jamie harding
Bio
Novelist (writing as LJ Denholm) - Under Rand Farm - available in paperback via Amazon and *FREE* via Kindle Unlimited!
Short story writer - Mr. Threadbare, Farmer Young et al
Humour writer - NewsThump, BBC Comedy.
Kids' writer - TBC!
Stories (54/0)
LONDON SHARK: CHAPTER SIX
C h a p t e r S i x “Well, it’s very decent of you . . .” Mark Tudor looks at me quizzically, as Mike Knowlesy repairs off along the corridor, happy to have if not shot of me entirely then at least passed me on to a colleague. Tudor’s pleading look continues its polite enquiry; I realise he wants to learn my name. I automatically deal out the de facto name I use in an unplanned situation.
By jamie hardingabout a year ago in Fiction
Jason & Demarara #6
On one springtime Saturday, when mild sunshine had lured men into shorts and sunglasses, these men had roused their lawnmowers, hauled them from their garages and sheds and dragged them into the mild sunlight. For these machines, hibernation was over. The well-prepared owners of petrol mowers had long ago changed their oil, and had no reason to worry about the degraded remnants of fuel from September, nor did they have the need to prise away last summer’s grass detritus from the blades with screwdrivers. They had already oiled their mowers’ blades and had jerry cans of the requisite petrol to fuel their machines. They were soon on their way, vibrating the air with their motors, filling it with a pleasant tang of green leaf volatiles and petrol emissions. The electric boys were already mowing, but in a more nasal manner — even the well-spoken, cordless ones were all treble, no bass. Meghan Trainor hated them.
By jamie hardingabout a year ago in Humans
Pen ‘not actually mightier than sword’ & Woman hiker twangs branch into annoying husband
Pens "not all that mighty, actually" after taking major beating from swords A number of pens are today licking their wounds after being set upon by a baying mob of rampaging swords.
By jamie hardingabout a year ago in Fiction
LONDON SHARK: CHAPTER FIVE
Prologue and ensuing chapters HERE C h a p t e r F i v e He leaves his house before his parents complete their usual morning transmissions; the groans and yawns, the squealing mattress; the transition to the scrabbling for and shaking of matchboxes or lighters, the ensuing thick scratch of match against matchbox, or the triple-thumbing of a lighter wheel.
By jamie hardingabout a year ago in Fiction
LONDON SHARK: CHAPTER FOUR
you can find the prologue and all previous chapters here C h a p t e r F o u r THE MAN WALKS WITH PURPOSE, his hair (slightly shaggy, definitely auburn dashed with peroxide tips, I see now) lightly bouncing on an exposed white shirt collar that’s peeping out from his peacoat. The purpose in his gait is one of freedom, of vigour. This is because he . . . he has the remnants of Hannah’s fingerprints still wrapped around his own digits, while the loveless clamminess I feel balled up in my fist is probably sweat, although, with the pressure I’ve been squeezing my fingernails into my palms, it’s quite possibly blood.
By jamie hardingabout a year ago in Fiction
LONDON SHARK: CHAPTER THREE
Prologue here; all subsequent chapters available from the prologue C h a p t e r T h r e e L E I A The next day was a Friday. A school day. He woke around 5 am and listened to the sounds of his estate: front doors opening and closing; car and van doors repeating this. Engines starting, faltering. The rubber blades of windscreen wipers and handheld ice scrapers being drawn through the night’s accumulation of frost; the occasional exchange of barks and growls between the estate’s dogs, the grunts of greetings and apologies swapped between their owners. The early bus hurtling its few occupants to Cambridge. He slept in a black t-shirt and boxers. He had showered late the previous night, as usual, after his parents had slammed themselves away into their bedroom. He would wear the tee and underwear until showering tonight. His duvet was thin and dressed in Transformers bedding. His head was nestled squarely in the centre of a single pillow, and he looked straight up to the overhead light, watching shadows and car lights dancing over its shade as the cars and vans overcame the morning’s fresh coldness.
By jamie hardingabout a year ago in Fiction
LONDON SHARK: CHAPTER TWO
prologue ^ C H A P T E R T W O H A N N A H 1998 I SLAM UP AGAINST THE TICKET MACHINE, which checks my disorientation as the weight of my fraught body rattles into it, turning several sets of eyes upon me. None of which, I am both relieved and devastated to say, belong to Hannah or the man she is clasped to. They continue towards the exit, now softly glowing with the growing light of day, where the city waits, draping shawls of anonymity to those joining the masses on its pavements, inside its cars and buses and buildings. None of the eyes that do give my stumble a brief once-over do so long enough to pass the time of day, or impart concern; they simply revert to staring straight on in the heads of the people streaming in and out of the station.
By jamie hardingabout a year ago in Fiction
The Barn
LUCY STAGGERS FROM THE BARN and stumbles into the Yorkshire night. As she fights to keep her footing in the mire, she looks around: the sky is cold and black and studded with a million stars, their dying light outlining the dales that surround her like a group of immense obelisks. Looming over her. Over the barn.
By jamie hardingabout a year ago in Fiction
