Billy and the lost number picture book

5 10 2010

The second story post of the day!

Below you will find Billy and The Lost Number. Another picture book story from Andy’s growing stable of stories.

But before that,  a note on how to help yourself write or create, more.

If any of you are budding writers or creative people without a space of your own I urge you to look into getting one. Find out about the studio spaces in your local area.The sense of personal freedom and inspiration you can feel is brilliant, especially if you work around other creative people. It really feels like you are at work, but in the most wonderful way. 😀

For the following story the picture ideas are in the parentheses.

Pictures by Judi_* , Hammotime and Yan San, from Flickr.

Billy and the Lost Number

Billy woke up one day feeling funny. Something was wrong and he didn’t know what.
[Picture 1]

Read the rest of this entry »





Billy and the Lost Number – new picture book story

8 07 2010

I must be on fire today (what did I eat yesterday to cause this?) as this is my second blog post of the day. I’m just finishing off a cute little picture book story about a boy who lost something…….and here’s (in movie terms) a teaser:

Billy and the Lost Number
———————-

Billy woke up one day feeling funny. Something was wrong and he didn’t know what.
He wasn’t feeling ill, his mum could see that in the way he gobbled up his breakfast.
He hadn’t forgotten to do his homework. The Easter bunny picture was all ready for him to take to school.

continued on my Childrens Writers society blog page





Dilly is now available for sale.

7 06 2010

Dilly front cover

Dilly the dancing dog has now been put on the
Lulu.com online publishing site.

For all the lovely people who wish to buy a
download copy for you or a friend, for the
princely sum of £0 it can be yours 🙂

Yup, it’s free!

To get to the download page click on the
picture to the left, or on the link below..

Buy Dilly

Happy Reading 🙂

Support independent publishing: Buy this e-book on Lulu.





ME ON TV – OLAN MILLS

8 02 2007

ME ON TV – OLAN MILLS





The shot down

29 05 2006

24 hours later he was walking alone down a dark alleyway, the shadows at his back as the sun set in front of him. His shape slunk past dustcarts and homeless people sheltering inside them.

Ignoring the pains of hunger he felt in his belly he reached inside his coat pocket for a chewing gum.

Thoughtfully chewing in it, his jaw lifting up and down occupied his brain which allowed him brainstorm ideas.

“What if she was alone” he wondered, “then she wouldn’t have been able to cross to the window…and if she couldn’t cross to the window, what was she doing lying there?”.

The sound of screeching tyres distracted him for a moment and his eyes watched a black saloon speed past the alley entrance, followed swiftly by a police car, it’s siren preceeding it.

It was tiring, the work he did. Never getting much sleep, always thinking about the job. Who did this, what did that. It frustrated him and fulfilled him at the same time. His friends knew it didn’t suit him but he never complained about it.

—–

24 hours ago he had been at the murder scene. A disabled girl in a 4th floor flat lying sprawled, fully clothed, underneath her open window. Looked like she had broken her neck on the radiator underneath the opening.

Her head was halfway up the radiator still, clinging on to what little life she had left in her as she died, her chin still wedged between the pipes, the green paint speckled her teeth, broken in the fall.

He left the flashes of the forensic assistant’s camera behind and walked out of the appartment. Seen enough..his subordinates would handle the details.

The apppartment’s kitchen was just by the front door and it was out of here a uniformed officer had appeared stopping the lieutenant before he had chance to leave.

“Sir, i think you ought to see this”

“Guys”. Two officers crowding the corner of the cramped kitchen seperated which let him see what they were staring at.

They had put something down on the work surface with a clunk, before moving aside and one of them now picked it back up. It was a round, squat, silver kettle. Cordless with a base. The kettle was put aside and the base was lifted for him. Something was taped underneath. It was mangled and bloody but he went closer and could make it out. A human hand.

He moved closer not quite believing what he was seeing. It was female, slender with long nails, severed at the wrist, splattered in blood. Taped with a cross of white tape, it was fastened to the underside of the kettle’s base unit. Not seen in the first sweep, the kettle was flush to the work surface when replaced.

A hole was cut into the sideboard, rectangular in shape, which allowed the hand to sit inside, the kettle flat on top.





New writings

21 05 2006

I have posted some more of my writings in my Songwriting section. Take a look, leave comments, suggestions…i welcome them all.





Fuelled by desire

24 08 1990

From time to time I get restless, need a new challenge, get itchy feet some might say. That time is coming around again. I have some choices to make and will be making them very soon. For now, in a restless mood I created this poem. I hope you like it and that it touches something inside you.
Fuelled by desire
——————-

It’s freedom I want, I just want to run,
I want to be somewhere adorned by the sun.
Is it fear or destiny hate anger or greed,
or a lust for adventure, my will to be freed.

I want freedom and liberty, adventure and fun,
to be happy belong, be all I can become.

The sunlight on my body the breeze on my clothes,
the feel of the rain the touch of the snows.
The wind in the trees the lightning’s sharp sound,
the sounds of horses speeding fast over ground.

The touch of another punctuated by smiles,
the faces that frown I slap and meanwhile,
the simplicity of laughter the lust for a chase
with the thrill of adventure and life mapped out in haste.

I know I’ll survive when it all comes around
its what I want so I know it, I feel it, I’ve found
a piece of me hidden, wrapped up in old clothes
reopened like Christmas it’s gold and it glows.
Like a light in the darkness kept hidden and safe
awaiting a circumstance to be revealed and put in place

Soon to be fashioned in modern ways you see,
not long now and all will be, me.

—————-
As always, comments are welcome and most appreciated. Thanks.
Andy





The shot down

25 05 1990

24 hours later he was walking alone down a dark alleyway, the shadows at his back as the sun set in front of him. His shape slunk past dustcarts and homeless people sheltering inside them.

Ignoring the pains of hunger he felt in his belly he reached inside his coat pocket for a chewing gum.

Thoughtfully chewing in it, his jaw lifting up and down occupied his brain which allowed him brainstorm ideas.

“What if she was alone” he wondered, “then she wouldn’t have been able to cross to the window…and if she couldn’t cross to the window, what was she doing lying there?”.

The sound of screeching tyres distracted him for a moment and his eyes watched a black saloon speed past the alley entrance, followed swiftly by a police car, it’s siren preceeding it.

It was tiring, the work he did. Never getting much sleep, always thinking about the job. Who did this, what did that. It frustrated him and fulfilled him at the same time. His friends knew it didn’t suit him but he never complained about it.

—–

24 hours ago he had been at the murder scene. A disabled girl in a 4th floor flat lying sprawled, fully clothed, underneath her open window. Looked like she had broken her neck on the radiator underneath the opening.

Her head was halfway up the radiator still, clinging on to what little life she had left in her as she died, her chin still wedged between the pipes, the green paint speckled her teeth, broken in the fall.

He left the flashes of the forensic assistant’s camera behind and walked out of the appartment. Seen enough..his subordinates would handle the details.

The apppartments kitchen was just by front door and it was out of here a uniformed officer had appeared stopping the lieutenant before he had chance to leave.

“Sir, i think you ought to see this”

“Guys”. Two officers crowding the corner of the cramped kitchen seperated which let him see what they were staring at.

They had put something down on the work surface with a clunk, before moving aside and one of them now picked it back up. It was a round, squat, silver kettle. Cordless with a base. The kettle was put aside and the base was lifted for him. Something was taped underneath. It was mangled and bloody but he went closer and could make it out. A human hand.

He moved closer not quite believing what he was seeing. It was female, slender with long nails, severed at the wrist, splattered in blood. Taped with a cross of white tape, it was fastened to the underside of the kettle’s base unit. Not seen in the first sweep, the kettle was flush to the work surface when replaced.

A hole was cut into the sideboard, rectangular in shape, which allowed the hand to sit inside, the kettle flat on top.





Archie – draft

25 05 1990

When Archie jumped off the roof, he took his entire life with him. His friends and family’s distress too followed him.

They wondered what made him do it? Secretly some knew but would never tell. Too precious a truth to let go.

The truth was sordid, dirty and shameful. But it defined him, made him who he was. Those who saw his last moments, the look on his face would’ve had pity in their eyes, no matter what their opinions of him.

So what was it? The truth was kept locked up, hidden and secret.

His sister, knew, but by the time they found out, people had forgotten why they cared. Their hearts were on some other poor victim of societies grudges.

So it was a secret still because no one wanted to know.

“Play that guitar Archie, sing your little heart out. Play for all the people like you , feel what you feel, as outcast as you. Hold the emotions in your heart and let it out through your voice”. The last words his manager said to him, that day. Over a bacon sandwich he felt archies pain. Read it in his lyrics, saw it in his eyes. Never thought he would do what he did though.

“Archie was always a broken man” he told the officers who came to see him. “Issues on top of issues” his pop-psychology major had told him.

The policeman nodded like he’d heard this before, like he knew the poor boy. Whilst they looked around the office Archie followed them with his eyes, like pictures do. His stood on the filiing cabinet in the corner of the room. The office opened drawers like they belonged to him and found nothing. Archie had hidden it all.

Some hours later they found the next legacy of Archies death. His manager, dying at the hilt of someone’s knife.