Idol

20 Saturday Aug 2022

Posted by chrisnelson61 in Uncategorized

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Adoration, Adulation, creative, Fame, fiction, flash, Idol, Influence, inspiration, loss, Love, nostalgia, Prose, short story, story, writing

There was a time when I was your hero; your idol, your deity. It was a time when nothing could take my place – there had been nothing before me and even the thought of anything beyond me was unimaginable. I was the first thing that your eyes saw when they opened and the last picture that they held as they closed with the days end. It was a time when I filled your every waking thought and gave meaning to every moment of your life, no matter how small or fleeting. I was the star around which the planet of you revloved; I brought you light in the daytime and dreams which filled your nights with wonder, joy and promise. There was no sacrifice too small, no challenge that you would refuse with me by your side. Your blood ran with my words, my thoughts and my desires, and you took them all as your own. I was your hero, your idol, your everything.

But now, as the turning wheel has worn the threads thin, and the veil has begun to slip from your eyes, you see me with clearer sight. My face has lost its magic, its magnetic pull weaken by over-use. My words, the music that once plucked so easily at your heartstrings, has lost its tone, its melody merely a feeble imitation of what it had once appeared to be. The etched pane has cleared, as if a sea mist had lifted, and you see me now as I truly am. And you realise that I am nothing more than a man, and all that I had to say was nothing more than words; no more or no less than any other.

And the thought remains that I was once your hero, your idol, your everything.

A sort of update

25 Monday Jul 2022

Posted by chrisnelson61 in Uncategorized

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Amazon, Consequences, creative, fiction, inspiration, Love, short stories, stories, story, writing

Well, it looks like Amazon have (sort of) addressed the pricing issue regarding my book of short stories ‘Consequences’.

Unfortunately they have added a link to an edition for Kindle WHICH IS NOT MY BOOK! So, if you were considering a purchase please don’t go for the e-book as (a) it’s not the same and (b) you might be disappointed (or not!).

I have updated links below.

Thank you!

Consequences.

Three tales exploring consequences; the consequences of random events, of choices and decisions made and of fate or chance.

Consequences

25 Saturday Jun 2022

Posted by chrisnelson61 in Uncategorized

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AbeBooks, Barnes and Noble, Book, Book Depository, Consequences, Contemporary, creative, fiction, Introspective, Lulu, Publication, Release, short stories, stories, writing

I am delighted to be about to announce that my latest collection of short stories ‘Consequences’ is now available to purchase!

For anybody interested (and I’m hoping that someone is!) I have attached links to the bottom of this post.

Thank you!

Consequences.

Three tales exploring consequences; the consequences of random events, of choices and decisions made and of fate or chance.

A Slow Return sees a man analysing his emotions as he is forced to face up to the consequences of his actions following a random accident.

In The Witness a man’s life unravels before his eyes after he becomes an unwilling witness to an event which may or may not have happened.

But the collection opens with Spinning Wheel, a story of fate creating a situation in which the boundaries between reality and fantasy become blurred, leading a man into a series of unexpected consequences.

(The astute amongst you will have noticed that I have not added a link to Amazon. This is because (for some reason best known to themselves) they appear to have it listed at a ridiculous price.

Should you feel inclined to purchase a copy I send you my thanks in advance!)

A Farewell

28 Saturday May 2022

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A Farewell, Another Tease, Book, Communication, creative, fiction, flash, flash fiction, Leaving, loss, lyrics, music, poetry, Prose, Published, short story, stories, story, writing

A very short story today taken from the collection of poetry, prose and lyrics: ‘Another Tease’ available via the links below.

Hope you enjoy this.

I thought of you then, on the day that I left, knowing, despite the words, that we would never meet again. I thought of you as I sat in the darkness, as the Sun dipped like a dying friend beyond the horizon for what might as well have been the last time. I knew that I, like the errant Sun, would rise again, but that neither of us would ever be quite the same: the Sun would burn fractionally less brightly, its gaseous source ever so slightly diminished, and I, with less reason to rise than before, would begin to become a shadow of myself. I thought of you and the words that we had shared wondering if you had ever truly understood my meaning. Had you thought of me as a friend or merely an acquaintance, and had I ever truly understood what lay behind your eyes? I thought of how close I felt that we had become, our shoulders brushing against one another as we shared a joke, our laughter spreading its roots between us connecting us forever, or so I had imagined. But did you leave me behind along with all the other artefacts of work when you closed the door behind you and returned to your home?

I thought of you and wondered whether I had been too obscure, too subtle in my words and looks, for you to see me. And what exactly had I felt? Was this a connection that I felt that I had needed or something that had burst upon me unexpectedly and had opened a new door which whispered quietly for me to go through? Perhaps the moment had come for me, after a life of living at a comfortable distance from the edge, to finally take a chance, a risk. But, of course, caution is a powerful bedfellow, and, by the time I had recognised the chance, if had closed its eye for ever.

I thought of you then and wondered if you had ever lain alone in the dark beneath the Summer’s heat: I wondered if, like me, you had lost yourself to imagination; and I wondered if you had ever found yourself with your hand between your legs, wishing its fingers were mine.

Another Tease – poetry, prose and lyrics

AMAZON

The Smell of Cedar by River Dixon – a quick review

16 Monday May 2022

Posted by chrisnelson61 in Uncategorized

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abuse, Childhood, Control, creative, E-book, fiction, Horror, Psychological, Review, River Dixon, short story, story, The Smell of Cedar, writing

Having just read this book I wanted to share a few thoughts:

The Smell of Cedar is an unsettling and unnerving psychological horror story made all the more believable by its backstory of abuse and control. For me the length is just right, with moments of reflection which help to not only explain the lead character’s past but also move the story along at a good pace.

River’s use of a nonlinear structure is both effective and skillfully employed and his careful use of description allows the reader to create a vivid scene whilst reading the story. At times I was not certain as to whether tense changes worked quite as effectively as they might have, but this is a minor issue and I am being, perhaps, a little pedantic.

I do think, however, that the actions of the character Melanie, to whom we are introduced early on in the story, and which become clearer as the tale develops, add to the chilling (and all too real) possibility of history repeating itself.

If you enjoy short, chilling and disturbing stories, then I would certainly recommend reading this.

E-BOOK…E-BOOK…

16 Tuesday Nov 2021

Posted by chrisnelson61 in Uncategorized

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creative, Dystopian, E-book, fiction, Introspective, Lulu, Publication, short stories, stories, The Candle Game, writing

I am delighted to be able to announce that my short story collection ‘The Candle Game’ is now available as an e-book.

I have attached a link below for anyone who might be interested (thank you in advance). I hope that you enjoy reading!

https://www.lulu.com/en/gb/shop/chris-nelson/the-candle-game/ebook/product-27v2yp.html

Another Tease

28 Saturday Aug 2021

Posted by chrisnelson61 in Uncategorized

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Another Tease, Book, creative, Depression, faith, Falling Sleet, fiction, flash, flash fiction, hope, inspiration, Love, lyrics, music, poems, poetry, Prose, Publication, short stories, stories, The Candle Game, verse, war, writing

Firstly a huge thank you to everyone who has purchased either Falling Sleet or The Candle Game. I hope that you are enjoying them.

It gives me great pleasure to announce the publication of my latest collection of writing Another Tease:

‘Another Tease’ is a collection of poetry, short prose fiction and lyrics covering themes as diverse as love & war, faith & loss and hope & depression. The lyrics have no melodies – each one is left open for the reader to create their own interpretation.

ISBN: 978-1-329-16251-8

Available now via:

LULU

As soon as the book is available on other platforms I will post more!

I hope that you enjoy reading!

And now, a couple of ‘teasers’ –

Watching Dreams

Watching dreams

Evaporate like tears

In the warmth of another,

Sun-bleached streaks

On a bed of sand,

Wanting to reach out

Clutch and grab

At Youth’s fresh resolve,

Mold it to age’s wisdom

And stride once more,

Sight-scarred eyes

Life-bleached and hollow

Stare blind at passing time,

Hands that sweep so quickly

Unforgiving, so cold,

And floating on the wind

Dream’s lost fragments fly

To settle on another,

Sun-bleached streaks

On a bed of sand.

The Interview

When they had asked me what he had been like, the man with the knife, all I could say was that I couldn’t really say. He had been, to my mind’s eye, nothing more, or less, than average.

He had stood at average height; not discernibly taller nor shorter than myself. His hair had been worn short, but neither cropped nor shaven, and his eyes, well I could barely remember the colour of my closest friend’s eyes, so that line of questioning drew a blank.

What of the colour of the man’s skin? I could confidently say that he was white, but boasted a tanned face; or had that been a more olive complexion? It was difficult to say with any degree of certainty.

Distinguishing features? He had a knife: a response that solicited a look which could have been annoyance but equally disdain. No, there were none that my sapless mind could recall.

He had been, the man with the knife, nothing more than average. His accessory had been all that made him stand apart. His unremarkableness reminded me only of myself.

In fact he might as well have been me.

The Funeral Collector

24 Saturday Jul 2021

Posted by chrisnelson61 in Uncategorized

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fiction, short stories, stories, The Candle Game, TheFuneral Collector

A short extract from the story ‘The Funeral Collector ‘, one of the stories contained in ‘The Candle Game which is available now:

I am seven years old. The stinging across the back of my thigh, the red impact mark that spreads slowly like a feverish rash both up and down my tender flesh, barely seems to register inside my brain. My eyes are aflame with the flow of acrid saline as it forces itself through the rapids of my lids, and cascades over swollen, crimson cheeks, cutting white rivers into my skin. I cannot force my eyes to close; they are numb, inert, and dead to the scene which continues to unfold, continues to be played out before them, despite their reluctance to see. They are paralysed, just like the head in which they are contained, aware only of the irregularity of breath which my lungs squeeze reluctantly in and out of themselves as if they were a pair of dried and withered bellows. The urge to urinate, to empty the poison within my bladder, is met by an involuntary spasm deep within my groin, and I can feel the insistent tide flow into my life like a toxic bath, infecting my insides. The pain of the blow and the unexpected suddenness of its arrival have not, as yet, left their final mark. I am aware, of course, of the sharpness of the pain in my leg; conscious that this brief moment of agony will recede, only to be replaced by longer lasting, deeper, dull ache that will spread like a ‘ dead leg’ from hip to knee. I am aware, too, somewhere lost within my future that a scar will remain, although invisible to even the keenest of eyes, long, long after the reddened outline of my mother’s hand has faded and disappeared. My conscious self is unable to recognise this, of course, but somewhere in the farthest recesses of my brain, a new impulse has found its way from one synapse to another, and a trigger has been created. But for now, in the present that I inhabit, none of this matters.

Available now: