Short novel delivered thru cyberspace matrix ~ to London!


5th & last London dispatch:

Road sat at the picnic table at Trafalgar Square, London.

Road ~ bank robber, book smuggler, prison-wall crumbler, a walking-talking impossibility from America ~ sat at the picnic table (Trafalgar Square has at least one picnic table somewhere, doesn’t it?).  The young outlaw sat and brooded, chin in hand.  He was virtually stamped and delivered to the enchanting isle of Great Britain, at the tail-end of the dog-month of August, 2011, in the wake of the destructive & somewhat youthful rioting there.

The ghosts Sir Winston Churchill, Mahatma Gandhi, were gone.  They had picked up the checkerboard and checkers and disappeared into thin foggy air.  And on the bench at the table, in the late afternoon shadows, Road transformationed ~ he shrank, he turned, with a smokey little fizzle, he turned into nothing more and nothing less than a cheap, yellowed and worn, and here and there torn, short paperback novel ~ pages turning, oh so lonely, in the whistling wind.

Road’s Cannon

a short novel


   delivered to London!

About Rawclyde!

I have employed a few pen names throughout the years. Rawclyde with an exclamation mark (!) is the one too sticky to go away...
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2 Responses to Short novel delivered thru cyberspace matrix ~ to London!

  1. wendywoo20 says:

    I read a bit of Road’s Cannon. Interesting style! Will read more as time permits.

    • rawclyde009 says:

      Wendy, be careful with Road. He’s reckless ~ and not much of a gentleman. On the other hand, if you toy with him as masterfully as you blog, he’s sure to be eating out of your hand in no time… I love you!!! (oh there I go being stupid again)…

      This tale is the first of two short novels I’ve penned ~ took 3 months in ’72 or ’73. Much of the story, I think obviously, is composed of autobiographical elements, with a subtle or exaggerated twist here and there which makes it a rather vain undertaking to make oneself, at the age of 23, into a living legend, an enduring myth, an anti-hero, despite the greater odds of more likely ending up a smudge of obscurity. However the tale does possess an altruistic excuse for being written and was meant to be a modest piece of pulp fiction. And it reflects, I think, the times and a certain mind-set in the U.S. in those times ~ the early 70’s.

      To conclude, please let me say, Wendy, most of this short novel couldn’t happen, then or now, because reality, fortunately or unfortunately, always gets in the way. Once done, I think you’ll find it to be a good read. Sorry about rambling, but even a miniscule interest in this tall one, gives me once again a lovely chance to blather about me kids…

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