Pregnancy -Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Hardback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

For all you addicts who have been following these irregular instalments. Here’s the next. This is based on my mother and a schoolgirl friend who found herself pregnant at sixteen. My Mum went around to her house, talked to her, told her not to listen to pressure but to think it through for herself. When she decided to keep the baby my mum helped her with the things she needed. My Mum was a wonder.

I fitted these things into the novel. You can buy the whole thing for the investment of a few shekels: Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window Paperback 

Looking out through that window, standing beside death, peering at the world outside, it struck me that we were all stranded within the parameters of our own narrow lives – the fashions and attitudes of our youth and old age. We were victims of our times and ourselves. There was no such thing as individuality and freedom. It was an illusion. All life ran its course and ended in scenes like this. We were all trapped within the limitations of our days. Outside that window was another world. There were all manner of things happening. It was a panoply of everything you could imagine – rich and eventful. Life went on. It was only in here that it had stopped. In here everything had changed. All values and endeavours had been rendered meaningless.

Chris told me about poor June. She’s pregnant. It’s been preying on my mind ever since he mentioned it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve seen so many young girls get themselves pregnant. It messes up their whole life. Poor girl’s only sixteen and she’s such a nice lass. She hasn’t had time to enjoy herself. Her life’s only just begun. I feel so sorry for her. I can’t stop thinking about it. There must be something I can do.

I remember when I was sixteen. There was a bloody war on. We had a time with all those Yanks coming over here. Those were the days. They had so much compared to our boys, they seemed so rich and sophisticated. I remember them saying the definition of a brassiere – one yank and it’s off. But we had such good times dancing at the Palais. They’d promise you the earth, with their stockings. Real silk stockings, mind. You couldn’t get stockings over here in the war. Girls used to pencil in a line up the back of their legs to make it look as if they were wearing stockings. Some girls would do anything to get their hands on some real silk stockings – and I do mean anything. I never fell for it though. I could see right through their line – smarmy gits those Yanks – so smooth talking – they’d charm the knickers off a nun. But I don’t blame them. There was a war on. You didn’t know if you had a tomorrow. You had to make the most of life. We all did.

We had such fun. We danced home down the streets with the ack-ack guns pounding away, the searchlights, big Bertha up and down the railway line booming out its great deafening roar, the drone of bombers and orange burst of explosions as we tried to knock out the Jerry planes, red hot chunks of shrapnel falling in the road around you – and we were so full of it we were dancing down the street – immortal – not even wearing our tin hats. Not that they’d do much good it one of those great lumps of metal hit you on the head. You were a goner. But we didn’t care. It wasn’t going to happen to us – and it didn’t. Nothing happened to any of us. Well, apart from a bunch of my old school friends. They were queuing for bread and got wiped out by a doodle-bug – took out the whole street. That was tragic. But we didn’t care about those bombs or all that shrapnel – didn’t have a care in the world. We were completely blasé about it all. It was fate – if your number was up then that was it – nothing you could do about it. Put all those thoughts to one side and not give a fig. You had to live for the moment and enjoy yourself while you could. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? We were alive and that was all that mattered. Just the fun and excitement, the music – and dancing – dancing down the street as if you were as light as a feather. They were good days.

Of course a lot of those girls lived to rue it. All those promises from those sophisticated American soldiers with their smooth talk, snazzy uniforms and money. They got them pregnant and disappeared like ghosts in the night. Some of them lied about their names and took advantage but some were genuine. It was a job picking one from the other. They were all fancy with their chocolate, chewing gum and nylons. They had money to burn, all dolled up with their caps and creased trousers – so smart in those uniforms. They swept a young girl off her feet. They were going to whisk you off to a new exciting life in the States – made it sound like wonderland – the yellow brick road – the sparkling lights, big city and no rationing. Things were tough over here with rationing and many families living in poverty. Lots of girls fell for it. Except it wasn’t really like that. Even for the ones who did marry. It wasn’t all bright lights and big cities. Some found that life out in some dead end town out in the middle of the plains, in the middle of nowhere, was about as far away from wonderland as you could get – an unremitting dust of nothingness that they were marooned in. Then a lot of those poor boys never came back to deliver on their promises anyway, no matter how genuine they were. They are still over in France and Germany. Poor kids. Even if they meant every word they spouted they never lived to deliver on it. Even worse, I suppose – a lot of the ones that did come back were in no state to get married. They weren’t the same gay, carefree young boys who’d gone out. Even the ones who came back in one piece were not the same. They came back haunted and changed. Despite all those promise made by all those young men there weren’t many couples who lived happily ever after. Life is hard. You learn that the hard way.

Reality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. A moment’s pleasure and a lifetime to pay. Poor June was going to find that out, the poor mite.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Illness – Bodies in a Window

Posted on by Opher

Writing about my Dad’s illness was hard but cathartic. Using his illness and death as a backbone to this novel gave me an opportunity to rationalise and come to terms with it. It messed me up for a long while. He was far too young. I was angry. It puts life in perspective.

Bodies in a Window

It was Auntie Di who first alerted me to what was going on with Dad. She rang me up. I was at the other end of the country. I didn’t get to see him too often but I rang him up every week and he sounded fine. He’d come up for Christmas and he’d seemed OK. I let him carve the turkey. He didn’t have much of an appetite though and left most of his Christmas dinner. That wasn’t like him at all – but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. He was just a bit off colour.

Have you seen your dad lately? Auntie Di asked ominously.

There was a lengthy pause while I ruminated on the import of what she’d just said.

Not since Christmas, I informed her hesitantly.

I think you should go down. He’s not well. She kept all emotion out of her voice and somehow that made it worse. It was what she was suppressing that came through loud and clear – something serious was up with Dad.

What’s wrong? I asked with a feeling of panic welling up in me. What was she telling me? For her to ring me up and say that meant that something bad was up.

I just think you should go and see him.

Dad had been complaining of being off his food and having an upset stomach. But it hadn’t stopped him going in to work. But that meant nothing – the man was a workaholic. He never took any time off work. He was a juggernaut. He went in even when he had flu.  I knew he’d been ill for some time now but was making very light of it to me – just an upset stomach. The doctor was sorting it. But Auntie Di wouldn’t have phoned unless there was something serious would she? I had this horrible sinking feeling.

I couldn’t wait for the weekend. I drove down as soon as I could. It was quite a journey – 250 miles in my old jalopy. It took me nearly six hours.

I could not believe my eyes when I got there. He’d withered away to nothing in three months. His suit hung off him. His cheeks were hollow. He was yellow. I’ve seen worse victims coming out of concentration camps. To say that I was shocked didn’t come close. But I tried to cover it up as best I could. I didn’t want him to see my reaction. I covered it up by giving him a big hug and averting my face.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

53 and imploding – a novel concerned with the reality of life

Posted on by Opher

I wrote this novel in an attempt to capture reality. A stream of consciousness about the things going on in my head, life and death. This is what reality looks like. This is life.

53 and imploding

I live in a nice house that is three hundred years old. The doorways and ceilings are low because people were smaller back then. Even I have to occasionally duck. It used to be a farm, a pair of two-up two-down cottages, and a shop and now it is my home. The mortgage is completely paid off. I own it. Except in reality I am merely passing through. I will leave it to my wife and then my children. It will be lived in by others after me. It will be altered, decorated, knocked around, improved and no evidence of me will remain. I am passing through.

I love this house. It is warm and cosy. It has room to stretch out. We have invested much time and energy into making it a home. It houses my books, records, CDs and computers. I am comfortable here. There is a sense of history in the walls. They lean and tilt, the floorboards creak, and the ceilings sag. It is happy with the way it has settled into itself and redolent with the memories of unseen people. I have grown into it and lean and sag to the same extent in sympathy.

I am passing through.

Some people are artists with words, creating pictures and stories out of static neuronal sparks. They structure and craft their words to tell tales and plug into that primitive need of all humans. But I am no artist. I have tried that and failed. I admire their skills. I enjoy the stories they weave. But to me they are sanitised. No matter how intricate or complete they cannot capture the real textures of life; they cannot even capture a brief moment in its entirety. A novel is a distillation; at best a selection of highlights. I am no storyteller, wordsmith or creator of tales. My words are not crafted, not honed; they escape on the run. I let them free.

I am no writer; I am a liberator of ideas.

53 and imploding eBook : goodwin, opher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

Another body – Bodies in a Window

Posted on by Opher

I am standing in the hospital next to my dead father, peering out the window.

Here is another body or two. I introduce another character. Can you glimpse where this is going?

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window

Joe and I are mates. We go back to the year dot – blood brothers. We were brought together as babies as we were the same age and lived a few houses away from each other. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know Joe. We grew up in each other’s houses and were out on the streets as soon as we could totter along. It was quiet on our estate. There was hardly any traffic, and the cars there were had careful drivers who always looked out for us kids. We rode our little trikes up and down on the new concrete slab road without any danger. Our mums knew we were safe. They didn’t have to worry. Those streets were out playground. We learnt to roller-skate, played tennis using the concrete blocks as our court, climbed the trees, hoicked frogspawn out of the ponds, played football, cricket and block. We were as wild and free as leaves in the wind.

 When we were little Joe and I had our gang – the Black Arrow Gang. We had our flag that we’d made together – a black arrow that we’d painted on a square of old sheet that we’d tied to a stick – Joe and I had drawn it and stitched it up ourselves. We were right proud of that flag. We’d also built a gang house out of mud. We’d dug up clods of grass and made cement out of gooey mud to stick it together. We’d built these walls up as high as our chest and then covered it with an old tent to create this huge room where we held our parlays. It was serious stuff that gang. We had solemn discussions about what we were planning to do and took notes and everything. No messing about. We really got into it. All the members had to swear allegiance to the gang. We cut our thumbs with penknives and mixed our blood so we were blood brothers until death.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Reflections from a ditch – A novel

Posted on by Opher

This novel is part biographical. It is based around a journey I used to make every day as I went into work. I used to drive down country lanes. The sights and events all happened. The crash didn’t – at least not that one!

I wanted a framework to hang a lot of thoughts around. My protagonist is basically me. He/Me is trapped in an upside down car in a ditch, badly injured and slowly dying. His/My head is full of random thoughts and memories as consciousness ebbs.

Reflections from a ditch – the blurb.

Sex, death, awe, wonder, fury, birth, life, beauty, politics, religion, anger, nature, love, questions, stories and thoughts are all words. I had to rearrange their meanings.
You live your life and then you die. You start a journey that will not end as you expect. From a childhood spent in ditches to a lonesome wait in a ditch. You think you understand. You have relationships with people, animals, possessions and places but you can only guess at the other side. You are aware. You have a moral code you live by. You see how good things could be and, when you wear your Sunday best, you do your bit to make it happen. Your life is measured in seconds but how much of it has significance? You laugh and enjoy. You think and wonder. You create and destroy. Sometimes you are fulfilled and often you are frustrated; most of the time you are simply bored or engaged in the mundane. The things that stand out are oases in a desert of forgotten ordinariness.
This is a story of a crash.

Reflections from a ditch eBook : Goodwin, Opher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

Bodies in a Window – introducing Bert

Posted on by Opher

Introducing one of my characters. Bert is an ageing pensioner who has lost his wife and lives on his own with his little terrier.

*

I don’t understand it at all. The whole world has gone nuts. I can’t comprehend what has happened to young people. They don’t have any values. They are rude, scruffy and ungrateful. We fought a war, two wars, so that they could have everything we didn’t and they throw it back in your face. It makes me bewildered. Sometimes it makes me angry and sometimes it makes me sad but mostly it leaves me in despair. I just don’t understand – still, never mind, best to get on with it. The whole world has gone to pot. Put it to one side and forget about it. That’s the way.

Best listen to the telly and forget it.

I could feel Tom settling his head on my lap. I ruffled his head and he settled contentedly on the settee with his head in my lap – his favourite position. Margaret would never have stood for it – him being up on the furniture – unhygienic and dirty – not the done thing. She was house-proud. She wouldn’t have had him in up on the settee – not a chance in hell. Makes me chuckle to think about it. He most likely wouldn’t have ever been allowed in the front room. She’d probably have railed against him being in the house at all, but she would have eventually compromised and allowed him a bed in the corner of the kitchen.

I miss Margaret. She had standards. We didn’t use the front room at all when she was alive. She had the furniture covered and put newspaper down on the floor for us to walk on. You should have seen the caper when someone called unexpectedly; all that crumpling it up and shoving it in the cupboard. The sitting room was for guests. She kept it pristine. We lived in the kitchen. The rest of the house was done to a turn as well. She polished the doorstep every morning, dusted, swept, cleaned and washed until everything was shiny and spotless. Even when she was really ill she kept up the same routine. Nothing stopped her. She had principles. It is sad that I’ve let it go like I have, but I was never like that, really. Besides, I’m past caring.

I wasn’t like that back then. She used to nag me rotten. But I’ve let things slip. I know it. She’d be horrified if she came back now. She’d probably have a fit. But Margaret has been gone these last twenty years. She is not coming back. I’m on my own. Well, apart from Tom that is. Tom is my only companion now.

It will be Coronation Street soon. I like Coronation Street. Ena’s got herself in a right strop with Minnie. I can’t wait to see how that one is going to turn out. Then I might watch Harry Worth and call it a night. I’ll take a hot cocoa up to bed with me. I used to like to read but my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. My reading days are over. I even have trouble watching the telly now. I have to watch it out of the corner of my eye.  It’s an effort. Everything’s a bloody effort these days.

You have to laugh. There’s not much to look forward to, is there? More of the same but gradually worse. Still Arthur rings me on Sunday night. He’s a good lad. That’s something. At least I know he cares. But he’s busy. He has work and kids. He can’t keep worrying his head about me. I have to jolly well get on with it.

*

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Excerpt from The Blues Muse.

Posted on by Opher

Can you turn the whole history of Rock Music into a novel? I reckon you can. That’s what I did with ‘The Blues Muse’

This is a tiny section. My protagonist, an itinerant black blues singer, meets the young Elvis Presley:

Tupelo

Tupelo was a small town and like most of them places had two sides to it. One was black and one was white and never the twain shall meet. Ceptin’ that wasn’t strictly true. The truth was that some of those white sharecroppers were worse off than the blacks and certainly lived no better. They lived a hundred to a room in wooden shacks the same as the negroes. They worked the land and hoed weeds just the same, walked the mules, ploughed, sowed and owed the man the same as everybody else. There was no difference. And many of them weren’t too proud to share some music, a bottle or some dice.

Of a night, when the heat was cooling off, we’d sit on the veranda and rock on our chairs with a guitar on our laps and a bottle at our feet. Sometimes someone would strike up a diddy-bow on the side of one of them huts and some of the youngsters would try out some of their moves. Even the old folks would join in. It was kind of spontaneous and neighbourly.

If you wanted the real action you headed for town. The white folks would Honky Tonk but if you wanted something a bit earthier you hit the black side of town where the beat sizzled and the boots hardly hit the floor. The big mamas would jive their asses and shake like jelly. Their bodies shimmied while the guys, dressed to the nines in their dapper suits, ties and loud shirts, shoes shined, hair slicked and a hat tilted at a crazy angle, would strut their stuff and make their moves. Why – I would watch that floor and sometimes it looked like those cats had bones of rubber.

Elvis Presley was one of those real young white cats who liked to hit town and soak up the sounds. He was a rare one, that young kid. He did not fit in with most of his white group. With his long hair slicked back into a ducks-ass DA and combed into a tall pompadour of a crest like Esquerita, side-burns that he could tie under his chin and bright clothes of contrasting colours, he put the coolest black dudes to shame. He was a young skinny kid and had a mind of his own. His black eyes would look right through you and shine with some inner light when he saw something he liked. I guess it was that Cherokee blood set him apart. He was untamed and wild at times and, I declare, if he hadn’t have been so quiet and shy by nature, I’d swear he was pushing the numbers for some gang or other.

Many’s the time we’d sneak into the back of one of those clubs where the lights were so low you couldn’t tell the colour of a man’s skin and we’d watch. Tupelo was small but we’d get all the Blues Guys come through. Elvis’ eyes would pop outa his head when he saw Jimmy Reed, Big Maybelle and Arthur Crudup.

I saw him talking to Arthur after his show. Arthur had come down from Chicago when he was supposed to have lived in a packing case under the station in Chicago Central. If he ever did, he was not doing that now. You could see the man was eating good.

Elvis soaked up Howlin’ Wolf, Roy Brown and Big Mama Thornton. I could see it. His eyes were glowing and he never missed a beat. That sound was driving into his head and swirling round in there with all that Bill Monroes and Hank Williams. I knew it was all going to come bursting out one day.

The Blues Muse: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781518621147: Books

The Blues Muse – Kindle/Paperback – Rock Music novel!

Posted on by Opher

This book tells the story of rock music but as a novel!

The Blues Muse

I was in conversation with a good friend who, like me, is a Rock Music fanatic. We have both been everywhere, seen everyone and have had our lives hugely affected by music. However it is not who you have seen but what you failed to catch that you dwell on. I said to him that it would be brilliant if we had a time machine and were able to go back and see all the major events in Rock history; Robert Johnson play in the tavern in Greenwood, Elmore James in Chicago, Elvis Presley in the small theatres, The Beatles in Hamburg, Stones in Richmond, Doors in the Whiskey, Roy Harper at St Pancras Town Hall…………….. and a thousand more. Then I realised that I could. I knew it all, had seen much of it first hand, and had the imagination to fill in the gaps. All I needed was a character who worked his way through it, was witness to it, part of it and lived it; someone to tell the story and paint the picture. I invented my ‘man with no name’ and made a novel out of the History of Rock Music. This is that novel. It starts in Tutwiler Mississippi in 1903 and finishes in Kingston upon Hull in 1980. On this journey you will breathe the air, taste the sweat and join all the major performers as they create the music that rocked the world and changed history.

The Blues Muse: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781518621147: Books

53 and imploding – Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

I wrote this anti-novel/biography/fiction twenty-two years ago. Still love it. It’s authentic, uncompromising and totally real. A stream of thoughts, ideas and views. Here’s an extract:

53 and imploding eBook : goodwin, opher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

I am 53 years old. That astonishes me. I am growing old. Already my body aches and shows a strange inability to co-ordinate itself and a lack of suppleness that makes me almost doddery. My mind is not as nimble. I am overweight and unfit and have little desire to be otherwise. I am constantly tired. The wild creature of my youth is distantly glimpsed as a crazy rampaging fool I envy but am detached from. It seems that I am fast becoming an old fool. No sooner have you orientated yourself, got started, than it is almost over. How can that be? Life stretched on forever. Days were eternal. We had time to sit and dream. Ah, that we have lived so long to see our dreams destroyed.

            Seconds. Can’t you feel them ticking. Seconds.

            I can’t write ends. What is an end? Nothing ends. I can only attempt to write beginnings. Even that is absurd. I can write within mere seconds. All of them are now. Each second is an action; a thought; an idea; a memory; an almighty beginning and an almighty end.

There is nothing in the past. Even my memories are new. I make them all anew. They are events seen through these old eyes, thought through these old neurones. Each memory is refined and twisted. We remember the bits we want and some of the bits that we don’t want but most is tossed into the sea of forever. We have no history but the one we build for ourselves.

Seconds. How many left? A few? A few hundred? A few million? It’s not he seconds that count; it’s what you fill them with.

I love old things: rocks; buildings; trees. I love old things because they speak to me of forever. I can sense the magic in them; the hands that have touched them, the imagination that created them and the minds that wondered at them.

Our minds are so puny. We are so arrogant. We think our lives important.

It’s strange how we conveniently forget. We build huge cities and think they will stand forever. We excavate old cities and wonder at their splendour without realising that all our cities will burn, be toppled and forgotten. New cultures may wonder over them and marvel at our cunning – the things we have done with our seconds. They may wonder at our stupidity and how we could possibly have let it all slip between the cracks we created through our selfish greed and vanity.

Archaeologists will carefully brush the dirt from the remains of our lives and piece our dreams together.

This is how we filled our seconds. We are not forever. We are only a brief second in forever, a blink, a swearword, a gasp and ….. gone.

Bodies in a Window – Paperback

Posted on by Opher

I was remembering back to the day of my father’s death, standing in the hospital room, alone with his body, looking out of the window. My head was full of huge emotional turmoil. People outside were going about their business completely obliviously.

A parent had come into school in a distraught fashion, looking for people to blame. His fifteen-year-old daughter had planned a weekend orgy with her friend while he and his wife were away. All the boys in the neighbourhood had been round for a sex-fest. He wanted to blame the school.

I incorporated it into the book.

Extract:

I had begun thinking of myself and examining the depths of my own psyche looking for clues – for the evidence to condemn myself. I reckon most people would be just like those wealthy fuckers given half a chance, me included. I have come to believe that the whole human race is a savage, callous, selfish group of mindless monkeys out for nothing more than sex, power and wealth, and they don’t give a toss for anything or anyone – least of all nature or the plight of other creatures. If it isn’t about that trilogy of crassness, then it’s about cretinous fun – usually involving some form of cruelty or abuse.

I’ve always had a soft spot for nature. I detest cruelty.

I gave out a deep sigh which came out more like a sob as I absently pondered my own philosophical views on the nature of humanity. They weren’t currently very flattering, particularly when it came to our record with fellow creatures.

Outside the window I watched a young boy on roller skates, all tousle haired and scruffy, who reminded me of myself so many years before. Perhaps he was indeed just like I had been? Perhaps he had pets and enjoyed playing in the fields, climbing trees and wading in ditches and ponds, catching frogs and newts? But would that be enough in his adult life to prevent him from shooting birds or chopping down trees? I thought not. At heart he was human. He was all like the rest; like all the rest of us.

Indeed I have a pretty low impression of mankind and the circumstances were providing me with opportunity to give vent to it. I have come to realise that the majority of people are insane, shallow and stupid. I am convinced that they won’t be happy until they’ve destroyed the whole planet and laughed themselves to death as they busy themselves with slowly frying the last living creature on the sphere.

I played with that image in my head. My mind seemed to attach to it.

They have no scruples – as far as I can see they wouldn’t even want to eat that poor creature, they’d just want to watch it squirm, to make it suffer. That’s how they get their kicks. I believe that. They really would – they would enjoy watching some poor creature, even if it was the last creature on earth, as it screams its way to a horrendously painful death, and all for nothing more than their own amusement. I have really come to believe that.

People are nasty.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bodies-Window-Opher-Goodwin/dp/198626954X/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2TPMTXORD1MIA&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.lWqi-f83EoXLlwi3Ij1kM45KucHJeZBO13sRl5Q-6kbGjHj071QN20LucGBJIEps.kgAabeNQxn-of0f9bwz4EOJffh0KpDSS0BkDK6HJr7s&dib_tag=se&keywords=opher+goodwin+bodies&nsdOptOutParam=true&qid=1732615200&s=books&sprefix=opher+goodwin+bodies%2Cstripbooks%2C124&sr=1-1