William Cook

FERTILIZER Tom Berry had the best vegetables on the estate. He kept a quiet garden, buried under a shady tree that hid it from the neighbours’ view. Raised bed with solid Oregon timber beams: turnips, sweet potato, prize-winning-sized carrots and pumpkin in the winter [?] months. Folks on the impoverished housing estate called him Old Tom. No-one really knew him as Tom Berry, Retired & disgraced Dr. Tom Berry. But there he was, Dr. Tom Berry, retired Head of the Research Dept at the University of Anatomy in the Deep South. Old little bent scarecrow of a man in his grey Anorak and Black Rubber Boots, looking like a Nazi War Criminal. He would sit perched in his window seat and scan the street below, writing descriptions of the local thugs as they sold their wares and loitered in the trash-filled gutter. He was given a wide berth by the mostly-black residents who dividedly thought he was either a child-molester, or someone on the witness-protection- programme. So he kept to h...

The sun casts mercurial shadows across the yard: green yellow grass dirt path silvered timber porch like black ink blots the shadows slowly roll the gray weatherboard at the back of the house still cold with morning despite the bright glare of the sun I remember summer halcyon memories childhood romances with the senses the blue sky long crisp grass of summer cool rivers filled with swimming bush clad adventures hot sweat tiredness contented hunger the death of youth I remember summer halcyon memories shed with each chilled gust of spring wind now rising coldly against the past.

      The Road Less Travelled We traveled to Mapua through Nelson from the Sounds in the hot afternoon sun between colonnades of scruffy apple trees, their burden of fruit ready to shed sparkling balls of blood dancing in the breeze  & the road rides on to Mapua wharf & over there is Rabbit island, framing the river mouth with a slab of dark pine & on the other side — the motor-camp, nestled between huge trees, not meant for harvest just shelter & ‘clothing optional’ the café now spawns delicacies a small restaurant behind smokes fish & oysters & makes the best burgers around, yet here it was that another world existed & brave men ferried cargo across the teeming strait on timber boats the size of small trucks — even using sails & oars & people were withdrawn or deposited on these planks long-gone replaced, to make way for the new, repair the past from Mapua to Nelson . . . still in the sun the bay sparkles & a ...

These are the reviews so far. Quoted verbatim from source below [caveat = not my issue re. grammar etc!]. Review one from Sonar 4 Publications, Shells Walter "When one thinks of horror, there are so many extremes that can be done in writing. The Masters of Horror: The Anthology is no different. The 16 authors that fill this anthology bring terror, darkness and a whole lot of push that any horror lover would want. Authors such as Carole Gill with her story ‘ Truth Hurts’ , William Cook with ‘Devil Inside’ and several more stories bring the horror genre into its true form. The one thing that stands out about this anthology is that no two stories are the same. Yes, they are horror, but each one brings in a new tasty scary delight. Triskaideka Books has done an amazing job of bringing all this talent into one anthology. There is no anthology out such as this and one that needs to be on everyone’s bookshelf at one time or another. Jumping into this world of darkness only brings f...

The Before & After Writing Method or, The Legacy Method by William Cook This method is best applied by short-story authors who wish to enlarge the scope of their prose. This method should be applied to enlarge/lengthen a story already written. After following the steps outlined below you should have enough material to create a 3-part Novel. A 12-chapter template for each story is used, comprising 36 chapters upon completion. (Approx. 6-7 pages per chapter to create a 250 page novel) With this method, even a newspaper size story can be enlarged to the point where ideas are exhausted (if at all) – the application of the method can be repeated an infinite number of times within the scope of one novel-sized narrative. Think hierarchy. Essentially, the following steps should be taken to achieve the desired outcome: 1. Write short story (If written, read carefully and take notes). Any story will do although the B & A method works best on strong characte...

The Masters of Horror Anthology which contains my story "Devil Inside," as well as many other great stories, is now available. The print version doesn't come out till the end of April. but the digital version of the book is available now from Smashwords for $1.99. It's available in several formats including PDF, Kindle, LRM (sony), E-Pub, PDB (Palm) as well as others. Check it out if you are so inclined. You can get it here.

Hi, it's been a while as I have been working frantically to complete my novel before Christmas time. It has been a 'work in progress' for the past four years and i'm pleased to say that the end is nigh. I am editing the last draft and will have it ready for submission to publishers in the New Year. As you can probably guess from the book cover mock-up (by yours truly) and the working title, it is a novel about a killer. Actually about a family of killers to be exact, told through the journals of a budding serial killer whose twin brother is also afflicted with the same unfortunate disposition. I guess you could place this novel under the genre banner of 'Serial Killer Fiction,' or crime fiction. I realise that this field is littered with cliched monsters all trying to replicate the success of Harris's Hannibal Lecter trilogy +, hopefully I might have succeeded in providing a new twist to the genre - or at least to the smaller sub-genre of 'First-person S...

This seat is hard, my shins are cold, my socks are low & black with grime, my shoes are stiff, my knees ache with the weight of my worn corduroys — the night is warm & noisy, so dark it is, that abstract & absolute light which is darkness — it is so dark tonight . . . Wait! There is light, a shimmering speck, by Jehovah! & Then cans twang bottles clang & smash, paper blows its rustled way wrapping around my lower leg like a flaky piece of skin or the slap of a bird’s flapping wing & then it’s taken by another breeze in the black city night — that light small speck I saw is extinguished now by the black hulk of a looming tower block — frail barks flounder in darkness, speech silent for a still savage moment . . . My neck is sore I crane it skyward searching the churning ether for that noisy light . . . BOOM!!! ZOHAR!!! A shock of burning white light — the infinite brightness violently broke through into vision — the corneas ripped from their letha...

* Lucille sat smoking on the step in the sun. She took a drag and continued to dream through the fresh blue smoke. The sun burning brightly in the summer sky. The blue back porch peeling in the heat – the timber creaking under her young dreams and aspirations. Flipping the cap on her steel lighter, tapping her feet on the top step to a silent beat. The sun good and warm on her young thin skin – white t-shirt loose flapping languidly in the warm afternoon breeze – bare feet breathing, feeling the worn grain of the wooden step – blue jeans beat and holy with worn wounds torn in knees and backside. The flame, as if from her fingers, dancing in the whispering air – white spots pop around the flame. Lucille tired of her imagination, yawned and tugged her sneakers on. The sun now dying in the distance, floundering behind the dusky silhouette of the suburban horizon. Her black parka and red baseball cap – protection against the coming night. Dogs began to bark in hungry expectation – their ma...

He turned on his black polished heel, raised his well dressed right arm – the light dancing off his polished cuff link – repositioned his curved left arm a little higher on the delicate back of his true love, then slowly waltzed from the centre of the light into the shadows. Over her shoulder he watched the light, drunk with love & wine, he could not contain the rogue tears that tumbled from his tired eyes. The smell of her perfume engulfed his senses. The silk touch of her soft skin on his cheek. The feel & smell of her fine hair against the tip of his nose, as they spun slowly in between the light & the dark. The empty chairs & tables in the hall resounded with applause; confetti fell like snow upon their twisting slow sonata . . . The adagio waned – began to fade – the click of a door echoed through the music & the lingering mumble of departing guests – the light flickered, swelled, then was full & bright again as it should be. The confetti was gone, the...

a piece of news in platitudes hybrid hyper media seconded to a lesser kind of life a soft intelligence far from cut up rearranged reconstituted just opaque shamelessly profane this is a lesser kind of layer cake more a multilevel glass box fixed together with the filaments of yesterday & the lifeblood of tomorrow’s dreams.

Hey everyone, I just realised I was starting to post a lot more photographs and art than I meant to on this blog which is supposed to be dedicated to my writing. So, I have just put the finishing touches on a new blog devoted to showcasing my artistic works. You can find it here . I hope you enjoy my work and if you like it please subscribe and share the link. Cheers.

You eclipse me & I have stained the Sun with black love . . . death from a bottle cools my ardour for a while, until I see you again. The damp distance is bleached then blackened with shadows & flocks of shrill birds, screaming for blood Bound hands grow swollen body – silently numbed a bed on fire I laid upon now reddened with burning life In these blistered hours of insomnia objects are like lead I believe they are other things & less than they are as if fewer of them would create a stillness like sleep — if only to dream of her again The cushions beckon in the mirror white & summoning, judicious the bed reflected in that fantasy land, that round pool of hope Why stir dust on a sacred tomb as I lay down with a prayer for darkness a snowflake melts on her virgin eyelids somewhere & now, together again we drink every breath of poisoned air she asleep, I awake . . . Not believing in resurrection — I stroll through cemeteries looking for her name, not wanting to see i...