Newsletter forty one

[charlie_cochrane]

Life’s fun at present, about to take two of the smaller Cochranes back to university so we’ll be getting to know the motorways of Britain really well.
 
News (and lots of it this time):
 
The Carina February release has a new title, Heroic Deceptions, which is much better than my working one. More on that next time.
 
Stevie Carroll and I are hoping to be at the Open Mic event at Wordsouth bookshop in Havant on Friday 23rd September. If you happened to be nearby, let one of us know and we’ll buy you a drink.
  
Last Gasp suffered some teething problems in the print edition (apologies to anyone affected by this) and has now been relaunched in paperback.  It’s a grand anthology, with stories from Chris Smith, Erastes, Jordan Taylor and me. Mine’s called Sand:
.
“This bloody sand gets everywhere, absolutely bloody everywhere.” Charles Cusiter jiggled his feet, attempting to shake the dust of the country from his boots—pretty pointless exercise as the bloody stuff came right back—then brushed down his sleeves with the back of his hand. The air was thick with heat, so thick the skin under his collar felt swollen and clammy, more than it ever became on the hottest of days under an English sky. There seemed to be a pervading smell of camel, even though the nearest one had to be a half-mile away at this precise moment. Why he’d ever agreed to accompany his friend to such a place was beyond him; he’d never been so uncomfortable in his life.
No, he knew exactly why he'd given in. Brute force, excessive charm and a bit of financial pressure, every one of them wielded by Bernard Mottram’s mother. The lady in question could make all the sand in Syria vanish with one disapproving look and not even the desert was likely to argue with her. People said even Prime Ministers ran a mile in the opposite direction when Marjorie Mottram came into view.
"My son is in need of hot weather and mental stimulation, Mr Cusiter." Mrs Mottram had made it plain with one look of her gimlet eye that irrespective of whether or not Bernard wanted them, they’d be exactly what he would get. He’d got himself into hot water, appealed to Caesar—or at least to the imperial equivalent in the Mottram household—and overseas he would have to go.
"He has suffered some disappointments over these last few weeks and needs the opportunity to recuperate." Bernard’s disappointments had been in female form, as his disappointments usually were. This one had been a redhead who’d refused him, then gone off with his so-called best friend. "Bernard needs someone reliable and sensible to accompany him." She’d also inferred that if said person let her dear Bernard fall into the hands of any Middle Eastern bints, that person would end up fit only for being mummified himself. Charles had been in no position to refuse; when a man was simply an aspiring writer and his patroness asked him to perform her a favour—and had given him a whacking great lump of cash to oil the wheels—then he could hardly refuse.
“Don’t you think it’s marvellous, Charles?” Bernard seemed to enjoy every moment of their trip; he loved the warmth and the novelty. Even more, he loved the doe-eyed girls who seemed to be around every Syrian corner, even if he couldn’t get his hands on them with his custodian nearby. “Isn’t the heat and the smell so invigorating?”
The smell? The only thing Charles smelled was camel; the aroma pervaded absolutely everything, like the bloody sand. They were only a few weeks into the six months of torment Bernard’s mother had inflicted on him and he doubted he’d survive. They’d crossed Europe by train, sailed by stages across the Med and then they’d hit the camel train, at which point all pleasure had gone out the window. Or would have, had there had been any windows, rather than just tent flaps and sand. Miles and miles of bloody sand.
 
Inspiration:
 
You know how much I love sea creatures. When we went whale watching for the first time (part of Silver wedding anniversary treat) I though they'd be dots in the distance. Didn't realise the things would be under the boat and everything! One of the best days of my life.

Comments

[kayberrisford.livejournal.com]

Must get my hands on a lovely, shiny copy of Last Gasp :D

Have fun at Open Mic. Maybe next time I'll join you - it does sound fun :)

[mylodon.livejournal.com]

We'll let you know what it's like.

[stevie-carroll.livejournal.com]

Ooh, I need to see the new version of Last Gasp

[charliecochrane.livejournal.com]

I'll bring one along next Fridayif you want.

[stevie-carroll.livejournal.com]

Yes, please.

[mylodon.livejournal.com]

Will do. :)