THE SOUND OF THE HAGGIS

...listen to a free excerpt from Mark Roper's imaginative coming-of-age novella, TWO FEET (available on Audible and Amazon) to hear the sound of the Haggis.

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

Novella gets rave reviews on Amazon.

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

http://www.amazon.com/Two-Feet-Mark-Roper-ebook/dp/B00D368NT8/


A poignant telling of a bitter sweet and universal story, Two Feet does what few books do - transport the reading to a time and place while also transcending that locale to tell a greater tale.

The simple vignettes that make up this novella are much like the cars of a train that linked together take the reader on a journey. Each is populated with characters we are pleased to meet and through the windows we glimpse a fascinating place.

For myself Mr. Roper provided a very real glimpse of a boy's life growing up in the Swaziland in the 60's and did it with subtlety and discretion. He also tells of growing up in a manner that had me reflecting on my own childhood.

Two feet is an easy, interesting and touching read that nearly all can enjoy. And again, as few books do, Two Feet will both satisfy the reader and have them hungry for more.

Cheers to a job well done!

How times have changed.

Most of the stories that I write are set in real places. I managed to +Google Earth an area of Swaziland where I used to live. Over forty years ago.
Well, Executioner rock is still there (famed for solving a few tribal issues back in time!) but the abode seems to have now become a chicken farm, or dare I say what looks like a salt mine!
Still, this little sojourn into the past via satellite rekindled fond memories.
You should try it sometime!
Here is the link to Miles Anderson reading Chapter Two of the novella. Please feel free to comment. Your comments always help.


Two Feet - Chapter Two

There's a salad on my head

THERE'S A SALAD ON MY HEAD.

As an update, have you tried buying a tube of toothpaste recently? Before I comment, let me know your thoughts -- I don't know about tooth decay, but selecting a tube of toothpaste is rapidly becoming brain decay. 

Had a quiet chuckle a few days ago. Stumbled into the local supermarket come pharmacy to purchase a bottle of shampoo. Liquid soap in a bottle it used to be known as. Not any more -- I surveyed line upon line of misshaped bottles -- green, yellow, amber, gold, dark...upright and not upright. Bulbous and lean, some bending toward being phallic shaped. 
So I began reading the ingredients and that's when I chuckled which probably confused the platinum blonde beside me, because he hurried away with a toss of a curl. I can only presume I had interrupted his blissful moment of wondering what next to anoint his scalp of dead keratinized cells with.

Avocado and passion fruit, honey and almond, wild herbs and strawberry, lemon zing with a dash of grapefruit (natural no less!), raspberry with mint and selected herbs from India, (mint??) rose petal and, wait for it, tea. Give me/us a break here -- we are talking about washing our hair, not dumping the veggie garden on our head, are we?? Mango juice with wild African honey? I do not jest. Let me ask: Who went out there and did this experiment? Who woke up one morning and squashed a mango and  added bee vomit and announced that he had created a shampoo? Who? 
Plonker. Or we are for even believing him.

Perhaps none of this surprises you.  Does me -- as a farm kid I grew up with all those ingredients so imagine if I'd wandered off into the orchard, into the fields, mashed up a few strawberries, squashed an avocado or two, and dumped and massaged them into my scalp? Then rinsed. 

It would have been straight jacket time, I tell you. Or I'd be quickly associated to smoking the same green stuff the tractor driver was hourly participating in -- Back in those days, a bar of Lux soap did just fine even though it may have just been used to clean one of the mutts. I'm still showing a full crop of hair just in case you are wondering.

P.S. I bought the green one -- I think it is lime intoxicated with the fumes of an African swallow's fart or something or other. Not quite sure, but it seems to goad well with the bees out in the garden -- I'm a fair attraction.

Bring back them old days.

So here's an extract from TWO FEET about shopping -- hope you enjoy. Comments appreciated. 

EXTRACT FROM THE NOVELLA, TWO FEET:

This was a good road. It had a few hills and a few potholes, but pedalling was easy especially on the way to the Store. I’d park the bike outside the Store where the hulking overhead diesel drum was positioned, and then walk across the dry patch of red earth where the chickens fed, and climb the few concrete steps onto the porch of the building. Here, a Cobbler and a tailor worked. The tailor had a milky eye and his left leg would furiously pump the plate on the floor to make the sewing machine rattle. He looked as though he was riding a bicycle to nowhere. The Cobbler, who wore a white shirt and a tie, had a tiny anvil and a mouthful of little black tacks that protruded from his lips like snakes’ tongues. Beside him were heaps of shoes that I thought would never cover a person’s feet or tread on a road again. But they did.

There is always a group of people gathered on the porch. A mother feeding her baby on her bosom, her head bent low over the infant to keep away the flies, an old man leaning on his cane peering from beneath the brim of his recently purchased hat, and another woman tying up her cash in a piece of cloth that she would thrust down her blouse for safe keeping.

The business of shopping was a muted, respected affair by customers in the Store. An aisle was approached with caution, almost in awe, bare feet scuffing on the concrete floor. Canned goods were held carefully in both hands, and the picture on the label was studied with the intensity of an art scholar. A bar of wrapped, Lux soap was sniffed and smiled at, and the bulky bag of Hullett’s refined, white sugar, stroked and prodded.

At the rear of the store, alongside gardening implements and paraffin lamps, shoes for men and women, made in Taiwan, beckoned. The shoes were never tried on for size but measured against the foot, the brightness of the shoe’s plastic alluring. The appearance of high heeled shoes would cause much stifled giggling.

The weighing of maize meal, sugar or flour by the Store’s owner was a solemn affair, the customer having ordered it, not by weight, but by what he or she could afford. As the grocer’s scale shifted on its fulcrum, so would the head of the customer, as if mentally trying to balance the brass contraption by telepathy. When the scale righted itself, the customer would do likewise with his or her head. Then the maize or flour would be poured into a paper bag and fastened with cello-tape. Whatever money the customer had was offered to the store owner as payment. It was accepted that the store owner would count out what was needed, and the balance be returned. A sticky sweet or two always concluded the transaction.

Talking with Dog -- review

DOG IS ON AMAZON

“Mad Max’ meets “Blue Velvet” It’s 2026. The world has suffered massive 

depravation; man has been exposed to the wrath of global warming. Mother 

Nature has dealt her ace. Transportation as we know it, communication as we 

know it, no longer exist. Extinction approaches. Has GOD abandoned man as 

well? Can one man prevail over human perversity in extremis? Can love prevail 

in a dog eat dog existence? 

....ONLY YOU CAN FIND OUT. 

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. 

The Bone Traders -- a FREE chapter

...this FREE chapter shows the link between Joe's abilities and stored time -- here he begins his journey to cross the line between the living and the dead. It is the beginning of an interesting battle for Joe -- when to cross the line and where is the point of no return.

Sky hurries toward the Church but just before he enters the building, he looks across the street to where an identical replica of the Ferguson house stands. The windows and the doors are bolted. Sky glances over the house with a sense of pride, almost gloating. He turns and enters the Church.  

There’s less daylight within the building, coldness even in the harsh sunlight.  Sky heads toward the covered altar, veers off and enters a narrow, bare hallway. He moves forward and enters a stark, semi-circular room. Its only furniture is a wooden desk and a chair. Leading off this room, is an archway -- behind the arch, a room of darkness. There is a doorway to the side.

Sky enters that doorway. He pauses there, tosses the soft toy toward the bed in the centre of the room.

“There’s a Digger in Erasmusville,” he tells the man resting on the bed. The man rolls over and looks at Sky. His name is Trader. He is a soul shrunk in a once tall frame. He is the dead alive. 

“I know. I heard. But it is yet to be proven.”

Sky lies down on the bed. He embraces Trader, like a child would his father.

“I was told...”

“...nothing. You were told nothing,” Trader interrupts. “Those three faeces eating, unwashed doggery couldn't tell left from right, right from wrong. Their breath alone will taint you, Sky. Let me smell.”

“You want to what?”

“Let me smell!”

Sky exhales into Trader’s face, their lips close. Trader sniffs.

“It is as tainted as the day’s dawn.  Deceit is contagious.”

Sky sits up on the bed. “But there is a chance? I mean -- that this man could be a Digger?”

Trader holds out a well manicured hand. “Rose Jarvis. She died?”

“Sorry, I forgot...”

Sky pulls out the ladies wrist-watch and hands it over. Trader caresses Sky’s hand before he takes the timepiece. He gets out of the bed and puts on a robe that hangs like an old curtain over a once proud window.

“She met with him,” Sky informs Trader.

“They copulated?”

“No. Of course they didn't!”

Sky follows Trader into the lounge. Trader walks toward the archway and enters the dark area.

“Then their meeting was of no consequence to me,” Trader says as he disappears into the black.

“You mean to us - it was of no consequence to us. Am I right?” Sky’s voice is suddenly shrill, like that of a spoilt child. He steps closer to the archway, but does not enter.”To your promise to me, remember?”

Trader’s voice is soft in the darkness. “Yes, my promise, my trade for pleasures past.” Then he raises his voice. “Yes, my promise to you.”

Sky calms as he watches a soft light invade the room. It is the light from a night’s sky pregnant with stars. As this light grows, Sky is able to see Trader operating the winch attached to the curved wall. Trader is mechanically opening the roof of the dome.

Trader pauses in his action to look at Sky. “But only when she is with child. Best you never forget that, my infertile friend,” he tells Sky.

“You have to do that, don’t you?  Just keep ramming it home like vomit in reverse. That’s what gets you off?”

Trader turns his back on Sky. “No my sweet boy,” he says. “You do.”

Joe moves through the canyon.  Neither torchlight nor lamp is required. Above him, the stars seem so close he could touch them. He squats, looks at the ground.

“If he is true to his gift,” Trader tells Sky, “then he will, at first, work at night.  He will have no need for light. After all, what he searches for is already buried in the dark.”

The damp light of the night’s sky fills the dome, ricocheting off the hundreds of timepieces that hang together like crystal drops on a chandelier. Wrist watches of all sizes, age and shape, their mechanisms still, hands dormant, stalled at different times.  Every time-piece hangs from a thin thread. They seem to be floating in the air, these souvenirs of the dead.

Trader begins to feed a thread into the strap socket of the watch Sky has just given him. “He won’t tempt to unearth anything,” Trader continues. “He’ll simply probe -- he’ll feel. Touch and sense. Let his presence be known -- that he’s a friend, a new light, a respectful visitor.”

Joe sweeps both his hands under the belly of a rock. The muscles across his hands are taut. He moves on like a water diviner, his stride loose, calm and sure footed on the terrain.

Trader randomly touches a free floating watch. “If a Digger has a response, he’ll settle and make camp. He’ll open the way for the dead to speak.  He’s as patient as a vulture. No difference between them really -- both eat off the dead...travel the same road.”

“He’s got a bird with him. An ugly bird,” Sky offers.

Trader sends the wristwatch aloft. It swings like a pendulum. “That’s interesting. I wasn’t aware.”Trader looks at Sky. “A Digger is patient and sensitive -- potent weaponry in the battle for love, Sky. Do you think you are capable?”

Sky stiffens in the doorway. “Screw you, Trader.  I shared your bed, now she will share mine.”

“And what of me, Sky? What of us?”

Sky turns his back. “A trade is a trade. That’s what you always tell me.”

Trader hears Sky leave. He smiles, the night sky reflecting in his oval glasses.

Joe lets his hands roam at the base of a boulder, where dirt meets rock.

Suddenly, a few slivers of loose stone and a few grains of sand float toward Joe’s hand, and cling onto his flesh. Like a magnet draws iron shavings.

He brushes off the slivers of stone and moves on.

A suspended watch begins to swing, to bob up and down. It touches another watch. That, too, begins to move.

Trader observes, doesn't move, and listens to the metallic rustle, like a breeze through a wind-chime.

Joe focused, shifts a hand to his left, to his right. He rotates on his heels, pirouetting almost, palms an inch or two off the ground. The occasional sliver of flint or dust rises and sticks to his hands. Concentrated, resolute energy as he rotates on his heels. His muscles are taut; a ballet in the moonlight.

Trader watches as a few timepieces shift now -- spin on their axis. Not all of them. A few -- like dancing puppets on invisible strings.  Above them the night sky through the open dome.

“Thank you father,” Trader tells the night sky.

Almost feline, Joe ceases his movement. He squats on the earth, his chest inflating, deflating as the slivers of stone and dust slip off his hands. 

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