roddglenn
Colonial Marine
- Joined
- Feb 21, 2006
- Messages
- 388
I have now finished the second draft of my second novel, Sinema. It's a bit lengthy at 86,000 or so to post on here, but I am looking for one or two EXTREMELY helpful souls to agree to have a read through and let me know their comments. I can email it to anyone who is interested.
Sinema is a dark modern day thriller with a bitter vein of black comedy running through its core.
The main character is an anti-hero; a fantasist and a movie fanatic who decides to try to beat the record for the number of murders committed by a single individual serial killer. He chooses a remote village in the heart of Northumberland as his target and sets about planning the systematic murders of the entire village of 392 inhabitants.
Posing as a writer researching a new book, he settles into a local B&B and begins his surveillance and planning.
The small village of Haydon is populated by an array of strange and unique characters, and many have significant problems of their own. They are oblivious of the killer who walks among them and, behind the quiet and quaint walls, infidelity, voyeurism, drug and alcohol abuse and theft are rife, to name but a few. And, in amongst the boiling undercurrent, someone else is planning the perfect untraceable murder of his adulterous wife.
The short prologue is below to give people a taster.
PROLOGUE
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings,
Homeward into the howling woods, although,
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Whoo-ee! This is better than a hog-killing!
Saturday 23rd December
The blizzard had reached a writhing frenzy of gusting, icy winds and driving snow, pierced only by a small shape low in the black sky being buffeted by the raw Northumberland winter. Angry nimbostratus clouds filled the sky, blocking moon and stars completely. The tops of the thick forest of pines below were laden with a heavy coating of snow that whipped and swirled amongst the treetops. Not a single light could be seen to pierce the night for miles around.
The windscreen wipers of the Northumbria Police helicopter whipped frantically from side to side to improve the struggling pilot’s view. Beads of sweat clung to his furrowed forehead as he fought to maintain control. But despite his arduous task, he still managed to whistle a cheery festive tune.
Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even.
His passengers, two plain clothed policemen in the back, had remained sullen for the best part of the journey from Newcastle Airport, but now, as they neared their destination, the older of the two, finally spoke up with an irritated glance toward the pilot. “I don’t think that’s particularly appropriate, given the circumstances.”
The whistling stopped immediately, but the pilot offered no apology.
His younger colleague, looking decidedly pale, rather hesitantly, said, “How could this happen, Super?”
“We don’t know the hows or the whys yet, son, we just have the facts,” Chief Superintendent Hewitt said flatly. 3.15am…phone ringing. “We’ve got a major situation, Sir…” He needed strong black coffee and a cigarette, and a lot of answers. The tall, almost skeletal man looked swamped in the thick overcoat, scarf and woolly hat. His features were gaunt, the grey skin drawn tight across bony cheekbones and sunken around the eyes and temples.
Switching his attention to the pilot, leaning forward in his seat, he asked, “Any news of Wright or Mitchell yet?”
The frail spec of a helicopter rattled with a renewed assault from the elements, delaying the pilot’s reply. Without taking his eyes away from the swirling snowstorm materialising out of the darkness beyond the windscreen, the veteran pilot said, “No, Sir. No further updates.”
“Don’t you think calling in the Army was a bit excessive?” Sergeant Wilkinson was saying. The twenty five year old Geordie was only two months into his promotion to the rank and, for the first time, was feeling decidedly out of his depth.
Hewitt turned to stare at the younger man. “A bit excessive?” he repeated incredulously. “We’ve got multiple murders, a crime scene the size of a dozen St James’s Parks and suspect or suspects still at large. I’m going to use every damn resource I can, Sergeant.”
In a lighter tone, he added, “You’re the local, Wilks; Division told me that you were born and bred in Rothbury, so that’s not a kick in the arse off where we’re headed. I’m going to need you on this.”
Wilkinson took a deep breath and ran a hand across his bristly crew-cut.
The helicopter swung low over the twisted nightmarish shapes of thick woodland, and suddenly the village materialized out of the storm. The small cluster of stone houses and shops were in darkness, apart from the illumination of flashing lights from emergency vehicles on the ground and dozens of bobbing beams from handheld flashlights. The figures on the ground appeared distorted and elongated, moving quickly from building to building.
“Looks like the power’s still out,” Wilkinson said, grimacing at the prospect of leaving the cosy confines of the helicopter.
Hewitt grunted, but otherwise fixed his attention on the chaotic scene below. Was the nightmare over or was it yet to begin?
Sinema is a dark modern day thriller with a bitter vein of black comedy running through its core.
The main character is an anti-hero; a fantasist and a movie fanatic who decides to try to beat the record for the number of murders committed by a single individual serial killer. He chooses a remote village in the heart of Northumberland as his target and sets about planning the systematic murders of the entire village of 392 inhabitants.
Posing as a writer researching a new book, he settles into a local B&B and begins his surveillance and planning.
The small village of Haydon is populated by an array of strange and unique characters, and many have significant problems of their own. They are oblivious of the killer who walks among them and, behind the quiet and quaint walls, infidelity, voyeurism, drug and alcohol abuse and theft are rife, to name but a few. And, in amongst the boiling undercurrent, someone else is planning the perfect untraceable murder of his adulterous wife.
The short prologue is below to give people a taster.
PROLOGUE
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings,
Homeward into the howling woods, although,
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Whoo-ee! This is better than a hog-killing!
Saturday 23rd December
The blizzard had reached a writhing frenzy of gusting, icy winds and driving snow, pierced only by a small shape low in the black sky being buffeted by the raw Northumberland winter. Angry nimbostratus clouds filled the sky, blocking moon and stars completely. The tops of the thick forest of pines below were laden with a heavy coating of snow that whipped and swirled amongst the treetops. Not a single light could be seen to pierce the night for miles around.
The windscreen wipers of the Northumbria Police helicopter whipped frantically from side to side to improve the struggling pilot’s view. Beads of sweat clung to his furrowed forehead as he fought to maintain control. But despite his arduous task, he still managed to whistle a cheery festive tune.
Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even.
His passengers, two plain clothed policemen in the back, had remained sullen for the best part of the journey from Newcastle Airport, but now, as they neared their destination, the older of the two, finally spoke up with an irritated glance toward the pilot. “I don’t think that’s particularly appropriate, given the circumstances.”
The whistling stopped immediately, but the pilot offered no apology.
His younger colleague, looking decidedly pale, rather hesitantly, said, “How could this happen, Super?”
“We don’t know the hows or the whys yet, son, we just have the facts,” Chief Superintendent Hewitt said flatly. 3.15am…phone ringing. “We’ve got a major situation, Sir…” He needed strong black coffee and a cigarette, and a lot of answers. The tall, almost skeletal man looked swamped in the thick overcoat, scarf and woolly hat. His features were gaunt, the grey skin drawn tight across bony cheekbones and sunken around the eyes and temples.
Switching his attention to the pilot, leaning forward in his seat, he asked, “Any news of Wright or Mitchell yet?”
The frail spec of a helicopter rattled with a renewed assault from the elements, delaying the pilot’s reply. Without taking his eyes away from the swirling snowstorm materialising out of the darkness beyond the windscreen, the veteran pilot said, “No, Sir. No further updates.”
“Don’t you think calling in the Army was a bit excessive?” Sergeant Wilkinson was saying. The twenty five year old Geordie was only two months into his promotion to the rank and, for the first time, was feeling decidedly out of his depth.
Hewitt turned to stare at the younger man. “A bit excessive?” he repeated incredulously. “We’ve got multiple murders, a crime scene the size of a dozen St James’s Parks and suspect or suspects still at large. I’m going to use every damn resource I can, Sergeant.”
In a lighter tone, he added, “You’re the local, Wilks; Division told me that you were born and bred in Rothbury, so that’s not a kick in the arse off where we’re headed. I’m going to need you on this.”
Wilkinson took a deep breath and ran a hand across his bristly crew-cut.
The helicopter swung low over the twisted nightmarish shapes of thick woodland, and suddenly the village materialized out of the storm. The small cluster of stone houses and shops were in darkness, apart from the illumination of flashing lights from emergency vehicles on the ground and dozens of bobbing beams from handheld flashlights. The figures on the ground appeared distorted and elongated, moving quickly from building to building.
“Looks like the power’s still out,” Wilkinson said, grimacing at the prospect of leaving the cosy confines of the helicopter.
Hewitt grunted, but otherwise fixed his attention on the chaotic scene below. Was the nightmare over or was it yet to begin?