by Tom McNulty
Genre: Literary Fiction
Print Length: 304 pages
Publication Date: June 24, 2019
Hovis Monk had been deceived. Perhaps he always had been. His comfortable life in the Snowdonian bubble, provided by The Blue Yonder Mining Company, was ending.
As his world implodes Hovis spins into a realm of inner and outer realities, chance occurrences, memories, music, luck and laughter.
This story describes the reunion of Hovis with his old Paisley Underground band, a little known group called The Festers, and his struggles with a very special Flame Red Time Trialing Onesey…..
He slowly cycled around the margins of the clearing. It appeared the surrounding trees had completely overgrown what must have been a homestead at some time in the long distant past, but the house, with its attendant sheds and outbuildings, had long gone. Nowadays, only a stone skeleton of its former presence still existed, half buried by mosses, pine needles and fast-growing seedlings.
The air in the glade held a deep silence, one that hinted at an ominous, yet peaceful solitude. An essence of the past permeated the strangely warm breeze, which occasionally wafted through these aged Pines. ‘Maybe this place belonged to a Slate Miner and his family, at one time, or another…….’
“I wonder what happened to them?” He asked aloud, just as Cheech came racing back into the glade, his tail wagging and panting in an excited way.
“Squirrel, was it?” Hovis enquired but Cheech didn’t reply, he only wagged his tail more furiously when Hovis spoke to him. “Come on then, let’s see where you’ve been,” enquired Hovis and pushed off, into the needled detritus littering the pathway in front of him
Back in the present, passing through the glade today, had he cared to look up, high between the obscuring trunks of the tall Pines, you could just see No.37, the last log cabin on The Hill; while all around it were the charred corpses of other people’s lives. Hovis knew this fate was inevitable for No.37. In a mere few weeks he would be both homeless and jobless, but today he was wearing the Big Mig’s Flame Red Onesey and he was still free to dream.
I began writing these existential stories because they needed air and because I was sick to death of people being lauded for writing trivial rubbish. It’s easy to write nice, acceptable TV bookclub bodice rippers, a lot harder to tell the truth.
My stories scrape the scrotum of life’s existence and laugh at despair. There is no room in my books for any Goo Goo Muck, just straight up Rock n Roll.
So read at your peril…