Tag Archives: llanelli

Blodyn

Blodyn

by Derec Jones

Paperback available now:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1904958621/

The poems in this collection have been selected from work that spans more than half a century. They are in no particular order but have been chosen to represent as many styles and to present as much variety of content as possible.

This book has no direct connection to flowers except in its title and in the design of the book cover which features a photograph of a painting by the author called Blodyn.

If you know that Blodyn is the Welsh word for flower, and you do now, you’ll understand why the painting is called Blodyn.

But why is this book called Blodyn?

It’s because Blodyn, the painting, is very special to the author and the words in this book are special too. Blodyn is neither plant nor animal, neither he nor she, yet she is both plant and animal. She is pure and raw and beautiful and animalistic and wild.

Available from February 1st 2017 from the usual outlets. Launch event coming soon.

Please contact Opening Chapter to reserve a signed copy.

BUMS

bums-hardback-cover-3-frontBums is the fourth novel from Welsh writer Derec Jones, and the first to feature Detective Inspector Frank Lee.

During his investigation into the killing of the headmaster of the biggest school in the county, the DI comes across the motley collection of ‘Bums’ that inhabit the nether lands on the edges of society.

After a traumatic life as a Traveller who often came to blows with the authorities, Frank is now operating within the ‘system’. Despite all the pressures to conform and obey without question, he insists on doing things his way – laid back and Zen.

Look out for the next two books in this trilogy of stories featuring the unlikely policeman: Beats and Bones – coming soon!

Limited Edition

BUMS is now available as a special hard-cover edition, limited to a maximum of 200 signed copies at £20 each plus delivery.

Now available in paperback and for the kindle

Scroll down to read the first chapter.

Enter your name and email address in the form below, and let us know where in the world you would like your limited edition book delivered. We’ll then send you an invoice by email which you can pay using a credit/debit card or Paypal.  Leave any comments in the box.

** Click here to read the first review of Bums on Wales Arts Review

BUMS – First Chapter

Tuesday night.

A naked body, wrapped loosely in plastic bin liners, is dragged along a dark back lane. A man’s arm, bare, apart from an expensive gold wristwatch, flops out. A gloved hand snatches the watch from the wrist and lets the arm fall. The body is dumped on a pile of black bags already bursting with rotting rubbish. Continue reading

The Walker

walkerfront

A unique collection of short stories by Derec Jones.

What’s the point of this trudge around town? Why is the richest man in the world a miserable git?

The stories in this collection are both challenging and accessible, simply told yet illuminating.

Buy The Walker for just £8.99 with free shipping in the UK only

please contact us if you want to order a book from outside the UK with your delivery details and we will advise you of the cost.

 

Excerpt:

Me?  I’m just a walker, a walker and a watcher. I observe, I see things and I interpret them in my head. It used to be just a game, when I was younger, playing with people’s lives, my mind; but there’s a price to pay. Open yourself up; peel away the layers of self-justification and stare at the void. The price of being different, of being aware. So, I walk, and watch, and remember, storing away all the looks on your faces. I spend many a happy hour lying sleeplessly in my bed thinking of you, recalling those expressions.

Can you picture this?

A body walks down a street or in a shopping arcade – a market. It’s a man, could be a woman?  Or maybe women are different. Does it have to be a man?  This guy is walking. OK – you listening?  He has his hands in his pockets, his head bowed, bent towards his feet – walking – he passes a shop window; you stare out from behind the counter. He lifts his head from the floor and turns it towards you. You expect an intelligent stare – an inner knowing glow – at least a mad look, something to make you shiver with unknowing. No, what you see is a blank frightened look – the face of a loser – a shambolic dirty-coated greasy-haired, pimply-skinned loser. He puts his head down and moves on, shuffling forlornly, in character, on the damp concrete floor. You sigh with relief and turn back to your life your own hope renewed.

I’m still walking and watching.

The Three Bears

Front Cover Three Bears

by Derec Jones

This is a courageous novel – a story told through seemingly random glimpses into the mind of the unnamed narrator as he tries to decipher his life.

It’s about memories, about aspirations, about failure, and ultimately it’s about truth.

It’s a book of death and nightmares, of love and light, and the eternal search to find meaning in the chaos of existence.

In the end it all has to make sense. Doesn’t it?

But where did it all begin?

Buy The Three Bears for just £9.99 with free shipping in the UK only

please contact us if you want to order a book from outside the UK with your delivery details and we will advise you of the cost.

or click to buy from Amazon UK

or click to buy from Amazon US

The Three Bears is also available in many ebook formats at Smashwords

Also available for the Kindle (UK) and Kindle (US)

Some reviews and comments

I feel like I’ve just gotten off a roller coaster.

Everything works. This is outstanding!

Unique in voice, courageous in execution.

Literary fiction can often be dense and off-putting, but this is both brisk and involving . . .

Awesome stuff.

more comments after the excerpt

Excerpt:

Preface
Before you think I’m going to continue rambling in this irrelevant way, don’t worry, I’m not, and anyway these rambles are not irrelevant, otherwise they wouldn’t be here, would they? I’m just trying to tell you that the last two or three years of my life have been hard – very hard. I’m only just beginning to realise what stress I’ve been under. And before you think this is just a diatribe from a moaning old git, I have to tell you that there are other people involved, people I love who have suffered more than I have.

But that’s all by the by. This is a story after all, and you are a reader and there are certain expectations, certain rules that have to be obeyed if our relationship is going to have any sort of validity. I’m telling you a story so I have to obey the rules of story-telling, otherwise you’ll get bored or frustrated or just plain pissed-off and I know how bad that can be, so I’m with you there.

So, this story has to have a beginning, middle and end. Fine, I can go along with that, especially now the beginning’s done, well, it’s begun anyway. The middle? Not too difficult – just throw up a few obstacles, write around them or through them or over them and, and well it sounds easy doesn’t it? It probably is easy, relatively easy; when compared to what I’ve been through over the past two or three years.

Normally I’m a man who can handle everything; it’s a curious mixture of Eastern mysticism and Western machismo. Come on you bastards, throw it at me. I can take it. I can take the deadliest disease in your power and absorb its evil energy. I can use my intelligence and charm to avoid the maddest madman. I can sit and smile with equanimity while discussing the utter meaninglessness of existence and the complete irrelevance of the whole of human history in the scheme of things, while blissfully tuning into the absolute oneness of so-called love that is so-called God. But these last two or three years have been a mare, a fucking nightmare.

OK, enough digression for now. I’d better get the beginning of the story started before you piss off and re-read Jane Eyre or something else, equally mind-numbingly mainstream. Mainstream, mainstream, bollocks.

c h a p t e r  o n e

It’s over. Her face sinks slowly into the black pool. It’s the end.

But where did it all begin?

~

I look at her and wonder what it is that has kept us together all this time. I wonder whether she thinks the same way.

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

“How do you mean?”

“You know, we haven’t had much chance to talk lately, what with your work taking it out of you, and most nights you’re too tired to talk and the television is on all the bloody time, and on the weekends I’m pretty useless.”

“Well, I’m here now, I’m talking now. What do you want to say?”

“I thought you said you wanted to talk to me?”

“OK then, tell me about Annie.”

“Annie’s dead,” I say.

“Yeah, but what about when she was alive? You haven’t been the same since she died. Was there more to your relationship?”

“What?”

“You and Annie, was there more to it?” There is a distant chill in her voice

“Well no, not really, not at all.” I feel myself flushing red. I look at her and I think: Who is this woman?
She looks determined; as passive as a statue, yet as unchallengeable as an angry gorilla. I stand up, it’s a natural reaction to threat I suppose, I’m bigger than her, taller and fatter and heavier and I’m a man for fuck’s sake.

“Sit.” She says.

I sit.

“It’s obvious there was something going on – obvious.”

“She was just a friend, just another fucked-up human being who I met along the way, someone to share a coffee with now and again, that’s all.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I never did anything, we were just friends.”

“You’ve always been the same, looking for someone else; I’ve never been enough for you.”

“What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“Never been better. All these years I’ve looked after us; looked after you, and now I realise you’re not worth it. You’ve never been worth it. I’ve given up my life for you. The things I’ve done for you, don’t you see? Can’t you see?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s too late anyway. Too late.”

~

Or did it begin here?

Cardiff, 1971. Somewhere in Canton, a side street off Cathedral Road. I’m not sure who’s living with me, not sure if I pay the rent. There’s something about Hendrix’s death, or an anniversary of Hendrix’s death. It could be 1970; I’ll have to work it out one day.

I’m 18, sharing a house with a few others. There’s one or two Cardiff boys and one or two Llanelli boys. Perhaps I’m crashing on the floor in Mike’s room.

Been here for a while, a few weeks at least, because I know I’m claiming the dole, ambling down to somewhere near Westgate Street once a week or whatever frequency it is now, popping into the chemist on the way back for cough medicine, or nicking a pint of milk off a doorstep.

Living on chips and cornflakes; chips, cornflakes, cough medicine and stolen milk.

# # #

More reviews and comments

This is brilliant.

Excellent book.

wonderful writing

Anyone who fails to appreciate the quality of this is either not paying attention, or just plain dense. It’s the kind of writing I can read to music and shut out the outside world. The rhythm, the dialogue, the little segues into second person, just great.

It’s bloody brilliant.

Oh my God, ‘proper’ literature that breaks rules and creates new ways of doing things and pulses off the page – I need to lie down now.

Seriously good stuff.

A superb piece of writing, a joy to read.

a unique voice-one of the most original, full fat, piece of writing I’v read in a long while. Great, great stuff

this is the most unique voice I’ve possibly ever read.

fast-paced and wonderful, but at the same time confusing and scary. It’s great.

What a fantastic and compelling story

Gritty, realistic and darkly humourous

It’s really really good stuff

sucks the reader in from the first sentence

There is something mesmerizing about this

I love this, and I hate it. I hate it, because it’s making me aware, more than most, of my mortality and of how crap life can be. I love it, because the narrative is raw, the writing raw, right into the nerves.

one of the most unusual things I have ever read

Everything fits. I haven’t read such a clever book in a long time and I love it. There is madness, lots of it, lots of pieces that shouldn’t add up – but they do. And when they do, they make sense – perfect sense.

‘Wood shavings spilling out like a soldier’s guts’? A flawless line! This is a bold book, no doubt there, and all the stronger for it. The descriptions are tight but perfectly worded to put you in the narrator’s head.

this is just amazing

Fast paced, clever, witty

this just blows me away

I was going to say how much I enjoyed it, but ‘enjoyed’ is a mild word for experiencing a human mind taking itself on with bare knuckles.

a really refreshing piece of writing

this is a wonderful book

This is fantastic.

what it is is a work of art, in the fullest sense

Dead Flowers

dead-flowers-cover-front-webA collection of short stories from Derek Wynford Jones

What does the richest man in the world want more than anything else?

How do you cope when your loved ones are blown up by a bomb?

Is it such a bad thing to break the rules?

These questions and more are dealt with in this collection – a special mix of stories selected to blend and bounce off each other and portray the amazing complexity of life as a human being on this crazy, cruel planet.

** BUY NOW ** AMAZON UKAMAZON USKINDLE UKKINDLE US

Boys from the Backfields

Backfields-front 1 cover oct 8-2013Who killed Betty Fish?

In 1963 the world is rocking to the Beatles, and being rocked by the Cold War and the assassination of President Kennedy.

There are far more important things on the mind of Mick Matthews, a 13 year old boy growing up on a council estate in Wales, such as the murder of a middle-aged widow in one of the posh houses across the road. Mick and his small gang are out gathering blackberries and scrumping apples when they witness the murder as it happens.

Around the same time as the demise of Betty Fish, Mick falls in love with the enigmatic Angel, a girl of the same age.

Fifty years later, the murder is still unsolved and the shadows it casts over their lives are as dark as ever.

order a signed copy here

Published as a paperback and for the kindle and other ebooks in all the usual places