I am delighted to announce that ‘The Beautiful Silence‘, my second collection of short stories is now available to purchase as an ebook at all good outlets for just £2.99!
Thank you in advance and I hope that you enjoy the stories.
‘The Beautiful Silence‘ is the second collection of short stories to be published by Chris Nelson. It contains sixteen stories with each one focused around the impact of one event on its central character: some may be fantastical, some introspective and yet more haunting and disturbing.
A short piece taken from the collection of poetry, prose and lyrics entitled ‘Another Tease’ (links at the end of the post. Enjoy!
I sat on the bus, watching the night-lit streets as they passed by like frozen, shrouded memories. The juddering, stop-start motion seemed to bring an uneasy comfort to my body, detached as it was from my consciousness. Other vehicles, heading in the opposite direction, appeared and then disappeared as if they were on some mythic quest, their headlights dull and dim below my position on the top deck of the bus, illuminating nothing but the first few steps on a journey without end. For a moment it seemed as if only they knew the direction in which to move in order to find some salvation, some respite from the pain, and yet I knew, contained within each metal box, was nothing more than one more lonely figure hoping beyond all hope that something, some miracle, would appear to snap them out of their coma.
Buildings rose up on either side of me now; giant monoliths, some pale and dark, devoid of life, tired and waiting for release, others still humming under the electric glow which gave them purpose. Their eyes stared out without seeing through the dark, and were gone again, lost to me as I moved steadily on. Their facades hung momentarily in my mind like all the faces of people I had met in my life, before fading into a sea of ashen memories. The night around me seemed to tighten its grip as, like an abandoned vessel, we sailed on.
To both the right and to the left of me roads sprouted off from the main artery down which I was travelling. They sparkled and twinkled with the hope of the newborn before even their lights were swallowed by the darkness into which, it seemed, the whole world had fallen. I shuddered as the bus lurched around a corner: not from the cold – I had long since become immune to that – but from the impending realisation that we were, at last, nearing my stop, my final destination.
And then everything was quiet, but for the pounding in my chest and the pulsing in my head. What if I were to remain on the bus? Would it eject me when it reached its destination, its point of termination, or would it show a glimmer of empathy, offer up a hand and cradle me to its heart? After all, my brain reminded me, what point was there to alighting, to leaving the bus to continue without me, if you were no longer there to welcome me home?
A short extract from the story 'The Witness' which forms part of the collection contained in my latest book 'Consequences '.Hope you enjoy it (and if you do you might even consider purchasing a copy - details below). Thank you for reading:
Now he was back on the street once more, moving past the buildings as if he were unaware of their presence. Daniel moved as if he knew that he was no longer a part of the world around him. His eyes took nothing in whilst his mind was consumed by thoughts that his rational self refused to acknowledge. He could feel pools of sweat building beneath his arms and across his back despite the cooling breeze that had begun to drift across the city. Daniel found himself walking quickly, as if there were somewhere that he knew he had to be; as if he were trying to escape the thoughts that were battling within his head. Arguments raged within him, his thoughts switching from circles to spirals and back again, neither side able to gain the upper hand, to strike the final blow.
Before he realized it, he had reached what he had hoped would be the comfort and safety of his own home. He turned the key in the lock and burst through the door as if it were the only thing that could save him. Behind it, crouching on the floor, he realized that nothing had changed but the empty objects that filled his vision.
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.
LuluBook Depository Barnes and NobleAbeBooks
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!)
When they come, as surely they will, they will go first into the kitchen. Despite my protestations, regardless of my words, they will draw back the bright-striped coloured curtain, ignoring its golden, thick-woven braiding, its subtle details, and enter the room. They will brush disdainfully past the plain, polished pine of the door frame, and set their feet against the cool, hard flagstone tiles. Their shoes will, undoubtedly, be practical, solid and uncomplicated; their soles too thick to appreciate the slight unevenness of each slab as it jostles with its neighbours for prime position. Their highly-trained, analytic eyes will scan every aspect of the room, internalising each detail, speculating, deducing and then committing their conclusion to fact. They will see the high polish on the glittering diamond granite worktop as it sweeps in both directions from the multi-ringed range; but they will not be moved by its antiseptic cleanliness, or by the knowing wink as it sparkles in its surface. They will not be drawn by its practicality and sense of purpose as might a chef. No. Instead their minds will be consumed will painting a study, a caricature of me, and a critique of my life.
The sink is unsoiled, clean, empty and disinfected: Only the most detailed of inspections would reveal the most minute of scratches the mar its skin. The drainer too tells a similar story, wiped clean of the residue of water which had ran from crockery and cutlery now neatly stored out of view. Their eyes will not see the pristine espresso machine which occupies its pre-ordained space like an princely heir sitting at the joining of the granite surfaces as they run perpendicular to one another; one reaching out towards the range, the other like a long-fingered branch stretching out over a range of expensively veneered beech drawers and cupboards, an open wine rack stocked with a selection of overly priced bottles, and an integral fridge-freezer. No, their analytical eyes will pass all this by as if it were merely a collection of clues which would lead them with unerring conviction ton their inevitably conclusion.
Instead their eyes will be drawn to you. You, laying prone and exposed on the floor, framed by the expanse of expensive stone tiling. You, suddenly revealed in your true form, as if disturbed by some shadowy intruder. You, as ever, the centre of everybody’s attention. They will see you, asleep on the floor, your right leg raised slightly, bent at the knee; your right arm flaccid, limp against the stone, whilst your left one leads to a hand hopelessly flat against your chest, its fingers clutching desperately to hold on to life. Your eyes are closed, almost in a state of resigned relaxation, and yet there remains something defiant within your face, a determination which has refused to leave you. Somehow you are still clinging on to a belief in yourself, a belief that the universe revolves for you, and that without you we shall all cease to be.
Their eyes will see the ice-white tee-shirt, which, as always, is slightly too small for you, as it clings to the muscled outline of your torso. They will see your strong arms, with their well defined yet now defunct biceps and triceps, and your ruined chest. They will see the scratches and the incisions that have at first driven the cotton into your flesh and then in the same coarse action ripped them free again. These are not the signature of a surgeon’s scars, dealt with purpose, care and precision, delivered with salvation as their goal. These are not like the fading wound which lies on your skin where your appendix once was. The scar that had changed with your mood or the company that you were keeping at the time: The scar that had been the mark of a still born twin, helpless and conjoined, who had sacrificed any hope that it may have had in order to allow you to breath in life. The scar that had been a cancer which had been released, thankfully benign, from your abdomen. The scar that had been left by an assailant’s blade as you had performed one more heroic deed of bravery. No, theses scars had been delivered with anger, passion and a rage that could no longer be contained. There had, quite clearly, been some attempt at precision, an attempt to complete the task as swiftly as was possible, but just as obviously this was not the work of a scalpel wielding surgeon. No, this had been an act which displayed a far deeper connection between victim and perpetrator.
They will look from you and the shape that you make to the floor and the mass of congealing liquid which hugs its rises and falls. It will no longer be the crimson passion that it once was, but will have taken on a new form that of spilled, black treacle, still sticky beneath its now rubbery skin. Experience will have taught them not to be surprised, as I was, by the size of the lake that had spread out across the tiles: This is only a fascination to the uninitiated. Rather they will study the form and shape that the lake has taken, and from this conclude which blows led to which spillages, and in which order they fell. They will make rational the irrational and make impersonal and analytic the impassioned.
Their eyes will see the dropped and discarded length of metal, naked and separated from its compatriots, and realise that this is the only object that is out of place in the kitchen. At the moment it is closer to me than it is to you, but they will not see this. They will see only eight inches of stainless steel, turned and polished and proud of its quality, now lying stark and forlorn against the stone. They will see the globules of sticky, red liquid as the cling to the five inches of ground and sharpened steel. They will see the smeared stains which have taken their shape and appearance from my skin and have impressed themselves on the handle. But they will see no further. The stains will cry out to their audience like tell-tale children, expecting no greater reward than recognition of themselves, and to be smiled upon. They will see all of this and they will know. They will know all of this, and know all that they need to know, but still they will not make me out to be the monster that you made me.
But for now I will leave you. I will let my weary feet take me from the kitchen, from our final encounter, and lead me over warm wooden boards towards the staircase. For a moment I will pause, but I will not turn my head-there is no longer the hold to draw me back-and then I shall slowly climb the stairs, with each one savouring the silence, until at last I reach our room. I will open the door onto the emptiness, step beyond the naked frame and stretch out my hand towards the bed. With a deliberate hand I will carefully draw back the black, patterned quilt which sleeps so easily against the smooth cotton of the freshly pressed sheet, and slide inside. I will lie on my back in our bed and stare into the darkness, and I will enjoy the stillness. Beneath the quilt I will be enveloped in tranquility: My body will finally be at rest from your demands, and I will be sore no more. I will not feel the presence of your body, its insistence, its pressure and its determined persistence. I will not hear the emotionally charged sounds that your mouth makes as both you and I lie in silence, in separate rooms now, only yards apart, but still connected. I will lie here in the bed that you once shared with her, and you will lie with no-one. I will lie and in my own time close my eyes against the darkness. I will lie in the stillness that surrounds us both and have a good night’s sleep for once: And you will lie and have a good night’s sleep for evermore.
Today I am posting an extract from my recently published book ‘The Beautiful Silence ‘ which is available to purchase here.
I hope that you enjoy reading!
The rain fell like the pealing bells which sang from the towers and steeples of stone, their voices through the stone-hollowed walls wailing like children, Christmas hungry, eyes widened, fighting the sleep that swung like a pendulum over their heads, ticking away the moments towards a life unfettered by expectation, a time when the calling of the bells sounded a different tone, a time basted in reconciliation and redemption, a momentary glimpse over the shoulder at the child who still stood singing high to the days he could never see, days when the rain would fall warm and soft and hands would be gentle but strong, pulling the gravel from broken-skinned knees, when faces’ smiles would dry the tears, and solitary words would say more than books in voices clear and honest, when pealing bells were what they were and sang like the falling rain.
And there, beneath the heavy boughed yew whose limbs stretched out above the shadowed ground, bearing the weight of the deaths of countless years, their crisp-twist fingers reaching out as if the plains were within their grasp, looking to shed their needles like wasted days, there was where I first saw her. She was sitting, back pressed against the timbered slats which struck out uneasily as if they were the children of the needy, possessive yew, its blessing withheld, a bargaining chip pressed against the conscience of those loved, those for whom the grain ties would never dry. She was sitting at once rooted and rootless, her eyes staring out beyond the low-slung wall which sliced the greenness like a heavy pencil mark, neither protective nor deterrent, marking only the border between the living and the dead, and somehow she seemed to exist somewhere between the two, at the same time both earthly and ethereal, as if she had grown up from the ground and descended from the branches at the same instant.
…without a good book to hold (or, failing that, one of mine!). So, in shameless act of self-promotion, (and hoping that at least one person out there has picked up on the festive reference to the ’70’s group Mud) may I be so bold as to draw your attention to a few books that might be perfect for those last minute gifts!
For lovers of Amazon I can only apologise as I have had some issues with the links! I can assure you that all of the books are available through their site.
Below is an excerpt from my short story ‘Skin’ which appears in the collection ‘The Candle Game and other stories’ ( ISBN: 978-1-716-81687-1) which is available to purchase through various online outlets (Lulu, Amazon, Barnes & Noble…)
Hope you enjoy!
I sat and watched as my right arm slowly began to snake its way into the blueness above me. It began to dance rings in the air in much the same way as I had been led to believe Native American tribesmen had sent smoke signals to one another across the plains in years now consigned to one-sided history books. Its hand tilted itself in my direction before, in an almost apologetic fashion, waving. Whether this was a wave of dismissal or a casual farewell I could not say, I merely watched as it flicked its wrist and continued its ascent.
In a strange and somewhat unfathomable way I had never felt quite as attached to my arm as I did at this precise moment, despite the fact that it was, even as my brain processed the thought, spiralling ever further away from me. I continued to watch, unable or unwilling to act, as if, by my very movement, the moment would be lost, as the distinguishable features of my arm began to blur and fade. Wrinkles and scars merged with sallow flesh tones until these too began to lose clarity as my arm continued its dance skywards. It was as if the two of them – my arm and the sky – had become two lovers intent on elopement, so focussed on their future that the past became a discarded book, or, perhaps more accurately, a closed chapter, and one to which they would never return.
A hole has opened up. A hole large enough for an arm – my arm – to pass through, and yet not too small for me to be able to pick it out amongst the clouds which skid past like children making their excited journeys home. Gradually its blueness darkens to a rich, bruise-like purple, before intensifying to the colour of an over-ripe aubergine. Its edges are saw-like and my one hope is that my arm will pass through unscathed: I shudder uncontrollably at the thought of flesh being torn from muscle, and the jagged cut that will never fully heal. My fears, however, prove to be unfounded as I watch first my fingers, then my hand and then my wrist disappear, almost reluctantly, as if this were the moment that there was a realisation of what they were leaving behind, into the chasm. This was clearly not the time for reflection, however, as I watched, still silently motionless, as my forearm, elbow and finally my upper arm were swallowed by the darkness which oozed from the hole.
Like a stuffed mouth the gaping hole closed quickly upon itself, leaving nothing more than a self-satisfied grin, which proceeded to vanish as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only the blue of a late Summer’s afternoon before my eyes. My arm had left me.
One final piece taken from my recently published collection ‘Another Tease’. From next week I shall be posting more new pieces which I hope that you will enjoy.
But for now here is poem entitled ‘Night Train’ which I hope you enjoy and, if you do, there are details on how to purchase the collection at the bottom of this post. Thank you.
The night train came
Like Arctic winter
Drew into the platform
Its presence announced
A rumbling roar
Which stirred the senses of those
Who could not move,
A platform crowded
Shrouded in the silence
Of isolation
Bodies shuffling on automatic
Knowing the journey to come
Yet helpless in their resistance,
Seated now staring with the vacancy
Of untenanted rooms
Rooms closed off to sightless eyes
Tunnel-visioned pulled on
By a darkness
Whose whispered words
Seduced like an absented lover
A promise of redemption,
Rhythms rumble wheels on track
Devil’s chains around my brain
A voice that cries
So pure so clear
Yet smothers reason with unseen hand
And blind like time
The sinking Sun drips blood
Unsure of its return.
‘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.
Published in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Near to the Knuckle, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, and Shooter magazine.
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