A Dirge of Sleep

Friends and neighbours:

Could someone out there please tell me if it's normal for sleep to be so elusive three months before the baby pops out? Is it some evolutionary phenomenon ensuring new parents are ready for the demands of their latest addition by preventing them from sleeping - almost a "trial run", if you will?

I am exhausted.

Last week, I was sucking down sleeping pills. Even though the nights were dreamless, at least I'd put in a few hours before headed back to work.

Not now, though.

At the moment, I'm fighting to keep my eyes open.

It might have something to do with me quitting cigarettes. I stopped smoking on Christmas Eve last year and have managed not to touch so much as one since.

But I've never been in worse shape. Before, I'm sure any infection entering my body was incinerated before it could take hold. Now, I've developed a hacking cough that would probably fit right in at an emergency room at a coal mine - or an asbestos plant - and it feels chillingly like my childhood asthma has come back for round two.

Nearly every coughing fit comes with a prize. It feels as though my body's trying to expell whatever bronchioles are left in there. Last night, around 4:15, as I lay wondering whether I'd ever sleep again, it slowly dawned on me that perhaps quitting was the stupidest thing I've done this year (so far, that is).

I don't know - I'm struggling to find any upside. Yes, it's true that my food's gained new flavour. It's also true that, as a result, my waistline's hovering at the 102 cm mark.

Sometimes there just doesn't seem to be a possible victory of any kind - not even moral.

Anyhow, I spent a while in Morgan's room last night. It really does look completely different to the "spare room" it once was.

It's cozy in there. And the Winnie-the-Pooh decal and plush toys seem to just encourage the rush of excitement overwhelming me whenever I think about my son - which is at least twice every hour.

Is that natural too? I've never wanted a kid. At least, I never thought I did. But now Morgan's on his way, it seems like I've never wanted anything more.

Mmm. That lack of sleep I mentioned seems to have turned me into a bit of a philosopher. So, before I become too Socratic, I'm going to sign off.

Please - anybody out there who's been through the same thing - I'd appreciate some input.

Ciao

Sparky and the Dimmer Switch

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BMI... Not so good...

Hi there.

So it's a Monday and true-to-form, it starts off with what appears to be a fairly fun challenge: A Discovery Wellness Day. For the whole office. Everyone.

Turns out eating everything your pregnant better-half craves is not really a fantastic health strategy. Look, I realised a while ago - around the time my T-shirts started feeling like condoms - that my - uh, lets say - horizons have been expanding. What I didn't realise was that the rate at which they were doing so left continental drift in the dust. Now, make no mistake - I'm not fat. Not yet. In fact, my circumference is seated comfortably on the border between "okay" and "fat".

The chart states my ideal goal is to be 102cm in girth or less. I'm 102 cm. (And I'm 178 cm tall - for those of you whom that means anything to.) So it's fine. Problem is, all those ice-cream and caramel cravings have left me denting (rather than tipping) the scales at 93 kg.

I should, apparently, be aiming for 78. So I'm overweight - albeit my height and circumference sit well together. My sugar level's 100% and my cholesterol doesn't necessitate me having to invest in a funeral plan just yet. But my FORMER smoking habits (one and a half months clean) bump my "Discovery Age" to 34 - my real age is 30. So that's not too bad. A 40-year-old and a twelve-year-old both look the same when they pop out from under the rear axle of a speeding bus, if you get my drift.

The pleasant thing is I now have a strategy to get healthier, kindly provided to me by the nurse's netbook with the assistance of my test results and a few of the fabrications I fed into the Q & A session.

I'm currently biding my time waiting to go for the voluntary AIDS test. At least I know the results to that one - I'm just interested in what the whole "pre-councilling" thing is all about. I'm fairly good at having myself tested at least once a year, but I'm even better at dodging the pre-test consultation.

Anyway - Morgan's nursery is looking really neat, even if it was me hanging paintings. By "hanging paintings", I mean sticking them to the wall with two-way tape. I tried earnestly to put them up with hooks and clips, but succeeded in breaking away small chunks of plaster and, quite possibly, brick.

Thankfully Estee loves me enough to put up with the yelling, snarling, the maniacal moodswings lamenting everything from the number of hooks in a packet to my all-round uselessness and the cussing not to euthenase me while I slumbered.

I'll try remember to grab some photos for you guys and post them here so you can see. My little boy's going to be safe and snug, watched over by Winnie-the-Pooh and all his friends from the Hundred Acre Wood.

It's really heartwarming to see that I've had a couple of visitors here. Please guys, feel free to leave comments here just to let me know where you're from - or how much you dispise / love my drivel / tripe.

On that note, here's another installment of "Consummation" for those of you who're enjoying it. Heck, it's here for those of you who don't enjoy it, too.

Ciao.

"Consummation" Pt 4
By Sean James Bosman

Tina twisted the bronze latch, unhooking the chain at the same time.

The big man slipped through the door as soon as there was enough space, his heavy black trench coat brushing against her face. She slapped the label out her way as she closed the door, resealing it.

“Anyone see you?” she asked.

“I seriously doubt it,” he said, taking in the kitchen. Chicken was roasting in the oven, gravy bubbled on the stove. There were potato peels strewn on the stainless steel workspace next to the double sink, where water still poured down into a colander. Tina walked passed him. She pulled up a potato, shook some of the water from it and placed it back in the colander.

She stared into the sink. For a moment he thought she was crying, but she turned to him as he approached her. Her eyes gleamed with excitement, and she grinned at him maniacally.

“Tonight’s the night, isn’t it?” She grasped her hands in front of her chest, her fingers pumping as she bounced up and down on her heels, like an excited Beatles fan back in the day.

Was she really this worked up? Was she delirious? Ecstatic?

“Yes,” he said.

She nearly knocked him over backward as she threw her arms around his neck, her hot mouth smashed against his. Her breasts pushed against his chest. He stumbled against the kitchen table and almost doubled over. He felt her gripping at his shirt. She’d pulled it from his pants as he grabbed her wrists and managed to push her back.

Tina looked at him and cocked her head slightly, smiling coyly.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Bowman?”

He stammered and gently released her. She crossed her arms over her stomach and pulled her baggy shirt up over her head, tossing it to the floor.

She smiled again as she moved in to him, resting her open palms on his chest.

“Too much woman for you?” Her breath tickled his earlobe, gooseflesh prickling the small hairs on the back of his neck.

“What about Ferdinand?” She took his right hand and placed it on her breast. He felt her nipple swell.

“He’ll be here in an hour,” she whispered. “Plenty of time…”

***

The Valley of 1000 Hills

Hi there, friends and neighbours.

Yesterday was a 4:30 wake-up call - a 6:00 flight to King Shaka International Airport and then a whole day out in Cato Ridge. I was sent to do research for a script I'm writing for a client. Unfortunately things didn't work out as planned and so I ended up joining the client on a CSI outing, where they donated bags to a local school, duvets to a United States-established orphanage and treats to a bunch of kids at a daycare centre.

Out in "The Rural". You can hear the capitalisation as they say it. "The Rural" happens to nestle in Kwa Zulu Natal's Valley of 1000 Hills - a breathtaking stretch of Africa that explains why so much blood's been spilled for this land.

I managed to take some great pics of the events but can't share those with you, as the client owns the IP on those. I may, however show you the lay of the land which is, I believe, in the public domain.

The only thing that really sucked was that I spent most of the day sucking on an asthma pump. But thank God for that, because it distracted me from the fact that I was also boiling in my own body fat. I'm sure I distracted some pilots when I finally sat my ass down at King Shaka, waiting for the 20:15 flight back to Joburg.

"Hey, Koos... Wat die vok maak daai beacon daar?"

But just then, Gauteng stretched its loving hand out and gave me a taste of home right there and then: OR Tambo staff decided to down-tools. So just about all flights were delayed. This dispite the fact I wasn't even flying to OR Tambo. Give me Lanseria any day.

So now, sitting here radiating heat to such a degree my PC monitor looks dim, and listening to the nicotene rattling loose from my bronchioles (by the way, I haven't had a smoke since December 24th), a calm, almost Zen insight has gently washed over me: As beautiful as it is, they can fucking keep it. I guess I just have to dodge bullets here in good ol' Jozi.

And on the writing front, although I've really been meaning to get back down to it, I've been sucked in by Joe Hill's debut novel: Heart-Shaped Box. I picked it up on a sale and have hardly put it down since. For those of you who don't know, his old man is none other than Stephen King (Joe's full name is Joseph Hillstrom King - named after a unionist). To say you can't see his dad's influence could only mean you've only watched a King movie and never read a King book. But it would be just as unfair not to say that Joe's got a confident voice of his own. I'm actually quite interested to read "Horns" (his second novel) now, even though I'd previously just given it an unfair glancing-over.

Brilliant writer. I recommend him to all of you who care for my opinion.

Anyhow, that's about all I have to say. I'm hoping to have at least one new short story whacked out by the end of the weekend.

If there are any of you out there reading "Consummation" and actually enjoying it, here's the next little bit. If you aren't enjoying it, feel free to stop reading 'round about now.

And with that - have a good one.

"Consummation" (Part 3)
By Sean James Bosman

William “Billy” Bowman (Jr.) cracked open a second beer, stabbed the mute button on the remote and dropped on to the tattered couch in front of the buzzing Panasonic TV set.

It farted a cloud of dust, and he shifted to get the hard coil of a sprung spring out his ass. He took a sip and helped his decrepit spaniel up on the cushion beside him. The dog twisted as it sat up, slowly reaching its dripping snout towards his face, planting a sloppy pooch-kiss over his mouth. Billy gently swatted her away: she smelled like a damp carpet.

“Lie down, Nutty. Lie down.”

He watched as the dog performed a breathtaking feat of acrobatics; twisting around three times before plopping down with her wagging stump pushed firmly against his thigh. Its sad eyes looked at him from beneath its heavyset eyebrows. Then it turned away, resting its head on its forelegs.

Bowman patted her head then turned back to the manila folder open in front of him. The previous beer can, now crumpled in the middle, stood to one side like the leaning tower of Pizza, with a dam of condensation welling beneath it.

He looked at the photo she’d given him, then at the crudely scrawled itinerary and back at the photo. It was a wedding picture. Mrs. Harrison was radiant, the side of her face pressed up against a square jaw. The man at her side was easily ten years her senior, roguishly handsome with broad shoulders and hardly a neck.

He ruffled through the sheets and pulled out the CV. He read the section “Service History” twice and sighed.

He had heard of Ferdinand Harrison before. Harrison was constantly featured in business insets – interviews, biographies and commentaries. He was practically a tycoon, loaded. He’d started his property and real estate development company in his late twenties and it had started flourishing after its first year: a miracle considering the economic crises.

Of course, there had been speculations: ties to the mafia, Al Quaida, terrorist organizations, blood diamonds and, of course, the drug industry. But all of that had just been speculation and had proven to be quite an embarrassment to the Department of Justice after they’d turned up nada after sixteen months of inquiry.

But there had never been any mention of this before. Nothing.

Bowman sighed, dropping the CV back on the pile after he’d read it again.

He looked at Nutty as the dog snapped its head in his direction, tail reawakened.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” he said, scratching her floppy ear.

***

Freebie - Consummation Part 2

Hi there, friends and neighbours.

I don't know if any of you have read the first part of "Consummation" - or if you've enjoyed it. But, just in case there are some people out there who've glanced over it, here's the second little bit anyhow.

I'm off to Cato Ridge in Kwa Zulu Natal tomorrow morning - have to check in before 5:30 am - to tour a manganese smelt. The company I work for has asked me to research their processes and script a couple of corporate videos for them. I'm not sure whether I'm excited about this. KZN is not precisely my favourite province. Then again, a change of scenery could do me the world of good.

But either way it ultimately means there won't be an update here tomorrow. So I'll see you all Friday.

Until then, enjoy.

Consummation (Part 2)
By Sean James Bosman

Tina Harrison was a beautiful woman, she thought as she looked at herself in the full-length bathroom mirror.

Twenty-seven, her body vouched for her daily gym routine: flat stomach, rounded legs, and perky breasts and taught buttocks. Her arms were shapely.

She admired herself, turning slightly so the sweat glistened on her naked skin. She ignored the viscous white pool that oozed between her breasts, tickling its way towards her belly.

Soon she’d have her fun again.

Tina Harrison was Tina Harrison’s only source of pleasure these days. Ferdinand hadn’t always been like this. At first, it seemed as though the honeymoon would never end. They’d summered in the Bahamas; gone skiing in the Alps. They’d hosted some of the best parties in town, attracting everyone from local soap-opera stars to the mayor.

She’d had fun then.

But Ferdinand seemed to have changed somehow. He was growing restless – and more persistent about starting a family.

They’d tried several times for a while. At first she’d enjoyed it. But then it started getting weird: like he was shoving a coin into a vending machine rather than being there, in the moment.

She hadn’t “taken” – as he’d put it – and she told him it was all right. Maybe they just weren’t ready.

And that was when the business trips started – long trips that never relented. He’d go abroad, leaving her at home rather than take her with as he’d used to. Whenever he was home, he was in his study. Then he started leaving at weird hours – for meetings that were never discussed when he’d gotten home.

She could feel them growing further and further apart. It was in their separate lifestyles and in their lovemaking. No. Not lovemaking. They didn’t do that anymore. He just fucked her – going through the motions – when she complained a bit too much.

But that would not be for much longer.

Tina reached over the basin and tugged at his orange facecloth. It came loose, the silver towel railing clinking softly against the tiles. Its fluffy fabric sent pins and needles up her spine as she wiped it from her stomach to the puddle clinging between her beasts.

She could smell the rank musk. It stirred butterflies in her belly.

The facecloth was sticky and clotted with come as she tossed it into the sink. She felt good about it, like a school kid who’d slipped the class bully a laxative-soaked sandwich.

She smiled at herself in the mirror again. And when she met her reflected eyes, she knew she’d better be home when Ferdinand arrived.

***

Ciao.

A Freebie - "Consummation" Pt 1

Hi there, friends and neighbours.

I remember promising to post a few samples of stories on the old blog, but never really getting around to it.

So tell you what. As I said in my first post, there's this story that just doesn't want to find a home: "Consummation". I don't think it's the greatest story or even nearly as good as some of the others I've written - partly because I don't actually enjoy hard-boiled: not my eggs and most certainly not my fiction.

I'm going to break the story up into a few sections - actually, I'll just use the breaks as they appear in the original document - and post it here in dribs and drabs.

This was written yonks ago, so I best just mention that, if memory serves, it's probably better that only mature readers go any further.

Feel free to leave comments - scathing or otherwise.

Enjoy.

CONSUMMATION

By Sean James Bosman

William Bowman (Jr.) lifted his heavily shod feet and thumped them on to the table. The rubber soles were so thick it felt as though his heels were suspended in the air. He dug deep in his trench coat pocket, felt the silky cellophane wrapper and pinched a filter between his forefinger and thumb. He poked the cigarette into his mouth, running the tip of his tongue over the exposed filament. He liked the dry bitterness.

A match flared up, the sulfurous flare burning his nose as the woman across from him swam out of focus into a yellow ocean as he lit his smoke, cupping the end with both hands. He flicked the match across his office, in the general direction of the wastebasket. It missed, landing on bare concrete, where it shriveled and died.

He scooted his butt down on the seat, so his legs were slightly bent. Tobacco swirled into his sizeable lungs. He held his breath, then jetted the smoke back up his throat and out through his mouth.

The woman looked uncomfortable, perhaps offended.

Good, he thought. Bring her down a peg. Bowman looked her up and down again, his gaze lingering on her generous cleavage. Has she deliberately skipped that button – show off some of the wares?

She barely disguised her snort as a cough.

Bowman met her eyes. They were almond-shaped, steely grey: beautiful, even with the undertones of disgust.

“Do you mind?” she asked sardonically, waving a hand to fan through the cloud he puffed directly at her.

“Not at all,” Bowman replied politely. She glowered in return to his over-toothy grin. “Listen, this won’t be cheap.” He stretched, tapping ash into the ashtray precariously close to the edge of his pine desk.

The chain dangling from the ceiling fan clicked lazily against the fitting.

“Money isn’t a problem. When?”

He smiled at her, tossing his open palms up against his chest.

“Hold it just there, Miss Harrison.”

“Mrs. Harrison,” she said caustically.

“Sorry. Mrs. Harrison. I haven’t said I’ll do it.”

She reached down, snatching up her handbag. The wicker chair she was in rattled back as she stood, slinging the strap over her shoulder. “Thanks for your time,” she flicked her blonde hair, exposing a diamond earring that radiated as it picked up and refracted one of the narrow golden beams of late afternoon sunlight poking through the Venetian blinds. Bowman noticed her pencil skirt had hitched a little higher on her shapely legs as she headed for the door, hips swinging in an exaggerated stomp. He felt a warm stirring in his crotch.

He swung his legs off the desk as he mangled the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t, either,” he called after her, just as she opened the door.

She stopped, shoulders hunched: one hand on the doorknob, the other on the door frame, as if she needed the support.

Bowman could smell the warm fruity fragrance of her perfume lingering where she’d been as he rounded the desk. He stopped a few feet from her, and said in a low, almost sympathetic voice, “I just want to be sure you know what you’re asking. What you’re going to get?”

Mrs. Harrison lifted her head, but still didn’t turn to him.

“Once it’s done, it’s done.”

She turned to him, slowly.

She was young and beautiful. Some of the fading day lit her from one side, creating a halo of her long, straight hair. She looked up at him, her petite frame seeming to stiffen with resolve. The pout of her mouth – moist, he saw – puckered briefly before she sucked in her bottom lip, nibbling at it with pearl white, perfect teeth.

“I know what I’m asking,” her voice was the quiet whisper of a lover.

Bowman stared directly into her eyes, probing for signs of doubt.

He found none.

When he gestured towards the displaced chair theatrically, she smiled at him briefly and went back over to the desk.

***

{End of First Part}

Welcome Back

Hi there, friends and neighbours.

It's been some time since I've posted anything to a blog of any kind. The last one - Dark Recesses of the Mind - was fun while it lasted, but became its own sort of monster. It spun out of control and I found myself having to dig deeper to come up with crass-yet-on-closer-inspection-innocent entries. And, of course, there were some very real horrors eating away at me at the time.

For those who know me well enough: one nasty relapse. For those who don't: don't even speculate, because chances are you're probably wrong.

But that was two years ago and a lot of water's flowed beneath the bridge since then. Occupations have changed, lurched, choked and returned full-circle. I'm back at the TV production company where I worked - working as a Producer and General Manager of two divisions.

Readers following me from the previous blog - if any of you were ever really interested enough to check back on the now pretty-much defunct blog to see my little note about this new one - will know that my aspirations are slightly different from producing movies, game shows, music shows and (my personal favourite) "reality" shows. Newbies wouldn't know any of this.

I'm an aspirant writer.

And I've actually made a bit of progress - in the realm of small presses, that is. And I don't really see that as a problem or set-back. It's pleasant working with some of these editors - even the ones doing the rejecting. As a producer, the national broadcaster frequently rejects proposals I've worked on. So there's not really a fear of rejection holding me back from submitting to major publishers. Rather, it's a lack of the type of stamina required to sustain creativity throughout the working day and then to channel new ideas into a coherent story after work. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

But as I said, there has been a bit of progress.

"Harbinger" was published in 'House of Horrors'; "Salvation Road" made it into 'Dedman's Tome'; "The Rite" (Episode One) can be found on friedfiction.com; "Homecoming" made it into a print publication in the USA called 'Blood Moon Rising' and "Disturbing the Peace" was also accepted (embarrasingly, I can't remember where, though).

There's another tale - "Consummation" - that's still doing its rounds. Ironically it's the only one I've written that falls into a different genre, namely hard-boiled. I've had positive feedback from editors about it. But to date, not a single bite. I've decided to let that one lie low for a while.

I'm starting to write again now, after an initial break while I tried to get my life back on track. And I have great new motivation: my fiancee and I are expecting Morgan James Bosman - our firstborn - towards the beginning of May. It's amazing, but that little guy's given me a new thirst for success. I need to give him a real reason to be proud of his old man.

And that, friends and neighbours, is probably the most succinct way for me to tell you what I've been up to since we last met. Please feel free to drop me an email or leave a comment for me here - be it just a hello or a request for a quote on broadcast equipment and crew (in South Africa). And, please, let me know where you're from.

Ciao