…For regular updates on all things novel writing, writing, videos, release dates etc etc. It is a busy time, but never too busy for Facebook. Just no poking. Its at:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/David-Jones/266201170080007
Or alternatively, tweeting me is always good, at:
http://www.twitter.com/djthedavid
As promised ages ago..the virtual book signing is coming - I’m working on it.
I have finally finished designing my website - I wanted all the information on my current novel, upcoming releases and any other news all in one stationary place. On some versions of Firefox (I don’t think its the browser itself, but something in preferences, because it works fine on others) tiny bits don’t load properly but its hardly noticeable. All the links to where Lilith’s Tears is available are on there (too many to put in my tumblr side bar now..) as well as list of upcoming novels, videos, news, lots of stuff!
Anyway, its at: http://www.storydj.com
For the miller, there were no days, no distinct periods of time into which he could divide his labours. Instead, each cycle of light and dark was identical to the last. He would rise with the dawn, listen to the groaning of the revolving blades, which would grow into a veritable roar if there was a gale, and peer out, across the fields. The mill, which stood atop a hill and was quite probably visible for many miles, was entirely isolated, with only a rough, dirt track and the faint trace of smoke upon the horizon to prove that a wider world existed at all. His eyes would longer briefly upon that trail of smoke, until one of the blades flashed by, obscuring his view, and then he would set to work. Always, the boy, a small, translucent figure whose features were sad and malnourished, would follow the miller and observe through huge, consuming eyes, the actions of the man. All day long, the blades would spin, the stones would crush the corn, and flour - pure, white flour, would flutter into the air, hover amongst the rays of sunlight which were, owing to the blades, trapped in perpetually shifting patterns, before the miller contained it in a sack, ready for transportation. He was not an old man, but neither was he young like his always companion, who was either unable or unwilling to leave his side. Wordlessly, the semi transparent figure of the boy would trail after the miller, taking two steps for every one of his, would seat himself upon a barrel, and observe as the miller worked listlessly on, grinding the corn. Seasons, apparently subdued by the monotonous grinding of the gears and the unchanging whir of the blades, had ceased entirely, for it was always early Autumn, or perhaps late summer. Thus halted, the sun would hover, shimmering precariously low over the fields, and send its rays lancing through the windows of the mill. Those beams made no impact on the boy, for they passed directly through him, to clatter, along with his gaze, into the miller, who continued to work the corn.
Such was the life of the miller and the boy - marooned atop the hill in the windmill sanctuary. To mill continually and without cause, however, would have been folly, and indeed the miller would have ceased altogether, were it not for his weekly deliveries. When seven nights had elapsed, the miller would load his sacks of flour into a cart, harness the pony, and, as the boy, never taking his eyes from the miller, settled himself amongst the sacks, set off for the village. Occasionally, a warm, expiring breeze would sweep across the hills, the tall grass would sway as a sea, and the mellow light would promise an Autumn which would would never be fully realized. With the boy, almost transparent in the daylight, nestled amongst the sacks, and the harness of the pony rattling, the miller would travel for an entire morning, until the village came into view - a scattering of houses situated in a dell. Here, on the slope which would carry him down, into his destination, the miller would pause, and, with the dim outline of the boy beside him, he would drink, eat, and shudder with the all too familiar emotions of the hillside. Memories of hope, of all manner of dreams, which he had at some vague point in time fully expected to be realized, leapt first into his mind, and with them came all the happiness, the peace, of the world, which was suddenly and unexpectedly a wonderful place. A mist formed across his eyes, a smile carved his face, but in a moment he was beset by doubt, which quickly grew to rage - for he had, by his own inactivity, lost it all, and he began to twitch, to writhe with frustration. This spell of self loathing was, as always, swept into none existence by a dazzling burst of excitement - for the moment had arrived afresh. This time, the miller thought, he would act - all would change, he would seize this opportunity and usher heaven into his life. Buoyed by the thrill of such belief, for the miller truly believed, he would complete his meal in a joyous mood. All the while, his wordless companion would watch, and in those wide, translucent eyes, there were all the signs of cold, knowing reproach.
After his meal, the miller would descend the hill and enter the village. Along the cobbled streets, he would walk, guiding the pony by the reigns, with the boy at his side. Past the quaint little houses, each identically constructed from timber, with a straw roof, chimney, and garden filled with all the vibrancy of flowers, he walked, basking in the glory of hope, and admiring how pristine, how perfectly kept, this little village was. At his side, the boy, sullen, would look upon it all with different eyes. As they walked, nobody rushed to meet them, no curtains twitched, no chimneys smoked, no doors opened - indeed, save for that one house to which the miller was destined, the village was entirely empty. The air chimed with bird song, pollen hung heavily upon every breath, but there was no human life whatsoever. Habitation rose on every side of the cobbles, but it was all without occupants. Thus walked the miller and the boy, side by side, the wheels of the cart creaking in their wake, past the village square, where the fountain gurgled and spluttered in the sunlight, until a house, brick built and larger than all the others, came into view. The heart of the miller leapt gleefully, he quickened his pace and seemed almost as though he would leave the boy, whose head only sunk lower, far behind. Perhaps the house was important in some official capacity, but, if once meetings had been held there, they had long since ceased, for now the building housed only one person, the only person who occupied the village. The miller, suddenly desirous of proof, turned his eyes skyward and smiled happily at the trail of grey smoke, so stark against the blue of the sky, which drifted from the chimney, and was always discernible from the mill. Silently, he convinced himself that he must act now and finally - for only this would render the past meaningless.
First, however, he began to unload the sacks of flour. As the cart was emptied, the boy moved towards the double, oaken doors of the house and looked as though, with his airy form, he meant to pass directly through them, but did not, and turned to watch the miller. In the sad, pained eyes of the boy, there was a certain resentment, but also a wild, frenzied desperation, and he stared frantically at the miller, as if urging him on to some vital action. The miller, however, merely continued to unload the sacks of flour. His enthusiasm, which had previously driven him to dash through the streets, suddenly faded, and he moved slowly, methodically placing the sacks against the door with far more care than was required. The boy, whose expression had transformed to an angry, despairing frown, returned to the cart and sat, kicking his legs impatiently. When the miller had unloaded all the sacks and arranged them carefully along the wall, he grew hesitant. Internally, his thoughts sought the comfort of reasoning - there would always be next week, they whispered, there would be another time, and then another - there was no necessity to risk all now. Still, a faint flicker of resolve, mingled with that desperation which had been visible on the boy’s face, sent him closer to the wooden doors, and he raised his hand, making a fist as if to knock. There, his hand trembled, the sun glared, the haze of Autumn skies blurred, and the miller froze. On the cart, the boy watched him furiously, his eyes blazing with hatred. In the house, on the highest floor, a curtain flicked, but the miller shook his head. Something, a peculiar mingling of fear, horror, and that perpetual cancer of “there will be another moment,” stayed his hand. He shuddered at himself, at the world, and then, lowering his hand, the miller turned away from the house.
On the journey back to the mill, the boy stared at the miller with a blazing hatred so intense that it must surely have been felt by the entire world. Such rage radiated from his shimmering form, but the miller simply walked on, his head down, crushed by the weight of misery. Now, that Autumn sun had vanished, and, just as always, tumultuous black clouds had suffocated the sky, heralding a premature night, and it had begun to rain heavily. This rain, driven by a gale which screamed in from the direction of the mill, lashed into the face of the miller, saturating him at once, but he paid it no heed. Nor did he raise his eyes to see the village as it truly was, desecrated by its long desertion. No longer were the gardens tidy, but wild; jungles of strangled, dying weeds. The cottages, their windows either boarded up or smashed, were in various stages of collapse, and even the cobbles of the road were cracked and damaged. Onwards, trudged the miller, his mind sedated, while the boy gazed furiously at him, across the hills, through the tempest, and back to the mill. In the grip of the storm, the blades had been caught by the wind and sped in screeching circles, howling and groaning as if they were set to shatter entirely. The miller did not care for any of it, though, and, wishing only that the universe with all its tricks and parodies would simply vanish, he entered his home, followed by the enraged boy, sat down and fell instantly to sleep. The following morning, the same identical Autumn day dawned, the sky was clear, the sun a mellow orange, and the storm nothing more than an implausible memory. The miller, watched by the boy, whose face had returned to its expression of empty despondency, returned to his work, his mind turning hopefully towards his next visit to the village.
Thus continued this identical cycle of events, for years which defied time. For that period of what was perhaps history, there was nothing else. The miller, hardly caring for anything beyond the village, would never gaze outward in any other direction, but if he had, he would have been greeted only by boundless horizons. Unable to alter or end his existence, the miller only grew more despondent, became a machine, in fact, and worked the mill as a mere mechanism, a cog in the whole. All the while, the boy, composed seemingly of only misery, would watch, his face growing ever more resentful. Toil, interspersed with that brief day of hope, fear, and then sorrow, the day of the Delivery, was endless. The miller searched for some outward stimulation, for some exterior sign from the world which would alter his life, or supernaturally gift him the opportunity to do so himself. No such glorious intervention occurred, and nor did the door of the home in the village open without him knocking upon it - as he had secretly hoped that it would. No Gods, no angels, no heavenly words, no signs from nature, no omens in the clouds, no dreams, no catastrophes, no aid whatsoever - and the miller laboured on beneath an unyielding sky.
In such an uncompromising universe, it was eventually some subtle, unknown quirk, some vague fiber of the miller’s being, which ultimately gave way. Sitting on the slope, gazing into the village, engulfed by that familiar chain of feeling, all the emotion in the miller vanished quite suddenly. The boy, fixated as always upon the miller, appeared momentarily to notice the change, but, such was the expression of perpetual, resentful hatred scorched upon his face that his expression did not alter. The miller, though, abandoned his food, abandoned the cart, the pony, the flour, and began to walk. Trailing in his wake, the boy followed. Through the splendid, sun drenched streets of the deserted village, they passed, a thrill, a terror coursing through the veins of the miller, until they were stood before the door of that large, brick built house with the frozen clock. Despite the loathing on his airy face, the boy drew level with the miller, and eyed the door. Without the cart, the miller had no cause to be here, and he knew that, without the errand from the mill, he must - there was nothing else. Raising his hand, he did not hesitate, he dare not hesitate, and he knocked upon the door. In that heady, subdued silence of Autumn, the noise reverberated through the air a thousand times. Aware that the moment had finally arrived, the miller felt no fear, only the mighty liberation of relief, but there was no movement within the house. The boy reached out, now, and placed his hand, almost transparent in the sunlight, upon the wood. All at once, came the footsteps, and the door was flung asunder.
The old life was obliterated, and from the house she stepped, all clad in white, her hair the same gold as the sun. Briefly, his mind reeling, the miller could neither move nor speak, for he had expected the knock to prove resolution alone. Immobilized, he gazed at her, but now she advanced, and took his hands. In the silence, the boy, who had thrown his arms around the legs of the miller in an embrace of gratitude, finally looked away from him, into the house. From behind the woman emerged a little girl, the same age as the boy, and just as airy, as insubstantial. Forgetting, finally, the miller, the boy reached for her, their fingers, barely visible, connected, one hand closed around another, and all was gone. In an instant, the miller, the woman, the boy and the girl melted into the air, and with them vanished the village, the mill, the abandoned cart. Time, previously held at bay, was vented in an instant. Centuries of history blazed into existence, advanced in a moment, and the hills were a city, sprawling with skyscrapers. Roads weaved through the urban sprawl, planes crawled across the skies, technology re-crafted the world and people who had, only a second ago, not existed at all, dashed to and fro with their implausible lives. Nothing of the mill or the miller remained, both buried beneath the world, which spun, which brought the seasons, the days, the nights, the lives, the deaths.
The End
Somewhere in reality every single moment of our lives still exists. Somewhere in time we are living those vanished days, those dead times - they are preserved, they must be, they have to be: it is unthinkable that they have utterly ceased. And yet we are are trapped here, and they are trapped there - all severed from each other and scattered through the universe. Somewhere there are past summers, somewhere there is expired happiness - but we are forced to wander aimlessly without them, trapped in the doomed march.
Once, I chased you forever; through the forests, the deserts, across the seas - but then forever was a day, and then the day was an hour, a minute, a second. Daydreams are the morning mists of Autumn.
Once the summer’s day of
June was all of time, and waiting
to be realised.
Autumn whispers its
Gobbling words
Which were so silent in the sun.
Peace and peace and peace
Bathe in the sea of our small
world - which dreams away
yesterday, and all the rot.
But in the war comes the parasite
To suck and glut the fraying
Thoughts which could be saved
By spoken words, but choke.
The ticking clock who ushered towards
Both ushers away. Its shaking hands
a tremble in the air
far louder than my
cowering voice.
Will be called: “The Travelling Circus of Lacrimosa.” Catchy - no. Memorable - no. Rolls off the tongue - no. However, it will be out in December, which is something. Its not the only thing coming out in December, either - a short novelette (ok..its just a long short story - but there seems to be this urge to classify things using unusual terms) with a Christmas theme will also be released, and I’m excited for both. TTCOL (as I will now forever refer to it..) is a little bit different. One reviewer commented on Lilith’s Tears that “everything about this story is different than anything you have ever read,” which is pleasing, because I do want to write differently - not just in terms of style, but to produce stories that have a different feel to them, are structured differently perhaps - and TTCOL continues with that trend. It is a novel, but it incorporates other forms, specifically drama. I would want to call it a prose-play but…ok I’m going to call it a prose play. I can’t really go into detail properly about why that is a good name for it - but you will hopefully see when it comes out. The story itself is a little bit different too - and I’m hoping people will take a lot away from it, and enjoy what I’ve tried to make very evocative, surreal landscapes.
Anyway - a bit of information. TTCOL is set in 1899 England, in a fictional village during the Victorian era. Plenty of strange forces are at work and time is rushing by. More information nearer the release time!
Hey, I might even change that title to something that is actually memorable. Perhaps “Lacrimosa and the Circus” or maybe just “Lacrimosa.” Titles are the worst part. For now, however, it shall remain: The Travelling Circus of Lacrimosa.
And buy directly from the publisher - Lulu.com. Search for the paperback, hardback or even ebook edition and enter the code: OKTOBERFEST305 for 15% discount :)
…because my website is coming soon! Just making some final adjustments.
Lilith’s Tears is now available on Barnes and Noble, for the princely sum of $1 - so anyone with a Nook is no longer excluded, check it out: HERE. I don’t know why it took so long, Amazon and iBooks are fairly quick, and now there is just the Sony eBook store, something called Diesel, and Kobo, and then it literally is available for every single platform. It shows how much the publishing world has changed/advanced, that I am even typing something like this - once there were only two formats: paperback and hardback. In fact, only a few years ago it would have seemed like madness to believe that I would be publishing a book in about seven different formats. How things change.
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I’m going to be doing a virtual book signing soon (if all works out) more updates coming soon!
