Posts Tagged ‘author’

‘Hey, Dad,’ the boy said.

‘Hi,’ his father said, standing from his chair to embrace his son.

His father was a tall man, solid, with hands as big as baseball mitts—hands that had picked up his little boy and thrown him a million miles into the air, watching the tyke laugh and flail with glee before catching him. The boy smiled, remembering, and the man smiled too, perhaps with the same memory surfacing in his mind. There was safety and security in his father’s arms, a love expressed through action, and that had made up for all the absent days, the boy reflected.

His father’s smile was easy and his expression genuine, yet his hazel eyes were deep and serious and watchful as though every movement came under scrutiny, and maybe it did. His voice could command a room, if required to do so, and those large hands had been known to silence a disrespectful few, if also required to do so. He was old fashioned, moulded from old fashioned values and a man true to his word. This earned him the respect he required but it was his kindness and integrity to do right that made him a good leader and a hero in the boy’s eyes.

Excerpt (novel) – The Wish List – Grant Ackermann

Read Full Post »

Which book, first published in 1605, has sold more than 300 million copies worldwide?

Read Full Post »

It wasn’t until my third blood nose that Mum decided, with temper at boiling point, to go and speak to Johnny Lindell’s parents. She dragged me by the arm, the tissue paper still plugged into my nostril and hanging from my nose, and marched up the road in a lengthy stride and charging demeanour, which would have frightened even the biggest herd of on-coming stampeding buffalo, to the Lindell’s place. I jogged to keep up, matching my two or three steps to Mum’s one, and I knew that Mum meant business. I had never seen her this fired up before.

Afternoon had not yet settled to dusk, and the sky flared deep oranges and pinks from the lowering sun. We reached the small brick house with our cheeks flushed and our faces glistening with sweat. Rubbish and toys lay scattered across the front yard. The tall, tangled grass desperately needed a mow and graffiti marked the dirty white walls of the front of the house in a colourful tag of scribbles and letters. A window was open and we could hear heavy-metal music and voices from within. Mum pulled back the mesh of wire that served as a front screen and banged on the door. Specks of brown paint floated to the floor, settling with others that had already made the journey down from where the paint curled back and flaked away from the corroding wooden door in protest.

Excerpt (novel) – Insane Truth – Grant Ackermann

Read Full Post »

Which author’s breakthrough book was described by Salman Rushdie as a ‘book so bad it makes bad books look good’?

Read Full Post »

On the days when loneliness appeared and entered her world, drowning away her strength and clarity, as it seemed to do more often these days, she would surrender to the tears and question God. Why was she to suffer like this? Hadn’t she done enough to serve Him? Hadn’t she been a good disciple and served her Lord dutifully ever since her first church visit? Well … most of the time, she conceded.

She remembered her father leading her by the hand while she craned her neck at the enormity and beauty of the church, the large colourful windows, the high ceiling, the way the light floated in like fairy dust to settle amongst rows of filled wooden pews of men and  women dressed in suits and frocks and hats. Yes, her pale-blue dress that hung to her ankles was stiff and starchy and whooshed and rustled when she walked, but she felt like she had fitted in, like she had belonged. But where was her hat she had wondered, looking up at her father whose eyes stayed forward and his expression stoic. This she reminded herself to ask mum later. Being four years old was not too young for a hat, she had decided.

Her father led her to a seat in the front row under the watchful eye of Mrs. Myrtle, who sat facing her from the first seat in the choir, while he went off to fulfill his duties as an elder of the church. Mrs. Myrtle looked as wicked as a scarecrow with a voice as rough as a cement mixer, but sang her heart out in the choir as if the day of judgement had arrived and her effort could earn her a place in the kingdom … and perhaps it did.

So why now was she being punished like this, even after a lifetime of heartache? This was as Father James had preached at almost every service, “Her cross to bear,” and bear she would. What choice did she have? She sighed and breathed out, willing her strength to return. She would fight, she had to. Yes, the cancer was spreading but she would be damned if she would let that control her.

Excerpt (novel) – The Wish List – Grant Ackermann

Read Full Post »

Stephen Hawking

Read Full Post »

Who collaborated with his daughter Lucy, in 2007, to write the children’s book George’s Secret Key to the Universe?

Read Full Post »

It was one of those days, you know … when you wake up of your own accord. Not with the sound of a noisy alarm clock beeping its high pitched tone into your ears, or a screaming baby needing your attention, or stern tones of a wife wanting you to help with whatever she needed help with, but with the soft chirping of birds flying freely outside the window; the night making way for another day—a day without the grind of your day job. The house is silent.

Your morning cuppa goes down a treat and you can smell the jasmine you planted last spring, airing its fragrance around you as you stand on the deck outside admiring your garden. All is still and peaceful. The perfect morning.

The sun begins to warm you and you feel carefree. It takes you back to your teenage years, before the manic of life took its hold on you. You stand and stare, enjoying the peace and tranquillity. The good old days.

Then you hear the crying coming from her bedroom and you are brought back quickly. You wait momentarily to see if it stops. It doesn’t. You make your way to her. You’re soon joined by your other half and together you tackle the morning duties—feeding, cleaning, caring and the like—but the crying still doesn’t stop. By afternoon, your temper starts to fray like a severed rope, and comments from the other side seem to push you closer to the edge.

‘Don’t feed her like that. Don’t hold her like that. No, you’re doing it wrong. The doctor said you should …’

Eventually it gets too much for you and you lash out, soaring your voice above the crying to be heard, saying things that eat into the integrity of your marriage. You yell accusations, casting blame on her that she caused this. You can’t let her have the last word, so you yell louder until your tone is unrecognisable and your eyes glare with determination. Then that moment, the moment that defines who you are, stares you in the face and taunts you, daring you to make that decision … Today is the worst day of your life.

*  *  *

I woke when I heard her crying, as I did every morning. Simon was already up, which was unusual. He normally slept in and I tended to Lily. But he came in from outside, coffee cup in hand and met me at her door.

‘What were you doing?’ I asked.

‘Just thinking,’ he said.

It struck me as odd that he was up. Simon only ever looked after Simon. But I was happy for the help and I needed him now more than ever. His constant absence meant I needed to spell things out to him about looking after his sick daughter. He was a fish out of water at home and generally not happy.

It wasn’t long before we started to argue about stuff, the usual kinda stuff. Lily kept crying and our arguments intensified. I just wanted him to understand what I went through everyday. I needed his help and support and not only on the weekends.

Lily’s crying increased in protest of our arguing and then … Simon seemed to change. His face red with fury; his voice hoarse from yelling abuse; and, his eyes fixed on her. I tried. With God as my witness I tried. But I was too slow. I knew the reality of our home situation was a lot for him to deal with, along with his work, but who would have thought he’d—

I miss Lily.

Read Full Post »

The outside porch light gleamed off his beady eyes and his smile worked hard at masking his guilefulness. The reverend stood upright and tall. For a man over fifty he had not a grey hair in sight. Instead, boasted a perfectly combed mop of brown hair and a perfectly straight set of glowing white teeth. He reached out and shook my hand, his gold watch gleaming with reflected light. Needless to say, I now knew where all the Sunday collection money was going―straight on the reverend’s looks.

‘May I come in?’

‘Yes, of course. Nicole and the girls are already asleep. Do you want me to wake them?’

‘No, no, it’s you I want to speak with.’

‘Great!’ I thought.

The reverend glided past me, his smile still in place, and a waft of heavy cologne left hanging in his trail—his demeanour projecting himself more as a used car salesman than a man of the cloth.

Now, I’m a person who believes in respect and manners and it didn’t seem fit to kick a man of faith out of my own house, especially when his wife played an integral part in helping my daughters live their lives. So I just sat there and indulged him.

We moved into the lounge and I invited him to sit. Of course he took the seat directly opposite me and right in line with the TV so I was obliged to turn it off and keep my eyes focused on him. It was already going bad and we hadn’t even started yet. He placed his briefcase onto the table but still held on tightly to his bible. He regarded me for a long time.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ I asked.

‘I’m fine, thanks. Tracy cooked up a storm in the kitchen tonight. She really outdid herself, so I’m quite comfortable.’ He patted his stomach, which folded over his belt buckle like rising bread dough out of a baking tin. ‘Gosh, I’m a lucky man, Edwin. She’s a truly wonderful person, isn’t she?’ He looked at me expectantly.

‘Drink? Beer?’ I asked, sidestepping his question, hoping, in fact praying, pardon the pun, that he’d accept so that I could have one to take the edge off. God knows I needed  it.

Excerpt (novel) – Insane Truth – Grant Ackermann

Read Full Post »

Definitions for calescent – adjective [kuh-les-uhnt]

  1. growing warm; increasing in heat.

He could feel the calescent vibe of agitation and frustration, a collective drive for vengeance brewing amongst these hooded vigilantes. His stomach turned. Even the truth could not help him now. Blood would be spilled tonight.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »