The Cleansing – out now in 4 formats!!

Posted on by Opher

Yes! – You can purchase it in Hardback, Paperback, eBook or Audio! How great is that!!

What do you think of the cover? I used AI to put a photo of me in and it transformed me into that handsome dude (not the one on the left! Silly – I’m the one on the right!). As I have woven myself into the story it seemed appropriate.

This Sci-fi novel is rooted in today. A fast-flowing story of social commentary, intrigue and tall tales.

The Cleansing – (The Sequel to Judgement) eBook : Forsythe, Ron: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

The Cleansing 6 – Chapter 1 Continued

Posted on by Opher

This Sci-fi novel is set in the present day. I wanted to represent the current Farage Reform Party right-wing populists and their opportunistic psuedo-patriotic anti-immigrant stance. I thought that I could mutate this into an anti-alien faction as the novel progresses. Which is what I did. For that reason I invented this bunch of characters one of whom has a central role in the novel. Can you see which one from this introductory section?

-*-

‘See, I was working on this place at St George’s Hill, all cash in hand. A bloody mansion! This guy’s worth a bomb!’ Billy was his usual lively self.

The gang were assembled in their nook at the Ashley Arms, the men with pints of bitter, the girls on white wine spritzes.

‘Anyway, he’s built this huge extension, turning it into a glorified snooker room with a full‑size slate. Massive. And he wanted me to sort out the wiring. No prob. Glad to do it. He’s paying well over the odds.’ He paused to take a big swig, wiping froth off his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Cash is king. Know what I mean.’ He looked around, catching each of their eyes to ensure engagement. ‘So anyway, his missus comes downstairs, a whole entourage of them, all kitted out in black robes, head to foot. You could just see their eyes. What did Boris call them — letter boxes. ’Cept letter boxes aren’t black.’ Billy looked round, aghast. ‘I couldn’t tell who was his missus and who was the grandmother. Know what I mean? In their own bloody home.’

‘That’s ’cos you were there,’ Debbie remarked, swirling her wine. ‘These Muslims have to cover up if there’s strange men around — and they don’t get any stranger than you, Billy.’

Everyone chuckled.

‘There were all sorts,’ Billy protested. ‘Servants everywhere — cooks, gardeners, cleaners, butlers. Wasn’t just me.’

‘So what’s he do?’ Foxy asked.

‘Finance,’ Billy frowned. ‘Came prancing back from the city in his fancy orange Lamborghini. Only drives it to the station.’

‘Bloody robbers,’ Denby growled. ‘Financers, bankers. Fucking leeches. Never done a day’s work in their lives.’

‘Like you then,’ Foxy grinned, raising his glass.

More chuckles.

‘All they do is bet on markets,’ Denby persisted. ‘A bunch of gambling conmen. They engineer it, control it, and walk away with millions.’

‘You’re sounding glum today, Denby. What’s up?’ Foxy leaned over and punched him playfully on the arm.

‘He’s only been up half the night painting friggin’ roundabouts,’ Cheryl remarked. ‘You should see the state of his trackie. Spent forty quid on red and white paint.’

Denby grasped his pint with both hands and scowled. Everyone eyed the paint stains on his hands that hadn’t scrubbed off.

‘What roundabouts?’ Billy chuckled.

‘Not content with spending our money on stupid flags,’ Cheryl exclaimed. ‘Half the flags down High Street are ours. He’s only gone and done the roundabout at the Halfway.’

They roared with laughter as Denby’s scowl deepened.

‘I’ve seen that! That was you, Denby? You’re a dark horse,’ Foxy chuckled, poking him with a finger.

‘Right mess you made of it,’ John remarked. ‘All the paint’s run together.’

‘I could hardly wait for the red to dry before I put on the white, could I?’ Denby snapped.

‘Should’ve painted it all white one day, then gone back the next for the red stripes.’

‘Somebody has to make a stand,’ Billy said seriously, halting the mockery. ‘Someone has to stand up for our English values. At least Denby’s doing something.’

The group subsided into pensive silence, sipping their drinks.

‘They’ll have a room upstairs,’ Debbie reflected, returning to the burqa‑clad women. ‘Somewhere they can relax and take it all off.’

‘Yeah,’ Billy conceded. ‘They do.’ He lowered his brow and pouted. ‘But Lord Mohamed doesn’t have to wear all that medieval shit. He comes back with his silk Armani and flashy Rolex, putting on some accent like he’s an English baron.’

‘This is England,’ Foxy stated bluntly. ‘They should behave like we do if they want to live here. None of this letter box shit.’

‘You mean like we do if we go over there?’ Charlene asked, raising her eyebrows.

‘I run a market stall,’ Foxy reminded her. ‘I see all sorts. It’s daft. We’ve got Asian guys down from the Midlands wearing robes and wellies. Looks stupid. They get soaked in the rain. Those robes were designed for tropical climates, not soggy England.’

‘Yeah,’ Denby agreed. ‘If they want to live here they should fit in.’ He peered round challengingly.

‘I agree,’ Billy said, downing his pint. ‘It’s about British values. And those ain’t British values.’

‘I’m ready for a top‑up,’ Cheryl smiled, holding up her empty glass.

‘My round,’ John said, gathering empties.

The Cleansing 4 – Chapter 1 continued

Posted on by Opher

This is an interesting idea I had of weaving myself into this story. While it is in some ways a ‘tall story’, and sci-fi tale of intrigue, it is also a social comment and political satire.

Completely unsuspecting of the alien operation taking place in the sky above him, Ron Forsythe sat at his desk straining his brain, striving to create a few neuronal sparks. He needed a story, an idea, something to whet his imagination.

Ron Forsythe sought to write Sci-fi in order to shine a light on the human condition. Sci-fi was a vehicle; a canvas without boundaries. He could spread his thoughts in stories that brought human life into focus. In his own little way Ron sought to change the world for the good. Except there were no sparks today. The ground was sterile. He was not enthused by any great illuminatory idea, something to trigger his neurones into action, pique his appetite and set him struggling to catch up with his thoughts. The page remained blank.

Morosely he sat at his computer waiting for the ideas to coalesce, searching for inspiration. He opened his web site to check on the post he had put out that morning. A paltry seven hits. He sighed. His shoulders slumped. He checked his mail. Three new posts. One told him that the post he had put out could not be shared. One offered him a cruise to the Caribbean that he could not possibly afford. One was an automated response from someone he did not know informing him that they’d liked his last post.

That was it. It was utterly deflating. An hour putting together a post and one single like. Telling himself that it did not matter, to keep plugging away, he checked his facebook page. Eleven people he really didn’t know had their birthdays today. Did he want to wish them a happy birthday? No he didn’t. Feeling even more miserable he checked his book sales. Nearly halfway through the month and only three books sold. He’d made £3.92. He peered at the data with furrowed forehead and pursed lips willing it to change. Stubbornly the data resisted his wishes and refused to throw up new sales. Ron decided to check Amazon for signs of more reviews. Same old story. No new reviews to cheer him up. He toyed with rereading the old familiar ones but could not be bothered. Idly he clicked on the newsfeed. He perused the clickbait – wars, chemical pollutants in your own home, a cat with two heads, goats up a tree, why the Western world is decaying into decadence, how to live longer, six new superfoods. Same old same – hardly different to yesterday and the day before. Nothing grabbed him.

He went back to that blank page. Alien Resurrection. At least he had a title. Then he was beset by doubt. Had the Alien franchise released a film of that name? If they had could he use the same title or was it copyrighted? He didn’t have a clue. He was tempted to check on the net but couldn’t be bothered to do that either. He was in a strangely apathetic moody. Nothing seemed worthwhile.

With one last glower at the blank screen he rose and headed for the kitchen to make a coffee Ron was sorely in need of stimulation, anything. If only something unusual, interesting or unexpected were to happen – something to throw him out of this cloying lethargy. Nothing ever happened around here. Life was boring.

Unseen, above him, a massive shielded H-craft, having travelled through hyperspace from the far-reaches of the galaxy, was silently going about its business assessing human beings, sorting them and slotting them into three groups.

Ron sullenly glared at the kettle as it took an eternity to boil. He peered out the window up towards the slate-grey skies idly watching the rain dribble down the window pane. Only another three gloomy months until Spring. Everything was so lifeless and uninspiring. Nothing interesting ever happened. Ron felt like he was living in the dead zone. King Midas in reverse, every single thing he touched turned to shit. Perhaps he should give up trying to write. Nobody cared anyway. What was the point?

The Cleansing – 3 – Chapter 1 Continued

Posted on by Opher

Unbeknown to them the Hydrans were being judged. Their future was in Chameakegra’s hands.

The H-Craft Neff was quiet, it’s corridors empty. The agile Xerc were taking the opportunity to carry out maintenance, their lithe blue bodies swarming through the interior ducting and outside over the surface of the craft; probably more to steer clear of being bossed around by being out of the way rather than there being any real need. Best to be busy or at least appear busy. Deck after deck was full of various personnel, harnessing the might of Neff’s enormous processing and information gathering power, engrossed in meticulously sorting and categorising the Hydrans. The arduous task was mainly being carried out by the large lumbering amphibian Leff, who were ideally suited to spending hours handling data,  although there were sprinklings of other races including their amphibian Solarian colleagues, the odd reptilian Giforian or two and even a reptilian Achec and mammalian Jerb. Everyone was incredibly focussed. They all knew the importance of getting this right. They were involved in a revolutionary new experiment. That brought an air of excitement. The department heads, mainly Giforian, Jerb, Achec and Marlan, had very little to do other than join in with their staff in setting up programmes, guiding the AI through the task of separating Hydran personality types. Whenever Chameakegra or her second in command the Minorian Graffa made their rounds the department heads were always eager to engage in sharing their progress. Chameakegra and Graffa listened with feigned interest as their dedicated staff eulogised about their findings.

Of an evening Chameakegra would peruse the accumulating lists as her staff proceeded with the task of refining their programmes and categorising the entire population of Hydra. If the Hydrans were going to have any future then it was necessary to accurately separate the greedy, belligerent, power-mad and narcissistic from the pleasant, well-balanced and creative types. The new process of assessment was lengthy and thorough. It was also highly unusual. If it had not been for Chameakegra’s intervention the process of assessment of the culture as a whole would, as normal, we swift and simple. Following the judgement the Hydrans would either have been fast-tracked into the Federation or quickly eradicated. Chameakegra had taken the process of judging a whole culture to apply it to analysing individuals – something much more complex and difficult. Now they were all paying the price and having to work hard. Interestingly, nobody seemed to be complaining. They were busy. Eight billion Hydrans had to be accurately assessed and categorised.

By far the biggest group of Hydrans were the well-adjusted citizens. The number of creatives and those in need of adjustment were much smaller groups and fairly equal in numbers. Chameakegra liked the way it was going. They were successfully identifying the malevolent. It was what was going to happen next that troubled her. Could greedy and violent be treated? Could a cruel disposition be successfully changed? She wondered.

For the moment, under the ruling, these Hydrans were destined for euthanasia. Chameakegra wondered. The therapists she had at her disposal might just be able to do something. Could she persuade Judge Booghramakegra to give that a try or was she pushing boundaries too far?

Of an evening, in her cabin, Chameakegra found herself pondering the outcome of her plan. Nobody had ever attempted this before. They were in unknown territory. When the mentally disturbed, the violent and avaricious, were removed would Hydran culture settle into a positive mode and blossom? Were the Hydrans inherently good or, once the evil had been cut out, would exactly the same problems start to re-emerge in the ones remaining? Only time would tell.

Chameakegra knew that her reputation hung on the result. Not that she was bothered. The whole Federation would be watching. If this experiment worked it might form the template for future operations. A lot hung on this outcome. All that mattered to Chameakegra was the possibility of preserving much of the best of Hydran culture and art. That is what drove her. She’s felt the worth of that culture: it had touched her deeply.

Soon, her job would be over. When all the Hydrans had been categorised she would hand over to someone appointed to carry out the separation process. That was not an area she would be involved in. A deep sadness welled up when she thought about it. She could only hope that Beheggakegri made the right appointment and the excision was carried out humanely.

Chameakegra sat in her commander’s pexi while the operation went on around her. A green light flashed on her comulator. She had a message.

‘I am intrigued by the possibilities this experiment opens up. For that reason I have taken leave so that I might stay involved. I am eager to witness the outcome. Keep me informed with regular reports so that I can monitor progress. Judge Booghramakegra.’

Chameakegra reread the message as a blue wave of satisfaction spread across her scutes. Perhaps she had an ally?

Apologies – I have been writing!

Posted on by Opher

Apologies for my absence. I have been writing. The sequel to The Judgement came to me in a vision. I just had to get it written. It has taken all my time and attention with none left over for blogging. Do bear with me.

If you are thinking of great Christmas presents I would take this opportunity to remind you that all my books are available on Amazon:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s?k=Ron+Forsythe&i=stripbooks&crid=3UPNHOOZFPXIB&sprefix=ron+forsythe%2Caps%2C3118&ref=nb_sb_noss_1

and

Amazon.co.uk : opher goodwin

Over the course of the ensuing days I will share with you some of the fruits of my labour.

The Cleansing is an interesting Sci-fi novel and I will be putting it out soon!

Take care and Merry Solstice!

I am in the process of re-editing a number of my books!

Posted on by Opher

Over a period of time you should see a stream of my books appearing with revamped covers and edited content. Do not be afraid. Some of the titles have changed but they are better than ever!

I aim to make your pleasure greater than ever!

Enjoy!

Amazon.co.uk : opher goodwin

Judgement – the start of a new Sci-Fi novel.

Posted on by Opher

Ang, dressed in her gaudiest ceremonial costume, all low-cut to show off her ridged back and
spurred shoulders, as befitted a Commander, stood on the bridge as the enormous craft slid
into orbit around the planet known as Terra 3. Ang was a Giforian, a race ideally suited for
their role as Assessors for UFOR – The United Federation of Races. Her huge frame, with its
scaly multihued skin, large head and impressive crest, (harking back to a saurian evolution),
presented an imposing stature; a physical presence that had proved very useful when
negotiating with newly integrated species. Giforians, with their distinctive large unblinking
luminous green eyes that seemed to bore right into you, were a common sight at the
headquarters of UFOR on the ruling planet of Gestor that sat at the heart of FOS – the
Federation of Sentience. Their qualities, consisting of meticulous fastidiousness coupled with
curiosity made them much in demand for the type of work UFOR was involved in. They were
impressive people. Few species remained unintimidated by an encounter with a Giforian. But
even for a Giforian, Ang was rather special. She was blessed with a searing intelligence well
beyond the norm. It came as no surprise that she had risen through the ranks to gain the
important role of Chief Assessor.
For most assessors the current task would have been carried out at distance. Usually the
criteria of the federation could be applied without recourse to physical contact. Indeed, the
assessment was mainly administrative, anyway, almost perfunctory. Most criteria were
objective and even the most subjective elements could be assessed through thorough analysis
of the assembled data or observation from deployed equipment. UFOR had the best analysers
and analytical tools honed over generations leaving little doubt or room for mistakes. There
was absolutely no need to be present in person. Not that Ang cared about that. This is what
gave her a buzz. A true maverick; she did what she wanted and had a nose for sniffing out the
true state of affairs. As far as she was concerned all the information in the cosmos was
insufficient to make a definitive judgement. Intuition ruled. Her nose told her everything she
needed to know. The data merely solidified her decision. She deployed the evidence to
bolster her decision, not inform it.
UFOR had been gathering and processing data on Terra 3 and its rapidly expanding empire
for years now. In reality they had more than enough for a judgement. Though in Ang’s
opinion what they lacked was the personal touch. For Ang it was necessary to breathe the air
and touch the flesh before making a judgement. As far as she was concerned all the data in
the universe could not replace that. Ang only needed to walk among the people to know. For
Ang, one day spend among the subjects was superior to all the reams of data picked over and
analysed by the highest grade computers. Her nose told her all she needed. Fortunately the
stinking brains of UFOR, as the minions of the organisation were wont to describe them,
surprisingly respected her ways and decisions. She was afforded the latitude to do it her own
way. So she was here with all the equipment and personnel necessary.
The real assessment was about to begin.
Most of the crew of the Neff were Giforian, like herself, although there were smatterings of
other races like the lumbering pink Leff and nimble tiny blue Xerc, making up the many
thousands of crew. The Leff, with their sedentary lifestyle, high intelligence and ability to
concentrate for long periods were ideally suited for administrative work and could expertly
process the findings of the mission. That’s why Ang employed them. They would put her
findings into a definitive final report just how she wanted it. In contrast the quick-witted Xerc
could work wonders with any technical task. Their flexible frames coupled with immense
strength enabled them to slide into the tiniest of spaces to service equipment. Their quick
thinking and problem solving enabled them to deal with any emergency. They ran the ship.
Together the three species made for a fine crew. They covered the skill sets.
A smile of satisfaction pulled at the corner of her mouth as she surveyed the planet spread out
below them. Her crest had half risen and the waves of iridescent colours flowing across her
features and down her back clearly displayed her pleasure. Giforians were useless at games
involving deception. Poker was definitely out. Their feelings were on display for all to see.
Right now, Ang was feeling something verging on elation. Being familiar with the
topography of a place from even the most detailed imagery was no substitute for laying eyes
on the real thing. Her eyes roamed over the familiar details of the planet while her mind
summoned up the images of its denizens. Her mouth watered. Despite the years of
groundwork this, in Ang’s opinion, was where the real work began. This was what she
relished. She slowly nodded her head as the greens, reds and iridescent blue waves rippled
across her scale skin.
They were in place. The shields were functioning. The Neff would, despite its immense size,
remain undetectable. Things were about to get real. This was her domain. Here Ang called
the shots. Only when she was fully satisfied would the Judge be summoned and court
assembled. Ang knew that, despite all the legal process, she alone determined that judgement.
Her task was to gather the necessary information and direct the outcome. She had no doubt
that the judge and court would support her assessment. They always did.
Ripples of crimson and orange registered her contentment. What would follow were months
of pleasurable investigation. She was looking forward to it.
Ang put the thought of the arrival of the judge to one side. Here and now she was in complete
command. A wave of crimson flowed through her crest.

In Search of Captain Beefheart – a rock music memoir

Posted on by Opher

In Search of Captain Beefheart stands out among rock music memoirs because it blends personal storytelling with cultural analysis. Unlike traditional musician biographies that focus solely on an artist’s career, Opher Goodwin’s book is a deeply personal reflection on how rock music shaped his identity and worldview.

Compared to memoirs by musicians themselves, such as Keith Richards’ Life or Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run, Goodwin’s book is more about the experience of a fan rather than an artist’s firsthand account of fame and music-making. It’s similar in spirit to books like Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung by Lester Bangs, which explore rock music’s impact on culture rather than just recounting events.

Additionally, Goodwin’s memoir is unique in its historical scope, covering major world events like the Civil Rights Movement, Vietnam War, and Cold War, showing how rock music was intertwined with these moments. This makes it more than just a music memoir—it’s a cultural history seen through the lens of rock.

In Search of Captain Beefheart eBook : Goodwin, Opher: Amazon.co.uk: Books

Rock Routes – This is what you get!

Posted on by Opher

Make my day! Buy a copy!

A short extract:

It is possible to trace the roots of Rock music right back to the 18th and 19th centuries with the introduction of African rhythms and beat to the European Folk Tradition. This was a meeting of spirits that was to reach fruition in the Southern States of America, particularly New Orleans in Louisiana and Memphis Tennessee. It was a merger that first gave rise to Country Blues, Cajun and Gospel. It led to Rhythm ‘n’ Blues, Jazz, Bluegrass, Honky Tonk and Country Boogie. In the early part of the 1950s it gave birth to a vigorous hybrid that came to be known the world over as Rock ‘n’ Roll.

It took the world by storm and altered all our lives. It was a revolution. It was strongly allied to the prevailing youth culture of teenagers that emerged after World War 2.

The very name itself set the whole tone for everything that followed. It was coined by Alan Freed who borrowed it from the black slang for sex. It set generation against generation and rocked the world. It instigated a sexual revolution and social change on unheard of proportions. It upset the prevailing racial and gender attitudes and provoked the move to equality and freedom that prevails today. It set in motion a climate of questioning that altered the deferential way people thought about politicians.

The moment Elvis shook his hips the world would never be the same. Even Elvis did not have a clue that would happen. He was as bemused as everyone else. It took on a life of its own. It was powerful.

Rock Routes: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781514873090: Books

Success

Posted on by Opher

How do you judge success??

I left a well-paid job as a Headteacher early to pursue my passion for writing. I have spent the past fifteen years rewriting and writing. I now have around a hundred and twenty books that I have written. I am completely free to write what I like.

I was fortunate enough to gain contracts with a publisher – Sonicbond. One contract led to another and I now have 8 books on my most cherished rock musician singer songwriters published with them. Is that success?

I have written at least a dozen Sci-fi novels that I am very pleased with even though I cannot land a publisher for them. I have self-published them with mixed sales. Is that success?

My other books include education, art, beat poetry, novels, biography, travel, antitheism and rock music – anything that turns me on. I self-publish them. Is that success?

For fifteen years I have been enjoying writing and have produced two whole shelves of my books. Is that success?

I have accrued many excellent reviews (and the odd bad one). Is that success?

While my books do sell in modest numbers I have never had a real flier and all the money I have made probably only covers the costs. Taking the cost of computer, laptop and WordPress, plus consumables, into account I probably break even.

If I had stayed on at my career for the five or six years possible I could have left with a lot more money. Would that have been success?

Now, there is no denying that it would be wonderful to sell vast numbers of books, gain lucrative contracts and awards and have huge numbers of glowing reviews and a massive financial reward, but that would only be the icing on the cake.

Success for me is all about doing what I have enjoyed doing, holding the products of my efforts in my hand and reading that some people have found them worthwhile. I really value those reviews and that people find my books worth buying. Thank you. That feels like success for me.