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128 pages

English

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This is H A Howe's second collection of fictional stories dealing with fears and tragedies, and although often interwoven with a humorous thread, they do highlight the darker side of life. In her belief that short stories should be able to captivate the reader just as much as longer novels, this new collection does not disappoint. As Herbert Kretzmer, OBE (journalist and lyricist) said of her previous work, 'H A Howe's chief asset is a capacity to draw the reader in to the tales, making the reader eager to know what happens next'.True to her style, H A Howe likes to surprise the reader - so expect the unexpected.Peter Bogdanovich - Film Director/writer/critic/film historian: 'More Thorns Than Roses is definitely thorny, edgy, dark and very eloquently written. The tales ring true and leave you wanting more as soon as possible. H A Howe is a very gifted writer.'John Nathan - Journalist The Times, The Independent, Jewish Chronicle: 'Short Stories doesn't quite say it. H A Howe's tales of misadventure are as brief as a moment and as fully formed as a thriller'.That's Books and Entertainment Book Shop: 'More Thorns Than Roses is a remarkable collection of short stories from H. A. Howe. It's an interesting collection of disparate ideas and themes. There are tales of love, of betrayal, of fears, real and imagined and tragedy events of the kind that make people shake their heads and say: "We should have seen that coming" but, somehow, nobody ever does.'

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Short story

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Publié par	Victory Entertainment Ltd
Date de parution	28 mars 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9780992906931
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

H A Howe is a writer and lyricist. She lives in Surrey, England. Many of her songs have been published in 29 countries worldwide. A small selection of her lyrics can be found on her website www.h-a-howe.com .
More Thorns Than Roses is her second collection of short stories. She has also written various plays, two of which are published in this book. One of her earlier plays, an historical one, was translated into French and German and the performance rights have been licensed for production in three countries, and is being developed as a feature film. If you want to contact the author, you can email her on h-a-howe@h-a-howe.com
H A Howe is currently working on a new historical play, and on her first full length novel.
PRAISE FOR H A HOWE’S PREVIOUS WORK:
Neat as a knitting pattern. Dark as a closed coffin.
Mike Hodges: Writer/Director: ‘Get Carter’, ‘Flash Gordon’
I wasn’t surprised to hear that the author H A Howe was also a lyricist because a lyric writer’s job is to eliminate the unnecessary, to never meander, be as economic as possible and illuminate character. In her first book, Short Stories, this is exactly what she does so effectively.
Don Black, OBE, Lyricist and Oscar Winner (4 James Bond theme songs, ‘Born Free’, ‘Sunset Boulevard’, ‘The Italian Job’ and numerous films)
H A Howe’s chief asset is a capacity to draw the reader in to the tales, making the reader eager to know what happens next…
Herbert Kretzmer OBE, Journalist, Lyricist (wrote the words to the muscial ‘Les Miserables’, the song ‘She’ and many others)

Copyright © 2015 H A Howe
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Short Stories by H A Howe is a work of fiction, any resemblance between characters and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Victory Entertainment Ltd
52, Lancaster Rd
London N4 4PR
victoryentertainment@btconnect.com
ISBN 978-0-9929069-3-1
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
I would like to thank my daughter, Catherine, the editor of this book, for her ruthless attention to detail!
Whether it is true or not is of little importance, whether it is possible, that’s what fuels our fear.
CONTENTS
Writer’s Block
The Other Side
Fame At Last
Love’s Happy Fool
Sweet Dreams
Let’s Drink
Can You Remember?
The Ring
The Devil’s Dinner Party
A Christmas Adventure
Mo
Cheated
When Love Is Not Enough
Turn On The Light
Moral Duty
The End of Mourning
PLAYS
The Holiday
Praise The Lord
WRITER’S BLOCK
‘ My name is Joe’, he grinned behind his raised whiskey glass. ‘Do you live in the area?’ She …
‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ James rolled back in his chair and flung his hands up in frustration. ‘It’s happening again’, he moaned. Another deadline just round the corner and he had no clue what to write about. He needed a break, some distance from the computer. It had helped the last few times. Going out, meeting people, had given him inspiration. Most people seemed fascinated by his profession and loved to talk to him. The moment he mentioned that he was a writer, especially a published and known one, total strangers trustingly opened up to him, confided their secrets.
He drove around for a while, not quite sure where to go. He didn’t want to go anywhere in his immediate neighbourhood and he made it a rule not to visit the same bar twice. He hated familiarity. It never ceased to amaze him how many bars there were in a relatively small radius around his retreat. He must have been to at least twenty different joints in the past couple of years. This time, he decided to venture a little further afield and when he finally stopped the car, he was probably an hour from home.
He loved that feeling of standing outside, doorknob in hand, not knowing what to expect the other side of the door. As always, he was not looking to find anything or anybody in particular. He was happy to let fate decide the outcome of the evening. He instantly liked the place. The subdued lighting helped to create a warm and comfortable atmosphere. He felt he could sit here for hours without anybody bothering him. He made straight for the bar. It wasn’t busy, but then it was only eight o’clock. It looked like the sort of place that could be buzzing at two in the morning. He decided to have his first drink sitting at the bar. The barman was friendly yet careful not to invade his customers’ privacy. A sensitivity Joe highly appreciated. From his seat he could observe the corner table, or more specifically the woman sitting there on her own, without being too obvious about it. He had noticed her the moment he walked through the door. She was attractive rather than beautiful. He thought she seemed somewhat lost, as if she didn’t really belong here. The half empty bottle of wine in front of her suggested that she’d been sitting there for a while. Maybe she was supposed to meet somebody who was late or had stood her up altogether. She had noticed him too. Although their eyes hadn’t met, he could feel her looking at him. He decided that if she was still on her own by the time he had finished his second drink, he would approach her. He had only just ordered another drink when she suddenly got up, walked towards the bar and invited him to join her. ‘Well, that’s a first’, he thought. ‘I don’t even have to put in any effort’.
After a brief introduction during which he learned her first name, the conversation revolved only around him. She proved very inquisitive. Fascinated to hear that he was a writer, she asked if she might have read anything by him. Turned out that she was a great fan of his thrillers which were published weekly in one of the Sunday papers. After half an hour of answering questions about his work, his inspiration, whether he was married, had children, lived on his own etc, he decided it was time to reverse the interrogation. ‘Enough about me’, he said firmly. ‘Tell me something about yourself. For instance, are you from around here?’ Apparently she lived miles away, although she did not disclose where. ‘Were you expecting to meet somebody here tonight?’
‘Not particularly but’, she gave him a flirtatious smile, ‘seems I was meant to’.
She told him that she wasn’t currently in a relationship, that she got divorced a few months ago to finally put an end to an unhappy union, and ‘thank goodness’ had no children. She was a maths teacher but had become somewhat disillusioned with her job. So when, a couple of months ago, her parents died, leaving her a small sum of money, she’d decided to take a year off to travel around the country for a much needed change of scenery and, maybe, to come to a conclusion about what she really wanted to do for the rest of her life. The more Joe found out about this woman, the more he liked her. She seemed perfect!
Whilst he still pondered whether it was too forward of him to ask her home, she suddenly put her hand on his arm and asked if he lived far from here. ‘About half an hour’, he fibbed not wanting to put her off by too much distance. Encouraged by the fact that her hand had remained on his arm, he asked her back to his place for coffee. She pretended to hesitate, but he was confident that she would not decline. ‘Alright, that would be nice’, she finally consented in a hushed tone.
‘Have you got your car outside?’, he inquired. They agreed that it would be best if she followed him in her car. Pretending to be a regular in the bar, he suggested to leave ten minutes before her, to stop tongues wagging, and then wait for her down the road.
* * *
‘Oh my’, she exclaimed as she got out of the car, ‘You weren’t kidding when you said I’d have difficulties finding the place on my own! No navigation system in the world would find this. Does it even appear on a map?’ He laughed, ‘I bought it because of the privacy. Come, I’ll show you round. It’s not very big but it’s got all I need’. The large kitchen breakfast room had double doors into what looked like the totally overgrown thicket of an adjacent forest, but he referred to as the garden. ‘I’m not keen on gardening’, he unnecessarily mentioned. He then showed her a little sitting room, pointing out that he used the largest room in the house as his study. He opened the sliding doors to reveal a massive L-shaped room. The room was full of furniture and books, and cluttered with ornaments, and, unlike the rest of the house, it looked lived-in. She wandered around, glancing at various unusual objects. ‘I love this wooden block’, she suddenly exclaimed. But when she tried to pick it up, she was surprised by its weight. ‘It’s actually solid bronze’, he explained. She let her hands slide around the chunky block, feeling each grain of the rigid bark with her fingertips. ‘It looks and even feels so real’, she marvelled. ‘Strange’, he thought, ‘that of all the objects – the kitchen knife with the customised silver and amber handle, the gold Smith & Wesson with ivory inlay, the common woodcutter’s axe with the intricate engravings – she should choose a non-weapon, a non-violent object’. But that’s what he so loved about people – their unpredictability. ‘So what about that coffee’, he asked half expecting her to decline, ‘or would you rather have a cognac?’ She looked at him for a second, searching his eyes to determine whether his offer was genuine or not. He returned her gaze with smiling, honest eyes but unwilling to give a clue