Do you want to warm up your heart?

Take a listen to a preview of Mark Roper's warm and emotional story of a young boy finding his true journey. Narrated by esteemed theatre actor, Miles Anderson, this poignant story is guaranteed to add heart.

http://www.amazon.com/Two-Feet-Random-Thoughts-Travels/dp/B00PJGONZ8/

TWO FEET - FREE KINDLE DOWNLOAD

The novella, TWO FEET, is available as a FREE +Kindle download on SUNDAY 11 JANUARY 2015.

FOR FREE DOWNLOAD CLICK HERE

Under the vast African sky, a young boy is forced to come to terms with a whole new reality. Abandoned by his father, his new playground is the open plains, and his new family, a deeply-rooted local community with some seemingly unorthodox ways—among them, Swazi warrior Mabuza, and stern, religious Afrikaner Meneer Gerber.

But Mark soon finds that this unconventional upbringing might be exactly what he needs to fill the emptiness created by his life-altering loss. While he imagines his father fighting for his life in a distant hospital, the boy learns to find solace and hope through the wisdom and traditions of his new community—including important lessons about life, overcoming obstacles, and how to walk with bare feet.

 With equal parts insight, emotion, and humour, Two Feet takes a candid look at the realities of family life, while evoking the adventure and curiosity of childhood.

Mark Roper - The Independent Author Network

Mark Roper - The Independent Author Network



...listen to well known Television and theatre actor, MILES ANDERSON'S reading of the novella TWO FEET...now on AMAZON. It is worth a listen as Miles, who originated in Southern Africa, has tackled the characters with great wit, charm and emotion.



TWO FEET - AUDIO BOOK

Mark Roper - The Independent Author Network

Mark Roper - The Independent Author Network

Is God a Mechanic #2

...and then there was light! The conclusion of the short story from the novella, Two Feet, where Meneer Gerber and all see eye-to-eye. Sort of.

FEEL FREE TO COMMENT -- or better yet, read more of Mark's scribblings in his novella, TWO FEET available as a link on this site to +Amazon.com. Either as a Kindle download or in paperback.

Available at Amazon.com

****

A question I never asked:

“Daddy, how do I switch this on?”

*****

A question I never asked:

“Daddy, how do I switch this off?”

*****

If God’s vehicle was a re-vamped, super-charged, gun metal grey, 1966 F-100 Chevy, He drove it into our lives early one morning.

If God’s vehicle was a re-vamped, super-charged, gun metal grey, 1966 F-100 Chevy that was meant to raise sufficient dust to asphyxiate both bird and insect, it was doing a damn good job of that, too.

We seldom had visitors. If a car was seen or heard navigating the pot-hole ravaged road toward the house, it would draw the brood out onto the flaking, thirsty lawn. From here we would view its approach. Mabuza stood poised nearby with his garden fork. The cloud of advancing dust would be watched with some trepidation.

Mostly, the occupants of the cars were men wearing jackets and ties and carrying briefcases and brown, official type folders. They were in search of you, Father, as were we. They were men from distant cities, perspiring uncomfortably, their flesh rebelling at the sun, hunting down debt like we sometimes hunted the King’s buck.

“Vultures,” is what my older brother described them as.

“Rooineks,” is what Pisskop would have called them.

The moment these men got stiffly out of the car, my younger brother would yelp like a puppy and hurry away, probably to the dam which was his place of solitude. My elder brothers would stand mutely, ready to do battle, keeping our dogs at bay.

I stood alongside my mother, always slightly to the rear. I would find solitude in the ant-lion (Myrmeleontidea) holes in the dust, or watch Mabuza from the corner of my eye. He stood ramrod, like a warrior on a cliff awaiting an Induna’s call to battle.

My mother always said “shit” under her breath as she walked forward. Her conversations with these men would be animated, but brief. They would try, with a mix of honey and tar, to cajole the documents into her hands, but she heeded Mister Kelly’s advice, and kept her hands behind her back. Small hands, dirt engrained hands that had once boasted of diamond rings and the scent of expensive oils and nail polish.

“If you take the papers, they take everything. Do you understand, Missus? Never take the bloody papers!”

These men, often through sunglasses, would glance askew at us children as they talked with our mother. I wonder now how they perceived us; we were white children, barefoot, not in school, and our hair was long, way too long for those years. Perhaps our physical appearance was suffice for them to realise that what my mother told them, was the truth. Was there sympathy behind those sunglasses? I seriously doubt it.

There was nothing left to surrender, repossess or sell. Speak to Mister Kelly. Here is his telephone number. No. No forwarding address. Their father’s present whereabouts remains unknown.

Like disgruntled bees leaving a dying blossom, these men would return to their car, reverse, and drive away, soon obliterated in a cloud of dust that had never quite settled.

God’s vehicle pulled to a stop with the sound of an impulsive lion, sending a tremor under our waiting feet. Muffled, chrome exhausts coughed a victorious expletive as they died, sending startled pigeons flapping from the trees.

Barking dogs, momentarily, go mute.

For a change, my younger brother did not move. Instead, he stopped frowning, a gesture that had, recently, become as common on his face as a red- tick to the hide of a cow.

In the rear of the F-100, amongst the tool boxes, winches, chains and scaffolding pipe, sat four labourers. They all wore blue overalls and wellington boots. Their smiles were open and broad, eyes alert and expectant to their new environment.

The driver stepped out. He was short but muscular. He wore khaki shorts and a short sleeved shirt. His skin was tanned; a farmer’s tan, his forearms and legs bred a thick mesh of wiry hair. A veldt hat with a sweat stained band was perched on a balding head. His eyes were a light blue, his moustache neatly trimmed, his feet encased in worn but expensive veldskoens and khaki socks. In his breast pocket, he carried a packet of Springbok cigarettes and a box of lion matches.

“Good morning,” he said to all of us. “I’m here to help with the borehole?” Out came the cigarettes: A flash of a match, a puff of smoke. “Mister Kelly asked me.”

“Oh,” said my mother and stepped forward. Her hands were not behind her back. “Oh,” she repeated.

My brothers walked forward; sucked toward the glory of the F-100, whose metallic colour bounced back the sunlight like a granite boulder fends off a rifle bullet, like a blue-fly to a pile of elephant dung.

Mabuza tugged my shirt sleeve. I looked up into his face. I saw the Mabuza grin: big, white teeth and gums as pink as the fruit of a ripe pawpaw. He patted me on my shoulder and danced his skinny thong clad backside toward the F-100,leaving me standing amongst the ant-lion holes, with a butterfly fluttering somewhere in my young, vegetable starved stomach.

*****

Dear Meneer Gerber,

How are you? I am fine.

I am sorry to be writing this letter to you in pencil, but I have no ink or pen.

I am writing this letter to you to tell you that the borehole pump is fixed.

He came to fix the pump driving a very special super truck that shone in the sun like the silver of that box you have for your pipe tobacco. It made the sound of thunder too. Like the sound we hear in the late afternoon when the vultures are high in the sky and the kopje is standing alone against an army of black clouds, Meneer.

He is from the same valley that I can see from our garden. In the valley, pineapples, oranges and avocados grow. There is always water in the valley, Meneer. There are small canals there, and it is always green even when it is so hot the dogs don’t want to walk and the bees are angry. I think the water is called irrigation, Meneer.

He fixed the pump quickly. He had four labourers working with him, and they sang a song as they made the winch system and pulled the broken pump from deep out of the ground. He is not like Mister Ford from Ford Farm who just sits and watches his labourers work and says rude things to them. He worked all the time with the chains and tackle, and it was good to see the mud and the water at the end, Meneer. It was thick mud from deep under. He said it was a good sign because it meant that there was still a lot of water down there.

He is very strong, and from his truck he took out a brand new pump. My mother did not know what to say, so she went to make us all some tea, even for the labourers. She did not have any cake, so he said he will bring some next time. My mother looked shy, and when she laughed she sounded like a little girl.

Now we do not have to carry Mister Kelly’s jerry cans up the hill anymore, Meneer. My mother thinks the radish plants and maybe the carrots will survive, but the cabbages are no good. I am sad for the cabbages.

I am sorry I cannot attend class. The men took the red Mini-Imp, so we only have the bicycle.

 Yours Sincerely

M.

*****

 Dear M

I am happy to hear that the borehole is fixed.

I am also very sorry.

Yours Sincerely

Meneer Gerber

*****

 Dear Meneer Gerber

Thank you for your letter dated....................

I do not understand why you are sorry.

Can I do my History test from home?

Yours Sincerely

M.

*****

Dear M

I am rwitting with the typwriteer at hte in the office.

God moves in a mydsterious way
His wonders to pergform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upoon the strorm.

Deep in unfathoimable mines
Of nevbyer failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sov’reign will.

Did He ring the caske? Cake? Did he bring the cake for your mother?

Cphter 4 of the history book. Write an esay. Essay.

God Bless you.

 Meneer  Gerber.

Book Review - Kindle download

A new review of Two Feet from +Amazon.com 

Under the vast African sky, a young boy is forced to come to terms with a whole new reality. Abandoned by his father, his new playground is the open plains, and his new family, a deeply-rooted local community with some seemingly unorthodox ways—among them, Swazi warrior Mabuza, and stern, religious Afrikaner Meneer Gerber.

But Mark soon finds that this unconventional upbringing might be exactly what he needs to fill the emptiness created by his life-altering loss. While he imagines his father fighting for his life in a distant hospital, the boy learns to find solace and hope through the wisdom and traditions of his new community—including important lessons about life, overcoming obstacles, and how to walk with bare feet.

This inspirational memoir documents Mark Roper’s unique adolescence spent in 1960s South Africa, and his struggle to move toward a brighter future after the abrupt disappearance of his father. With equal parts insight, emotion, and humor, Two Feet takes a candid look at the realities of family life, while evoking the adventure and curiosity of childhood.

Meet Mabuza

Audiobook - Two Feet - Chapter Two

Mark Roper - The Independent Author Network

Mark Roper - The Independent Author Network

Talking With Dog

This is DOG:

...he may not be what you expected, but, hopefully, not much in the book is either -- Talking With Dog is an adaptation of a screenplay so it reads somewhat different...like a high speed car chase I suppose.

Here's Dog's introduction :

My name is Dog.

I am a simple creature: I eat from a simple carcass. I ask for no more or less. I am good.

I fly your sky. From a height I witnessed the beginning of the end.

In my simplicity I do not profess to know your sciences, your mathematics, your nucleus, atoms and fission.

 From aloft, riding a thermal, I experience the detonation.

My wings are buffeted by the shock waves that precede the wrath.

My body is pummelled.

I close my eyes to the whiteness of the light before I begin to spiral away.

Toward what and where, I do not know.

Only time will tell. 

Film directing -- it hurts to compromise.

NOW YOU SEE IT, NOW YOU DON'T. HOW DOLLARS OMIT FILM SCENES.

...I was recently approached to scribe an article for a film magazine about how a director has to deal with rewrites, and why do they even happen at all. Here's an extract and, as always, any wanna-be film directors or veterans want to comment, please feel FREE!!

‘The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray.’ So wrote Mister Robert Burns – in his case he was referring to a nest of mice that he’d recently ploughed over, but in our case he may well have been referring to directing a film.

Be prepared to compromise. Yes, even if it dents your integrity and stems the flow of the creative juices. There are only a handful of directors out there who have the privilege of months of pre-production. If you are one of them, no need to read on. If not, clench your teeth. Budget now dictates story and a shooting schedule dictates your style. That’s the reality. That scene you so love in which your hero steals a Ferrari and rampages through four city blocks? It is now too costly and you've been told this a week before filming. Short of robbing a bank, your only alternative is to rewrite, a process dreaded by production as it can, in the short term, change plans that have already cost time and money. So why have it in the script in the first place? Because it helped finance the film, but that was before the accountants stepped in.

I’ve directed and worked on numerous films in which the process of rewriting is happening even when shooting has begun. (Recently on a high budget film the day dawned, at much expense, to shoot the conclusion only to discover that it hadn't been written or agreed on. What was the compromise? Shoot two endings.)   I’m not talking about dialogue tweaks here, but radical changes that are being put in effect because of location fees, actor availability and schedule restraints.

Is there a way to avoid these skirmishes? Film is collaborative – you may be the director, the man with the ideas, with the vision, but it takes a team to support your thinking and make it happen. Communicate the script and your ideas constantly with your team – it may well be your stunt co-coordinator who suggests swapping the Ferrari for a motorbike and shooting the scene on a beach rather than through four city blocks. By doing so, the drama you wanted remains intact.  Allow initiative and sometimes that compromise even surprises you for the better. But use your minimal prep time to hammer through those scenes that are an enemy to the schedule – rewrite, re-think and let your concerns be known. Some creative producing is a must. Better change it on the page than see your vision disappear in a blur on the day.

A few years ago I was directing a film when one of the actors, Nameless, discovered some chemical nutrient and, consequently, became hospitalized. There was much panic overnight, especially by the producers. Fortunately we’d already shot the beginning and the end of the film with her, but what to do about her in the second act? Compromise – I scribbled an off-camera scene with her (voice only) and her pretend husband and had them argue, thus letting the audience know she wasn't coming out of her train apartment…until she had to!

So why direct a film if it seems so stressful, so compromising? Climbing Everest in the nude may read as a less painful way to earn a living – directing is an exploration of yourself and it allows you to share that part of you that, the Gods Willing, may inspire and entertain others. It is a tough road to travel and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying, but it is a great dance as long as you chose your partner(s) well.