I notice the screen is starting to move.  It is a reasonably solid structure.  In the distance, the sound of a train locomotive is coming towards us.  We are nowhere near a train track.   The locomotive is bearing down on us, the ground convulses under the pressure. I become aware of people starting to scream, the road looks like the ocean waves, bearing down on us.

Panic sets in everywhere as everyone realises’ it is a major earthquake.  We never get them in Auckland – it must be one of the “extinct” volcanoes.  My wife, Wendy is pasty white.   There does not appear to be anywhere safe to go, and, without warning, it is still.

People of the street stand, staring at each other – we are not used to this.  It seems like eternity before the first person is courageous enough to rekindle life and movement in the community.  It is all over.

I am back drinking my cup of tea when the sirens sound – a long continuous siren.  Tsunami warning!

Bruce Howat (NZ)

Copyright Bruce Howat 2014

I posted several paragraphs of my latest novel a couple of days ago, talking about the importance of research. I promised I would post again after another draft, ironing out a few wrinkles. Here it is. The prologue to Twisted Wire.

PROLOGUE

Nigel Silsbury was a spy although no-one would have guessed. A small man of slight build with thinning sandy hair, he could be mistaken for an accountant of comfortable means. Dressed in a smart Savile Row suit, he sat at the table by the window of Ray’s Jazz Café in Foyles bookshop. Clasping and unclasping his hands around a hot cup of coffee, he watched passing pedestrians with hunched shoulders scurry along with bowed heads.

The weather was not going to improve anytime soon according to the weather forecast in The Herald. He closed the paper and read the article on the front page. Putin was not going to give in on the Crimea. Russian troops were firmly embedded in the Ukraine after a protracted campaign orchestrated from the Kremlin. It was not going to be long before Latvia became the next target; so reported Enda Osin, political correspondent for The Herald. 

Vibrations inside his jacket pocket alerted him to a call. He pulled the phone out and looked at the screen. A text instructed him to be outside Leicester Square tube station in half an hour for a meeting. He picked the coffee up and sipped.

A meeting outside the confines of the office was unusual when in London but dangerous times called for caution. No-one, particularly the Americans, were willing to admit the Cold War had not ended; it had just been put on hold. London and Brussels bled agents from the eastern bloc and from the USA. One could almost trip over them. The department warned the Foreign Office but as expected, the warning was largely ignored.

He put the coffee down to look at his wristwatch. There was enough time to walk up Charing Cross Road after leaving Foyles, the bookshop he loved to browse in. As a teenager, his mother, Gloria Grant, later Lady Silsbury, had encouraged him to spend time there. He loved history, particularly Russian and Ottoman from the early eighteenth century. His mother was a great believer in broadening the mind by reading.

With politics an everyday subject discussed around him, he soon became interested in political history. He left college at eighteen, shortly after his mother’s messy divorce over an affair with her boss Lord Silsbury of the Foreign Office. Three years later, encouraged by his mother, Nigel enrolled in Georgetown University and studied for a Master’s degree at The Centre for Eurasian, Russian and East European Studies.

Nigel wrapped the scarf around his neck and folded the ends across the top of his jacket before pushing an arm into one sleeve of his coat, held out politely by a waiter. Twenty minutes before the meeting; he could have a slow leisurely walk to the square despite the cold weather.

London had a vibrant atmosphere he loved. Despite working abroad from time to time he always returned as soon as possible. His stepfather insisted he enlist in the army at eighteen and an easy and interesting administration posting to Germany was arranged for him. He later refused a commission and a posting to Nicosia, wishing instead to continue his studies at home. That lasted six months before travelling to America and Georgetown.

It was on his return from the United States that he was first contacted by a colleague of his father’s, offering him ‘an interesting position in the service of Queen and country.’

A gust of wind blew yellow leaves in circles about his feet as he stepped out onto the pavement. More swirled down from the tall Plane tree, some landing in puddles. Nigel dug his hands in pockets and waited to cross the road as a 176 bus passed on its way to Leicester Square.

The brightly lit interiors of stores, shops and small café’s cast long blocks of light across the pavement and road in the gathering dusk. Nigel breathed in deeply as he walked and smiled at an old dishevelled man shuffling from one foot to the other as he played an Irish reel on a harmonica.

Upon arrival outside the station, he saw Dewsbury standing just inside the entrance. Dewsbury moved inside and took the long escalator down to the platforms. At the bottom Nigel trailed him across the white tiled floor, following the signs for Northern and Piccadilly lines. A blast of cold dirty air signalled the imminent arrival of a train. He wiped his watering eyes and sat on a bench next to Dewsbury as the train emerged and rattled out of the tube. With screeching brakes and rumbling doors, it spewed office workers out onto the platform.

Dewsbury took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose into it. “Bloody soot,” he said, looking at the black smudge on the handkerchief. “This was supposed to be a thing of the past.”

Nigel ignored him. Crossing his legs, he said, “So what’s going on?”

“Things are happening. Krane’s signals are more frequent and Moscow sent our old friend Viktor to London. Whoever Krane is, he’s been inside our house too long. A memo generated from our ops room was sent to Moscow by him the same day. GCHQ picked up the signal for a few seconds and then lost it. This sudden activity made Whitehall jumpy and is one of the reasons we are here and not in the office. Anyone above grade five is looking over their shoulder. The situation is bloody serious and getting worse.  We don’t know if we are dealing with a cell but all the indications are that something big is about to happen. Anyway, keep me informed on what your source is up to. He’s a useful conduit if anything unusual is happening in Brussels or Westminster.”

Dewsbury removed his glasses and wiped them with a tissue. “Has your contact been to Brussels lately?” he continued.

“He’s supposed to be meeting me in a couple of days. I’ll have something for you then.”

Nigel got up and walked to the far end of the platform. He stood waiting for a train home and looked across the rails at the grubby curved wall opposite. An old poster covered in grime, advertising a London show, reminded him of a similar poster dating back to the early 60’s. It was stuck on the curved wall of the deserted ‘ghost station’ Unter den Linden as he travelled to East Berlin on the night of Picasso’s death. He closed his eyes briefly and saw the barbed wire strung along the platform edge as the train rattled through the station.  

July twelfth, 72’, the train pulled into Rosenthaler Platz, the only crossing point into the east. The East Germans were waiting on the platform. Unable to warn Picasso, traveling in another carriage, Nigel watched his agent being pulled from the crowd and dragged away. In the early hours Picasso succumbed to torture and was shot after giving information on two other Russian informants working for MI6. It was the worst moment in Nigel’s career. Despite that, Whitehall insisted he stay and manage the desk in East Germany for six months before returning to London.

Years later the name Krane was unearthed in the notes of a defector and identified as the mole within MI5 who had given Picasso’s name to the Stasi. Krane was still in place but the net was closing in. Nigel gritted his teeth as the train arrived.

The Terrarium - Greg Rochlin

Greg has reached the point in his writing career where he is getting more involved in style and expression. He is pushing the boundaries of his writing skills and finding new creative directions to explore. This is one writer who does not want to be type cast in one genre, rather a writer who is for himself first and reader second; the sign of a good artistic mind.   

What is the purpose or concept of this piece? It is for me an experiment in writing in the style of an interior monologue, in a quite detailed manner. Hence the progression of action is less important. You could call it a slice of life. But in addition, the piece as a whole shows Jackie's development as a person.

Greg Rochlin

The Terrarium

“That’s fantastic guys, thanks so much,” Jackie was saying. 

“Careful, put it down,” said her older brother Aaron. 

The terrarium was balanced on Jackie’s right hand, still half-enclosed in its grey-brown wrapping paper. It had red stuff taped or glued onto it. The thing itself was a large jar of thin glass, with a glass lid. Inside were layers of stones and sphagnum moss, with tiny plastic figures perched on the top.

It was a birthday present from her sister Meg and her boyfriend Tom. They were all at the table after dinner. Her mother lived in a small solid house in a leafy suburb. The dining room was just big enough to hold the table and sideboard and the seven of them.

Jackie realised that Aaron was right, it needed to be put down in a safer place. She wanted to feel spontaneous on her birthday, but decided that prudence was the thing at that moment. There was always that tension, she thought, between doing whatever you feel like in the moment, and doing what you should do in terms of priorities and all that.  Her assertiveness teacher had made her write down a list of “should” and decide the implications of each one. 

She was aware that she tended to defer to her brother, he being older and a psychiatrist.  She often felt she was not intellectual enough, having done only a basic Arts degree.

“Here, let me,” said Antonia, Ed’s mother the skinny nurse, taking the glass object in her spidery hands and putting it tenderly on a side-table nearby. Jackie was left with the wrapping paper balanced on her palm. She felt bereft of the jar. She approved of the act, but was not sure whether she appreciated Antonia’s jumping in like that.  It was Antonia who had first felt the glass of it.

“Come on,” she said to herself, “be generous on your birthday. It’s an occasion for them as well as for me. The gift is for their benefit as well as mine.”

She let the stiff paper drop and crouched to peer at the terrarium, without touching it.

“It will all stay just like that forever,” said Meg.

“Can’t be for ever,” said Ed. His speech was precise and clipped. “Maybe two years. Eventually the oxygen will deplete.”  Ed was in finance, and was studying economics part-time.

Jackie realised that Ed was just trying to participate in the occasion, but all the same, for the moment, his academic tone got on her nerves.  She often had trouble following his elaborate pronouncements. She said nothing, but stared intently. Meg and Tom were beside her, peering in also. Aaron was opening another bottle of wine in the kitchen. 

“It’s a white rabbit, chasing Alice,” Jackie said. “No, you know what,” she added, “I think they really aren’t aware of each other.”

The next day, she came home after work, and was pleased to be greeted by the terrarium. The rabbit had not moved. Neither had Alice.

It reminded her of the vase of Keats, what was it, “Thy streets for ever more will silent be.” As she scrutinised the rabbit, she thought maybe it had moved just a tiny bit. She got orange juice from the fridge, and then thought of doing an experiment involving measuring their positions. She had done physics at school. It had been something to do with a ball bearing dropping under gravity in a flask of oil. “That’s what we have to do in life,” she said to herself, “it’s an experiment, we have to measure, evaluate, deduce.” The last words were said aloud, firmly.

She took a photo with her iPhone. “Now it’s stuck  in time.” Drinking some more juice, she added to herself, “I must talk to Michael about it.”

She put her cardigan on the back of the chair. It was red, and just a decorative little thing. The other people in the house would be coming in later, in half an hour. People like Pete, in final year of surgery, who seemed to think he was part of a MASH series and would stagger in, to unwind in a Hawaiian shirt and a glass of vodka.  Then there was Susan the district nurse with the small rounded car. Sam would still be on his shift until some ungodly hour.

She wondered what would happen if she were to suddenly flip and be part of life inside the glass jar. What sort of world would it be? Would it be limited to those few rocks and bits of moss, or would there be a whole other world, with hills and hedges and factories and road intersections?

An hour later she was out to dinner with Betty, a friend from school days. They were sitting at a table for two at a small pub that specialised in hamburgers. She was a large girl, flamboyant, with bright red lipstick, sparkly nail-polish, and all sorts of layers of interesting items of clothing.

After they had both come to terms with the balancing buns and their arty toothpicks, Jackie asked, “So, what do you think about experiments?”

“On animals, you mean? Horrible, hate it. I read yesterday …”

“No, no, I mean life. Is life an experiment?”

Betty put down her knife. “Have you been reading Aristotle again, Jackie?”

“No, it’s just that, someone gave me this terrarium. I’ve been thinking about my reaction to it.”

“You mean that glass ornament sort of thing with the moss and stones?”

“That’s the one. My brother Aaron used to have a train set, and he had all sorts of painted scenery made out of papier-mâché. It was amazing. His own private world.  Well, I look at this thing and it reminds me of all the universes out there. Other dimensions.”

“I don’t know about other dimensions. You know me, I live day to day.”

Betty was in marketing and was always giving updates on her monthly sales figures.

Julie thought, “I might have known it, she’s so pragmatic. I love her, but how can I have a deep conversation with her?”

“What I mean is, what about Ed. He’s so analytical all the time. I’m not sure he’s right for me.”

“But you two have so much in common. Going to the movies, Scrabble.”

“Yes I suppose so. How’s Allan?”

Betty plonked her fork onto her plate. She and Allan were constantly going though some new crisis.

Jackie smiled ruefully. “Alright, what now?”

“Where do I start?”

The remaining hour was consumed by Betty’s latest tale of Allan’s lack of empathy, and that of men in general.

The next morning at work Jackie sat for an hour at her desk preparing some ideas for the coming trade fair. They were a small-scale textile firm, supplying specialist cloths to fashion designers. The desks were positioned in various corners of a cavernous run-down warehouse space situated in an obscure laneway of the city. Jackie was still very junior, performing all sorts of odd tasks, but also starting to suggest some of her own designs.

The six members of staff involved with the preparations for the fair filed jovially into the meeting room. Jackie sat with her notes and her eye became conscious of the water cooler, looking like a large jar, which gave a gurgle. Tom started talking about the layout of the cubicle. She thought, “Now, I mustn’t get nervous, I need to listen to them and be ready with my stuff.” But the water cooler caught her eye. It gurgled again. She mused on the white rabbit. Suddenly she heard her name. “Hey Jackie, are you with us? What are your thoughts?” In an instant she was back on track. They liked the idea for the arrangement of the shelves and there was agreement that it should be incorporated into the display.

To add to this little success, during the week she was told that her textile design, a modern reinterpretation of an Art Nouveau pattern of repeating leaves, was favourably received. It would definitely be taken up by the art department for use as part of a bedspread.

On the Friday evening, after going straight from work to visit her mother, she returned home to find that no-one was at home. Or perhaps she thought, Pete was in bed. The terrarium was gone, and in its place was an ugly statuette of Elvis Presley. But, there it was after all, on another small table in a dark corner of the room, perched on a rattan mat. Another intrusive force at work. Alice was, however, looking luminous.

She knew what Ed would say if he were here. “You should consider whether the feng shui is disturbed or if energy patterns will need to be realigned.” Or something similar. She was beginning to think that the Ed experiment was over.  She drew up a chair and meditated on the world within the jar.

Greg Rochlin (AUS)   copyright greg rochlin 2014

RAIN by Anna Zhigareva

One of my favorite writers, Anna has the gentlest of touches when describing emotion. Here she writes with great feeling and understanding of human frailty. 

Submitted on Thursday 20 March 2014

Rain

Rain. It can wash away the dirty stains on a car or pavement. It can feed plants, help them grow into beautiful, strong flowers or trees. It can eliminate the parched feeling in a child's throat. It can give you the needed refreshed feeling on a hot summer's day. It can create a rainbow illusion with the sun's rays much to our joyed surprise. It can destroy villages just as well as it can fill an empty dam with clean, pure water. It can also fall, full of acid, onto a field of crops and kill every single one of them. It can ruin a farmer's season-worth of tireless planting and struggling growth of harvest. It can likewise disrupt an eco-system  or wash away land from its original placement in a cruel effortless process called erosion. Rain. It is not only a form of an Earthly element that for some scientifically proven reason falls from the sky, usually out of a grey cloud, that always seems so angry, so lonely among the puffy white clouds, but it can also be a signal of a change of seasons, when summer blends into autumn, and winter blends into spring, causing streams to run down mountains and pastures and driveways and paths...

     Rain can wash away all traces of a past life and bring with it the hope or misery of the future.

     It happened on the night the rain fell the hardest. It pelted mercilessly at the flat surface of the roof, the drops resounding for ages in the empty rooms of the second floor, while the fire crackled warmly in our living room fireplace, the only light in the whole house. I can still recall the way the old copper roof whined helplessly, bending under the pressure of the full water droplets. The rain would not cease, and I thought the roof would cave in, but it held.

     I remember it had been raining for a whole week. The pastures were overflowing with muddy brown water, so we had decided not to take the horses out. They stood quietly in their stalls, snuffling at the hay and at times lifting their elegant, long-maned heads to the ceiling, curious as to what the clattering sound was.

     Meanwhile, the rain went pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. Calmly, as if the most ordinary thing in life. As if a clock simply ticking off the hours we had left. The dogs were restlessly pacing the living room, where my Grandfather sat in his favourite grey armchair, comfortably tucked into a woolen blanket, watching the fire crackle as it broke the carefully layed out timbre in the fireplace. I had dropped my bag by the coffee table, kissed my Grandfather on the cheek and mounted the wooden stairs, two at a time, excited to watch the rain from the round window of my mother's room.

     Mother had died when I was eight. I was nine now. Just a kid, but already mature enough to take care of my ill Grandfather while father worked endless hours at the firestation, filling in during the night shifts as well as the early morning hours when I was still sleeping. He returned home and slept from ten to four, and then was off to work again before I got home from school. Grandfather was ill with the same disease that had killed mother, only he was stronger. She had always been fragile, thin boned, pale, with freckles on her nose and cheeks, and a very soft, sweet voice that would earn her a liking from any sort of person. I missed her. I had wanted her to come to my school play the day before she died, but she had been too weak to stand up. Cancer had wanted her more. Stupid cancer. Who was he to take her away from me when I needed her most? Grandfather had been ill for many years, and she knew I couldn't take care of him on my own, but she just...let go. She stopped fighting, and I blame her for that more than I blame cancer for taken her.

***

     I smiled, watching the rain patter harder against the window panel. I had been sitting here since that afternoon when I came home from school. It was early morning now, a Saturday. I would have thought the sun would come out, but, even as I woke up this morning, my head resting on the wide panel, I could hear the intensifying pattern of rain drops falling onto the moist ground outside the house.

     Grandfather stirred downstairs, also waking from his deep slumber. The fire still crackled downstairs, quieter now. He had become more and more accustomed to the dark, and so the only light he allowed for was from the fireplace, as he said it gave him peace and solace. To me, it seemed a brooding wonder – fire. I was often scared to come up close to it and had to close my eyes if I did so to prevent them from welling with tears. The fire, though tucked safely inside the fireplace, somehow ate at my eyes, made them water to the extent that I had started hating standing anywhere within close reach of the licking red flames.

     I let my mind wander. A bright picture began building in my young mind. An endless sea of blue water spread as far as my imagination would let me see, the expanses of water ripping strongly under the heat of the sun. I watched as a sudden burst of light somewhere up high in the sky sent a fiery ball of flames plummetting down into the deep blue waters. It sizzled there for a while before one of the waves rolled over it as a man would walk over a tiny helpless ant and not notice, extinguishing the bursting life of the flame.

     I was yanked back to reality as a large grey figure suddenly crossed my peripheral vision. My eyes darted back down, seeking anxiously for what I hoped desperately to have been just another spike of my imagination, or maybe the rain playing tricks on my eyes. It wasn't. I watched as clear as day my Grandfather – my old, sick, bow-backed Grandfather – shuffling slowly towards the end of the driveway, where one of the gates had swung open with the coming of the wind during the night. I had seen him do this many times before after my mother’s death, sure that he was hallucinating in his grief for his lost daughter. I had always stopped him, had run out into the cold, taken him by the hand, and walked him back home to his favourite grey armchair. But this time, I could not gain the strength to stand up and stop him. It felt as if some unknown force was pulling me back, refraining me from doing what I had been taught to do all those months ago by my father. He cared for grandfather, but he had never understood him, never quite acknowledged his perception of losing an only child. I had tried to, but had never succeeded. Maybe now I did.

     I lifted my gaze to the open gate, worried it would be torn off if the winds came back tonight. And I saw her. Standing there, rigid and strong as a statue, staring at the space before grandfather. She seemed so forlorn, so calm and yet sad. I stretched out my arm only to collide my hand with the glass of the window.

     Then I heard a yelp. It sounded like a little puppy’s cry, and call for aid. I turned to where grandfather had fallen on the wet ground, the rain still pouring, as if it had no care for the pain it was inflicting. I raced down the stairs and out onto the driveway, almost falling over the school bag I had left by the coffee table yesterday. I begged my shaking skinny legs to carry me faster.

     Grandfather lay there, simple and motionless, helpless in his pitiful state. I kneeled down, desperately urging him to wake, but I already knew the answer to the question I did not want to ask. I had intended to go downstairs as soon as I had woken up to make breakfast for grandfather, but I had been distracted by the falling rain. If only I had taken better care of grandfather, who had loved me so much, always treated me so well when I was little. I doubt he even knew my name anymore, but I didn’t mind. Please wake up.

     A powerful gust of wind pushed me so that I almost fell, but I fought back angrily, digging my heels into the sharp edged gravel that hurt my bare feet. I ruffled his coat, tried to pull him up as I begged and willed him to wake, all to no avail. I cursed at the selfish rain, still pounding hard onto our pale skin, drenching our clothes to the finest cloth. My childish voice resounded across the empty yard, shrill and soft, so that I doubt even the horses in their stalls heard my pitiful cries.

     I stood up, lifting my face to the sky in a last prayer, knowing only a child could hope for some sort of a miracle. Adults strived to gain what they aimed for, and a child's single-minded desire could never be compared to the pain of hard work these grown ups suffered to achieve what they had wanted to for years.

     I felt a tear run down my left cheek. I let it.

     I looked over to the gate, a little spark of hope telling me she was still there. What if she could help? She had not come back for nothing, if not to help. My heart drummed so loud that it seemed to match the pattering echo of the rain. My ears felt hot and swollen despite the cold air.

     She was not there. Come back.

     The rain was falling so hard, I would be surprised if anyone was able to distinguish the fat droplets of water from the salty tears streaking down my face like an endless current washing away the past.

     Rain can wash away the dirty stains on a car or pavement. It can breathe life into flowers and trees. It can give you the needed refreshed feeling on a hot summer's day. It can cheer up a crying baby with a so very real image of a rainbow, shimmering beautifully in the sun's rays. Rain can ruin a farmer's season-worth of growing crops just as easily as it can feed his struggling harvest. It is not only a form of an Earthly element that for some scientifically proven reason falls from the sky, but it can also be a sign of changing seasons, with summer blending into autumn, and winter blending into spring. Rain can bring misery as well as hope in that it is free to give love and then take it away in the form of a mother, or a grandfather, or something as simple as a raindrop.

     And then just like that the rain stopped.

Anna Zhigareva

Copyright anna zhigareva 2014

I see a discussion on Linked In about "does giving books for free work" I sometimes wonder if the writers asking these questions have given some thought to the subject before they put pen to paper. I can see from the answers that those replying are serious but nothing annoys me more than the lack of understanding about something so important as building an audience. Maybe I am coming across arrogant but sometimes it pays to be a little rude in order for me to get my point across.

Okay - I am a new writer with a new book. The book is well written with a great cover and well edited etc. I have published it on Amazon and priced it at $2.99. So now I sit back and nothing happens. I hear other writers saying that they give their books away for free and wonder why. Here's why.

In order to sell your book you have to do two things. You must sell yourself and you have to have an audience. Selling yourself is a slog. Get busy and have pages on FB (an author page as well as a social page), Linked In - join a discussion group and link to other people as fast as you can. Google + (Google pulls all your info from all the other social pages including web sites and sets out SEO's on pages and pages of Google search. Web site. Try to set up your own web site and start talking about yourself and other authors. Interact with others and promote their work and soon they will start talking about you. Blog site. Take a look at this one. Keep putting up other authors work and start talking and screaming about things you like and don't like. Get known all over the world. Don't forget to have the Google language box so foreign visitors to the site can read your views and articles in their own language. Twitter - oh boy thank the Lord for Twitter. What a great place to keep your name in front of the world 24/7. I have automated 22 messages that go out promoting my work all around the clock. I retweet as many other authors as I can and favourite them too. I also Klout as many as possible and add them to lists.

Does all of this sound like hard work? It is but if properly managed it can mean an hours work a day, leaving you plenty of time to write as well. But wait, that's only half the answer. Now we have to get an audience to read your work as well as getting to know you and follow you.

So we are getting known but who has read the book? No one, so we need to appeal to the reader's greedy streak. Who likes FREE? We all do. This is when we have to ask the question - What are we writing for and what do we want?

We normally want the best of both worlds. Something drives us to be creative and write for the sheer pleasure of it. At the same time we would like to be rewarded financially for all the hours we have spent banging away at the keyboard. The key word here is ‘recognition.’ We love people to love us and we love people to pay us. Well I guess it’s time for a lot of writers to realise they have to give and take.

I have put both my books up for FREE on Amazon and Smashwords (the trick is to have Smashwords as well as Amazon and then Amazon have to price match with Smashwords. I ended up with over 3000 downloaders. I say downloaders because I don’t know how many will actually read the books. The point is if just half read the books I will have people interested in the next book. Yes, the next book. If you want to sell, eventually you have to show Joe public that you are a serious writer.

I don’t want to sit back and watch my books gather dust; I did that with the first one when I thought I was God’s gift to the literary world. I’m getting aggressive and writing like mad to produce. My books will shortly go on audio. I just had them published in print too. Give the readers a varied choice and you give yourself a chance to earn pocket money. That’s another thing – don’t think you are going to get rich. We write to be recognised as artists…don’t we?

Now answer the question for yourself  -  “Does giving your book away for free really work.”

Get out of the rut and be more creative

I spend a lot of time on the keyboard like most writers and suffer with stiffness in the legs, backache, neck ache, tired eyes....get the picture. I hate getting to the point when I feel the pain and have to stop. Rarely do I then go back to work that night. Keeping fit and healthy is something a lot of writers just don't do. We spend hours writing about the exploits of our heroes and the fights they get into. Our characters are healthy; rarely do they suffer with a bad back or tired eyes. So why are we any different? I have found, and so has my editor, that as I get tired or start getting neck pain etc, my writing suffers. Sometimes the idea is there but what comes up on the screen is drivel. I took a good long look at myself (egged on by my marketeer, Irene) and decided I had to divide my time up and start managing my day in such a way that I get all my work done and stay fit. This is what I do but I would suggest writers work out a routine that is comfortable for them.

1.  I get up around 8.00

2.  Go to the gym for half hour, Pool for half hour, sauna and steam room.

3.  Spend an hour doing chores - shopping or hair cut etc

4.  Two hours for E mailing and social networking

5.  One hours lunch

6.   2.00 I start to write - 3 hours.

7.   Dinner two hours

8.  Writing 6 hours (maybe watch TV for an hour or two sometimes)

9.  Midnight - bed

Weekends - I am now taking them off. I have a life outside my book and being anti social isn't where I want to be..

I used to argue that a writer needs to write whenever the feeling comes over him. Well, to a certain extent that is true but I think its all a matter of training ones self. I know there will be times when you can't keep strictly to the routine but if you keep to the timetable as much as possible you will find your mind is more active - and that means more creative.

Ray Stone

Wait for the twist

I am really pleased that this week I am starting the third draft of my latest Enda Osin mystery novel.  I have not written the last 3 chapters though. The problem is that whilst getting the plot down on paper is vital before re drafting you never know with a thriller what the ending is going to be - at least I never do because I love inventing plausible twists. So I write the book up to the last 3 chapters and finish the book once I am satisfied to that point. This is the point at which I start looking at descriptive work especially - characters and surroundings. My editor told me that the reader needs to see the character and discover their mannerism's. How do they dress? What are they thinking. Whilst working on these areas am I moving the story along? It can be a frustrating process but I learned to be patient and most importantly, how to cut out something that I love because the story got stuck on poetic pros. It is for that reason that I tend to set my scenes at the beginning of a chapter and concentrate on the characters and the plot in the body of the text. I also start checking my research on the third draft too. In my latest novel I had to read an awful lot about the security services, both British, Russian and East German in two time periods. Nothing is worse than a reader telling me I got the name of an organisation or a particular date wrong. To create belivability  the reader must get the feeling that the writer has been 'there' not because he has all the facts and figures correctly noted but little everyday things that the reader can go and see for themselves. For example below. - type of tree - bus route number - cafe name - station description - length of escalator etc etc. Anyone can check these things out so they have to be correct. Added to the real correct information on Russian and British security, the story comes alive and the reader can 'see' and 'hear' ....and at the end of the story, wait for the twist.

example one - It was on his return from the United States that he was first contacted by a colleague of his father’s, offering him ‘an interesting position in the service of Queen and country.’

A small gust of wind greeted Nigel as he stepped out onto the pavement, blowing a few yellow leaves in circles about his feet. More swirled down from the tall Plane tree, some landing in puddles while others, caught in an updraft, shot back up skywards. Nigel dug his hands in pockets and waited to cross the road as a 176 bus passed him on its way to Leicester Square.

example two - By the time he arrived outside the station, he could see Dewsbury standing just inside the entrance. Without any sign of recognition, Dewsbury moved inside and took the long escalator down to the platforms. At the bottom Nigel trailed him across the white tiled floor and followed the signs for Northern and Piccadilly lines. A blast of cold dirty air, signalling the imminent arrival of a train, caught him full in the face as he reached the platform. He wiped his watering eyes and sat on a bench next to Dewsbury as the train rattled out of the tube. It came to rest with screeching brakes and rumbling doors, spewing office workers out onto the platform.

example three - That night in July 72’, as the train pulled into Rosenthaler Platz, the only crossing point into the east, the East Germans were waiting on the platform. Unable to warn Picasso, traveling in another carriage, Nigel watched as they pulled him from the crowd and dragged him away. He later learned that Picasso had been tortured and shot that night after giving information on two other Russian informants working for MI6. It was one of the worst moments in his career. Despite that, Whitehall insisted he stay and manage the desk in East Germany for six months before returning to London.

The trick in research is to check the history of institutions and their administration. MI6 and MI5 merged into SIS but I could not call them that in the time period that Nigel remembers. These three paragraphs are short but full of information that makes up part of the Prologue. The research for this took about a week but it was time well spent in trying to get the story as authentic as possible. It only remains to be seen if editing agrees.
It should be remembered that this is the 2nd draft so it will have errors and some show don't tell alterations. This article is about research and the importance of getting the facts right. When I have started the next draft I will repost these examples.

Cut Away Pass - Kalli Deschamps

An extremely talented writer from the USA, Kalli Deschamps wrote this as a starter for a serial. Yet another example of a writer waiting to be discovered. I sometimes wonder what we can do to motivate agents away from pop star biographies and political "I was there" non fiction. Is it any wonder more and more good authors are turning to self publishing - and becoming successful too. Kalli writes with a pen that crafts beautiful words and gives our minds eye pictures of the scenes her characters perform in. This in my opinion is a really well crafted piece worthy of any agents attention. Well done Kalli.

The Anaconda-Pintlar Wilderness, located in Western Montana is one of the loveliest, most dangerous and smallest wilderness areas in the United States. It has been likened to a miniature Glacier Park with its tall snow-covered peaks and deep bog infested draws.

In August, fourteen strangers signed up for a five-day adventure through this beautiful, treacherous piece of real-estate. Each would ride his own horse.

Their leader, who knew the area well told them that Cut-Away Pass would be free of snow for the week they were making the trip, so they could use that passage through the mountains. The knife-edge trail was the most beautiful, most dangerous trail anywhere in the west. This was the very top of the Continental Divide, the survey line that divides the eastern United States from the western United States.

The morning arrived. August 10, when they were to challenge the mountain. Tiny wildflowers peeked from lichen-covered rocks at the edge of the narrow trail. The climb was steady; the trail free from snow, at least at this level.  The clouds grew heavy. They had travelled about three miles of the ten-mile day that would take them over the top to the next and last camp. A clap of thunder, a streak of lightning and the rain began to fall.  They hastily pulled yellow slickers or army-surplus ponchos from behind saddles and over dampened bodies. No one stopped. As they continued to climb, the wind blew and the rain cut their faces. They finally reached the end of the harrowing climb only to face the top of the mountain. The blowing rain changed to blowing snow.

Fourteen scared riders grabbed for their hats, jammed them tightly onto their heads and clutched tightly to the reins of their restless horses. Slowly they made their cautious way cross the open, treeless ridge of the Continental Divide. The hoped for “once in a lifetime” view was swallowed in the biting, horizontal snow.

Three-quarters of the way across the hazardous space the exhausted line of riders drew to a halt. Their leader knew of the narrow crevasse cutting across the center of the trail, but he hadn’t thought it much of a problem, so had not mentioned it. But they had to cross it, so with varying degrees of trepidation, one by one they urged their nervous horses across the two foot break in the trail. The line halted as the last rider was having a problem with his horse. The frightened animal refused to move.  The rest of the group was helpless. There was no way to coax the reluctant horse. And this was probably the calmest horse in the bunch.

The snow continued to fall; the wind to blow. One could almost see the wheels turn as the skittish animal decided he was alone. As he  made the decision to jump to join his buddies his rider was thrown high, only to plummet to the rock-strewn surface a thousand feet below.

Copyright 2014 - Kalli Deschamps (USA)

A FREE book for bedtime

From today 8th May for five days, this book can be downloaded for FREE. 122,000 word thriller, this is a great addition to a library.

http://www.amazon.com/Trojan-Towers-Ray-Stone-ebook/dp/B005LDKME0/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1383775007&sr=1-1&keywords=the+trojan+towers

Also in print and soon on audio. Read all about it here

http://askdavid.com/reviews/book/espionage/8211

In front of the front line - Bruce Howat

I was surprised to learn that Bruce was an ex policeman and dog handler. When he decided to write a series of episodes about his experiences he immediately attracted a wide audience of readers with some really well written interesting stories about himself and he beloved dog - Cara. I loved this one and hope you do.

Submitted by Bruce Howat on Saturday 23 February 2013

The higher in an organisation a person is the more distant they are from the front line.

Don, the night shift Senior Sergeant was a neat guy, but like a number at that rank, they lived in fear of those above them.  Hence, they were prone to no-decision disease.  Don was in his late forties, a former country Policeman and a cricket fanatic.  I was the night shift dog handler and it was a quiet night.  Having a cuppa with Don and the Night shift Operations staff, I started to tease him about forgetting the realities of the street.  It was all in good fun and then the 111 light started to flash.  No chatting!  The operator needed to concentrate on the call.  The second operator was monitoring and hand signalled for me to get on the road.  I challenged Don to come with me for one job.  He ran into his office and got his cap and handcuffs.

Don could not keep up with me as I flew down the stairwell to the basement car park. Cara knew my footsteps and was standing up, tail thumping against the side of the dog van.  When the boss rushed like this, something exciting was ahead.  I gunned the engine and then remembered Don.

He eventually got in.

“You’re going to have to be faster than that at a job if we are to catch anyone.”

“Shut up and drive.”

Operations had the basement door open.  The radio cracked the silence.

A domestic dispute at Whatawhata with a well-known family.

Past incidents at this family had led to my colleagues being hospitalised – this family were dangerous.  A patrol car was already on the way and dogs the back up.

As we flew around Hamilton Lake, in my peripheral vision I could see Don clutching the door handrail.  His was extremely pale in colour.  The van went through the corners smoothly and balanced even at speed.  Down Killarney Road at a decent speed and the radio again, cracks the silence.

“Dogs, return to central.  Armed offenders’ incident - Whitianga.”

One second the van was doing about 100kph in one direction and the next; it was doing the same in the other.  The techniques from the Police Driving School were worth their weight in gold to make us feel safe.

I did not notice that Don was not talking.  I called ahead for someone to bring out my regulation firearm as I pulled up out front of the station.  When the pistol etc. passed through the window I, realised Don was sitting still.

“Senior, you need to get out.  I will be away all night – you can’t come.”

Don was physically shaking.  The young Constable rushed around to the passenger’s side and helped a pale Don, who appeared to be going slightly green, alight from the van.  I gunned the van straight onto the Bridge Street bridge.  The car coming the other way appeared cautious.  Later I was to find out it was the AOS (Armed Offenders Squad) Inspector responding to the call out.  I will not repeat what he said to me the next morning when it was all over; suffice it to say my delicate ears burnt.

Luckily I had refuelled the vehicle when I went in for my cuppa so I knew I had plenty of fuel for the long haul to Whitianga (normally 2 ½ hours).  I did not have to conserve fuel for the high-speed trip.

There had been a shooting at the local Whitianga Hotel and only the sole local Police dealing with the incident.  Knowing I would be the first Police to arrive meant no gentle trip.  Two guys, with more alcohol than they could handle had come into the bar with their hunting rifles.  They started to take pot shots at ornaments and drinks.  Public safety and a colleague’s life were at risk and the sooner the better.  Policing was often a numbers game.

Cara lay down in the back, coiled into a ball under my window.  She could brace herself without bouncing all over the van.  It was a self-taught mechanism for keeping herself safe in high-speed situations.  The jet-black German Shepherd was hard to spot in the corner when she was like this.  The journey was over a variety of roads, but the latter stages were through the hills of the Coromandel Peninsula.  Coromandel is extremely windy, up and down piece of road.  Through the hill country, radio reception was intermittent.

As I neared Whitianga I came back into radio contact.

“Dogs where are you?”

I stopped a short distance up the road from where I received the call.  The offenders had left the Hotel and believed to be on my road.  I was to take a static checkpoint until the rest of the AOS arrived.  Great – time for a leak.  Dog and man had more relaxed internal bladders.

While waiting, many possible scenarios are role played in the mind.  I did not role-play for the fun of it – it was all about mental preparation for the variety of scenarios that might unfold.  About twenty minutes later the rest of the squad arrived.  A report came in that the offenders’ car was at the end of a long straight, around the next corner from where I had stopped.  No one knew if the offenders were still in the vehicle.  The first thing to do was check out the vehicle.

A couple of rifleman snuck along the side of the road to check the straight.  It was a beautiful night and if a young man was with a woman, he fancied it was the perfect night for romance.  A full moon danced its light rays across the roadside flax creating a daylight effect.  Perfect for the dangerous operation we had ahead.

The riflemen were back very quickly and reported the car on the side of the road at the other end of the straight.  The Inspector decided it was too dangerous for the squad to proceed.

I was to use the dog to check out the car.  I asked for a covering rifleman and we crept up to the corner.  The car was easily visible in the bright full moon, but it was close to 800 metres away.  To use Cara I would have to use hand signals to control her and that required getting considerably closer than we were.  There was only one choice.  We would have to crawl our way along the road until I got close enough to be able to use Cara with hand signals only.  The other dilemma was the rifleman had a radio and he had to report to AOS base what was going on.  On a still night, the radio noise travels for miles.  We calculated how drunk we thought the offenders probably were, they were in a closed vehicle (we hoped) and behind closed car doors.  The rifleman could come about half the distance and then Cara and I were on our own.

To survive in these moments I had to block out all risks and rely on sharp wits and instinct.  Darkness, my friend was absent, a silent still night for noise travel, my enemy.

I took the lead of Cara and tied it around myself.  I could not afford the risk of the chain hitting the road or her giving problems getting it off when we got close.  Cara loved armed incidents.  The adrenaline tension in our demeanours kept her extra alert.  Her performance was always top notch but on an armed incident, it rose a few notches.

The crawl is a command Cara knew, but it bored her if it took too long to get anywhere.  Tonight was to test her patience and obedience to new levels.  Eight hundred metres in daylight, under normal circumstances is not very far.  A rifle bullet travels reasonably fast and for long distances, so all the risky scenarios made it a painful, slow journey to get close to the vehicle.  The mind and body are on high alert.  Cara is twitchy.  She is not keen on crawling and I cannot afford to use voice commands to make her behave.  After about 10 metres with me stopping ever couple to force her back to the crawl position, she settles down.  The motion is of seals on land heading for the water to traverse the distance.

The whole time I am trying to calculate how close I can get to the vehicle.  Once near the vehicle Cara sent forward to indicate if there is someone inside.  My problem is the only command I have for such a situation is “find and speak”.  Translated into human that means she is supposed to bark if she smells humans.  When Cara gets close to the car, I realise I am too far away to control the situation.  I stop her and seal crawl towards her.  This must be close enough.  This does not feel good.  The adrenaline is fair pumping.  My mind cannot afford to race, but there are so many possible scenarios ahead.  Coolness wins the day or in this case the night.

Cara goes forward.  She half crawls, half runs up to the car.  She springs to her feet and is about to bark when I give her the “drop” signal.  The split second it takes her to register what is going on felt like half an hour.  She dropped by the vehicle.  No barking!  Huge sigh of relief!

I signal her to come to me.  She just up and runs.  I had forgotten to tell her to crawl.  I signal the rifleman to come up to us.  We wait.  We wait and he arrives.  The radio turned off.

I whisper in his ears, sorry this is not a love scene.  We decide to crawl to the vehicle ourselves; he will take the left side and me the right.  From Cara’s reaction, I am sure the person(s) are in the back seat.  An eternity later, we are at the vehicle.  Looking towards each other under the vehicle we signal the one two three.  In other words, on three we leap into action.  Cara, still off her lead is beside me, even keeping her tail still at this critical time.

Three!  I leap up, pistol in hand and wrench open the back right door.  In pure reflect reaction timing my pistol drives into his right nostril, why I explain the weakness of his parenting and anatomy.  Between his legs is the loaded rifle, safety off.

Cara comes alive, barking her head madly.  I yank the rifle from between his legs and place it onto the road.  The offender, with pistol still assisting nostril breathing, removed from the car.  I pull the pistol back and tell him to lay face first on the ground.  Cara must not bite, but she is enjoying herself rearranging his clothes without a mark on his flesh.  Handcuffs are applied.  The rifleman has used the same technique, minus dog.  He calls up for the rest of the squad.

Six hours after leaving Hamilton I arrive back to pack up for the night.  I hear Senior Sergeant Don had gone home sick.  He lasted until the Whitianga apprehension of the offenders and then told one of the Sergeants to take over from him.  He left muttering something about he would never travel with that nutter “Howat” again.