Writing Tip: Talk to People

                     By Owen Quinn author of the Time Warriors and Zombie Blues

Before there were computers, typewriters and paper the only way to tell stories was by speaking. Many cultures including the Native Americans handed their stories down generation after generation teaching proteges how to carry on the tradition in the event of death. We had hieroglyphics and cave paintings but speech through the generations kept stories alive that would otherwise be lost to time.

We can talk and now people who cannot, communicate through devices that let them express themselves. Technology allows them to tell their stories instead of writing it down. Isnt that amazing that we have all this stuff to help document and record what is the human race?

The first time I visited London what struck me ws how no one spoke to each other. Here in Ireland you nod or acknowledge complete strangers in the streets but not so there. Think of all the wasted opportunites of gettig to know someone or simply chatting to them on a train journey where they tell you about their day or indeed you spark up  conversation on a mutual interest. The older generation still do it; talk to people even when they don’t get a response. You can see the disappointment in their faces when the conversation falls flat.

We are now a generation of faces in phones, where a simple act of kindness is twisted into something creepy and sinister. The concept of simple manners seems to be fading fast as more seem to think the virtual world is a real world with life long friends.

Tragedy and hitting rock bottom bring out your true friends and as painful as it is to suffer, it shapes you for the better making you see the souls you should surround yourself with. It’s almost as if people are afraid to talk to each other these days especially with WOKE aand fear of offending some snowflake. Fuck them. How dare they repress the simple joys of talking to a stranger and learning something new.

You never know who you are going to meet whether it be on a train, boat, in a pub or restaurant so engaging them in conversation may open you up to somehting or their mannerisms may stick in your head to one day find its way into a character.

I remember talking to someone and discovering they grew up in the same place as me at the same time but I was slightly older and moved on. How random is that I would meet someone in another city from my home. I also remember the time I was talking to someone who turned out to be the greatgrandson of actor Basil Rathbone of Sherlock Holmes fame. There is also the flipside which reminds us of what people deal with in their lives every day. You can moan about hings but when you meet a man that buys a sim to keep a phone alive that has his late wife’s voice on it is heartbreaking or the man that could not commit to a contract because he was dying of cancer. There are hopeful stories too like the man given months to live but was still going strong over two years later. That sort of thing keeps you grounded, humble and thankful but it sticks with you. Now you may not be a writer but when pain comes to your door, you remember these people and realise you can get through it and to enjoy it while it lasts.

Equally you could have a relative that tells you stories about the family history and some of the characters you may never have gotten to meet. You could be in a hospital ward with people that are former addicts who have lost limbs which they say have saved their lives to someone who emigrated decades ago to fish off the coast of Australia only to come back to Ireland where he lost some toes changing his life forever. You can only imagine what happened to them as you never get to see them again. Was that the end of their career on the waves? Did they get their new legs or are they still in a wheelchair?

My aunt used to tell us ghost stories that terrified us as children but instilled a lifelong fascination with the paranormal. It had the best effect on our imaginations when there was a power cut and you had to sit by candle light. until it was restored.

Everywhere you go you can come back with a story which you pass on to your family, your wife, your kids as these are all building blocks of our lives together forming its own story to tell after you are gone. It could be the time you opened a shower door in the gym only to find someone already in it. It could be the bald guy that uses a hairdryer to dry his pubes and inbetween his toes. Or the day you went for a drive and saw an elephant and travelled on a ferry for the first time. Not forgetting the flesh eating donkey that got pissed at you for running out of feed or being scared by a satanic goat.

In fact just by talking to your child about their day even when you don’t understand a word is precious and needs to be done rather than a social media post.

We as a species are walking history books and wells of anecdotes and tales to keep others entertained. Talking to others can keep friends and family alive in your heart as you share stories about those you have lost. But if you stick your head in a phone or computer you are losing out.

Talking to people is vital to your mental health because you get to see that you are not alone in whatever you are facing. There are others that have gone through the same pain you have and come through. A simple verbal reassurance and offer to listen can make a huge difference. We as a race share laughter and tears but life can make you feel it’s the first time it has ever hapened to someone.

When someone calls you or your child tugs at you for attention, shut that computer down and give them your full attention. It could be the most important story in your life.

Help Ghostbusters raise cash for Heart Children Ireland.

PLEASE DON’T IGNORE THIS. IT COULD BE YOUR CHILD OR SOMEONE YOU KNOW. The amazing folks at Ghostbusters Ireland need your help to raise over £1000 for Heart Children Ireland. It’s Easter Mmonday so any change you have please buy a ticket for the raffle to win the goodies below.

None of these guys earn a penny from this and if you were at Dublin Comic Con in March you would have seen their amazing display. They appear both North and South raising money for all sorts of charities so help them out please. Please click on this link to help kids in Ireland. Https;//www.idonate.ie/raffle/GhostbustersirelandMHR

Thank you in advance folks and hope you win a prize.

TW watches Doctor Who Village of the Angels

                        By Owen Quinn author of the Time Warriors and Zombie Blues

All photos copyright BBC

Now don’t have a heart attack by what’s coming folks.

i loved a story from the 13th Docctor’s era which I never get bored of watching! Take a deep breath, a brandy or two and sit yourself down while I explain.

You know how little regard I hold the 13th Doctor’s era. I’m refraining from saying the Jodie Whittaker era because it was not the actress’ fault. The blame for that as you know falls squarely at the feet of Chris Chibnall. While I loved his Torchwood story Adrift as a beautifully touching piece of drama , he’s the same guy that created a Cyberwoman in silver bra and high heels also in Torchwood. Best not to think about that too much. Broadchurch was a success but he’s not the man to run Doctor Who.

However, i digress. There was a light in the darkness; a story so good it stands up there with the best of modern Who, A story that if the rest of the era had been to this standard, it would be a very different story. Stand up and step forward…..

Village of the Angels.

This is simply awesome. you can’t fail with the Weeping Angels. When Steven Moffat created them for the tenth Doctor story Blink, he probably had no real  idea how they would catch the imagination. Stone assassins that with one touch can send a helpless vuctim back in time, feeding on the uantum energy of the life they would have lived. You have to keep looking at them because they cannot move while being observed; just don’t blink and you’ll survive but nobody can keep their eyes open that long especially when they can drain the batteries of a torch leaving you entombed in the dark as the abgel takes you. So pursuing a Time Lord is more than feeling peckish. No one ever looked at the many stone ngels that cover our cities and graveyards in the same way ever again.

This episode was part of the Flux season and fourth in transmission order. People had already leaked the filming of the angels in the street where they first take Claire but the mere mention of the angels is a winner for me. Written by Chris Chibnall and Maxine Alderton, it contimues the story of the mysterious Division who first allegedly discovered the Doctor and utilised her regeneration powers. With them, they created Time Lord society implanting them with the power of regeneration.

Atthe climax of the previous story, an angel had hijacked the Tardis. The Doctor, Yaz and Dan were trapped trying not to blink as they were taken to another time against their will.

They arrive at night time which is a perfect backdrop for the angels in the English village of Medderton in November 1967, Back in the first episode a woman called Claire Brown had approached and recognised the Doctor but the Doctor doesn’t know her. She says she is taking the long road home. The Tardis crew leave to find Dan and Claire is touched by an angel. We discover she ended up in 1965 and now helps Professor Jericho with his experiments in psychic ability. Claire draws angels and knows the Tardis has been compromised. But even drawing an angel can be fatal.

A little grl girl, Peggy, is missing and a woman, Mrs Hayward, tells the vicar to count the statues in the graveyard because there is one too many. Dan and Yaz help find the child. This nicely contrasts the attitudes between eras. Yaz uses her police skills to help profile the little girl and pinpoint her location. Her logic and training come in handy against the girl’s uncle Gerald who literally lives by the mantra, children should be seen and not heard. He has no clue about his niece’s likes or dislikes while his wife Jean is constantly put down and dismissed. To him, Peggy should be eternally grateful that Gerald deemed her worthy to be in his care. This is reflective of the older generation’s beliefs and attitudes in this era. compared to Yaz and Dan’s genuine concern for the missing kid. It is a lovely touch as is the Doctor thinking they had arrived in 1949 just by smelling uncle Gerald’s coat. People made do with what they had for years and it is a nice nod that Gerald is a skinflint.

Soon Yaz and Dan are attacked and thrown into the past to 1901 to Medderton where they find no one bar the missing child. Peggy is a beautiful instrument to showcase the pure evil of the angels. They have left her alive alone in 190l  to tell others of what happened. She is but the first as the entire population of the village of Medderton will vanish without a trace tonight just like they did 60 years earlier. Personally, I’d  move citing Mdderton as not really a great place to live.

The Doctor discovers this too as more villagers vanish as she, Jericho and Claire are under seige in Jericho’s house. Angels have surrounded the house trying to get in by Claire’s sketches. The Doctor burns them. The image of an angel burning to death is a vivid one to the viewer. All the Doctor can do is enter Claire’s mind aand face the angel within leaving Jericho alone to keep the angels at bay.

The atmosphere is oppressive as the angels swarm surround the house using Jericho’s own voice to taunt him and get a way in while a new twist emerges. The angel in Claire is not only a member of the Division but knows all of the Doctor’s hidden past. The angel swarm has been sent to bring her back because of what she knows. The angel has no intentions of releasing Claire until the Doctor cnn guarantee safe passage out of here. Dark tunnels are always scary but with failing light and surrounded by angels they are scarier than ever.

The entire sequence of Claire, the Doctor and Jericho fleeing for their lives is taut and makes you squirm. Jericho is caught and arrives back in 1901 with Yaz and the others. They have found that the village is disintegrating as space forms its boundaries and the very edge allows them to see the Medderton of 1967. Old Mrs Hayward is really Peggy and warns of quantum extraction. It was a hunt but now turns into something else as the swarm surround the Doctor.

She is the target now and Division wants her back. Yaz, Dan and Jericho watch helplessly trapped in 1901 with no way back as the Doctor is turned into a stone angel, The phrase ‘You are recalled’ immediately goes down in Doctor Who history. The cliffhanger is shocking, imprints itself in themind with the Doctor totally defeated, her team lost and the village consumed by the angels.

You can’t get more apocalyptic than that.

Now, it’s not to say there aren’t a few questions left by it eg since Mrs Hyward is the future Peggy, can she be sent back in time again since her future has already been consumed by the angels. Is it possible to refeed on the same person if you wait until they get older?

Kevin McNally is superb as both the very likeable Jeriho and evil taunting angel. Now that’s a companion I’d rather see than Dan to be honest. Atmosphere, direction, lighting and jumps make this a great episode and one I will rewatch again and again.

Book Excerpt: The Time Warriors: Trinity

All copyright Owen Quinn

Trinity is one of the stories that make up the Time Warriors: The Moon Once More and sees the Warriors face sn alien evil in ancient Ireland. Aided by a young slave boy, the Warriors may fall before this foe, the Soogara. Available on Amazon now.

                                    TRINITY

It slashed through space, its hull grey and pitted, engines pulsing in rapid movement. It moved with quiet determination, its conical shape almost invisible against the backdrop of star filled space, stars shimmering in its wake.

It had passed the moon moments before, its grey shell shape dark against the moon dust as it ploughed towards the blue green planet looming before it at a rapid pace.

Internal sensors flickered into life as it scanned this world and what it found satisfied it.

No technology, no industrial activity, scattered settlements, obviously very primitive. There would be no resistance. The world was abundant with all forms of life, both in the vast oceans and covering the land masses but only one of them would suffice.

It would land, hide and begin searching for the most suitable subject.

Its engines surged with new power as it calculated the course for entry into the atmosphere, flame licking at its shell as the nose cone penetrated the outer layers, heating to unsustainable temperatures as it fixed on the nearest land mass.

Scanners in overdrive, it changed course towards an island shaped like a puppy dog doing tricks for its master.

It was night here and its shape was barely visible in the dark. It dropped altitude swiftly, with solid intent and ploughed straight into the ground, external shields letting it slide in like a knife through butter.

The young man jerked awake. He shivered in the chilled night air, pulling his thick woven blanket tightly around him as his eyes adjusted to the dark and ears strained to hear something on the night air.

He had been dreaming of the angels again, vibrant white dancing amid the clouds singing hymns for the Lord. Their singing enraptured him; not in the way he had heard others sing, even his mother. A wave of sorrow swept over him as he recalled her gentle features and the lilt of her voice that made him feel safe.

No, the song of the angels reached your very soul, awakening an all consuming peace that permeated every fibre of your being. It filled your head so perfectly it made you feel you could sprout wings and soar among their numbers.

But something had disturbed his sleep, something that had thudded in the shield of night like a fox in a chicken coup. If he had really seen a flash briefly illuminate the land then it was gone. Amid his joyful slumber of heavenly joy, he couldn’t be sure. He quelled his breathing as he listened for anything abnormal.

The hay that served as his bed rustled as he moved to check the window with its thick wooden shutter. He fumbled with the rusted latch and peeked outside.

The Irish countryside rolled in all directions around him, dark mountains nestled around the valley like sleeping giants, ready to awake at the first sign of trouble.

The fortress of his Lord Milchu was but a dark shape in the night, its thick walls, dotted by tiny pin pricks of candle light.

It was full of soldiers and staff, all asleep in beds, their slumber undisturbed and probably fuelled by the evil brews concocted in the great halls.

The young man closed the shutter firmly but the draught still wafted through teasingly. He bunched the straw back into a deep nest and settled into it, thick dirty blanket drawn round him.

This was a land of pagans where the Druids held ritualistic sacrifice and spoke of demons and creatures that suckled the night like newborn infants to their mother’ breast.

But the young man, brutally torn from his family five years hence, knew there was a greater truth, one that kept him going, giving him the satisfaction that there was hope for this land and its people.

His prayers were his constant companion, the only thing that helped him tend to his master’s flock. His mind soared to the realms of heaven with increasing frequency sometimes at times that brought him to his knees in shock.

He closed his eyes, reaching for welcome sleep again; maybe his dreams were making his imagination run wild.

The soldier yawned as his horse cantered along the countryside, on his way back to Lord Milchu’s fortress.

Lynas O’Connell had been on a trade mission for his Lord in Cork for several weeks.

The trade mission had been a success and would ensure both Lords profitable harvests for years to come thanks to Lynas’s natural born talent and some advice from the Druids.

As the horse cantered over the top of Mount Cairn, Lynas gave his horse’s reins a gentle but firm tug as he paused to look over the familiar spread of his home.

Although shrouded in darkness, the countryside was exactly as he left it and he could see the pin pricks lights in Milchu’s fortress, giving him a warm feeling inside.

He had served his Lord Milchu for many years, becoming one of his most trusted aides.

Milchu had saved him death as a young man when raiders killed his family and left him for dead.

Milchu, the fledgling son of the chieftain had found him and angered by the carnage took Lynas into his charge where they both trained in Milchu’s father’s army and quickly became as close as brothers.

Lynas’s parents had brought him up to respect and value the kindest of others and his gratitude to Milchu and his family had been cemented over the years.

His wife and children lived comfortably in a small cottage a mile away from the fortress and his heart ached to see them again.

His thick woollen tunic and trousers were damp with sweat as his heavy black cloak trailed out behind him with every movement of the horse. His helmet had chaffed his forehead on the journey but he suffered it as he imagined his wife’s gentle finger’s massaging ointment into it before they fell into their bed to make up for lost time.

He urged the horse on with a sharp kick to its flanks.

With a protesting grunt, its sturdy hooves took the ground firmly. Nearing the bottom of the moor, the horse suddenly began slowing, throwing its head back nervously.

Lynas tried to settle it but it began to whinny fearfully and stomp its hooves agitatedly, stirring the grass into clods. Warrior instincts kicking in, Lynas immediately began scanning the area.

Where there raiders hidden in the darkness ready to storm Milchu’s fortress and steal his wealth and lands?

If so, Lynas needed to get his horse back to the fortress and warn his lord. What he could see were hillocks filled with rocks and boulders amid skeletal forms of bushed and wild shrubs, the darkness shifting like silent assassins, invisibility their best weapon.

It was a good place for an ambush, he knew. Had he stumbled into a trap? His thick muscled arms flashed to the side of the horse and pulled out his broadsword, brandishing the heavy weapon with skilled hands.

He held it defiantly, making sure if there was anyone watching, they would see Lynas wouldn’t be an easy target. He would defend Milchu to his last breath, for tradition and honour.

A sound. A hiss. Lynas gave a gasp of surprise as the horse bucked, whinnying in fear.

There was something there.

Nothing he could see but something that seethed in the dark making his mind scream with fear.

A shrub rattled as something moved around it, the sound amplified in the silence.

Lynas’s sweaty hands tried to gain a tighter hold on the cracked black leather reins but his steed gave a violent jerk, rearing on its back legs. Lynas lost his grip, falling back arms flailing, his sword disappearing into the bushes.

Freed from his weight, the horse slammed back to the ground, powerful legs shooting it forward. Lynas called out to it, making to run after it.

He stopped as the huge chestnut horse suddenly froze in mid stride, eyes wide in terror, legs actually frozen in midair.

Something insidious had gripped it in a myriad of writhing tentacles that had spurted from beneath the rough ground itself in an invisible blur through the darkness.

Frozen with terror, Lynas could only watch as the slick tentacles wrapped round his steed snapping the horse’s spine as they contracted, tightening their grip to the point the horse crumpled like paper, eyes bulging, the air sharp with cracking bone before it was sucked into the ground like water flowing over rocks.

With a horrified cry, Lynas began to run back the way he came, seeking another way down to the fortress. His heart pounded as his legs carried him across the uneven rocky ground.

He called upon the gods to protect him as he slid down a grassy slope, rocks cutting his hands and knees as he rolled back into a running position.

He could see the lights of the fortress, urging him to hurry, to escape the demon in the dark. He pressed forward; hope rising in him before his breath was cut short by the tendril that wrapped round hid neck, yanking him back.

His screams were cut short as it tightened, as other tendrils reached out and ensnared him. He struggled, face purple, his arms flailing before he disappeared in a mass of black tentacles beneath the ground.

In seconds, the night shimmered back into silence.

Book excerpt: The Time Warriors: Tempest

                                                      All copyright Owen Quinn

Below is an excerpt from The Tim Warriors: Tempest book 4 of the first series run. The Family launch their attack. Available now on Amazon in paperback and kindle.

“How did they find us?” Maisy cried, holding Sarah close.

“Denise, the cellar will be safer,” urged Rosie. Denise shook her head, glancing at the monitor.

“Rosie, if they get in, the cellar is no good to us. They’ll have us no matter where we are. We’re staying here where there’s technology and weapons.” The landlady nodded slowly.

“You’re brilliant!” she whispered. “Yes, you’re mummy’s a star!” she gurgled to Andrew. “Joe, plug this in!” she shouted tossing him the hand unit. He caught it deftly and slid it into a slot on the front of the computer bank. It buzzed with power as the new programme kicked in.

“Triangulating all enemy positions and displaying on holoscreen!” Joe called as the hologram spun and rippled with all the new information. “Projecting secondary map of the island, expanding parameters.” He glanced quickly over his shoulder to the others. “Just in case they’re on the beach like last time.”

“Go husband,” Rosie encouraged as she worked on a second panel; “engaging security system.” She threw him a furtive look. “If we make it, I’ll make it up to you later,” she winked teasingly.

With an excited grin, Joe blew her a kiss. “Warp ten, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“There’s no point in setting an alarm,” Alan pointed out. Rosie grinned.

“Wait and see my friend, Varran knew what he was doing. Did I mention I love that man?”

“Too often,” grumbled Joe, stepping past Rosie to check some readings. She pinched his bottom.

“You know you’re my only space man,” she grinned.

“Please, not in front of the kids,” Maisy chastised wryly. “Are you ok dear?”

Denise nodded.

“To think Tyran and the others do this sort of thing all the time,” she remarked in awe. “Doesn’t it ever frighten you, knowing what they face?”

Maisy patted her arm gently.

“All the time but I trust Varran to watch out for them, Besides, it got me my granddaughter.”

“They’re moving Joe!” Alan cried, tensing as he looked at the holoscreen. “If I read this right they’re about 100 feet and closing.”

“They are armed, weapons primed,” Joe reported tentatively. Rosie squeezed his hand.

“Have faith,” she said with a confidence she wasn’t feeling, smiling at Denise who nodded back. Joe opened a base panel in the dresser and pulled out squat looking pulse rifles, their design slightly different to the ones Wainwright’s soldiers had.

 “Don’t wait for the whites of their eyes if they get in,” he told them all, handing out the rifles. Denise turned to Maisy offering Andrew to her.

“Would you mind?” Maisy took him welcomingly.

“All these children; it’s making me broody,” she chipped. Rosie nodded.

“Well apparently, you can have them right up to your sixties these days. I saw it in Chat.”

“I know but I’m not sure it’s ethical,” Maisy answered. They were cut short by a forceful clearing of Joe’s throat.

“Ladies, enemy soldiers,” he reminded them.

Denise held her hand out for a weapon. Joe gave it her without question.

“Let’s see if you still have the knack,” Alan grinned at her. She held the rifle like Sigourney Weaver.

“Blackpool amusement arcade, rifle champion 2007!” she boasted.

Joe called out the soldiers were closing again. “You need to get to the upper windows, it’ll give you a better shot!” he instructed. His face grew hard as he watched the blips on the holoscreen creep closer and closer.