Susie Clinkard: 2008

Sunday, 17 August 2008

We all think we have a book in us...every one of us. I did. You do/did. The old boy down the road definitely did, but he never got round to writing it...now THAT was a pity. Because the old boy I refer to was my Dad. He was Lt Com Bryce Clinkard, RN (Ret.d), and I was so very proud of him. He got me started in life, taught me to ride a bike, laughed me out of my misery when I was low due to teenage angst, set me up in a flat when I left home, paying for the first 3 months rent. He let me move home when my marriage failed, didn't judge me, nag me or moralize. He was the Officer on the watch when the Manchester was torpedoed in the Med. in 1942. He swam ashore, was put in a P.O.W. camp and eventually released to be sent straight out again. He built and raced a vintage Alvis single seater, encouraging my brother, Tony, who was sadly killed at 47 years old, racing a replica Cobra at Cadwell. I looked after Dad for the last four and a half years of his life, when he moved here with me, suffering (but never complaining) the awful effects of motor neurone disease. Everything I do, everything I feel, is down to him...a hard act to follow, hence my (happy and contented) single status. Dad was a true hero...

Excerpt from 'S**t Happens'

He’d heard the car pull in, quickly retreating back to behind the garage, hiding behind it as the man came through. Taking the chance he’d slipped out, over the hedge into the field at the Bury St Edmunds side of the garden. Adrenaline gave him wings…he’d slipped behind the houses into the woodland backing onto Kentwell Hall, running up the moon and star lit fence line until he reached the bypass. He’d left his car in the lay by just a few metres up the road, and after wiping the mud off his trainers, he’d sunk into the driver’s seat giggling his head off! He’d seen her, damn near naked! He’d seen her breasts, her legs, her shoulders…the gentle mound at the top of her legs…He could have sworn he’d seen some hair poking out. He laughed again, cutting it short as he decided he didn’t really like the sound of his joviality. Show some respect, he instructed himself.
He started the car and raced home as fast as he could; given the erection he was fighting off.
As he got back, he remembered. Fuck. He’d have to deal with it now. He’d got no choice. His cottage backed onto a pig farm. He parked in front of the small two up, two down ex-farm hand’s cottage and turned the car lights off. His erection had subsided slightly; he stroked it through his jeans, briefly relishing the feeling. Right. No time; no rest for the wicked.
Locking up the small car, he walked round to the side of the cottage, collecting a wheelbarrow on the way. It was dark round the rear of the cottage, but he could make out the shape on the path. Carefully he bent down, gripping it on each side and hauled it up, toppling it onto the barrow. Quickly he steadied it before it fell over. He was hindered by his persistent erection. Unzipping in the dark he reached over to the wheelbarrows contents, feeling about until he found a cold, dead hand. Using both of his own, he cupped the hand round his now throbbing member, the rough calluses on the cold skin stimulating him. Bending slightly he thrust against the stiff fingers, only needing a few minutes before exploding over the corpse’s face.
Zipping up, he hoisted the barrow, staggering slightly under the weight before wheeling his load round to the pigpen. Obviously the landlord/farmer hadn’t fed the pigs that day…he’d been otherwise engaged lying dead round the back of the cottage. That should be answer enough to his request that the rent was too far overdue and he needed to get me out, he thought. And now he was going to see to his animals.
The contents of the barrow tipped over the low wall and thudded down into the muddy pen. He jumped nimbly over, the machete collected from the bottom of the barrow. A few well aimed slashes and the body was in bits…he particularly enjoyed the way the skull exploded. Already he could hear the pigs waking up in the sty. Odd grunts and shuffles emanated from the dark cavern. A nose poked out. ‘My work here is done!’ He retrieved the machete from where it had embedded itself in the thigh, washed it perfunctorily in the water trough and climbed out again, pulling his coat off and rolling it into a ball as he returned home to bed. Everything was loaded into the machine as a last job, even his muddy trainers; just time for a quick shower, then sleep…the sleep of the just. Tomorrow was another day…

Susie Clinkard

Sunday, 17 August 2008

Susie!

Blog Archive

About Me

Excerpt from 'S**t Happens'

Me and Holly now!

Me and daughter, Holly, over 20 years ago!

Chihuahua!

What genre of books do you prefer?