Author Profile
My name is George Angus and I’d like to welcome you to my profile page. Feel free to spend a few minutes here reviewing my work and getting a feel for my style and voice. I enjoy what I do and though my style is conversational, I’d like to think my passion for writing flows as an undercurrent through all of my work.
Web Content
I write a lot of content for the web. Since you’re here, I assume you’ve spent a little time looking through my blog posts. If not grab a cup of coffee, sit back and spend a little time reading through some of the posts. I think you’ll find them informative and entertaining.
Here are a few other web sites that showcase my work:
Transportation Examiner at Examiner.com
http://www.digital-home-phones.co.uk/blog/cordless-phones-stockists-directory/
http://www.uk-baby-gifts.co.uk/blog/baby-gifts-stockists-directory/
http://www.medicalandnursing-training.com/blog/
My first e-book is here:
Fiction
Here you will find the first chapter for each of the two novels I have in process. I’ve also included a contest entry or two. I view the fiction writing as writing that I do for me. Upon completion of the novels, I will seek representation from an agent and work on developing a mutually beneficial relationship.
“Bully”
The bastard really had it coming. Sitting in that chair outside of the principal’s office, Cortez had time to reflect on the days events, lost in thought, oblivious to the clack of the secretary’s IBM Selectric. He could see it in his mind. Bishop grabbed the book bag out of his locker. He knew it was Bishop. Who else would pull such a stunt?
Not that there was a particular shortage of mean sociopaths at this institute for secondary education. Medical Lake High School sits at the edge of a farming town that if not for the military base nearby, would have rolled in the sidewalks and shuttered the doors years ago.
The student body at MLHS is an eclectic mix of local kids who either can’t wait to finish school and move away from this sleepy burgh and onto the fame and fortune that most certainly awaits them, or those who have resigned themselves to the farming lifestyle and are merely treading water until school is done and they can get on with their chores full time.
But the largest group of students at glorious MLHS were the military brats. Kids who’ve got their moving chops down. By the time they’ve made it this far, most are near masters of the drop in – make friends (or not) – get into a routine and then, here we go again! Off to the next station, off to a new part of the world. That kind of upheaval is gonna make you resilient or make you dead.
Right about now, Cortez is not feeling resilient. He knows what turning Bishop in is going to mean. He knows that Bishop is probably going to whack the snot out of him. And just for kicks, hey, Bishop’s little posse may join in.
The gravity of all of this starts in his brain and gains weight and heat as it begins to settle in his belly.
Too late.
“Eddie, Mr. Beamm will see you now.”
It almost hurts to stand. Eddie’s legs are a little wobbly and it feels like he’s walking through oatmeal. He had been in a principal’s office once or twice throughout his academic career. When you’re young and invincible, shooting the arrows straight into the sky in Archery class just seems like good old-fashioned fun. Sometimes the lessons learned in school have nothing to do with a chalkboard or textbooks.
Mr. Beamm’s office was about what Eddie expected – a few stacks of papers on the large wooden desk, a large flat-black telephone, a bookcase containing all of the texts necessary to administer the comings and goings of a high school in the early 70’s.
Eddie thought the arrangement of the office was a little odd. The desk was dead center in the room and Beamm’s back was to the bank of picture windows that made up one wall. He wondered why the principal wouldn’t want to take in the view out the window as he worked. Not that there was anything special out there. No purple mountain’s majesty or amber waves of grain in Medical Lake.
Jonathan Beamm showed his years and then some. At forty-one, he had seen some tumultuous times in the last decade. The idealistic innocence of teaching students in the early sixties had quickly turned into a world that was filled with war, civil disobedience, free love and a drug culture that he didn’t quite get, but didn’t have a problem with either. He’d made it though the era with most of his hair, minimal brain cell damage and nary a trip to the free clinic. His mousy-brown hair was starting to show a few grey flecks. Those stray greys were primary motivators in Beamm’s decision to remain clean-shaven. A beard damn near made him look fifty and unless he was going to just give up the fight, he didn’t need any other assistance in remaining single. Not a bad looking man, you understand, it’s just that as far as females of the species goes, he wasn’t able to make it stick. Lots of first dates, fewer second ones and even fewer that one could say were true relationships.
Beamm looked up from his yellow legal. “Come on in, Eddie. What happened today?”
Eddie sat down on the cushion less wooden chair in front of the desk. He wondered if all of the chairs in front of all of the Principal’s desks in all of the world were purposely this uncomfortable.
His nerves frazzled, Eddie stammered, “Well, I um…”
“I understand somebody stole something from your locker?”
“Yes, Mr. Beamm. My book bag got taken from my gym locker today. I’m pretty certain I know who did it, too.”
“And how do you know who did it?”
That was the question Eddie knew would be asked, the one he knew would be the most difficult to answer.
“Diner”
The rain pounded the window and ran meandering rivulets down the glass. The red neon “open” sign cast an almost eerie glow out in to the street contrasting the relative warmth of the ancient fluorescents that lit the inside of the All City Diner.
This cold, late October night found a spattering of hearty patrons. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the air and the sizzle of greasy burgers and the odd steak could be heard in all of the booths.
The white formica counter was empty save two souls at opposite ends. Closest to the cash register was a man still wearing his rain soaked overcoat. A rough face, wrinkled and scarred. A cup of coffee cradled in both hands, warming arthritic fingers. White hair askew and no humor in his demeanor at all.
The other end of the counter was being held down by a tough guy. Motorcycle boots and faded denim jeans, offset by the ubiquitous white tee. Methodically tackling his over-hard eggs and ham slice – Breakfast served all day! – he had all the focus of a surgeon extracting bad flesh from an old wound. Sandy-brown hair and dark sunglasses. Hell, he could be James Dean for all we know.
Booth #4 had the young couple, in love, not caring about the dreary weather or what was on the menu. They were in that place where the only material thing present is the object of love across the table. Their diet cokes stood untouched, glasses sweating and ice melting, the straw wrappers still perched on the ends of the straws Francis had plopped into the sodas.
Francis Weacom had no trouble keeping the orders straight tonight. This miserable weather would keep most people, the sane ones anyway, at home. Besides, the ancient clock behind the counter told her that her shift had only an hour to go and it was about time to start her side-work. Boy, that dumb bitch Lucy had better show on time tonight. She’d been late for her shift two out of the last three nights and Francis was anxious to get home. Foo Fighters were on Leno, and they were her absolute favorite.
A rattle of the double front doors and a blast of cold damp air signaled the arrival of another diner-ite, anxious to get out of the rain.
He stood at the entrance for a moment, his hat brim pulled way down low. A tiny stream of water dripped off the front of the brim and splattered on the floor. His long black coat hung loose from his shoulders.
He raised his head, pulled the twelve gauge from under his coat and blasted Mr. Eggs Over-hard into the next life.
The rest of the diner was too shocked to even scream. A layer of smoke drifted across the diner, laced with the smell of gun powder.
Bloody hair and brains slowly slid down the white tiles that made up the wall at the end of the counter.
Shotgun man turned to face the rest of the diner. “There. It’s done.” His voice was rough from too many smokes, and the slight slurring of his words was a poor indicator of just how much gin he had consumed this evening. He turned and as quick as he entered the diner he was gone.
Contest entry for the Writer’s Digest Short-Shorts Contest
The red squiggly lines under my words are coming more frequently these days. Used to be they would poke their noses around on an occasional basis, most often when the Pabst was flowing and my fingers got fat.
I guess it’s inevitable, really. Doc Smallee said to expect some things to change after the diagnosis but he wasn’t up front about my fingers going to hell and shaking so much. Ain’t that a bitch.
I should probably just count myself lucky that I was able to put down the several hundred-thousand words I did over my wretched life span. Kinda funny that what was once about my only therapy is now my own personal hell.
Hell or not, I can’t believe I’ll be giving up so soon. Something like this gets in your blood and that’s just how it is. The funny thing is that I’m not sure just who will read these last ramblings of an old man. No matter. I’ve put words to paper for others most of my life, it’s probably time I put a few down for me.
If I could go back, would I do things much different? Hard to say. I’d probably say hello to a few less smokes, maybe make fewer “last calls”. Here at the end it’s easy to woulda, coulda, shoulda, but it’s all so much smoke in the wind now. A life full of regrets, full of genuine oh-my-God fuck ups. Life none the less.
Don’t really care too much about the meaning of it all. It is what it is. Not much comfort to that but I’m not certain I’m deserving of much comfort. If I had done the right thing, maybe. If I’d given myself to her the way she had given to me then I expect things would have been different. Half a Goddamn century later and I still can’t quite forgive myself.
I couldn’t get past the blindness of my own self centeredness. That’s what it all boils down to. Even as I leaned over the rail of that steamship, eventually losing her face in the crowd, I knew I shouldn’t have left. I lied to myself, believing that I would see her again, that she would wait for me to get the journey out of my system.
I had questions. Christ, I had questions that bothered me so. They needed answered. I had to go. That’s what I told myself. I told myself that even as the tears fell on the telegram from the States. Cold, yet bold faced letters on canary paper announcing her death at the hands of a back alley thug. What could I do then? It was too late. If I had been there, would things have turned out different? I don’t know, dammit. I just don’t know.
That’s how a man ends up as a clichéd writer, lonely and bitter. That kind of thing gives plenty of material to put on paper. Some of it even saleable. When I think about it now, it’s a damned pitiful way to make a living. A kind of blood money earned off the back of someone who was abandoned. Hell, I may as well have thrust that knife in her side myself.
It’s only right that in the end, the only thing that I was any good at is being taken away from me. My mind is still here, but that will go away soon enough, if the saw-bones are right. For now, that bastard of a growth seems content to just fuck with the connection between what I want my fingers to do, and what signals are allowed to pass unfettered. Like some kind of messed up toll gate, where the attendant uses nothing but arbitrary criteria to decide who gets past.
I’m told I’ve got about six more weeks. Plenty of time to consider the meaning of life and all that happy-crappy. Decided I don’t really give a shit at this point. Those questions that bothered me as a young man? Never did find the answers. Or maybe I did, but I just can’t bring myself to try and understand them. Either way, it’s time for me to get busy dyin’. How does a man go about doing such a thing? I don’t recall seeing it in no how-to manual. Probably no wrong way to do it anyway.
I guess I’ll get on with it then. I can’t do what I figure I’ve been put here to do any longer. My fingers can’t find the damned keys, and I’m tired.
June 17, 2004 From The New Haven Star Reporter:
New Haven police confirmed today that the man who fell eight stories to his death yesterday was recluse author James Boyd. Boyd’s work included several novels that critics labeled as “dark” and “bitter”. Fans were not as shocked by his death as they were by the location. All accounts had Boyd living on the outskirts of London where he had lived as an expatriate for nearly 50 years. Boyd had no living relatives. A memorial service is scheduled for this Saturday.
Other works authored
In my early days as a writer, I was fortunate enough to have been published in the trade journals of my chosen profession. These titles give a pretty good idea what I was up to back then.
“Using a Pulse Oximeter” Emergency Service Newsletter September, 1991
“Pass That Practical” Journal of Emergency Medical Services July, 1992
“Tricks of the Trade” Journal of Emergency Medical Services October, 1993
“Taking Care” (Literary Award Honorable Mention) Journal of EMS April, 1994
“Intubation and the Combitube” The Research Evaluation Scott Bourn Associates 1994
“Head Injuries” Student Workbook, Cases in Prehospital Care Mosby-Lifeline 1995
“Adult Respiratory Emergencies” Student Workbook, Cases in Prehospital Care 1995
“Vehicular Trauma” Student Workbook, Cases in Prehospital Care Mosby-Lifeline 1995
“Recreational Emergencies” Student Workbook, Cases in Prehospital Care Mosby-Lifeline1995
“Burn Emergencies” Student Workbook, Cases in Prehospital Care Mosby-Lifeline 1995
“Stumpers” Student Workbook, Cases in Prehospital Care Mosby-Lifeline 1995
“Instructor Manual” Cases in Prehospital Care Mosby-Lifeline 1995
“Pipeline Paramedics” Journal of Emergency Medical Services August, 1994
“Burn Emergencies” Cases in Prehospital Care, Scott Bourn Associates, 1996
“Instructor Resource Manual” Emergency Care 8th Ed. Brady 1998
“T/E Monthly” FedEx Monthly Newsletter 2000 – 2002
