Seek Out A Resume Outline To Perfect Your Resume

Posted on March 24, 2010 by David

Do you need to write a resume in order to get a new job but you just are not sure how you should write the resume? Not sure where the information should be placed? If that is the case you certainly should not feel alone. Many people today are uncertain when it comes to Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link.. There are many sources of assistance you can find which will help you write a great resume; however. A resume outline is just the type of help that can assist you in getting your resume off the ground.

The first thing that you will notice on the Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link. is the resume heading. The heading section on the resume outline is where you place all your vital contact information. This includes your name, address, telephone number and email address if you have one (this is a must in today's job market).

The next key section on a resume outline is usually the job objective. This is the area where you explain to a prospective employer to show what type of position is desired and how you can benefit the company.

The largest portion of the resume outline is the body of the resume. The body of the resume outline is where you will list details about your work experience, education and skills. In almost all cases, you will want to list this information with your work experience first. If you are using a functional resume format, then this would not be the case. Instead, you would categorize your experience in terms of skills categories. Education is commonly listed toward the end of the body of the resume outline.

You may also wish to use an achievements section in the resume outline. The section for acheivements can contain many types of information. Yet another area of the resume outline that you can make use of is the special skills section. If you possess unique skills that would be a key benefit to your employer, then you should list them in this section.

The final section of the resume could be the references section. References are not necessarily required and you may need to wait until the employer asks for this information before you actually provide it. Whatever you do, do not list the cliché statement 'references available upon request in the Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link. area for references.' The employer will assume that anyway, so there is no need to take up valuable space with this statement.

Read More Tagged create a resume, fix resume, Resume, resume examples, resume help, resume sample, resume template, write a resume, Writing | Leave a comment

Enhance Your Web Page With Your Web Writing Methods

Posted on March 23, 2010 by David

There are certain rules and guidelines that are to be followed for Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link.. Web writing is easier and quicker than that of writing for printed media. Mostly web writing can be brought under three rules, namely rules of brevity, information and user centricity. Let us have a brief look at the rules.

The usage of economical and limited words in a speech or article is generally known as brevity. The main purpose of web writing is to focus on the major key points which the article needs the most. This is even more important if you are writing an Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link. purposes. To maintain a low verb age and high interest, one should design an own template with you word processor, in which you can write only limited paragraphs with room for references and other links.

The reader is looking for some specific information in your page. The web writing should include sufficient and all the necessary information regarding the topic chosen. You may not be able to provide all the information needed in one single page, in that case you can use a new page for other details and just create a link to it, which the web user use to gather the details.

The actual purpose of web writing is to satisfy the reader with sufficient information. So try to tell them clearly about what you are going to tell, then tell them the information, finally conclude by telling them what you told. Make them know about the importance of your article and how to proceed next.

While designing your webpage, make sure that you proceed with a title for the proposed page and then you begin your article with the proposed title for the article. Both titles are different since you web page is designed with respect to the search engine usage and the article title is given to add essence to the related topic. This is how readers like their articles in web.

Provide your article with an introduction paragraph, then followed by the body of the article and finally the conclusion paragraph. The conclusion paragraph should contain links to related topics.

A good web writing article should have a reference and links related to the given topic, which will allow the user to get more information he requires. Following these things will lead to a good web written article.

Read More Tagged article, Article Marketing, articles, online writing, web writing, website writing, writing for web | Leave a comment

Chapter Eight

Posted on March 22, 2010 by David

This entry is part 10 of 10 in the series reasons

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Illawarra highway goes from coast to Highlands, through and over the Macquarie Pass. It links the Princes Highway at Albion Park Rail, to Moss Vale and the F5 Freeway between Sydney and Canberra.

It climbs the escarpment, coils back on itself as it twists and turns, until the dark red soil of Robertson on the tableland, flattens from the rain-forest catchment.

From the rocky outcrop at the top, the road is hidden beneath a canopy of trees. Only the thin white ribbon of the rivulet can be seen cascading over waterfalls, winding into the deep green undergrowth below.

After a night of rain, followed by a balmy morning of summer sun, a mist rises from the forest, like a grey beard on the face of an old man. Today was no different, as the temperature climbed to 32 degrees.

About half way up the highway, not far from where the road widens at an overtaking lane, a small well hidden track eases back through the bush.

It is hidden from the road by a large outcrop of stone, and only those old timers who had cut timber in the forest, knew of its location... Those and a few others, who have made it their business to know.

The path, large enough for a four wheel drive vehicle to transverse the dirt track, stretches and separates as though fingers splayed from the wrist.

Each path intrudes upon on the earth, but at different places the undergrowth has reclaimed the land, so long now has it been unused.

But one trail lead to a small clearing near a detritus plateau, where the waters flow endlessly over the yellow rock on its way to the sea.

Here, nestled unobtrusively into the natural curve of the escarpment, and sheltered from all sides by fern and gum, is a small cottage, long since abandoned by the family of the woodcutter who built it from corrugated iron sheets and wooden beams.

The only reminder of his passing, carved initials 'NC 1935' etched upon the slatted door.

Gone now are the sounds of children playing in the sun. No longer does the woman of the woodcutter, cook damper on an open fire, wash clothes in the stream, or drape them over bushes, where shafts of sun could dry them.

Now the one roomed cottage has a table, three chairs, single beds on spring frames, a camping stove and a black Hilux truck parked outside.

On a shelf, nailed loosely to the back wall, are books, a radio, jars of coffee and a full, dark green canvas bag. These few items share the room with three men, a pump action shotgun, two sawn-off rifles, plus a Smith and Wesson hand-gun. The shotgun had been fired recently.

In the corner, an upturned 45 gallon drum supports a portable television set. It flickers to the broadcast of 'Great Mysteries of the World.' The sound is turned down. It is 5.45 on a Saturday afternoon. The three men are waiting for the news at six.

"It's been two weeks. How much longer we gotta stay in this fucking hole?"

Adams faced a tall man, dressed in faded blue jeans and black round neck tee shirt pulled tight to his torso.

"When I'm ready, we'll go," he answered slowly.

"Jesus fucking H Christ," said the first man, sitting up from the bed where he watched images from the screen. "I'm going outta my mind. There's fuck all to do. I need to do something, Potter. I need to get outta here and do something. Know what I mean... DO something."

A third man, with dark olive skin, aged in his late twenties and of Mediterranean appearance, dragged on the remains of a marijuana joint he impaled on a long hat pin. He drew deeply, easing the smoke through his nostrils, in slow, curling wisps.

"No hurry. Got all the time in the world. The cops have stopped looking, the grass hasn't stopped growing, and women will still need filling when we get there."

"I need to fill one now," the first one said. "This is worse than being shut up in The Bay. We never had no choice there. But now we got choice."

"There was plenty of ass for the taking," the Mediterranean said, laughing between clenched teeth. "And you was always pretty enough, Billy Boy."

Adams threw a magazine across the room. It flapped and hit the wall on the opposite side, falling to the floor, revealing the centre spread of a woman giving head.

"Bastard."

"Be quite," snapped Potter. "Listen to the news."

He reached forward and turned up the sound.

"Well what the fuck are we waiting for anyway? You got the message to the man. He knows what it's worth. What's he fucking waiting for, I ask you... What?"

The Mediterranean sat up, cut the end off the joint, stamped out the butt, and placed the remains into a small leather pouch.

"You must give him time. This isn't just ordinary stuff. This is big money we're talking about."

Adams curled his lip in disgust.

"You stupid wog. What the shit do you know? You're just a dick-head driver. What the fuck does he know, eh, Potter? Some dick-head straight off the fucking boat. What the fuck does he know?"

Potter leaned forward and turned the sound louder.

"I wish you'd just shut it. Let me listen to the news. I told you before. You got two choices. Keep the cash..."

"Yeah, quarter of a million. Let's keep the cash."

"Serial numbers, probably already known. Try and pass one of them, and you'd be back inside, quick sharp."

"Yeah but..." protested Adams, "two hundred and fifty grand, an' what the fuck do we get. One lousy buck in every ten. Not worth doing time for Potter. I told you... didn't I tell you. Not worth doing fucking time for."

"Relax," said the Mediterranean, "Come with me. We'll go pick another plant. Plenty of the shit around here. We should stay till forever. I could die in this place."

Potter turned slowly and looked toward the door. The thin frame of the Mediterranean had just stepped outside.

"Dick-head," Adams snapped, then turned towards Potter again. "Jesus fucking H Christ. Didn't I warn you about this sleaze. He's unreliable, Potter. Un-fucking-reliable."

Potter smiled and whispered to his companion. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised, especially the way he keeps smoking that stuff, if he doesn't just find himself too high one night, and walks straight over the edge of that cliff."

Both men looked at one another, then began to laugh.

"Fucking H Christ, Potter. You're a damned mad bastard. Fucking mad as a coot."

And Potter smiled, for he knew it to be true.

Please Login or Register to get Full Site Wide Access to our Premium Content. PLUS Get Access To The First Three Chapters of my Book.

Registration is FREE! so all you need is a real email address...

If you have already registered for our premium access but want to read the next 3 chapters of my book - Please use the link INSIDE the PDF eBook Download available to Members in Chapter Two.

(Membership really does have its Privileges)

Chapter Seven

Posted on March 22, 2010 by David

This entry is part 9 of 10 in the series reasons

CHAPTER SEVEN

We had arrived at the single storey house at Riddington Place in late afternoon, just before the sun hits you smack in the eye as you drive. I parked the car on the road and looked at the building.

It was a typical three bedroom brick home, with a large gum tree on the lawn. Beneath the front steps, leading to a redwood carved door, was a neat flower garden, covered with black plastic to keep down the weeds, white pebbles to make it presentable to the eye, and surrounded by treated log sleepers. The shrubs and Poinsettia were in full bloom.

A concrete driveway led to a separate garage at the rear of the building, while the red brick with green tiled roof, gave an air of balance to the place.

My first impression was one of neatness. It was a neat house in a neat street, with a neat garden, probably occupied by nice, neat little people. Even the letterbox, cupped on top of a freshly painted pole, was tidy and neat. There didn't seem a blade of grass out of place. A show-home of normality.

"This is it," Fitzgerald teased. "Best bring your gun."

Cassidy's widow opened the door, and after our introductions, yet without saying a word, stepped aside to let us in.

The lounge room reflected my first impression. Vertical blinds, beige carpets, neat wallpaper on a feature wall, with comfortable furniture spaced neatly around the room.

The woman herself looked to be in her early fifties, but could have been a little younger, as her skin had wrinkled from too many days in the sun. She had a demure appearance, yet there was something about her eyes which worried me. They were a deep blue, almost navy black in colour but seemed smeared from the inside, dulled by some long sustained torture.

"Thank you for seeing us," Fitzgerald said, and sat on the settee facing three doors, one to the back of the house and the kitchen, one to the bedroom area, and one we had just entered by. I sat beside him. The woman sat opposite, next to the window. All the doors were closed.

She cupped her hands together on her lap, and remained upright. Her head had dropped slightly, preventing us from making eye contact. Despite it being mid summer, the room seemed ordinarily chilled.

"Would you have no objections to answering a few questions, Mrs Cassidy?"

She shook her head, the hair falling over her face. She pushed the dark strands back behind her ears.

Fitzgerald spoke softly at first, "The police inquiry, after your husband's death, mentioned a man called Potter. I want you to understand Mrs Cassidy, we are not police. We have no connection whatever with any official criminal investigation, newspaper or journalistic syndication. Nor are we politically motivated. My assistant and I..." He pointed to me with his thumb, and I caught just the swiftest of glances from the corner of her eye, then it was gone again. She made no facial expression or acknowledgment. "...are only interested in tracing the whereabouts of a missing child."

Fitzgerald paused, waiting for some reaction. The woman faltered in her breathing, yet remained sullen as before.

"Has Potter been in touch with you, Mrs Cassidy?"

Again she shook he head, and again Fitzgerald waited.

"Would you know where he might be?"

This time she looked up, shrugged her shoulders and said, "If I did, he would be dead by now."

Then her eyes stared at me and I shuddered.

The doctor leaned back and crossed his legs.

"Did you love your husband?" he said after several minutes silence. She laughed. It wasn't a humorous reaction, more a resignation which came in the form of a chuckle.

"He was always there when I needed him," she stated strangely. "Except in front of his mates. Potter and he were different. They grew up together, but were as opposite as lock 'n key... both needed each other to exist.

"Michael... that was my husband," she clarified to me, "he was generous. He would give me the world. 'I'll wrap you in money' he used to say." There was a pause. "Then he did time, and it was all over."

"Can you tell me how he died, Mrs Cassidy? I've read the official report. The fight in the exercise yard, the scuffle. But there must have been more."

She turned towards the window, and I watched her chest shake as she sighed. She took several minutes to compose herself, then turned to face me, ignoring Fitzgerald completely, as though she needed to talk with another woman.

"There's not a lot I can add. There was a fight, one man got stabbed, another died. It was my husband's fault for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

I nodded in encouragement, but it was the doctor who continued to probe.

"Did he know, Mrs Cassidy? Did he suspect someone was trying to kill him?"

"It was just one of those things."

"Not premeditated?"

"Not premeditated," she repeated.

Fitzgerald reached for his watch and looked at the time. It had gone seven thirty and would be dark soon. The sun in Australia leaves very little twilight. One minute it's there, the next it's gone. He replaced the timepiece and continued.

Chapter Six

Posted on March 22, 2010 by David

This entry is part 8 of 10 in the series reasons

CHAPTER SIX

Clair James was a small woman, no more than five foot two or three. Her round, pleasant face was now distorted under the burden of losing her child. The once bright eyes were red from constant lack of sleep, and her hair, which fell lank around her face, had lost its blond luster.

We sat in her one bedroom unit in Corrimal street. The building was small, old and in desperate need of repair. But inside it was neat, yet somewhat second-handish, if you understand what I mean. None of the furniture was anywhere near like new, but the place was well kept, clean and tidy, yet hardly looked large enough for two.

"I-I'm sorry," she whispered, barely discernible, nervously twisting a wedding ring, round and around her finger. She sat heavily, though she could not have been more than eight stone.

She moved forward to the edge of a large faded green sofa, and forced a smile.

"The police asked if I would see you."

The doctor raised a brow.

"My name is Edmond Fitzgerald," he began. "This is my assistant, Elizabeth Temple."

Clair James nodded towards me. "I was sorry to hear about... but you are all right now?" It was a polite, small-talk question. I nodded, she returned her attention to the doctor who sat opposite, on an unmatched moquette chair.

"As you are aware..." he pointed to me, "Elizabeth was directly involved in the same incident which took your daughter. I understand there has been no contact?"

She shook her head and lowered her eyes, her shoulders slumped visibly.

"Are you up to this, Mrs James?" Fitzgerald asked. "We could come back another time if it would be easier for you."

As she looked up, I watched her chew her lower lip. Her face was distraught, but she braved a smile and wanted to continue. "I'll make some tea," she said, as though there were some magic supportive ingredient in the brew.

While she was away, the doctor and I looked casually around the room, him more than me... scrutinizing, analyzing, in that clinical manner of his. It infuriated me sometimes.

When she returned, she placed a small chromed teapot in the center of a wooden coffee table, carefully placing a round lace doily beneath. The milk was in a white jug, the sugar in a pale yellow bowl. Cups and saucers didn't match either, but she poured slowly, making most of the ritual, as though it had been a very long time since she had performed it.

She passed them to us and smiled. "I've been through hell these past days," she said faintly, sitting back on the lip of her seat while tucking her skirt beneath. "First the police, then more police." She looked directly at me. "The phone calls, press, television. Idiots every one. Then there are the do-gooders, the clergy, those who... " She stopped sharply. "Sorry, I'm rambling."

The doctor signaled with a curl of the wrist, as though saying 'It is natural,' and the complaints stopped.

We sipped at our drinks, eyeing one another over the rim of our cups, until finally the doctor placed his tea onto a side table and smiled.

It was the sign to begin.

"We want your story, if you wouldn't mind," he said softly, holding up a hand. "No rush you understand."

Her head dropped and the hands twisted again. When she looked up, the lower lip trembled.

"I just want my daughter with me. I don't have anything else. I don't have any money. Why do this to me... Why?"

Fitzgerald smiled benignly. "That's what I wish to find out, Mrs James. I'm sorry if this is distressing you, but without questions we have no answers... and without answers we go around in little circles, so we do." He twirled his fingers in demonstration.

"I understand," she said again. "But please, if I falter, if I hold back, it is not because I don't want to help, it's just..." her voice trailed off. We both understood, and subconsciously I scratched the side of my head near the wound, and felt guilty for receiving so little pain, while she was clearly experiencing so much.

"In your own words then," he prompted. "When you're ready. Please... take your time. We have all day."

She swallowed and licked her lips before relating her account of the incident.

How I Became a Professional Writer on My Spa Trip

Posted on March 22, 2010 by David

I am now in my early thirties and to be honest I have never really had any security in my life. I have simply been jumping from one job to another, I think one of the main reasons behind this is simply because of the fact that I have never really known what to do with my life.

This all changed when I started looking through a Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link. brochure, after days of sifting through brochures I made the decision to book up a well deserved break for myself. When the day arrived I made my way to the airport as I did not book this trip in the UK, it was in fact the Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link. that you see advertised all over.

When I first arrived the destination was like something out of a film, it was truly amazing. For the first few days I relaxed down by the pool, with various massages and treatments. But then I started to get quite bored I mean there is only so much you can do. I started looking at other people and they were forever reading books, but my imagination. Was a lot bigger then that.

Instead of reading I actually took the time out and started writing my own novels; it literally put me into a zone that I had never been to before. For the rest of the trip I continued to write my first ever book and by the time I got back home it was complete.

Since that initial trip I have constantly been writing new stories and have earnt a really nice salary from something I love doing. I some aspects it is a lot different, as I am making a lot more money then people doing real strenous work.

Read More Tagged spa, trip, writer | Leave a comment

A Reason To Live – A Reason To Die

Posted on March 19, 2010 by David

This entry is part 1 of 10 in the series reasons

A Reason To Live - A Reason To Die: by David Foard

I have carefully considered what to do with some of my fiction and None-fiction works including the Award winning entries and Short Stories previously published.

So this is going to be something of an experiment to see what kind of reaction I get from you (my readers) and if there is a reasonable way to secure my copyright while presenting everything in the 'Open' as it were.

The Internet can be such an impersonal place.

I want to change that so have decided to offer the first three chapters from my novel 'A reason To Live - A Reason To Die' to anyone who would like to read it. Free - No Charge - all you have to do is register with a real email address. You can unsubscribe at anytime and I will never spam you.

Comments and constructive criticism is also very welcome, but please don't be abusive.

I shall create a special download area where you will be able to purchase the remaining chapters (all in blocks of three) for just US$2.97 as I think that is a fair price for all the years of work that went into this tale.

Buyers will also find the price reasonable and well within the price so everyone can afford it. I shall also be adding an MP3 Audio file as an added Bonus to those who purchase so you will be able to listen to the story on your iPod or in the Car etc.

For the moment - let's start with the first three chapters and see how it goes.

Dave

Related Blogs

Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link.
Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link.
Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link.

Read More Tagged Dave, David Foard, featured, impersonal place, Reason | Leave a comment

Prologue

Posted on March 19, 2010 by David

This entry is part 2 of 10 in the series reasons

PROLOGUE
CYPRUS 1955.

It was late afternoon when a man, aged before his years, came down from the northern Pentadaktylos mountains. For him, the stone path which led to the stone cottage had become refuge, become home again, despite the troubles.

He had seen trouble before, of course, had dealt with it in his own fashion. Now all he wanted was to be left in peace with his sons, his herd of goats, and his memories.

A smile crossed his dry lips as he thought of her. The way she would look at him, how her bright eyes sparkled and danced under the light from a full moon, and how she made fun of his dark skin and brown gaze. And he remembered too, the lilt in her voice when she sang beside the river.

Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link.Stopping, he turned an ear to the wind and listened for a moment. It was nothing he thought, just the memory of her laughter playing tricks inside his head again.

Then he sighed, removed his cap, took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped the band.

It was so long ago, he thought so long. Yet it was still a fresh and loving memory, vital and sharp as baby's teeth. He kicked a stone along the dirt path, and moved on.

Crossing a narrow stream where Carob trees stood, he saw the small light in the cottage window beyond, smoke spiralling effortlessly upward from the oven chimney, the aroma of freshly cooked lamb teasing the wind.

Outside, Rhonan his eldest son, washed before dinner. The stars had just appeared against a cobalt sky, and cicada had begun their night-time vigil. For the old man was happy now, back where he started though he did miss her greatly.

But as he walked between a passage of stone walls and poled gates, which separated the citrus from the Aleppo Pine trees, he somehow felt uneasy.

It was nothing, he thought to himself, he was just getting old, the walk down the mountain had tired him, and she would never again be waiting for him.

Related Blogs

Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link.
Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link.
Please Login or Register to see this special Members Only link.

Read More Tagged Aleppo, Andreas, carob trees, CYPRUS, man, Mediterranean, northern Pentadaktylos | Leave a comment

Chapter One

Posted on March 19, 2010 by David

This entry is part 3 of 10 in the series reasons

CHAPTER ONE.

Doctor Edmond Fitzgerald sat with his back to the wall, and watched two men outside Antonella's Sandwich Bar. His gaze changed with a slight movement of the head, as he first observed through his glasses, then studied them over the rim of his bifocals.

"Now isn't that a curious thing," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

"Curious?" I answered, resting my pencil from my sketch of tall Palms and flowering bushes, encased in unsightly concrete squares the local council considered sophisticated.

He turned, smiled, and tipped his head towards the objects of his study.

"Them pair of Irish immigrants,"

I laughed. "You're joking of course."

"Joking did you say. Now why on earth should I joke about such a thing? I'm Irish m'self and know what I know."

I tapped my pencil against the pad to emphasise my point, and leaned towards him at the same time, causing a speckled effect of Staedtler lead to distort a drawn Pigeon, much to the doctor's amusement and my annoyance.

"How can you be so sure they're Irish? You don't know for sure. You're just guessing to bug me."

"I'd rub that out if I were you," he tapped the paper with his finger nail. "I know pigeons are famous for leaving little calling cards all over the place, but you've just drawn it like falling rain. God help that pedestrian walking down the mall. Still, he might get lucky and win that blasted Lotto everyone prattles on about."

I swore something and retrieved an eraser from my shoulder bag.

"You're just bored, that's all. And you're taking it out on me. Well I'm not bored. I'm enjoying myself here. The sun is beautiful..."

"It is,"

"The sky is clear..."

"Absolutely,"

"And Australia is a great place to be right now."

"To be sure," he echoed. "And them two Irish immigrants are enjoying it to."

I growled. I know I growled, and said 'Bullpit' through tense lips. It had been nearly five months since the Doctor had solved the murder of cousin Alice, and we had set off to see the great Australian continent, before returning home to Wales, and the cold wet weather of Britain.

At first, we enjoyed the landscape and diverse lifestyle of the ethnic community, balanced carefully in this multicultural society. We travelled north for a while, then flew south to Melbourne. That didn't last, as he wanted to return to the area he liked best - The Illawarra coast.

So here we were, sitting in Globe Lane watching people pass through the pedestrian mall, while I drew and he analysised everyone with increasing irritation.

He sighed and pushed a saucer towards me, with short little nudges.

"I wouldn't mind another one of them coffees."

"Fine. All you have to do is walk over there and ask. The lady is very nice. She won't bite your head off."

There was a short intake of breath.

"She's Italian," he stated matter-of-factly.

"They make the best cappuccinos," I answered sarcastically. "Besides, she speaks good English."

He reached over his shoulder and scratched the back of his neck, then rubbed his chin as though in deep thought.

"Me and them two Irish immigrants don't understand her all that well. She speaks too fast for me."

"Fine," I added, "Here's some paper. Write her a note."

He went quiet for a moment, then retrieved a fob watch from his short's pocket, tapped the cover twice, pressed the crown for the flap to open, looked at the time, then clipped it shut, while clearing his throat at the same time.

"There's more crime back in Britain, than Wollongong."

"You sound as though you're missing it," I snapped curtly, brushing the sketch with the back of my hand. "Thought you wanted to retire from forensic science. You're sixty three years old, you know. Take a break. Relax."

"I'm getting brain dead, Elizabeth. I'm doing what my father said he'd never do. Sitting on a park bench twiddling me thumbs, and watching the world go by."

"This is a pedestrian shopping mall. Not a park bench."

"Same difference," he muttered. I felt almost sorry for him. During the past year, ever since I'd known him, he was only happy when involved in crime.

"I can't go out and order you a murder."

"No, no," he agreed, "But you could be a good child, and get an old Irishman another one of them funny coffees."

I should have answered him, but it would have been pointless. I took the empty cups, crossed the uneven brick floor of the lane, and entered the arcade.

As I passed the wooden table outside, I heard one of the two men say to the other in thick brogue,

"Well Murphy, what d'yuh t'ink of the place?"

His companion answered "Hot!"

I rolled my eyes upward, ordered two funny coffees and made a mental note to ask the doctor how he'd known.

A few moments later he told me.

Read More Tagged Crown Street, edmond fitzgerald, Ireland, John Murphy, Maggie Thatcher | Leave a comment

Chapter Two

Posted on March 19, 2010 by David

This entry is part 4 of 10 in the series reasons

CHAPTER TWO.

As I opened my eyes, my first thought was how silent everything was. There was no traffic noise outside, or the ever present brouhaha which normally drones on in the background no matter where you are.

I tried to say 'where am I' but the words jumbled into a dull tone, deep at the base of my neck.

Then a bright light, small yet very intense was being shone into my eyes, from right to left, then back again.

As I began to focus, a warm hand encircled mine, and I could see Fitzgerald's impish grin. He spoke something and raised his eyebrows, then tapped my hand in reassurance.

I watched him say something to a nurse on the other side of the bed, and seemed to understand her reply without actually hearing it.

Finally, a tall, middle aged man with receding hairline and glasses, switched off the flashlight and placed it into the top pocket of his jacket. He mumbled something and pointed to the back of his head, just behind the ear.

I was fully alert now and realized I couldn't hear. There was a throb from the base of my neck and an ache which seemed to permeate my whole body.

Fitzgerald looked around, fetched my shoulder bag from a side chair, rummaged through it and produced my sketch pad and pencil. He turned the pages to a fresh sheet, and began to write. When he turned it towards me, I cried. It said:

'Don't worry. It's only temporary... I still love you.'

Then I felt an injection in my right arm and things went fuzzy pretty quickly. I must have slept for ages. When I woke again it was after surgery, and I was in a private room in Wollongong Hospital.

It must have been early morning, as the traffic noise outside made me visualize 'drive time'.

I looked around the room and found Fitzgerald fast asleep on a very uncomfortable tubular style chair. There was an open copy of OZ-WIDE TALES resting precariously on his stomach, while his glasses were hanging by finger and thumb, ready to crash to the ground.

"Doctor... " I said, and without thinking began to fold down the sheets to get out of bed. Then realised I couldn't.

The room began to twirl, so I rested flat on my back until the feeling passed. It must have been only a few minutes, but it seemed longer. Then I sensed someone at the door and turned my head slowly to see a short, skinny nurse with dark swarthy skin, enter the room. She had large, dark brown eyes, and a very bland smile.

"How are you?" she asked, without really expecting an answer. "Open up... " and proceeded to place a thermometer under my tongue.

Fitgerald stirred, and without any conscious thought went through the motions of replacing his specs. He slapped his lips together, rubbed his chin, then delved into his pocket to produce his watch.

He tapped the cover twice as usual, opened the flap, looked at the time and replaced it without really knowing what time it was. I watched him sneak an extra strong mint from his other pocket, and cover it under the guise of wiping his nose with a pale green handkerchief.

"There now, that's better," he said, "and how is my little trouble maker, this bright and fanciful morning?"

I wanted to answer, but the nurse did it for me.

"Fine thank you, doctor. Is there anything I can get you. Coffee? Tea?"

He shook his head. "No need to trouble y'self. Or as they say here in Australia... I'll be alright, so I will."

The nurse laughed, removed the thermometer, glanced at it quickly, then shook it, before writing the details onto a report, clipped at the end of my bed.

It was then I felt the constraint of bandages around my head and neck. The overall soreness returned to my body and I felt more tired than I had after running the College fun run last July.

I must have fallen back to sleep after that, because it was dark when I next looked towards the window.

I eased myself up onto my elbows and felt okay. There was no-one else in the room, but a copy of The Illawarra Mercury was placed on the tubular chair near the window where Fitzgerald must have slept the night before.

There were several cups tucked under his chair and one of his shoes was half covered by a grey blanket and pillow.

Then I heard a toilet flush and looked towards the private bathroom opposite my bed. Fitzgerald emerged looking about as bad as I felt.

"Awake at last then," he teased, and clip-clopped, one shoe on, one shoe off, across the floor to my side.

"Are you hungry... expect you are. I'll see what I can rustle up from the cavern of the Phantom."

He gently placed a hand against my cheek, as a father to an ailing child, and said; "You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble just for me, y'know."

I grinned and it hurt. He reached over and kissed me gently on my forehead.

Read More Tagged australia, Dave, Elizabeth Temple, God, hair, receding hairline, Swansea | Leave a comment

Chapter Three

Posted on March 19, 2010 by David

This entry is part 5 of 10 in the series reasons

CHAPTER THREE.

I went to Tiffany's hair stylist, while Fitzgerald took a walk down Burelli Street to the council office block.

It had been almost a week since coming out of hospital, and I'd never spent such a miserable time in all my life. Not because of the operation or even my hair, despite the pain they both brought me whenever I looked in the mirror, but mainly because of the small child who ran out in front of me during the hold-up.

There still hadn't been any word of her, and the papers had relegated any mention of the story to page seven.

"There's not a lot I can do with this," Lisa said, dragging the hair to the right side of my head between her fingers, then rubbing her palm over my scalp. "What you been up to? Lover got a kinky compulsion with a razor has he?"

She turned my head one way then another, and finally announced, "You've two choices, but I wouldn't want you to tell anyone where you had them done. Is that okay?"

I sighed and kept pulling my hair over my head to hide the damage. My single answer sealed my fate.

"What?"

Lisa crinkled her nose, leaned against the counter top with back to the mirror, and folded her arms.

"You can either have the whole lot short... very short, and look like a skinhead at a sheep shearing contest, or..."

"Or..." I echoed sadly, caressing my red locks between fingers and thumb.

"Or you can be very trendy and do a Sinad O'Conner."

I nearly died.

"I've done a few," assured Lisa smartly. "It'll be good, long as you don't go around with any Irishmen."

As Lisa continued to pull and flatten my hair, trying to convince me of the merits of the scheme, all I could imagine was Fitzgerald's laugh, and his cutting remarks at the sight of me with an Irish singer's hairstyle... or should I say head-style... together with the words of her song: Nothing Compares 2 U.

I went to the doctor guess what he told me

guess what he told me

he said girl U better have fun

no matter what you do

but he's a fool

'cos nothing compares

nothing compares 2 U.

And thought of my hair. Finally I uttered,

"Balance it all up, so I can at least go out without this damned beanie on my head."

Within thirty minutes I looked like Bashful from the seven dwarfs. I just kept looking in the mirror, trying to recognise who the hell I was.

I paid... neglected to thank anyone, pulled the beanie back over my head, and marched briskly out of the place.

If I ever found the man who shot that stupid pellet into my head, I'd cut off more than his golden fuzz, I can assure you of that.

I drank two coffees at Antonella's, as though they were whiskeys, mumbled and grumbled to myself as I sat in the heat of the midday sun, wearing shorts, tee shirt and woolly cap on my head... much to the amusement of a cheeky imp who laughed openly at me and yelled,

"Brain gone to sleep?"

"Get Faxed," I answered vehemently, and turned away, only to see Fitzgerald strolling towards me from the Church street entrance.

He was dressed in large checkered shorts, two sizes too big, brown belt, two sizes too tight, and a bright pink tee shirt with 'Rip Curl' on the front... too many years, too young. He completed his outfit with brown sandals and pale green walk socks, topping the lot with flip-up sun shades attached to his glasses.

He was whistling, hands clasped behind his back as he ambled closer.

"If I didn't know better," he stated simply, "I might think you weren't happy to see me. What's the matter?"

I snapped - I know I snapped, but he didn't react the way I wanted, so I seethed while he sat opposite.

"We've made some progress," he said. "I managed to talk with Mark someone-or-other. He's in charge of the cleaning staff for the local council, and he provided details of the men on duty the morning of the robbery."

Then he looked at me strangely.

Read More Tagged Chihuahua, Crown Street, Dane, Elizabeth, hair stylist, hand, head, Johnny Lewis, Louise Anita James, Mark, sheep shearing, sinad o conner, Tyson | Leave a comment

Chapter Four

Posted on March 19, 2010 by David

This entry is part 6 of 10 in the series reasons

CHAPTER FOUR.

In a small weather-board home, not far from the beach, a woman prepared food for herself and two others.

She placed a tossed salad in a large oval bowl, then turned two T-Bone steaks on the grill.

She was content, and smiled as she went about her chores. Every day should be as wonderful as this, she thought, and found herself humming to a song on the radio.

She laughed as the announcer, Steve Parsons, made some churlish remark, then sliced sausage onto a tea plate, adding salad and potatoes cut into small pieces. Finally, she poured an orange drink into a plastic cup.

She turned to the man with her, placed the salad and steak on the kitchen table, turned to her right, brushed the hair away from her face, and said,

"Come to mummy, Louise, it's time for dinner."

The girl never answered, but simply picked at the food with her fingers.

Fitzgerald spent the next day in the library, reading newspaper reports on the robbery. I decided he could manage quite well without me, and eventually found myself outside Coco's boutique.

I tried several summer dresses in a vain attempt to cheer myself up, look pretty and feminine, but the sight of me in full length mirror, wearing chic and sophisticated garments straight from the designer's label, while my crown looked like a plucked chicken, didn't quite match up to the image I had of myself.

I settled for a top and skirt, and an open peeked cap, with a coloured yellow plastic rim. From directly in front, it didn't look too bad. It was only when I turned sideways it made me look like a skinny duck.

While I was waiting for the girl to wrap my items, I turned towards the window and glanced across the mall towards the newsagents. That's when I saw him: A man in green jacket, with wide brimmed hat and yellow band.

I rushed from the store and heard the assistant yell, 'Madam, your goods...' but never had chance to answer.

Then I felt obvious, and turned nonchalantly back towards the window, to watch his reflection in the glass. After a few moments, he folded his paper and turned up Crown street towards centre stage.

I only had enough time to zip back into Pippins, tell the girl I would return and not to worry. I knew she wouldn't. She still had my Bankcard.

By now I had memorised enough of him to sketch an accurate drawing of his build, basic shape, and reproduce the clothes he wore. I noticed too, the loose amble he had, almost as if his hips weren't properly connected to his legs. He seemed to lollop, flicking his heavy work boots forward at the end of overly long legs.

He turned left at Church street, and I hurried to the corner for fear of losing sight of him. He had stopped to talk with a woman in a white uniform and blue cardigan. They both stood watching a giant chess game being played on the tiled chessboard pavement, just behind the kiosk.

As I wanted to get a good look at his face, I crossed behind a low wall and stood opposite. Two men stood on the board, contemplating their next move. Finally, the stockier of the two, stepped forward and moved his two foot white knight, forward and right two squares, calling 'check' with a flourish of his hand and jovial nod of the head.

The man in the wide brimmed hat stayed in the shadows on the far side. He kept the brim pulled down over his forehead, and I could only see the bottom of his chin as he spoke to the woman in white.

She laughed and shook him playfully on the left arm.

The player with the black pieces crossed the board to look at the game from all angles. Then he lifted his plastic queen and removed the offending white knight, sacrificing her in the next move.

When I tried to move closer, I was blocked by several supporters of the Illawarra Chess Club, who had gathered for the days competition. When I looked again towards the far side, the man with the wide brimmed hat had gone.

Frantically I turned and walked over to the Globe Lane entrance under the David Jones overhang, adjacent to their underground parking area.

On the opposite side of the street, walking beneath green tubular arches in front of Frisco furniture store, I watched the man in the wide brimmed hat, until he reached the Town Cinema. He waited momentarily for the traffic lights to change, then crossed Burelli street and headed into MaCabe Park.

Suddenly he was in the open. There were no pedestrians, or corners for me to hide behind. I decided I had to go on.

He followed the path around the huge sweep of gardens, until he crossed towards the arbour walkway, stopping only to throw his newspaper into a bin.

At the toilet block he turned to look around. He must have seen me walking under the vines some little distance behind, but he never faltered.

He turned right towards the Keira street entrance, yet by the time I reached the corner, he was no-where to be seen. I swore briefly, then remembered the newspaper.

The months spent with Fitzgerald hadn't been a total waste, I told myself. If he had a criminal record there would be prints on the paper, and the doctor would be able to trace the man in the wide brimmed hat.

I returned to the galvanised bin under the arbour walkway, only to find it empty.

There was an old man, hunchbacked and dishevelled sitting on a nearby bench, clearly one of the derelicts who slept rough in the park. He was surrounded by several plastic bags, which from the look of it, contained his entire belongings.

He had the paper in his hands and was just about to dismember it, when I approached.

Read More Tagged David Jones, Don, full length mirror, Globe Lane, Joe Pluck, Joseph Pluciennik, MaCabe Park, queer | Leave a comment

David Foard – Writer and Publisher

How to write and get published on the Internet

Seek Out A Resume Outline To Perfect Your Resume

Enhance Your Web Page With Your Web Writing Methods

Chapter Eight

Chapter Seven

Chapter Six

How I Became a Professional Writer on My Spa Trip

A Reason To Live – A Reason To Die

Related Blogs

Prologue

Related Blogs

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Can’t Find It? – Why Not Try Search…

Series of Articles