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 Kismet by Wayne Sharrocks

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Wayne Sharrocks

Wayne Sharrocks

Posts : 5
Join date : 2010-02-01
Age : 52
Location : Norfolk

PostSubject: Kismet by Wayne Sharrocks   Mon Feb 01, 2010 6:15 am

Kismet by Wayne Sharrocks (Due out 2010).


For Billy Evans, the past was a haunted place that left an indelible imprint on the here and now. As he struggles to piece his life together he finds himself drawn back into a world of violence and terror.
Already emotionally struggling with the passing over of his remaining family, a chance encounter further clouds the border between reality, perception and illusion.
He has spent his life struggling to escape his past but now with memories triggered, he finds himself with no option but to begin an emotive quest for revenge, retribution and finally redemption.

A brief taster...

William had soon become a solitary figure, a loner rapidly retreating into a world of fantasy and dreams, although fear and loathing (both of himself and his tormentors) was never too far from the surface of his emotions.

He wished that he could just walk away from his troubles but wasn't sure if there even existed a place that far. As a result, at night he would take a handful of his Grandmother's sleeping pills to aid his slumber and to dream that he was invisible. Although he could not find the courage to actually put an end to all of his suffering he just hoped that one day his eyes would close, never to re-open. Much as he yearned to believe that he would be rewarded in the next dimension, he suspected that the only Earth that the meek were to inherit was likely to be six feet deep.

As William sat upon his bed he swept his fingers through his long chestnut mane, pushing it back to reveal his cat like emerald eyes, lined with kohl and features that looked as if they could have been chiseled from the finest marble. He stared at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror but the image that was reflected back to him was far from the reality. He felt ugly and worthless.

Reaching over to his bedside cabinet he slid open the top drawer (which was lined with felt), parted his carefully rolled socks and underwear and removed the razor blade from its place of hiding. He then unbuckled his trousers and slid them down to his ankles before methodically slicing at the young and tender flesh of his thigh. As he did so, rivulets of vivid crimson trickled from the fresh wounds, seeping over faded scars from previous out lettings and as it did so he felt the tension ease and the by now well worn escape route from his emptiness, depression and unreality kick in, his mind validating his inner pain with an outer expression, thus avoiding the yearning for suicide. This was his way of coping, his gift for survival in a world full of ignorance, intolerance and pain.
He was alone in the world, so as words were not an option this was the only way that he could find to express emotion and maintain a sense of connection and self worth. His own coping mechanism honed from years of practice and necessity.
Alas as the years passed the victimization both at school and outside the school gates had only intensified, so he became increasingly unable to peel the scars from his fractured mind. Consumed by hate and a yearning for vengeance, he vowed that everything his tormentors held dear would one day be taken away from them and that all the pain and anguish that he had experienced would be relieved...


William's room, (or Billy as he now preferred to be known as) was one
of three in an inconspicuous lodging house, just off Eardley Road in Streatham Common, London, in which he shared both bathroom and kitchen facilities. The tenants of the other rooms worked for a living, so that thankfully he was on his own for the majority of the day, but even when they were home their paths rarely crossed. He liked it that way, as although his childhood lisp and stutter had all but been eradicated, thanks to a great many speech therapy lessons, he had remained very much a loner.
He had realised very early on in life that social interaction for him rarely ended with a positive or healthy outcome. There always had to be winners and losers and sadly for Billy he seemed to constantly find himself in the latter category, well for the moment at least. For if all his dreams and visions came to fruition all that would change and he would finally be somebody.

Billy's room had a radiator but the landlord had vowed that the central heating bills had become too expensive, so had taken to setting the timer for just an hour or two a day, then padlocking the heater cupboard, so that the dial could not be tampered with by unauthorized hands. As a result of these somewhat Draconian measures, Billy had taken to sitting in the kitchen area with the oven and hobs lit for warmth or lazing idly steeping in a hot bath and topping up the water at regular intervals. He realised he could have always tried to seek out a job, but as he held no qualifications and a somewhat chequered school attendance record, (due to the many sessions of therapy and later the flagrant truancy) he realised that the chances of gainful employment were quite slim to say the least. Anyhow, what with his lack of people skills (hadn't that been how his therapist had phrased it?) and his lack of experience in the work arena, he couldn't see how he could possibly compete for a vacant position, even in the unskilled sector, what with an immigrant workforce on tap who, due to family necessity, where willing to toil long hours for a meagre salary, no questions asked.
For the aforementioned reasons (and many others beside...) Billy now found himself living in the crumbling bedsit with a trickle of state cash for provisions and sustenance, dreaming of a day when all that would change, but for the moment he had to content himself with purchasing the London Evening Standard to begin the search for somewhere better to live. The bedsit was fine for now, but he needed somewhere that he could be alone. He had things to plan, work to do, and although he had yet to formulate quite how, wrongs to be put right...


It was a glorious summer's day and the clouds appeared to float majestically in the bright azure sky. A crowd of somewhat bedraggled feral looking children had gathered on a patch of seemingly untended recreation ground, some perched high upon rusting swings that squeaked wearily in the brisk summer breeze, whilst the remainder were either engaged in kicking a battered football around or feverishly pulling on cigarettes wrapped around their thin nicotine stained fingers. The youngsters looked on boredly as throngs of commuters filed their way past, through the litter strewn city streets, like an army of industrious ants, preparing themselves for another day of commercial toil, in a futile bid to keep the tax man sated and roofs over their rapidly balding heads.

William Evans had always lived in London, although his new accommodation was a fairly fresh acquisition, thanks to his recently deceased Grandparents and a favourable probate. As his Mother had died during childbirth and his Father was unknown, (as his birth certificate readily taunted him every time that he was called upon to produce it) he was brought up by his Grandparents, who although did their best by him, were always quite frail and riddled with sickness.
Whilst they had always ensured that he had food on the table and a roof over his head alas, they were from a different generation so could be of little aid to him during his traumatic and fearful childhood.
Sometimes the generation gap had never felt so wide, but he still thought of them in fond terms, especially now as he was back living in the family home and thankfully well rid of the rodent infested bedsit that had been his place of sanctuary for the past few years.

The family home was a narrow Victorian brick house with little natural light, situated at one end of a terrace of thirteen. Fortunately for Billy he had never been one for superstition.
As Billy closed the door behind him and stepped out onto the street the wind ruffled his newly dyed raven mane, (which fell just below his shoulders) causing rogue strands to dance and sway like marionettes in the breeze. Alas the High Street never appeared to change, there were meandering queues at the cash machines, with kids tugging at their parents' sleeves, urging them to buy something once the seemingly magical machines had conjured up some paper money...
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Posts : 18
Join date : 2010-02-03

PostSubject: Re: Kismet by Wayne Sharrocks   Mon Feb 15, 2010 8:38 pm

Congratulations Wayne cheers
Pamela Jansen
Author of How I Became A Fearless Woman by Pamela Jansen
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Kismet by Wayne Sharrocks
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