William P Thomson

One Who Would a Writer Be.

‘PROMETHEUS ASCENDING’

Hello Good People

Yesterday, I began laying out some details (quotes and snippets) of my first novel, the full title that you see above, which I call ‘PROM’, so save time and space. So, without further ado, I continue. Batten down the hatches!

I classified the work as ‘medico Science Faction’. The subject deals with a medical event and, although fiction, there is a strong element of fact running through it.

In essence, the work purports to be an eye-witness written account of how a British Neurosurgeon (James Robert Carvel) and his team, attempted to transplant William John Baltimore magnificent and still superbly functioning brain from his shattered, decimated body, into a strong, fit body, that is simply sans its original skull in the cranium!

For reasons I shall not bore you with, I present the story in the third person.

So, who do I personally believe to be the most fascinating character in the drama? Well, Carvel was the driving force (hero or anti-hero is down to each individual reader). Even so, for me it had to be Baltimore. He took the gamble. He set it all up, even to employing an American freelance journalist (Alvin Gavaert) to witness the event and provide a written record of it.

And so, today, I will cover one of the most momentous sequences in the book; when Gavaert met Baltimore face-to-face (in a manner of speaking) for the first and only time.

I’ll take it from the moment Gavaert has reached the man’s bedroom door and knocked upon it. Needless to say, here I give a much edited version, due to space and time. Also, if I reveal too much, you would probably forego buying the book!

* * * *

‘As he knocked on the door, Gavaert mentally called out his own little battlecry: showtime!

Some sort of sound came from within, so the reporter opened the door as quietly as he could, then entered.

The room was bathed in an eerie half-light. There was a sweet, sickly scent in the air. There were sounds. Some from the wondrous instruments of science, there to assist Baltimore, to make his existence as tolerable as possible.

Outside, a wind that had been evident, now sounded very fierce, as if Nature herself were making it loud and clear her displeasure as to what was housed within the room.

Gavaert was now just feet away from someone sitting in a rather large chair, and also wearing the strangest mask. Because it was so white, almost luminous, it stood out like some free-floating, 3-D apparition. Neither man spoke. It was as if they were sizing each other up. They were.

The journalist found it hard to take in what he saw. It looked like a mish-mash, created in Hell’s own workshop. Part ‘Doctor Strangelove’, part ‘Ironside’, but far, far more, the personification of the ‘Phantom of the Opera’.

Whatever it was, it sure as hell gave fiction a run for its money.’

* * * *

Well, I think that’s enough to scare the children for the night. If any awaken in the morning with a headache, they can almost visit their friendly local neurosurgeon!!

More tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Cheers,

PT

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