Romance Epilogue

Ok I felt pretty bad with how I "ended" Jeff and Deb's story, so here is an epilogue that might make you feel a little better.

As far as the writing goes, this story is the closest to a true "romance" that I have written. I really wanted to give that feel to the story after the depressing story I posted last night.

On a side note, I've never been so attached to two characters before that I've had to write an epilogue to give them a happy ending, go figure.


Epilogue: Jeff & Deb
Tim Harvey

The applause that the four-piece acoustic band received once they had finished their song was probably well deserved, although Deb wasn't really listening. She sat near the edge of the balcony of the beach-side resort. She took in a deep breath of fresh sea air and watched the sun's slow descent over the clear and calm waves. Deb felt a deep wave of relaxation and she would have leant back in the wooden deck chair if he evening gown would allow it. She looked down at the flowing black satin that clung to her body and gathered at her ankles, and she smiled.
It had been so long since she had felt like this.
Deb looked into the function room of the resort and quietly counted the couples slowly dancing as the band began another tune. The men wore black dinner jackets and bow-ties, the women were all clothed in such amazing and elegant gowns. The evening was such a special night for Deb and she smiled. Her first New Year's Party as a practising lawyer, she shook her head with a smile and wondered how she ever ended up here. But at thirty-three years old, Deb was finally sure of where her life was going, she finally felt as if she could fit in.
A tall gentleman approached Deb and handed her a glass of champagne. She took the glass and smiled up at him. He was lean and she spent just a little more time than she should have admiring how the cut of his suit revealed his athletic build. She didn't blush however as she stood and hugged Eric. Deb rested her hand on his back and he leaned in to kiss her neck. It was only a gentle brush of his lips really but Deb got an incredible feeling of satisfaction from his subtle gesture.
Eric gently turned Deb around and the two stood, arms around each others waists, watching the crowd. “Want to mingle?” He said it with a raised brow and a hint of sarcasm, but Deb knew from his tone that he would be happy to do whatever she wanted.
She looked up at his face and frowned, “I thought you were going to have a shave?” She said it as she lightly brushed the dark stubble on his cheek.
His mouth spread wide, and he rested his hand over hers, “I was, but-”
Eric turned away with a teasing smile and Deb couldn't help but break out into one of her own, “but, I like a bit of stubble? Is that it, Eric?” She said, teasing him back.
He looked down and laughed before locking eyes with her, “I think that's about right.”
Deb gently slapped his shoulder and took a sip of her champagne.
“As to your other question, no, I don't want to mingle,” Deb turned back to the ocean and took another deep breath, her eyes instinctively and gently closing as she did.
Eric watched her closely and smiled, “beautiful.” He let the word out slowly and closed his own eyes.
Without moving or opening her eyes Deb smiled, “me, or this beach?”
“Well,” Eric began and let out another teasing laugh.
Deb mock gasped and turned around gently slapping his shoulder again.
Eric pretended to defend himself, “the beach has nothing on you, Deb,” he chuckled as he said it and Deb smiled, wrapping her arms around his waist.
Eric leant in and kissed her on the lips. His gentle brush against her lips caused her heart to race. Eric pulled back slightly, watching as Deb delicately moved her chin towards him. He leant in for another kiss and this time he pulled her tightly towards him.
When they were done, Deb noticed that Eric was breathing heavily, and she realised that she was too. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his heart. He brushed a hair from her face and held her close as they looked out into the ocean.
“Thankyou for being here for me.” Deb almost whispered the words into Eric's chest and she felt him pull her tighter.
“You deserve it Deb.” Eric gently stroked her hair and she smiled, she had never felt more alive.

In another part of the hotel, Jeff sat in a large leather lounge, his relaxation disturbed by the loud laughter of his three mates. The boys had wanted to party but Jeff was just hoping for a quiet New Year's. He smiled as his mates cracked jokes. The four of them were all twenty-seven and with the real world finally settling in on the young men, they didn't have much time for each other. Since Jeff had gained his teaching degree only a year ago he was flat out with work.
One of his mates was a contractor, another was still a medical school. The third was working as a journalist. Two of the three were married, one of them was a happy marriage. The contractor had a long term girlfriend. Jeff never felt left out by this, he had been single for a long time but he enjoyed trying to find out who he was.
Jeff nodded his head as his mates left to get more beers, he wasn't drinking because he was the designated driver. Jeff looked around the cocktail lounge and smiled at a girl at the bar. He had been single for so long now, he thought. He promised himself that he wouldn't enter a relationship until he was sure that it was the right time. Jeff frowned as he wondered what he meant when he made that promise years ago. He had a good job and his own house.
Jeff looked down at the brown leather shoes on his feet. They were new and clean. Jeff smiled at the shoes and ran a hand through his blonde hair. He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. It was a new year, maybe it was time to take a chance.
Jeff stood up and walked over to his mates. He stood slightly apart from the group and made eye contact with the girl standing at the bar. She wore a blue silk cocktail dress, her blonde hair was cut short. Jeff gave a glance at his mates and shrugged at the girl. She let out a silent laugh and looked down at the bar, her mouth spread into a smile.
Jeff made his way over to where she stood. She looked up at him and smiled.
“Hi. I had to get away from those guys, they're my mates, but they can be a handful,” Jeff smiled as he gestured to his mates who were knocking down shots of tequila, “as you can see,” he added.
She smiled and raised an eyebrow, “yep, they sure do look like a handful.” Jeff noticed her perfume, it smelt of citrus.
“Hi, I'm Jeff,” he stuck out his hand and she took it into hers.
“Karen,” she replied as she shook his hand.
“Drinking tonight, Karen?” Jeff asked.
“Nope,” Karen replied with a smile as she raised her glass of water, “designated driver.”
Jeff smiled and held his hand to his chest in a gesture of mock sincerity, “a feeling I know all too well.” Karen chuckled at this and Jeff felt a warmth in her laughter that gave him a boost of confidence.
“What do you do Karen?” Jeff was normally never this direct but he felt at ease around this woman, who was a complete stranger.
“Hmm, long story actually. I can give you the short version if you want,” Karen smiled as she said this, Jeff noticed that she blushed slightly as she tried to think of her answer.
“Let me hear the short version and then I'll tell you if I want the long version,” Jeff smiled teasingly as he said this and was glad when Karen smiled widely at him.
“That's fair enough, I'm a vet actually. What about you Jeff?”
“I'd still like to hear that long version sometime,” Jeff laughed, “Me? Well I'm a teacher.”
“Wow,” Karen said, “enjoy it?” She sipped her water through a straw and looked up at Jeff expectantly.
“I've just started a few months ago but yeah, I'm actually loving it.” Jeff smiled as he said this, it dawned on him that he hadn't had such an easy and open conversation in years.
“Umm Jeff?” Karen said, looking over Jeff's shoulder.
Jeff turned to see one of his mates being escorted out of the lounge by a bouncer.
“I'm so sorry, Karen. I have to go.” Jeff turned to leave but halted as he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He turned around to see Karen offering him a bar-mat with a phone number scrawled on it.
The two shared a smile as they locked eyes, and for the first time in a while, Jeff felt alive.

New Romance

Just taking a quick break from my writing comp (which is going quite well). Needed something to mix it up a little.

Ok this is hardly romance, its actually fearly bleak and dark but it features my usual romantic leads; Jeff and Deb. A lot of emotion etc, I tried to convey some ideas of love and loss but plot wise its a hard nut to crack, trying to give this a happy ending.

So, hopefully you can enjoy this. Truthfully I didn't enjoy writing this as much as I thought I would when I set out to write another quick Jeff and Deb. It actually left me fairly depressed.


Jeff & Deb Meet Again
Tim Harvey

The front door to the flat stood open, the screen hung out in the elements and the heavy wooden door rested safe inside the flat. Deb looked at the wooden door, it was heavy and safe. If she closed it now, she could be all right. If she could just close this door she would be safe inside the flat. But she couldn't close the door, there was no way.
Outside the flat, standing next to the hanging screen door Jeff stood looking at the welcome mat. He didn't quite feel welcome. The air between the outside of the flat and the inside was vast, a vacuum of incredible silence that threatened to swallow any sound that tried to pass between it. Jeff could turn around and walk, just like he did years ago. But he couldn't walk, there was no way.
It had been three years since the two had seen each other. Three years since Jeff left, and three years since Deb lost the baby.
There was a horrible thickness to the air between them. Jeff wanted to open his mouth but couldn't even begin to comprehend how he could cut through this silence.
Deb's eyes slowly moved to Jeff, he had left because of her.
Jeff's eyes drifted upward to Deb, she hated him for leaving.
“Deb,” Jeff began but his voice cracked, had she even heard him say anything?
Deb stood as still as she could. She was frozen and undeniably certain that she would stay this way until he spoke. He tried to say something. She should speak now, but she couldn't.
“Deb,” Jeff looked down. He had a painful sense of deja-vu that came from nowhere.
“I'm so sorry.” The words drifted easily through the air, although they were the hardest things Jeff had ever had to say, not because he didn't mean it, but because it reminded him of what he did.
He felt a deep weight in his stomach, so heavy he needed to sit down. But he stood still, his thin frame swaying slightly in the crisp breeze.
Deb's eyes were red and her mind was rocked violently with waves of anger. Every second thought was to slam the door in his face, every second thought was about how much pain and suffering this man had caused her.
But, every other thought was about the impossible sense of safety he gave her. She knew he could never hurt her intentionally but she was terrified of what he could do to her accidentally, had done to her accidentally. He didn't know what he was doing when he left.
“I didn't know what I was doing when I left.”
She had spent three years trying to forget about him but it was impossible. Every day whenever she drifted away from her work, or the television, or a book, she found her thoughts were devoted to him. She held conversations with him in her mind, she wondered what he would say if she told him something secret. She imagined herself happily married and successful when he showed up and she would gloat about her incredible life, and she would hate herself. She wondered what he would do if she was in an accident and held conversations with him in the hospital. He always apologised, in her thoughts. He always made her feel safe. She could go days hating him, this led to her hating herself, which made her hate him even more. She would love him and then she would hate him, in her mind she screamed at him.
The moment he walked out that door, three years ago, Jeff felt sick. He was violently rocked from his sleep by physically painful bouts of guilt. He had trouble eating and sleeping. His dreams were peaceful until she appeared. She cried and pushed him away and he screamed. Jeff ate very little, he would begin to chew and drift away. She would drift into his thoughts and the food in his mouth began to rot. In his dreams he jumped off buildings and threw pills down his throat. He dreamt of brutally hacking at his limbs in front of her and he woke up to vomit into his bin, which was never far from his bed. She hated him and he hated himself. He loved her but he hated her too. He hated her for making him feel this way, and in selfish twangs of horror he found himself dreaming of their death.
She looked at the man standing in her doorway. He was gaunt and almost skeletal. She had hoped that he had suffered for his actions but instantly she felt a wave of fear for his well-being. He was sick and she could tell he was in pain. This man had changed her life. They shared everything, he let her talk openly and she never once felt judged. She never once felt that Jeff would laugh at her or accuse her. He was so open himself and she had the strangest desire to know everything he thought, every move he would make. She had an instinctual desire to protect him and hold him close when he didn't understand something. She wanted to guide him and teach him everything she knew, and if she didn't know the answers to his questions she wanted to hold his hand and the two of them would learn together. When she hugged him he was always stiff at first but he would loosen up and wrap his arms around her shoulders and pull her tightly towards him. She never felt comfortable with anyone like she did with him. In his arms was the safest place in the world, he knew how to care for her and protect her from the world.
Jeff looked through the doorway at Deb. She looked well, although she looked much older than when he had left. He still felt captivated by the sparkle in her eyes. She led him into this adult world by the hand and he wanted to go. He wanted to learn everything she knew. Whenever he stood dumbly hoping that she would reach out to him, there was an amazing feeling through his whole body when she did. Her delicate gentle hands wrapping around his own clunky nervous ones made him feel alive. He could never be articulate, he could never be close or initiate contact, but she would always know when he felt inadequate and reach out to touch him. Sometimes she kissed him, sometimes it was hug, but even the lightest brush of his hand coated him in a warmth and safety he could never find anywhere but with her.
Deb was tired of hatred and anger. She couldn't go on in pain and guilt and she needed someone to help her through. She needed warmth and compassion. She needed the passionate embrace of a man who would do anything to make her feel special and alive again. As frightened as she was for thinking it, she needed Jeff.
Jeff swayed slightly, the light breeze enough to move his thin frame. He was sick and tired of his guilt. She could never love him as she did but he needed her to know he was sorry. His mistake had cost him his life and even though she could never take him back he needed her to know that she was the most important person in his life. If she was in pain he wanted to be the one to make it go away.
Deb stepped closer to the doorway, eventually reaching the doorstep. She knew he couldn't do anything. He would never be able to throw his arms around her, she had to do that for him. But she was so tired, she felt weak and numb. If he can't do this for me, she thought, if he can't reach out and hold me, I can't do this. One time, I need him to reach out to me, just this one time.
Jeff stepped closer to the door. Deb had taken a few steps forward and he thought it best to do the same. He needed to hold her, he could see it in her eyes. She needed him to take her in his arms and hold her tightly. She needed this now more than ever, her body language told him that she was aching to be held.
Deb stood in the doorway and Jeff moved closer. He was frozen by fear. She couldn't possibly love him. He swayed harder, the air between the two was dribbling with the fear of rejection.

“I'm sorry,” the words were barely audible and Jeff turned and left.
“No,” Deb gasped equally inaudibly, but it was too late.


Enjoy the ending? No, me neither. I might have to create some new romantic leads, I feel like I've irreversibly ruined any hope for these two.

Quick Short

Hi all, this is a quick short done just now. It's fairly self-expalanatory. Any comments and ideas are more than welcome.

On a side note, I'm still working hard on that writing competition and doing well, despite the dreaded university schedule.

Not another drunk piece!
Tim Harvey

I went to a party dressed as Hunter S Thompson. My word document freezes as I write this and I wonder, 'is this happening, did I write that?' You are the witness to a truly unique event. As I write this, I am totally intoxicated. My spelling may be bad, my grammar improper. You'll have to forgive me, but frankly, I am drunk. This is it. This is what is going on, right now!
I went to a party dressed as Hunter S Thompson. One person recognised my costume, and frankly, I only expected one person to get who I was supposed to be. One person commented that I looked like the director of pornographic films. I laughed at this, 'yes, I do look like a porn director.' Another girl suggested I looked like somebody from a completely unrelated film. I said, 'I can be whoever you think I am.'
I danced, as Dr Thompson. I acted like Johnny Depp from the film that made Hunter Thompson so famous to young audiences. But, one person commented, later in the evening, that I 'looked like a writer.' he turned to his friend and said; 'he looks like a writer.' My heart leapt at the idea of resembling a writer. I thought; 'am I a writer?' This bounced in my head for a while.
Presently, I am lying in bed, writing. Does this make me a writer? I am unsure. I write, sure, that is true enough. But as a writer? I am unsure. What does a writer look like, what does a writer feel like? I don't know. A smart man, named Dan O'Brien, once wrote; 'I am an idiot.' For some reason this article comes to mind. We are all idiots, I feel. We believe we have life sorted out and one day, everything we hold close, changes. One day we adopt a new set of ideas and rules that completely supersede our old idea of life.
As humans we all do this. This may be a by-product of the 21st century, social networking and all that. I don't know, I am unsure. There is a lack of confidence in my ability to determine what is accurate at the present moment. I hold strong ideas very close until I find something that seems, at the moment, more important. What does this mean? I am unsure.
I once wrote a story that started like this; 'I wake up on the edge of a river. The river is a sleek, smooth mirror. The water, like liquid metal reflects everything around me. I don't know how I got here or what is going on.' The story pretty much ended there. I was unsure of where to go. Once I thought of a story that went like this; 'You stand at a crossroads. Two roads split in front of you and you are unsure. You decide to sit and wait by the crossroads. Eventually someone comes along, they are beautiful and perfect. They instantly choose a road and you regret following them. But you are scared they chose the wrong road for you.'
What does this mean, I am unsure.
Being unsure is a pretty common problem in this narrative, isn't it?
Sometimes I am sure of certain things. There are things that I write that just feel right. I don't necessarily write from personal experience, but each word I put down, sometimes, feels like... It feels like how I feel. I can't explain emotion, I can't explain feelings, but some things just fit. They just feel... correct. I couldn't say if they feel correct because I have seen them, or because I have read them. I can't say, with any certainty, that anything I write is honest. I hope that it is open though, I hope that there is some way of looking at me through my writing. Like the mirrored river of that short, all writing is a reflection of myself.
I smiled when my friend commented that I looked like a writer. It was a comment on the costume, sure. But, it was a reflection of myself, and all that I hope to be.
I write not for fame, money or accolades. I write to feel, to explore feelings, to express myself. This project, right now, the one that you are reading, is a projection of me. This is a way for me to express. It is personal, and I know it is damned raw. There is little room for self-censorship when you are drunk. I apologise for any drunken actions. When I dance with someone, when I talk candidly, when I make crude jokes, I apologise. But I cannot apologise for the openness presented when I write.
A lot of writers get criticised for being intoxicated. Hunter S Thompson was one of these writers. William S Burroughs, Edgar Allan Poe, Philip K Dick, these writers were criticised for their ailments, their... insanities. They should never have to apologise for their expression, they should never have any shame attributed to their names for their writing. Jim Morrison and Ian Curtis were musicians that shared the same fate.
Whatever this means, whatever it means to be a writer, I am unsure. The pad and pen are methods of expression that should be only done for self fulfilment. Any writer looking for fame, any writer hoping for money is in the wrong line of work. It must, and I repeat, must, be done for the self, or for the love of others. Anthony Burgess wrote 'A Clockwork Orange' because he thought he was dying of a brain tumour. He wanted his wife to be able to live a happy life after his death. The man wrote a large number of books in a year. He wrote almost one novel a month, according to my recollection. He did this, not for fame, not for accolades. He did this in the hope that one of his novels would sell. Sure, it was for the money, but he feared death. His doctor told him he would die, so instead of falling into self-pity, he wrote. He wrote for his wife.
'A Clockwork Orange' is successful today because of Stanley Kubrick's film, but the novel was successful too. Anthony Burgess was writing for the love of his wife.
I don't know if I'll ever be in that position. But I hope that if I was diagnosed with a terminal illness, I would put everything aside, all shame, all self-pity and self-loathing, for the love of another. I can picture Burgess writing with an amazing fire and passion, I can picture him typing, not as if his life depended on it, but as if the lives of his loved ones depended on it.
Recap; I was told that I resembled a writer, tonight at a party. I am drunk. Whatever was written is a train of thought. This “metaphorical” train has left the station and I am... yeah, unsure of where it will end. All I know at the present moment is, that this train has left me with a sense of confidence. It has departed and instead of lonely and afraid I feel excited. I am writing, now. I am a writer and even if I never see fame, if I never see a dollar for my work I will feel fulfilled. This is my expression, this is my form of release and I, right now, realise that this is what I have. This is something that makes me happy, whether it is writing a drunken blog post at three in the morning or working on a project, I am at my most comfortable, (to quote R.E.M;) at my most beautiful, when I am free here at the computer, writing.
That was a good way to end this: read above. Drunken sentimentalism aside, I like to write... and you like to read, apparently, otherwise you wouldn't have read this.

Temporarily Unavailable!

Hey, I won't be writing any blog entries until at least April 15th as I've got my hands full with a writing competition. I would post updates here but I'm not too sure of their rules on publishing entries online etc so best to err on the side of caution and all that.

Feel free to peruse previous entries and email suggestions etc

Chaper 4 finished

Chapter 4 is done, and I've even thrown a bit more action in to heighten the excitement a bit. The next few chapters are action heavy so hopefully all the background and build up pays off here.

Enjoy.




- 4 -
Part 2 of 2

Ray Douglas stood, his legs trembling. His hands shook violently but he took a deep breath and they steadied slightly. It would have to do, for now.
Jack woke up that morning to the dull idle of Ray's Kingswood outside his window. There was a low knock on the door of his room, followed hesitantly by another.
Jack sat up in his bed, “Ray?”
“Yeah.”
“Come in.”
The door creaked slightly and Jack saw Ray's face peer through the crack.
“Heading off?” Jack raised his eyebrows apprehensively, he wasn't sure if he had gotten through to Ray, or if Ray had figured things out by himself.
“Yeah,” Ray mumbled.
“Okay Ray.”
The silence between them was heavy with regret, the fringes of which flickered with sparks of excitement. Jack could see an energy in Ray's eyes and he knew where he was going.
“Jack?”
“Yeah, Ray?” Jack shifted in his bed, Ray still stood outside of the room, only his head visible.
“Help me Jack.”
Jack let out a deep breath. He had hoped Ray wouldn't ask him, he was hoping the kid had too much pride to ask. The corner of Jack's mouth curled into the faintest smile and he looked away from Ray and out of the window.
“You have to do this by yourself.”
“Okay.” Ray's head dipped a little and he knew that Jack was in no state to go rushing around, dragging his old arse all the way back to Adelaide. Jack had given him more help than he could ever have hoped for. Jack had certainly helped him more than he deserved.
“I'm going now.” Ray's face remained in the doorway.
“Then go.”
“Jack... why?” Ray's eyes were now focussed on the window too.
Jack let out a tired chuckle and wiped his forehead, “You remind me of myself, Ray. Helping you felt like... It felt like I was helping myself.”
“I understand.” Ray nodded, he knew exactly what Jack was thinking.
“Goodbye, Jack.”
“Hell, Ray. You'll be back.” Jack's voice trembled and he cursed himself under his breath for allowing Ray to hear that.
Ray nodded, “Sure.” He didn't know what was going to happen but he knew it would involve trouble. If Jack was right, it could be a set-up. An old friend of Burgess trying to get even once the heat had died down. It could have been Cook, that guy had it in for Ray.
It could have been Richardson, Ray thought.
He shuddered suddenly and closed the door to Jack's bedroom leaving the old man staring out of the window.
Standing in the hall Ray's hands shook violently at the thought of Detective Nicholas Richardson. He closed his eyes and a trickle of sweat rolled down his brow. He said a quiet prayer to whoever would listen that Richardson wasn't involved and then left the house, possibly for the last time.

The roar of the haggard V-8 echoed through the desolate countryside. Ray admired the simplicity of the flaking white paint, revealing patches of old rust. He admired the lines of the road ahead of him and the simple nature of the drive.
Within a few hours silent Ray, on his silent drive, had reached the coast.
The engine, heated and worn finally gave up as Ray drifted through a small isolated town. He parked at the beach and let the car rest. A quick walk through the town and Ray returned to the Kingswood just before sunset with a bottle of bourbon, hiding in a paper bag, in his hand.
Ray started the car and despite a painful squeal from the fan-belt got back on the road. He was only a few kilometres from society when he turned off the road and drove down onto the beach. Being careful to keep the Kingswood from the water at first, Ray got a shot of energy from the liquor and gunned the beast as hard as it would go.
The wind ripped over the dust-flecked windshield and Ray pushed his monster up to just over one hundred kilometres per hour. The flat white sand held comfortably under the old tires and Ray felt confident he could avoid being bogged.
Pink tinted clouds stretched along the sky capturing Ray's gaze. He swigged bourbon and pushed the car gently.
He spent the night on the bonnet of the car, looking up at the stars again. His mind was clear this time, and he didn't even feel like finishing the bottle. His body however urged him to complete what he had left and he was a slave to its desires. He dropped the bottle off the side of the bonnet before finishing the last drink.

Ray woke to the sounds of gulls flapping around above him, the sun rising over the land caused their shadows to spread across the beach. He was lying on his stomach on the sand, next to the car. Ray stood shakily however his head didn't ache as he thought it would. His body was returning to its old ways.
The last of the bourbon lay in the sand next to him and he managed to get the last of it down. It would ease the shakes that he felt coming on.
Rachel didn't need him to be drunk, but if was going to do anything to help her, he would have to have a drink. Just a little one.

The sun beat down on the car as Ray pulled back onto the road and headed for Adelaide. The day went quickly and Ray had to stop at another town to inquire about the date.
Standing in the rural deli at nine in the morning, Ray realised he looked out of place. His white shirt was crumpled and stained with sweat, not to mention coated in sand. His navy trousers looked the same and he sighed as he looked down at his shoes, which were hidden under a thick layer of dried crusty sand.
The shopkeeper watched him as he brought the newspaper to the counter.
“Dollar-fifty, mate.”
Ray fished through his pockets and dragged out a few coins. He placed them on the counter, determining how much money he had as he went.
“You're forty-five short there,” the shopkeeper, a grey elderly man in a worn maroon cap, said as he counted the change.
Ray stood motionless, feeling the morning's drink warming his body.
“Couldn't let me get away with it?”
“Sorry mate, dollar-fifty.”
Ray's hands began to tremble and he cast a quick glance around the store. There was nobody there on a Friday morning.
“How far would you say I am from Adelaide?” Ray changed the subject, folding the paper in half and placing it under his arm.
The shopkeeper scratched his head, raising the maroon cap and revealing his balding scalp, “Fair way still. Probably get there by night if you're quick,” he said, eyeing Ray.
Ray pulled the blood-spattered not from his pocket and re-read the details to himself;
'Ray. I regret to inform you that Rachel may be in a bit of a tricky situation. If you want to enjoy her company again, you might want to be present at the following address by Friday night. All the best.'
The sight of the note made the shopkeeper shift uncomfortably and he scratched his head again.
Ray shrugged and flipped the note over nonchalantly, “we'll have to see how I do then, eh?”
“Sure.” The shopkeeper had stepped back from the counter, he wasn't sure about this strange man and his quick movements made made him nervous.
Ray nodded and began to walk for the door.
He was almost there when he heard, shakily, over his shoulder, “dollar-fifty for the paper.”
Ray froze, he had almost gotten away with it, but he was caught.
He felt a wave of nausea rise in his stomach and he turned to the shopkeeper.
His hands trembled and he stared at the man. He wanted to walk over to him, he should walk over there.
Ray dropped the paper on the floor of the deli and marched to the door as fast as he could.
“Hey!” Ray heard the call behind him and slowed his pace, he had to stop.
Ray's head began to swim, his balance became undone and he grabbed the handle of the door.
The glass door was covered in stickers and signs advertising everything from soft drinks to petrol and motor oil.
Ray was about to turn around when one card stuck to the door caught his eye. He saw a young woman smiling as she held a bottle of some brand of lemonade. The card must have been fifty years old but the dark sheen of the girl's hair and the soft warmth of her grin brought images of Rachel into Ray's mind.
He threw the door open and ran to his car.
When the Kingswood was finally started Ray roared out of that town as fast as he could.
He would be in Adelaide before nightfall.



For any curious readers, this is a picture of Ray's car. It is a photo of a car my parents bought before I was born. So this can aid in imagining the driving scenes for anybody that wants that.

A bit of Ray

This took a fair bit of work to get done. I've decided to split chapter 4 into two parts because I've already posted this week and I'm running low on creative juices.

Again it's backstory heavy and I feel it's time to just jump into some action, so the next part will be fairly speedy. I think overall, once I've finished the story, I may have to rearrange some of these opening chapters as my initial layout is pretty lax on action. But that's all part of the learning experience.

Hope you enjoy.




- 4 -
Part 1 of 2

A hunched figure sat guard on the porch of the old colonial homestead, he sat watch as the sun rose across the plains. Ray Douglas watched the shadows swim across the red earth, moving and dipping through small drifts of sand. The wind moved the sand quietly and the shadows plays amongst the drifts.
Ray looked out, deep into the scrub and bushland that filled the quiet property. He watched as the shadows of the clouds moved along the ground. The orange tinted burn of the clouded golden sky caused Ray to breathe calmly, he felt warmth in the glow of the sun.
The land before him faded in and out of view as his eyes drooped and sprang back open. Sleep didn't come easy to men like Ray. The dangers of sleep were fresh in his mind as he recalled the nightmares his mind would create. But sleep was upon him now and his nightmares burst forth into his waking life.
The dust and dirt of the reddened earth swirled violently and Ray saw droplets of blood in the sand. He trained his tired eyes on an old burnt and dead tree far in the distance. As the sun rose, Ray saw the tree shimmer and sway. The dance of the tree turned violent as it jerked readily under his gaze.
Ray shifted his vision onto a rabbit that appeared near the horizon. The hare stood rigid, petrified at being seen in the light. Waves of terror rolled from the rabbit and Ray absorbed its fear. His thoughts wandered to Burgess and the rabbit darted violently away, dodging imaginary bullets as it went.
Maybe the bullets were imaginary, Ray thought. Maybe they were all imaginary. Burgess would never have shot the kid. Ray had killed him for nothing.
What had he heard about Burgess anyway? Was there any reason to shoot him? Ray knew nothing of the man. He had only spent about an hour with him and they said little to each other in that time.
Burgess had said nothing in the last hour of his life.
Had he? Ray couldn't tell anymore. His imagination ran wild when he remembered anything. His mind ran through every possible scenario hundreds of times every day. He remembered every detail of Burgess but he couldn't trust the memories. There was not truth anymore, there was no real answer. Of the three people who witnessed the scene; one was a drunk, one was never identified and one was dead. There was no justice that night, and no chance of redemption.

Ray released a heavy sigh. He needed a drink.
He had the taste back, after a year sober. For that whole year, when he lived with Jack, working on the farm, he never thought of alcohol. Until everything came crashing down, Ray never even wanted to drink. Now he needed the stuff. It wasn't even a matter of want now, he needed it. How easily his body remembered his old ways.
What brought it back? Ray knew the answer.
It was Rachel.
It wasn't her fault, of course. He could see that, but the memory of her shut him down. But how could he even trust the memory of his sister. He had killed a man, and he had no idea how it happened. Ray felt it impossible to know for sure what Rachel meant to him anymore.
She was always very smart as a child, he knew that. He remembered going to her High School graduation just after he himself had graduated from the Police Academy. She wore a broad grin on her delicate features as she spotted him standing at the back of the auditorium. Ray never got a high school graduation, he was expelled earlier.
Ray held his head in his hands as a flood of bad memories drifted through his head. After being refused bail by his parents for a vicious assault, Ray managed to avoid a jail sentence if he cleaned himself up.
Ray's hands eased off of his head as he allowed the memories to flow, cautiously at first. The court had organised for his rehabilitation. Ray remembered living in a halfway house for juvenile offenders. He spent his eighteenth birthday sober.
The memories and images flowed easily now and Ray invited them in. He completed his certificate of education and his social work certificate. Ray remembered living and working with other kids like himself.
Ray's face twitched and his mouth shifted as he let in the deluge of past experiences.
He hadn't seen or heard from his family for a few years after he was arrested. The halfway house wasn't entirely the court's idea. Ray's parents abandoned him. But Rachel found out where he was and she called him the night of her first day at High School.

Seated on the porch of the old house, in the middle of the countryside, Ray Douglas released a wave of pressure. His shoulders relaxed and he could feel each and every muscle of his body contract and generously release.
Ray's mouth formed the slightest smile as he began to know his sister.
He had always loved it when she called him. She called him asking for advice about High School, there was a new problem every week or so it seemed to him. But the sudden and unexpected realisation made Ray tremble.
Rachel was calling to see how he was. She was scared for her big brother. The issues that seemed so real to Ray at the time were just made up, just an excuse for her to hear him; not yelling, not breaking things, not hurting anybody.
She cared for him.

Writer's Block and a quick short

I sat at my computer all morning trying to do some homework but managed to get only a measly 500 words or so down. I'm glad I started early becasue i have a feeling that this semester might get pretty hectic.

Getting tired of doing reading, I tried to begin chapter 4 of Irredeemable but to no luck. I fear the dreaded writer's block may have struck me again. Even with my story plan and character backgrounds, I just couldn't start.

But in an effort to cheer myself up I quickly wrote up this short in only about 15 minutes. It was a quick experiment about just trying to get into a flow and put some ideas down. I'm feeling pretty confident about writing and am going to absolutely get that new chapter done tonight, after work. Wish me luck.

The Dreaded Wait
By Tim Harvey

I walk for hours and I write a sentence. I miss the feeling of walking quickly, a lap of the block, and rushing home to write for hours. I think for hours and pace around the house quietly. When I look at the clock, only a few minutes have passed but it feels like hours. I wait to go to work, and I wait to do some homework. When I am not writing, I am waiting.
I revisit old projects and I read all of my old stories. Some of them are good, some are terribly written. Some are full of charm and some are just boring. Most are long but unfinished.
I lapse back into old habits and I miss the Summer. I feel tired and worn out, but the short sentences I manage to write are full of optimism. There is a flow there, coming from somewhere. As I write one sentence, I am thinking of the next one. Sometimes I can write it and sometimes I have to give up and walk again.
But when I come back to the computer, to the writing station, I find it hard not to put a new idea down. The issue is with over-focus and over-concentration. When I forget what I am doing and finally stop thinking I can lose myself in the writing. I read short stories and watch short films. I have so much to do but I still spend time waiting.
I sit at the computer, the word processor, the typewriter, holding the pen in my hand, and I follow my thoughts. I chase them around my head like a game of snake on a long-forgotten mobile phone, trying to avoid getting into a loop. When I get on a roll, I am unstoppable. But it is hard to get onto a roll if you spend too much time trying.
When I can get a good sentence down I feel happy. When I struggle with the next I feel sad. If I worry too much about that next sentence, then the first one makes me feel bad too.
I think about new projects and wonder if it is fair to start something new and probably abandon an old favourite to the wastes of my desktop. The folders, of which, are crowded with the skeletons of past endeavours. I know that I probably won't get around to finishing any of those old stories. I hope that one day I get a spark, a massive surge of energy that forces me to go through each and every one of my old stories, editing, re-drafting, making good.
I probably won't do that, but one day I will try. One day, when I'm not busy waiting.