Today I have started back to work and am so relieved. As I told you before, I have to edit a couple of books already written prior to their publication, but I also want to write a book I started some time ago. The story is about a woman whose husband dies of cancer. But just before he does, he reveals something which tears her whole world apart...
Here is a little snippet:-
The
Letter
Chapter
1
The house sucked at her energy. It drained
her like a thirsty hiker on a hot summer’s day. She could feel it pulling at
the blood in her veins, causing tidal waves of that vibrant red life-force to
course through her to a never-achieved destination, moving ever onwards,
ceaselessly searching out its well-worn pathway.
But of course it was not the house which
drained her so. It was the situation within in.
Jim waited for her in another room. Weak
and tired, waiting was what he did best now. Waiting was actually all that was
left to him. Fran wondered what was left to her. What would be left when Jim
was finally gone? A thin smell of sickness which seemed to have pervaded the
entire house? The ripe smell of a cancer unchecked, which had permeated the
paint and wallpaper of their bedroom? Was that all there would be?
Or would there be memories too? Memories
which would linger to haunt her as if the images and sounds were captured
within the porous brickwork and plaster, ready to be replayed whenever the whim
took them?
It didn’t bear thinking about. But she didn’t really need to ponder on it.
The situation played itself out and she was just a bit player in every scene,
the one who was necessary to breathe a little life into each act, to make it
real and believable. The only one who would be left standing after the credits
rolled and the curtains closed for that final time.
Funny how even after all these months it
still didn’t seem real. She flicked the switch on the kettle and waited for it
to boil. The kitchen seemed darker than usual and she glanced at the wall clock
by the side of the back door. It was in the shape of a cow, mottled black and
white paint depicting its legs and head, its torso taken up by the clockface
which showed the hour to be six. But six am or pm? She genuinely did not know.
The months and weeks since Jim’s diagnosis had blurred into one and in these
last few days even the days and nights seemed interchangeable.
So if you enjoyed that little bit, take a look at the books I have already published - you won't regret it.
Happy Reading!
