Showing results by author "R. B. Russell" in All Categories

Le Grand Meaulnes is a story of the end of youth, with its sense of wonder and idealism, and the transition to adulthood and experience. In a story which exquisitely blends realism with a hint of fantasy, Augustin Meaulnes is haunted by the memory of a beautiful girl briefly encountered in a fantastic 'domain'. However, Meaulnes finds himself unable to return there both physically and emotionally. An acknowledged modern classic, Le Grand Meaulnes is offered here in a new translation which is more sympathetic to the poetic original than previous editions.

The view from John Dowson s living room window is a miniature masterpiece. It reveals Venice in decay; crumbling, soft pink brick, and the ever-changing jade waters of a minor canal. But one morning the composition is marred by an old jacket draped carelessly over the iron railings of the balcony. This almost insignificant alteration to the perfect, arranged order of Dowson s life is just the first of many changes which become more profound as the days pass.

Luciana Gutierrez a police officer, works 96-hour shifts with a eugeroic hangover around the corner. Her investigation into those who stole her life is sidelined as a crime syndicate turns her precinct into a war-zone. Sent for backup, she’s offered experimental technology that could turn the tide, if she’s willing to risk mind, body, and soul.

R.B.RUSSELL has only recently started writing fiction seriously, having previously written lyrics, composed music, and drawn in pen and ink for his own amusement. He runs Tartarus Press with Rosalie Parker from their home in the Yorkshire Dales. AFTERWARDS: Toby has left. I suppose that his departure was inevitable. After the people in the army vehicles had gone, he spent more and more time in the top room, staring out of the window, looking for possible visitors.

R.B.RUSSELL has only recently started writing fiction seriously, having previously written lyrics, composed music, and drawn in pen and ink for his own amusement. He runs Tartarus Press with Rosalie Parker from their home in the Yorkshire Dales. AT THE END OF THE WORLD: was disappointed to discover that my brother, Paul, when he finally came back from his adventures in South America, decided to take up residence in one of the old converted railway carriages on Pagham beach. It was the last place I would have expected him to want to live.

R.B.RUSSELL has only recently started writing fiction seriously, having previously written lyrics, composed music, and drawn in pen and ink for his own amusement. He runs Tartarus Press with Rosalie Parker from their home in the Yorkshire Dales. BRIGHTHELMSTONE: I am not sure how old I was when I visited Brighton with my mother; I could only have been about ten or eleven. My father had been dead for about a year and I recall it as the first holiday that we took without him.

At the edges of everyday life, on geographical boundaries and in the margins of society, certainties and realities can wear thin. And if we find ourselves in such occult and outland territory late at night, we might glimpse phenomena out of the corner of our eye that cannot possibly be there. At such times even the past, apparently fixed and unchanging in memories and dreams, cannot be relied upon.

R.B.RUSSELL has only recently started writing fiction seriously, having previously written lyrics, composed music, and drawn in pen and ink for his own amusement. He runs Tartarus Press with Rosalie Parker from their home in the Yorkshire Dales. LOUP-GAROU: I first saw the film, Loup-garou, in 1989, in a little arts cinema in the centre of Birmingham. I had driven there for a job interview and, as usual, I had allowed far more time for the journey than was required.

R.B.RUSSELL has only recently started writing fiction seriously, having previously written lyrics, composed music, and drawn in pen and ink for his own amusement. He runs Tartarus Press with Rosalie Parker from their home in the Yorkshire Dales. LLANFIHANGEL: It was perhaps an hour into the evening that I first really noticed Sally's friend, James. He was a large, fleshy, almost bald man who tried to hide his weight by wearing a white linen suit that was perhaps two sizes too big for him.

Samuel Miller discovered the photograph tucked away in the back of his father's wallet. The hospital had given it to him along with the other items the old man had been carrying when he had been admitted.

Most people seem to consider Nina Monkman to be a self-assured, confident young woman, but I have known her long enough to realise that this is not quite the truth.

'I think that love is best left to the young,' Donna said. 'I expect that one day it will be viewed by psychiatrists as a mental health problem rather than anything wonderful or spiritual.

'I am sure that a professional gentleman such as yourself could afford to rent rooms like this as a single tenant?' The landlord smiled at Komensk ingratiatingly. 'We could come to an arrangement so that I wouldn't have to find another occupant to share with you?

The Restaurant San Martín in Mendoza did not appear to have changed at all in its ninety-five-year history. It was still richly decorated and plushly upholstered in a hopelessly antique style, and Ernesto Galman revered it.

Edward Clarke was staring out of the window of his bookshop, a cigarette held delicately between his long, thin fingers, his unshaven chin slightly upraised.

Tonya matched her pace to that of the sedately departing steam train. She opened the last door of the last carriage with the nonchalance of a seasoned commuter and stepped aboard.

The past doesn't always stay where it should. It is as though somebody, or something, is forever trying to bring it painfully into the present. Flavian Bennett is trying to leave his past behind when he goes to work in his father's bookshop in Paris. But a curious customer, Reginald Hopper, is desperate to resurrect his own murky origins. Hopper believes that a rare and mysterious book, The Dark Return of Time, may be the key to what happened before he arrived in Paris. In this quiet thriller by R.B. Russell, the futures - and pasts - of these two men will soon cross.

I awoke this morning in what appeared to be a strange house and I lay between unfamiliar sheets trying to remember exactly where I might be. I was not especially worried at first.

"Mrs. Taylor?" The greeting came from a woman sitting in a ponderous wingback chair by the front door. Because of the paperwork on her lap she could not immediately stand.

Maria said to him, 'I'd be tempted to rent the house for just this one room.' 'It is lovely, yes.' 'The way the light comes in from that window, through the curtains on to the plain walls . . .