Introducing Paul White
Where did the idea for the story come from?
As a collection of thirty one short stories, the original concept for each is a varied as the tales themselves.
Give a quote from the books, one that says little but speaks volumes.
“It was the hurt which killed him.
The alcohol just helped ease the passage of his demise.
So, I chose to speak of him as the man I knew he was, the father, the husband he proved himself time and again to be.
In the end, who am I to judge?
I know not what awaits me, what lingers in the dark shadows of my future, or how I may react to their being.
But I know evil awaits around many corners, and from time to time, I shall have to battle for justice and righteousness.
I just hope I have at least half the strength, and half the willpower my father did. God rest his tortured soul.”
Give a short summary of what the book is about.
Each story explores the depths of human character, the quintessential disposition of living, and of life itself. The stories are written with consideration for our fragile human disposition, the fears, the dreams and wishes, the uncertainties, and the self-doubts we carry inside ourselves, the human element of love, of life, of hope, and survival.
What genre is it?
Multi-genre
How many pages is it?
250
Why do you think the readers will want to read it?
The stories in this book explore and connect with our lives in such a way I am sure many of the tales within will linger in our minds for a long time, if not forever.
Where are you located?
Currently, I live in Thailand, but I consider myself a Yorkshire lad; even though I was born in Southern England.
Description
- Short Story Collection
- Emotional
- Life
- Living
All the stories in this book have a feminine association, as does each story’s individual focus, whether direct or implicit. Each story explores the depths of human character, the quintessential disposition of living, and of life itself. Many ask questions we often shy from, the ones we are afraid to ask ourselves are unearthed, revealed, and brought screaming into the daylight of recognition. The prevailing factor is, that they are written with consideration for our fragile human disposition, the fears, the dreams and wishes, the uncertainties and self-doubts we all carry inside ourselves, the human element of love, of life, of hope and survival. This is a collection of poignant, emotive, yet entertaining stories, stories that will remain with you forever.
Excerpt
Jamaica has a scent as distinct as its culture; complex, heady, exciting, and tinged with a hint of the unexpected.
Marianne was the same. She was a kaleidoscope of emotions and passion; gentleness and fury, love, and hunger, all rolled into one petite body.
Our relationship was the proverbial rollercoaster; one of attraction, desire, and raging arguments. Fights, with her throwing stuff and me ducking and diving to keep from being hit.
I was as good at ducking stuff as I was ducking questions and avoiding the truth. In fact, I often ducked so low, I forget what I was trying to avoid.
I guess that is my way of saying I am not perfect… well… maybe not exactly perfect… but surely, I am somewhere darned near the mark?
We argued.
Again.
A long, loud, boisterous, pot throwing, plate smashing, head ducking row, which lasted into the early hours of the morning.
Even for us, this was a marathon session.
A session not without consequences.
Which is why I am here, on the island. Marianne’s Island. My guess was Jamaica is the last place in the world Marianne would run to.
She had broken her promise to me, but moreover, to her father. So, I told myself, this was the best place for me to cool down, to unwind, to wait and see what the future held.
Marianne took the Harley, blasted off in a cloud of reverberating “fuck you’s” and exhaust fumes.
The last I saw of her, she is whipping around the bend and holding ‘the finger’ aloft.
My guess is she took a road trip down Mexico way. Tijuana maybe, or some tiny dusty shithole in the back of nowhere?
She will down a few bottles of tequila until she blacks out or sees the sunrise.
After that… who knows? After all, this is Marianne we are talking about. Miss unpredictable.
As for me, I could feel the Reggae music pumping from Snake and Jake’s, way before I arrived.
The sound came at you like a solid wall, you could feel it pulsating through your flesh and bones.
I love reggae, it soaks into your body, into your soul. Even if you are like me and have little if any rhythm and suffer from two left feet syndrome, you cannot avoid being swallowed by the tunes, even to the extent of believing you can dance.
As I approached the entrance, the scent of Red stripe and Ganga wafted from the doorway, those aromas mingled with the music, along with the smell of goat curry, ackee ackee, callaloo, and coconut oil.
I felt at home.
I felt as if I had returned home.
Which is a strange thing for a city-dwelling white boy to say.
My only connection with the island was Marianne, my girlfriend… maybe still my girlfriend, or maybe not my girlfriend any longer?
Thoughts of Marianne flashed through my mind. She too has a scent, a personal, special scent, heady and tropical. Soft flesh and curves. Her dark skin making my pale flesh look even whiter, almost translucent.
Images of our entwined bodies flitted before me. Arms wrapped around one another, legs twisted together, knotted. I could hear our voices, soft whispered words of love and sex and want and passion; often erotic, sometimes disgusting, always passionate. Before the screaming insults, the tantrums, thrown objects and my ducking.
You could say our relationship was volatile.
But that is what made us, us. We were, are, two obsessively passionate people. Probably too alike for our own good. But once we found one another… what then could we do?
World of Stories 