Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Kindle – Sex

Posted on by Opher

This character and subsequent events of a highly sexual nature were based on a real event. A parent came in to school to complain about the actions of the boys with his fourteen-year-old daughter. Apparently the police weren’t interested. He expected me to instil different attitudes into the boys.

I am in the room with my dead father, looking out the window. The young girl walks along with her friend.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window 

Les had helped me plan it. My parents were away and I was fourteen so they thought I was old enough to look after myself. Of course I could. I was nearly fifteen for heaven’s sake. Les helped out there a real lot though because I know they still had their doubts. They liked Les and thought she was a calming influence on me. She assured them that she’d look after me – the lying vixen. They thought it was fine leaving me alone for the odd weekend as long as I had Les for company. I wouldn’t get up to any harm with good old Les. To look at us you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in our mouths. But then parents rarely saw what was in front of their noses. Heaven knows what was in their heads. Silly sods.

I knew what was in my head though.

I wanted Doug and I wanted sex. That was all that was in my head. I was crazy about him. I don’t know why him in particular. He wasn’t your big hunky type. He was a little guy with long hair and he seemed so sweet. All the girls loved him. He and Oz were the two heart-throbs of the year. I suppose that was sufficient to start with. I adored him. I’d set my sights on him even though he was well out of my league. I thought I stood a chance. I was determined and I had a couple of weapons in my armoury that the other girls didn’t. I was realistic. I would have loved to have a relationship but I knew that wasn’t about to happen so I was prepared to settle for what I could get.

I was crazy about boys in general. I had been for well over a year. Doug was the focus of it at this moment in time but it wasn’t just about him. Sex was the only thing on my mind. Not to put too polite a spin on it, like the boys said, I just wanted to fuck. I know that was not what young girls were supposed to feel. It’s supposed to be love and romance and all that, princes and frogs – but not with me. I had this thing about sex. That is all that seemed to matter to me. It consumed me. I wanted one of them to put his thing inside me and fuck me for ever. That sounded like heaven to me. I seemed to feel it more than the other girls. They were interested but in a sort of soppy way. It was all love and fairy tales with them but not me. I wanted the real thing. I got so hot between the legs and I couldn’t help thinking about it. It sent funny feelings gurgling in my tummy. It sometimes made me so wet down there that it was uncomfortable. I found myself dreaming about it in class and had to make an excuse to get out to the loo. That was easy enough. Most of the old male teachers were too embarrassed to ask. If they thought it you were having a period they just let you go. The female ones were not quite so easy to pull the wool over though. Some of them really gave you the first degree.

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

53 and imploding – I believe in fairness

Posted on by Opher

Every day is a critical time in life but some days, some years, feel like watersheds. 53 years of age was a watershed. At least that’s how it felt. I wrote this novel as a biographical antinovel – a journey into a mind – a stream of consciousness. I wanted to destroy all structure.

Excerpt – 53 and imploding

I have decisions to make. I am making this up as I go along but the ideas are beginning to gel. I have a lot of anecdotes and ideas that have come together. The rest of the book is coalescing in my thoughts. You see I am conceiving this as a book. I can already visualise it sitting on the shelf with crappy photocopied cover that I will design, spirally bound on the cheap binder and arranged along with all the other ‘books’ I have produced. Jan views them as more clutter, junk and dust gatherers. I view them as accomplishments.

I conceive chapters. I have already placed this in a period of time. I have selected characters. They are real people – my friends and acquaintances. Real places, real anecdotes. The time sequence is a little jumbled up. The problem is the names. Should I stick with them or change them? Some of what I am going to describe might not be considered flattering or accurate. It can’t be accurate. I am describing a poorly remembered event. I am embellishing without even being aware that I am. In trying to be accurate I am bound to misrepresent. I am already working out how to simplify the myriad of possibilities by amalgamating things. The chronology is hopelessly jumbled. Should I use their real names? I cannot use real names because I am going to jumble things together. These characters are amalgamations. None of them are real.

I have just taken two annadin extra for my hangover that is busily getting worse. I have made a coffee and have a plate of bread and humus. I have no hope that the headache will ease in the foreseeable future. These sorts of headaches rarely do. It will go when it is ready. I should be fine after tea.

Jan is tidying her room next door. My sister arrives tomorrow evening with my mother. There is much to be done in preparation. I should be helping. I am writing.

The Humus is delicate and tangy. The dog waits patiently for a tit-bit. He has his head on my thigh and he is drooling. He never takes his big black eyes off me.

We are products of our culture and our upbringing. We are taught, no – trained, to believe and do what we do. Even our rebelling is programmed. We have no escape.

Religion is hot-wired into our very cortex’s. When we pray and worship chemicals are released that alter our brains, our states of being. We are biologically programmed to worship. That’s very worrying!

I’ve just returned from New Grange, near Dublin, I’ve seen the Mexican pyramids, the cathedrals, temples and henges. Is nothing sacred? Is nothing more holy than a fix? Is there nothing behind that enormous expenditure of energy involved in the construction of such monumental edifices?  The universe seems such a cold and empty place.

There are things I believe in with religious fervour.

I believe in fairness.

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

53 and imploding – Work/life balance.

Posted on by Opher

This novel might appear disjointed but it isn’t. It is a stream of consciousness that revolves around my life and reflections. What holds it together is my mind. That is the anchor.

What is important in life? What can be put to one side?

Excerpt – 53 and imploding

I smile. I did not realise that there was a competition.

Eternity smiles with me. It is a condescending little smile. I detect a little compassion in it. It is a little arrogant perhaps, a little superiority. I am being patronised.

In a billion years time my words will still be among the best but, just as today, no better than the worst. But at least Jesus will have been proved wrong – the poor will not still be with us!

I have to stop this now. Jan has come in. She is increasingly irritated with me taking time for this writing. I should be doing something. There are rooms to tidy, birthday presents to buy and send, and work to be done. She resents me spending time on this. She regards this as a pointless pile of egotism.

She is usually right.

I should be scurrying through the mounds of marking. I have a pile of work awaiting my attention but no desire to tackle it. We are off to China next week. I will be viewing walls, temples, terracotta armies, squares, and sailing up the Yangste. I have taken my first anti-malarial tablet today. We decided against the Japanese Encephalitis jabs and the Hepatitis B. The nurse explained to me that you catch Hepatitis B the same way as AIDS inferring I would be OK if I didn’t shag any Chinese babes while I was over there. I assured her that I didn’t think that particular jab would be necessary. Babes of any variety do not find me particularly magnetic these days.

I ache. My joints are seizing up, my waist expanding and my hair receding. Perhaps Chinese babes are impressed with these characteristics. After all they are signs of success. I have achieved this vast age, am obviously fact, and have wealth enough to travel. I am a biological success. They would covert my genes for their offspring.

Somehow I can’t see them falling over each other to fight Jan for my affections. Life has its phases. There are some compensations.

I will eat Chinese delicacies, drink slightly different alcoholic beverages, meet up with old friends, talk and reminisce, watch the sights, takes a million photos and come home.

So what is this all about?

I am sitting here in front of this screen. I have tidied my desk and put my heaps of CDs away. I counted them. I have about 3000. I am a collector. I am not sure why. It displays some psychological flaw.

Rog phoned and wanted Nick’s number but I didn’t have it. It is raining outside, grey and dreary with no prospects for improvement. Cars are passing along the road feet away from me and making a hiss as they spray water. Tom is at work in an architect’s office. He has a future designing mounds for the establishment. My dog sleeps at my feet contently. He does not like rain and has a bladder that was designed for an elephant. I have a hangover from drinking too much beer and wine last night. I am still tempted to roll a joint.

I haven’t quite stopped yet. Jan stomped past. I want a piss again. I have nothing to report. Life goes by.

I am a trifle bored. I intend to shut this down so that I can do the required work. It is only fair to do my bit.

Fuck it. I decided to go on. I am enjoying myself. Jan can go fuck herself and take her stomping elsewhere. After all, tidying can wait. You can never get a mound too tidy. I am aware that this could have fucking repercussions later.

I am compelled to write. Sometimes it flows as if I am connected to something inside myself and it is just using me as a conduit. Idea follows idea. I am not saying that they are brilliant. I am aware that it is all the same junk. It is just that it gets in a groove and those connections spark and I am pulled along.

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

Bodies in a Window – The Diagnosis -Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

One look was all it took. He was dying. My novel flits back and forth – living, dying, old age, youth, sex, meaning, futility, hope, anger, rage, acceptance. Everything is there.

Now I’m standing next to the dead body of my father looking out the window:

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window 

There was no point in talking to him on the phone. He lied. According to him everything was hunky dory. He just had a stomach upset. The doctor had given him some antacids that would sort it out. No problem.

Except there was a problem – a big fucking problem. My old man was busy dying.

The guy was in denial. At least that was how it seemed to me. He did not want to face up to it. I’m sure he understood what was going on – he just refused to admit it to himself. His way of dealing with his impending death was to pretend that it wasn’t happening. And that fucking doctor wanted shooting. Regardless of what my old man thought he should have been on the ball and at least made an effort to see if anything could be done. That was his job!

I was fucking fuming.

I think I knew what the diagnosis was the minute I walked in and saw him. Any fool could see. He was seriously ill.

Fucking imbecile. There were things that could have been done. He’d written himself off. Burying his fucking head in the sand. Selfish bastard

I was furious with him – furious with the system that allowed it to happen and doubly furious with the sorry excuse for a doctor. I was furious with myself too. I should have become involved sooner. I should have noticed way back at Christmas. Perhaps if it had been caught earlier? But why hadn’t the fucking doctor done something? It didn’t take a genius to know something was wrong. That guy needed shooting and no two ways about it.

There was nothing for it but to head off down the long haul all the way down to see him every weekend. I had to do whatever I could. I just hoped my little Morris Minor would stand up to the pounding. I couldn’t take time off work, so it had to be weekends. I’d have to muddle through and do it. It meant heading off after work on Friday and heading back Sunday night. It was a good five to six hours by car, with a clear run. But there was no choice. I had to put the family on hold and do it. Who knows – perhaps it wasn’t too late? Perhaps there was something that could be done? They worked miracles these days.

Amazingly, somehow the guy was still dragging himself into work every day. He hadn’t missed a single fucking day. He’d worked up in Fleet Street all his life and only ever had a handful of days off in the entire time he’s worked there. He had to be at death’s door not to go in. But this was different. He was at death’s door. He didn’t have anything as mundane as fucking flu – no – this was no ordinary flu – no upset stomach, no common or garden illness. Something was seriously wrong. You didn’t have to be a medical expert to see that. They must have known that where he worked. You’d have to be blind not to notice. The man was an absolute wreck.

I took a few days off to take him in hand. I could see that his bosses were nor worried about his health – just as long as he reported in and did the job they were content. They’d allow him to work his way into the grave. They didn’t give a shit about him – but his doctor should have known better – That kept coming back to haunt me – the medical practitioner must have been having some kind of joke. And he called himself a doctor? In my view he needed a good kicking. You only had to look at the guy to see there was something incredibly wrong. Antfuckingacids my arse! That poor excuse for a doctor was seriously out of order. I wanted action and I wanted it right now! He should have got those wheels rolling long ago. Someone had to do something about it and as there was nobody else that someone had to be me.

I went in. I took the old man with me. I needed to make some kind of impression on him too. He wasn’t facing up to things. It wasn’t fair. He was being selfish.

We had quite a scene in the doctor’s surgery. I blew my top. I wanted a proper diagnosis. I wanted a specialist and I wanted him right now! I wanted action and I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I was ready to punch the guy’s lights out. I think he got the message.

Dad didn’t seem at all embarrassed about my outburst. It blew over him like a dimly noticed breeze. He was very non-committal through the whole business. Nothing registered. He allowed me to guide him here and there to the surgery and just stood there while I harangued the feeble excuse for a medical practitioner keeping himself aloof from what was being said as if it wasn’t about him at all. He stood there blankly – not seeming to register what was going on. At work he was on the ball and in command but now he stood around like a bloody nincompoop not understanding what was going on. Some act. It was as if he put his brain in park.

It hadn’t been easy getting an appointment at that surgery. In the end I thought the best policy was to simply turn up. I was in no mood for shilly-shallying around. After a number of angry exchanges at the receptionist’s window, that upset the festering routine of the stuffy waiting room with patients craning their necks to catch what it was about, they didn’t often get entertainment like this in this part of the world, the family doctor had finally deigned to accept that there might be more of a problem than he had previously thought and agreed to see him. He really did not want a scene in the waiting room. It had nothing to do with the state my dad was in, in any way impacting on his conscience. He was not amused by the scene I had made and he let me know it by the way he petulantly examined my old man while I was standing there watching. He did it right in front of me, in a perfunctory way – like he didn’t have the time to devote any more than was absolutely necessary, as if my old man, who was a damn important guy in London, who ran a whole office and kept down an exacting job, was nothing more than an inconvenience, a piece of shit. There was not even the pretence of a proper examination or any show of remorse over his laxity. I had forced his hand and he felt put upon.

I suppose, to be fair, one look at dad told him everything he needed to know. But what irked me was that the guy did not seem interested. My old man was dying and he was almost infuriatingly offhand and dad just let him be like that without protest. This was someone’s life and he did not seem to give a toss. His whole manner stank. Everything he did was infuriating. After a cursory prod around of his swollen stomach and a peer into his yellowy eyes and red throat he pronounced his liver was swollen and asked him if he drank a lot. He didn’t. The guy was almost teetotal. I went ape-shit. Why hadn’t the dipstick done all this three months ago? I was worse than furious by now – I was steaming. It was obvious that the stupid man had simply written him off from the beginning. He didn’t care and still didn’t. My outburst was brushed aside. He wrote up his notes and dismissed us with an expressionless gesture as if we were of no consequence. There was nothing he could or would do. He’d send his report to dad’s specialist. Thank you – goodbye.

I was beside myself with pent up rage. I’m not sure how I managed to control myself. The only saving grace was that the lazy quack of a doctor agreed to organise a specialist appointment and that he’d assured us he would try to get one organised as quickly as possible. I think that was the only thing that prevented me from punching the supercilious prat right on the nose and strangling him to death in front of the receptionist – though from the look on her face she would have cheered me along, all the way.

I thought we were in for a long wait but miraculously there was a cancelled appointment the very next day. The receptionist rang up to inform us. Who the fuck cancels an appointment like that? – A life or death appointment? I figured someone had died before they got there. That’s how fucked up the system was. Unless you made a fuss and pushed it for all you were worth you got nowhere and dad had simply not pushed it at all. Consequently he’d been treated like shit. But then secretly I reckoned it was the receptionist that had pulled the strings. She obviously didn’t like her boss – Mr Sugballs, and had taken to us. It seemed to me that she liked the way I went for the bastard. I believe those receptionists have a secret cabal that operates behind the scenes. I wouldn’t give that shit of a doctor the slightest credit. Left to him we’d still be waiting for that appointment long after Dad had gone.

Looking back now I could see that dad knew all along. He just didn’t want to think about it, confront it or have to deal with it. He was probably pissed off that I had got myself involved. In his mind it would take its course and he’d go with the flow. In a strange way he had come to terms with it quicker than any of us. He allowed me to go through the motions but he already knew where this was heading. He had probably hoped that he could quietly go down without anyone being any the wiser or getting involved. Silly twat.

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

53 and imploding

Posted on by Opher

I wrote this when I was fifty-three years old. A stream of consciousness, an antinovel. I still like it. I’m visiting with myself.

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

Excerpt – 53 and imploding

I am a watcher, a commentator, and a masturbator in the winds of time. I am an idealist and a dreamer. I am the ultimate optimist and the perennial pessimist. I write to change the world and I write even though I believe nobody will ever read anything I’ve ever written.

I often tell people that when I die they will make a huge funeral pyre out of my books. They will burn me with my own words. I write so that my flaming voice will roar me higher into the heavens in one last spectacular display of ineffectual verbosity – one final impotent gesture of defiance.

That’s all we have – gestures of defiance!

I am a watcher.

If only I believed that there was a part of me able to see that last dramatic gesture. I would love it. But I don’t believe anything will remain. Life is ultimately futile. Yet in defiance and idealistic struggle there is substance and worth.

I am standing on this mound surveying the plains before me. Society, with all its control and expansion is consuming the natural world. The forces of the establishment, with their mantra of growth and greed, are like a forest fire sweeping down to destroy the whole planet. I see the scurrying of helpless individuals and species defenceless against the holocaust of mindless progress. I see the entourages careening off each other like terrified billiard balls. I see the luxurious penthouse suites towering imperiously above feeling they are immune to the destruction. We are impotent. Even my funeral pyre of a lifetime’s words isn’t going to create much of a fire-break. What the fuck!

Semaphore messages across enemy lines. Are you out there? Can you understand me? Do we share a language? I think I am alone.

If you could see me now I am smiling ironically.

None of it really matters. If not this fire then it will be the next or the four billionth. What does it matter? Eternity looks over my shoulder and is smiling with me. She likes what I am writing. She knows it ranks among the very, very best. There is none better.

I am happy that there is none better.

All these symbols I am arranging. No other mind could do it the same. No one has. I am unique. The conveying of meaning, the portraying of scene, the characterisation, the pace, the setting. There is none better. This is as good as it gets. My words are right up there with the very best. Roll over Shakespeare your time has gone.

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

First Date – Bodies in a Window Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

This is very much based on autobiography. I am standing in the hospital room with my dead father looking out the window. Partially it it my own life. Partly it is the people walking past. We knit together.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window

So for our first date I invited Jenny to this party. We were going as a foursome. I was bringing my friend Rich and she was bringing her friend Pat. Rich was not so much into Kerouac and poetry but he liked good music and knew what was happening. He was a good guy to have on board. We always seemed to find the hip joints and he always found the best bands. I was much too disorganised to do that on my own. I needed Rich to organise me. Rich was hip in his own way, different to me but he certainly knew where it was at.

I’d been at school with Rich. He had been the coolest cat in class. His hair was greased back with a big quiff that was so long it could reach his chin. Right from early on he had liked all the good loud Rock Music, Little Richard and Eddie Cochran. I bought that Eddie Cochran Memorial album off him, and had this cool motor scooter that he’d adapted. He’d taken all the fairing off and lowered the seat by taking away the petrol tank. He’d replaced that with a motorbike tank. Then he’d put these great ape-hanger handlebars on. It was so groovy. Everybody looked up when he rode it through town. It was a real girl magnet. They loved drooping themselves on it, hanging off the back. He was always popular. Rich was a good guy to have around.

The other thing about Rich was that he had well-off parents and was the first of us to get a car. He taught me how to drive. At least he sat there in the front of the car drinking beer while I drove. We just went off for hours driving aimlessly through the countryside. Whenever I asked him which way he’d say – straight on – it’s always straight on. We always got somewhere and found our way back home.

Rich was cool.

The party was a wash-out though. It was as dead as a doornail and Pat and Rich didn’t seem to be hitting it off too well either. It looked like the evening was turning into a disaster. We were sitting around in the gloom rather despondently wondering what to do. It was time to head out of there and nobody had any idea of somewhere better. It was beginning to look as if the pub might be the best option.

To my surprise Jenny announced that her parents were away and she had the house to herself. We could go round there. It sounded a bit too good to be true. I really fancied her and the idea of getting her alone was great. It sounded to me as if we might be up for some action.

We hustled up some beers from the offy and were out of there like a shot. Rich had his foot right down to the floor.

It didn’t quite pan out like I imagined. Back at her place, things went a bit pear-shaped, we sat around talking and drinking beer and having a laugh but somehow it did not develop into any raving sex scene, mainly, looking back, because Pat really did not fancy Rich one bit. Weirdly we found ourselves sitting around bemused while Jenny played the piano to us. Pat read us some French poetry – Baudelaire and Rimbaud – quite cool stuff but all too intellectual and intense the way that Pat delivered it. I was intrigued but Rich was bored to tears. He wanted some action. I did too. I only had eyes for Jenny.

Jenny and I had a little snog before the end of the evening but that’s as far as it went. It was obvious that Pat wasn’t interested in Rich and that put a down on the whole thing developing any further. Rich was not sophisticated enough for her tastes. I wasn’t either by all accounts. She’d made that quite clear to Jenny the next day. To her eyes I was as uncouth as Rich. Though that didn’t come out until later and didn’t seem to put Jenny off me. We seemed to hit it off. I don’t think anything would have made any difference to that. It was visceral.

In some ways, many ways, it was a boring evening but strangely I didn’t find it so. I was besotted with Jenny. Just being around her was good enough for me. Sex was a bonus but did not seem anywhere near as important as usual. When I got home, with Rich’s grumbling in my ear, I was buzzing with Jenny. I’d spent the evening with her and she’d agreed to see me again. What could possibly be better?

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

Bodies in a Window Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

Standing in the hospital next to my dead father looking out the window. This novel is about life and death. The array of characters are from all walks of life, all ages. There’s life, death, sex and boredom. Purpose?

Introducing my old man – a war veteran, now living on his own following the death of his life-long partner. But he has his dog.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window Paperback

The damn sun was shining in the window and woke me up. A nuisance – a damn nuisance. I curse silently. I should have pulled the curtains then I’d have been alright. It’s been so dull out recently that I didn’t think. It hasn’t disturbed Tom though. These days he’d sleep through the bloody Atomic bomb. He’s still curled up asleep on the bed by my feet. He hasn’t stirred one bit. He’s sleeping a lot lately. But that damn sunshine that is really annoying. It has made my day an hour or so longer. That’s another blessed hour to fill with nowt to fill it with.

There is nothing else much to do so I lay there and think. There’s no point in trying to get back to sleep. That never happens these days like it used to do when I was young. I could sleep for England on my days off back then. Not now. I lay there and allow my mind to drift. I think about Margaret and how proud she’d be about Arthur. She was so worried about him. He went through all that long hair phase and that loud Rock Music. She was so worried. That Malcolm Muggeridge on TV had produced that programme about all the long haired students having promiscuous sex and taking drugs. It scared the life out of her. She thought Arthur might get caught up in all that caper. She was vexed about him getting involved with all that drug lark, getting some girl pregnant or messing his life up with some crack heroin or other. But the lad’s done well. He made his way. He’s a teacher now. He’s settled down with a wife and kids. He’s a good lad. I like his wife Lucy. She’s a sweet girl. She’s been good for him and got him on the straight and narrow. I don’t have to worry about him any more. She’s sorted him out. That Lucy is a good girl. Margaret would have really liked her. All her fears have come to nowt. That’s good that is.

It’s a funny old life. You can’t tell where it’s going. I reckon they’ll blow the whole place up before too long. I wouldn’t be at all surprised. There’s no telling any more. They are capable of anything. All these Arabs and nutters with bombs. They only have to get hold of an atomic bomb and we’ll all be blown to Kingdom Come.

The world is such a strange place now. It seems to go at such a pace. I can’t keep up with it – all these drugs and sex and the weird fashions. They seem to change from day to day – all this long hair and dyed hair, shaved heads, tattoos – lasses with tattoos, drinking and smoking like troopers and popping out kids like nobody’s business. They’re so brazen and scruffy. There’s no pride. They do what they like. It’s become decadent. Law and order is breaking down in front of your eyes. Margaret would have a bloody fit. Good job she’s not here to see it. That’s all I can say.

It wasn’t like that in my day I can tell you. There were lads who had a few too many bevvies like, and there were always a few of the girls who were up for it. Oh yes, that went on. But most people were respectable. Most girls wouldn’t have dreamt of letting a fellow have his way. They kept all that for after they were married. That’s how it should be. Margaret would never have allowed any of that carry on. She’d been brought up right. Her parents instilled respect into her. I blame it on the parents. They don’t instil any respect any more. And as for that hair and the silly fashions – well – parents wouldn’t have stood for it in my day. They’d have soon knocked all that out of you. An’ if they hadn’t the army would have done. I can just imagine my old Sergeant Major West faced with a bunch of those long-haired layabouts – You growing your own greatcoat, boy! This isn’t the bloody Guards! We don’t wear Busbies here lad! Get yer bloody hair cut! He had a right old way with words did Sergeant Major West. And you couldn’t so much as make a peep back. He’d have you out on jankers soon as look at you. You’d be cleaning privies with a toothbrush and painting coal white, out in the rain and snow running around with rifles and full packs. That’d soon knock some sense into their bloody heads I can tell you. It bred discipline. That’s what’s wrong with the world – there’s no discipline.

I looked over at the clock. It was still not seven yet. I always get up at seven. Keeping to a good routine was important. I like routine. The world runs on routine.

I put my head back on the pillow and tried to will the second hand to go round a bit faster. It never bloody works. I don’t know what’s gone wrong with the world. It’s all gone mad. There aren’t any standards. People just do what they want. It’s disgusting. It’ll bring the whole country down. They’re no better than the savages; though you’re not allowed to say that kind of thing. If you said that to the little thugs they’d likely give you a right kicking. They scare the hell out of me. They stand around on street corners smoking and looking surly. I hear it on the news – the football hooligans and skinheads – they’ve got knives. So much as look at them and they boot yer head in. Where will it all end?

That minute hand was dragging.

Tom started to stir. It took him a while to get going – a lot longer than me, though we’re both in the same boat with these flaming old bodies of ours.

Eventually the hand touched seven, it was time to move and I dragged myself out of the sack. It was hard these days. My body stiffened up overnight. It was a mass of aches and pains. All the joints creaked and protested. I wasn’t tall and straight any more like I used to be. All my muscles have wasted away. My arms and legs have hardly got any meat on them and the skin hangs. I’m a bent old scrawny thing. I wondered what Margaret would have made of me now? Hardly the lover boy I used to be. But she’s not here to see. She’d probably tell me I’ve brought it on myself by not eating right or not exercising enough. Sometimes I think she was the lucky one. The big C is nasty, like. Seeing her waste away like that. Terrible to see. But at least she is out of it now. She didn’t have to put up with all this – all this deteriorating away and living on your own.

It’s lonely on your own.

I worked my way to the edge of the bed and fumbled around for my slippers with my feet. When I had located the dam slippers I slipped them on. Then I hoisted myself to my feet and winced as the old body protested – but at least I was upright – or at least as upright as I get these days. We’d take it from there.

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

Reflections from a ditch Kindle/Paperback

Posted on by Opher

I wrote this novel based on my daily journey through the country roads into work. I imagined my protagonist trapped in a car, upside down in a ditch, slowly dying, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Excerpt – Reflections from a ditch 

The whole damn world is run on exclusive little clubs geared to keeping people down – making outsiders of them. The real power resides in grubby little dives and huge faceless palaces. Quiet thin lipped men in suits look down their nose at you and feed sops from the table. Here nothing is important except power and power can be bought if you have the price and know whom to ask – having the right name and connections help. Behind the overt corridors of power there lurks a dim recess of real power. Narrow eyes watch your every move. The games are played out with winners and losers but the strings are pulled by the faceless power brokers. They use religion. They use drugs. They use politics and they are patient. They sit in dingy leather chairs and think in terms of centuries. Fashions come and go. Life goes on.

Love and intrigue? Nothing matters except the hypocrisy of the meetings behind the scenes. Rich or not those rooms are sealed to all but the necessary. You may even rise to sit at their table, but voice your views, as they smile, tilt their heads and acknowledge your genius, and it slides off them like shit off a window. Jeff and Blackie are meaningless little snotty kids with no value, worth or purpose other that to be manipulated like pawns on a board. Little pageants played out on inconsequential stages, which will not touch the minds of the masters – the fashioners of destiny. Us little zits, pimples on the face of the universe, worthless units to become consumers, their work force, and then die our grovelling little impoverished deaths in the meaningless mediocrity of everyday nowhereism. Suckered with the carrot of possibility – ‘You could become one of us – if you work hard – get lucky – get rich’. Bought with little sops – ‘Find your place in life’  ‘Be happy’  ‘There’s a place for you in Heaven’.

Bullshit.

And we are all, masters included, pimples of inconsequence, self-obsessed simpletons. In the face of a raging eternity, before the cataclysmic silence, we scream and stand our ground with the magic Tantric repetition of the word ‘I’. We are just leaving our mark for eternity, a name for ourselves, our place in history; just changing the world, imposing my views, sharing my perspective.

What I have to say and do is important, worth listening to.

 Listen!!!

Every true story is a work of fiction.

            Nothing matters in eternity. The sun will grow and the Earth will be subsumed. The sun will die. The universe will die. There is no God. Even a life made of air will fade away. Some way off all there will be is darkness and cold lifeless space. Long before that we will all be dead. There will be nothing to leave for eternity to mull – no fossils – no archaeology for future civilisations.

What does it matter if that’s a million years hence or four zillion.

What the fuck does it matter.

Every moment in the whole universe has contributed to this moment. This is true magic.

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

Conexion Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

Conexion is a drug. It takes you back in time, back through the memories stored in your DNA to relive the lives of your ancestors. Things are about to get weird.

Excerpt – Conexion 

Julia Rogers was the ultimate in Hipster designers and she certainly looked the part. Her appearance, with its writhing scarlet medusa hair, dresses made of living material that transformed into swirls of psychedelic colour that interacted with the mutable splashes of vividly coloured transition tattoos that flowed and swirled across her skin, was every bit as extreme and garish as the vibrant Holographic designs for which she was renowned. It made for uneasy family reunions with the rather conventional father who had made his name and fortune mining the asteroids. John ‘Buck’ Rogers was quite a pillar of society and his daughter’s chosen lifestyle proved difficult to swallow. That was probably why they rarely met up. She tended to keep her distance and he was rarely on planet. It suited them both.

Julia took her usual precautions. It was part of the game. She knew that the bureau kept tabs on her; they kept tabs on anyone who was not main-stream. She also knew that they closely monitored Josie even more closely. That was the way of the world. She’d even discussed it with Josie while knowing full well that their conversation was probably being listened to. But they were old hands at the game and knew the score. As long as they kept their business low-key and followed the protocol they knew they would be left alone. So Julia played her role and went through the motions.

She disembarked from her scudcab at the supermart, walked briskly through to the other side and flicked for another. It dropped her off a block away from Josie’s. She walked to the aperture resisting all inclination to look around her, glanced at the iris recorder and stepped into the vestibule as the aperture slid open.

She always followed the same routine. She figured that they expected it of her. There was a game to be played.

Josie had a limited clientele and deliberately kept it that way. She figured that her small enterprise would be tolerated but if she got too greedy they would soon be taking her in for reprogramming. Besides, she liked it this way. It was more personal, more of a family business that operated between associates and friends. She had no desire to expand the operation. She made a comfortable living out of it and enjoyed herself into the bargain. What more could one want? She’d found her niche. She provided for her small group who she regarded more as personal friends than clients and the authorities let her alone.

‘Hi Jules,’ she said in way of greeting, looking genuinely pleased to see her, gesturing towards a pexicush and passing her a vessel of red liquid. ‘Try some of this.’

Julie accepted the vessel, sniffed and took a sip. They made quite a contrast, the two girls – Julie with her extreme Avant Garde appearance and Josie, equally striking with her dark complexion and large hair, but in a much more conventional garb.

Conexion: Amazon.co.uk: Forsythe, Ron: 9781729561782: Books

My spaghetti life – 53 and imploding

Posted on by Opher

I wanted this novel to be gritty, involved with the bits that other novels leave out, the toilet, the pain and grubbiness of normal life, the boredom and mundanity of existence. I don’t know how straight straight is. I don’t care what is cool. I wanted to describe the reality. However, you’ll be pleased to know that in these extracts I am missing out some of the more vulgar parts. Am I censoring myself? I wonder.

Excerpt – 53 and imploding

Perhaps there is no sense to it or order in anything? The order of our everyday life is a superficial structure we impose over the chaos. I seek to only sip the spice of the sauce as I slowly suck a single strand of life into my mouth. It is so rich that it addles the palate. I wonder what my work colleagues would make of this? They seem to suffer the same scabby little existences, lusting after each other, living in their squalid small lives and narrow horizons as I peer out at them through these slots into the universe from my own limited perspective. I live inside my head where my inner life is a seething spaghetti seeped in rich sauce. They see a funny little fat man. I smile. I whistle. I talk. I teach. I manage. I feel my incompetence. I do them an injustice. Perhaps the piquancy of their sauce is every bit as rich as the flavour I am sucking out of life; perhaps their heads are as full of spaghetti as mine; probably I see as little of the icebergs of their existence as they see of me. I have little desire to share it all with them. I save that for my few true friends. I am not sure what constitutes a friend – probably someone you can fully open up to.

Tom has gone to bed with his pasta. I no longer need to piss. It has passed.  I am tired. I should stop and go to bed. Jan is asleep. I have to be up tomorrow. I will be dead. Fuck tomorrow. My coffee has cooled and is drinkable. Tom makes crap coffee. I don’t know why. He makes it the same as I do. I am holding a gulp in my mouth. It is warm. I move my tongue through it. I taste it at the back of my mouth. I swallow a little. If I move my tongue through it it feels warm. It is cooling. I swallow it.

This is an anti-story. It will confuse and exasperate as I slither from one thought and experience through this mess of juice. I am unravelling spaghetti and allowing each strand to slither down into my gut as I suck the flavour out of it.

I have no interest in the neat little lives, the tales of the city. I want to describe the things between. I want to dwell on the mundane; the chaos of real life; to interlope along unplanned meandering intersections.

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