In A Small Town by Marc A. DiGiacomo

CHAPTER ONE

August 3, 2007

Not In Our Town

I can’t get it out of my mind. The lightning that exploded from the end of the barrel. The ripping orange flash off the black steel. The smell of gunpowder. The sound, like an M-80. And the pain—the fucking searing pain. It is permanently scorched into my memory. Everything but his face. The face I didn’t see haunts me every second. All I remember are those ultra-white Reebok sneakers as he ran away. The fucking coward would have shot me in the back, but I turned around and caught the blast in the chest. I didn’t have time to pull my Glock.

The shot knocked me to the ground. I thought I was having a heart attack—I couldn’t catch my breath. Then I understood what happened, and reality hit: I was going to die.

It seemed to take minutes rather than seconds, but I managed to radio into headquarters. The response from the good guys was impressive, to say the least. They saved my life. Cops from my own town and others surrounded the scene. I knew they would come. When a cop gets shot, they all come, and with one thing in mind—to find the bastard who pulled the trigger.

Things grew foggy. I saw blue uniforms scurrying around the scene while white-clad EMTs lifted me onto the gurney and loaded me into the ambulance. I could hear people talking about me—reporters, other cops, curious residents. “Detective Matthew Longo…Only 29 years old, been on the force nearly 10 years…Shot in the fucking chest and shoulder. No wife or children. Parents live in town; Hutchville lifers. Oh yeah, the town is going to go batshit over this.”

Blood oozed from my left shoulder. My friend and paramedic Scotty Franks hovered over me and placed direct pressure on my wound. Even through my fog I could tell he was holding back tears. My shoulder was on fire. I never wore my bulletproof vest unless making entry on a search warrant, or if a hot pursuit was coming my way; then I quickly threw it over my shirt. I was lucky I had it on that night. Maybe someone on the other side was looking out for me.

I fell unconscious even with all the shouting around me. I dreamed of my funeral and who would be there. I saw myself in the blue box surrounded by a sobbing crowd of familiar faces. My parents looked horrible. My poor mother clutched her bible and rosary beads. My dad kept his eyes glued to the floor, angry and broken. My little brother Franny, in full uniform, stood near my casket at full attention, his white gloves damp from tears. Donny was there too, trying to keep it together.

I heard Scotty screaming for me in the distance. The poor guy loved me, but why was he screaming my name, spitting all over my face, at my wake? Maybe I should have had a closed casket.

Suddenly I felt him slapping me. I awoke and found myself back inside the ambulance. Scotty took a deep breath, in and out, and said, “Okay Matt, okay. Don’t do that again.”

The pain was relentless, and I couldn’t help but cry. Scotty put a needle into an IV line in my arm and the pain vanished almost immediately. “Don’t give me morphine Scotty,” I managed to whisper. “It killed my grandparents.” Then I lost consciousness again, falling into a world between life and death.

I heard someone screaming in the night. Was it me? It was too dark to see. Where’s Donny? I really needed him now. Was I dreaming again or was this some delusion of reality? I slapped myself and felt a sharp sting, jolting me awake.

It has been three weeks of hell living inside this apartment. My social life has been placed on indefinite hold. The phone rings constantly but who cares? I don’t answer. The window shades are drawn. I don’t know if it’s day or night, and I don’t give a shit.

Thankfully, the wound has been healing well. But I look at my shoulder and am repulsed by the scar and missing flesh. People say scars are sexy but this one may be the exception. My left arm is still in a sling. At times, the pain is still unbearable. The percocet I’m still taking makes me pass out.

The sink is loaded with paper dishes and plastic cups. Last week’s dinner from my mother sits on the kitchen table still wrapped in tin foil, and the smell is starting to ferment in my kitchen. I can hear my Dad’s deep voice in my head: “Why don’t you pull it together and clean up around here? You’re making your mother nervous.” She’s nervous? I can’t help laughing.

Hey Dad, your oldest son was almost shot dead in the same small, safe community where we played Little League baseball. Mind if I take a week or two to let that one sink in?

Only cops—and maybe some of their wives—realize how dangerous police work can become in a millisecond. Parents of cops usually choose to ignore the reality—it’s too difficult to accept that a life-or-death choice awaits their son or daughter at any moment. A bank robbery turns into a shootout; a wanted felon gets pulled over for a broken tail-light and decides suicide by cop is his only way to avoid a lengthy jail sentence. As a detective, this is my everyday reality.

This isn’t supposed to happen in a small town. We’ve never had a police shooting—never. In fact, the last time we had any kind of criminal shooting was ten years ago, and it was a domestic dispute between a father and his cheating son-in-law. These old-school Italians are no joke. The father said his son-in-law disrespected him, so he “took care of it” like they do in the old country.

It didn’t make any sense. It would have been one thing if I had been shot on a traffic stop. But I was just picking up a fucking pizza. Half pepperoni, half sausage. I was just walking down the street. It wasn’t even dark out as the sun was just setting in the western sky.

My mentor and partner Detective Domenico “Donny” Mello always told me never to “go anywhere alone.” He said, “Don’t even pick up lunch alone. A cop is always a target for someone looking to become infamous. The public hates us most of the time because our interactions are rarely positive. Nobody calls us when they have a new baby but if that baby isn’t breathing, there is no one else to call. Always the bad,” he would say. “Always the bad.” I miss Donny. He’s been away for three weeks at his family’s villa in Italy, on the Amalfi coast. Did he even know I had been shot?

The press remains close by outside my apartment, salivating for an interview, the fucking cretins. I’m the talk of the town—everyone wants to know about the cop shooting. Fuck them. Twice. Even if I wanted to relive the horrifying experience for them, it goes against department protocol.

I swallow down two percocets, lay down on the couch and let the painkillers do their magic. In my head the image haunts me—a dark shadow with the whitest fucking sneakers you ever saw.

****

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Genre – Thriller

Rating – R

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Beautiful Whispers by Alice Ayden

Beautiful Whispers – Alice Ayden

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Genre – Romantic Suspense

Rating – PG13

4.5 (4 reviews)

Free until 24 August 2013

Twenty-one year old Jane lives on a gorgeous Virginia Plantation and carefully manages her quirky family. Everyone assumes she'll marry her rich, childhood sweetheart, but things change when Alexander returns. There is an instant attraction between the girl from one of Virginia's oldest families and the son of a maid, but Jane is haunted by horrible images from her past. Will Alexander protect her from a past he doesn't even know about?

A Time of Myths by Chris Blamires

A Time of Myths – Chris Blamires

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Genre – Literary Adventure

Rating – R

4.5 (8 reviews)

Free until 24 August 2013

A Sweeping Tale of Mystery and Suspense, steeped in the folklore of the 20th century and played out in 60's Woodstock, 80's Soho & on a remote Greek Island - an ideal vacation read:

• Woodstock, 1969: the Festival that defined a decade of peace, love and freedom. The paths of five young English students cross - with devastating consequences. Consequences that eventually reach a climax in an isolated Cretan gorge.
• Seventeen years later: in the 'golden age' of capitalism, dramatic events conspire to reunite the surviving members, necessitating a perilous return to a tiny Greek island, where dangerous self-deceptions are at last forced into the glaring sunlight...

Ostensively, it's an action adventure and murder mystery interwoven with an enduring love story. But dig deeper and darker themes are uncovered, for the novel seeks also to examine who we are and how far we are truly in control of our actions, and even of our lives.

Lionslayer’s Woman by Nhys Glover

CHAPTER ONE

12 September 81 CE, ROME

Decaneus staggered slowly to his feet. The guards who had dumped him on the hot, hard-packed sand of the arena were already making their hasty exit. They’d removed his chains just after dragging him from his dark cell. Now his arms felt oddly light after having worn the manacles for so long. The skin where the iron had rubbed was raw and already putrefying. He knew that unless his wounds were treated soon they’d kill him.

But maybe he wouldn’t live long enough for them to kill him. He became aware of the sounds around him now. People. Crowds of people. He looked up from studying his wrists to see in the stark midday sun thousands of people arranged in tiered rows around him. Few seemed to be looking his way. Most were chatting, oblivious to the predicament of a lone barbarian prisoner-of-war standing in the centre of the bloodstained oval.

He wasn’t stupid, nor was he ignorant. He may come from the Dacian hills in the wilds north of Illyria, but even there they’d heard of the Roman arenas where brutal spectacles were staged to amuse the masses. He knew where he stood.

But it was the size that overwhelmed him in that moment. This amphitheatre was monstrous. It stood three stories high and happily contained tens of thousands. More people than Decaneus had ever seen in his life.

He heard a short trumpet blast. His eyes were drawn to the northern gate above which stood an ostentatiously decorated box, complete with canopy to protect its occupants from the sun. It had to be the Imperial box, he decided, and there were richly dressed people in it who were only now beginning to rise to leave. Were they not staying for the fun?

A few less jaded members of the audience suddenly gasped. Decaneus registered their excitement and followed their gazes. They weren’t looking at him. Instead, they stared, open-mouthed at a lone lion that was loping into the arena to join him. The creature looked as stunned by his situation as Decaneus was.

He had never seen a lion before, but he recognised it from descriptions he’d heard. A huge golden cat with a ragged, brown ruff that made its head seem too heavy to carry. It roared ferociously at the crowd as it paced forward, obviously drawn by the smell of the fresh blood that laced the sand around them so liberally. Would it be as hungry as he was?

His thoughts were slow and sluggish. He knew he was facing danger and possible death. He knew he needed to think. But in that moment, all he could do was watch the approaching creature with awed bemusement. Those teeth were so huge and sharp. He knew how painful a domesticated cat’s teeth could be. Being bitten by its huge cousin would be infinitely worse. And the creature before him had to weigh more than two men. It would knock him to the ground in one leap and be done with him in an instant.

His gaze was diverted back to the Imperial box. He saw a flash of bright blue, as a woman threw a stola over her shoulder. Then, for some reason, the woman turned to look at him. She wasn’t young – a mature matron from her appearance – but she was still a beautiful woman in the ornate and over-coffered style of the Roman nobility. Her gaze showed curiosity. And then, when her attention was drawn to the lion by its roar, it suddenly showed concern.

It was that concern that drew him from his numbed state. It was as if the goddess Bendis looked out through that woman’s concerned eyes. Suddenly his situation was crystal clear.

The lion was turning away from the crowds above him now focusing on the only available victim for its wrath. Him. In moments, the beast would be on him. Without weapons or even a shield, he had no way to defend himself.

Did he?

He had his hands. Could he do much damage with his closed fists? Unlikely. Could he choke the beast with his fingers around its thick throat? No, the neck’s massive, shaggy mane would make getting even his arms around its neck too difficult.

A memory flashed into his mind. A piece of cloth from a washing line wrapped around his throat and from behind him childish hands pulling it tight enough to suffocate.

That had been his older brother’s work when Decaneus was only seven. His older but shorter brother, Borieus, had thought it was so funny to hold him captive that way, strangling the life out of him. If a sharp yell from an observer hadn’t stopped him, Decaneus would have died that day. It was only a joke, Borieus had said afterwards. It had always just been a joke for Borieus.

But now he remembered how effective that innocent piece of fabric had been. Had his traitorous brother done him a favour teaching him that lesson? While the lion loped closer, Decaneus whipped off his filthy loincloth, the only covering on his body. It was a single length of fabric that might only just be long enough to wrap around the lion’s neck.

Pushing down his desire to run from the danger, he wrung the cloth tight like a piece of rope. He knew cats were in their element chasing after their prey. This cat would be no different. The only advantage he could garner in this moment was surprise. His actions had to be sudden and unexpected. He had to go on the attack!

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered the silence that had fallen over the arena. All the talking had stopped. Every eye was on him. They watched as he stalked his prey, stunned by the reversal of roles being acted out before them.

When he was close enough, he threw up his arms and yelled aggressively. The beast startled backward and turned away, looking for a way out. Decaneus took the opportunity. With a burst of speed and agility fuelled purely by terror and the desire for survival, he dashed forward and leapt onto the back of the confused lion. He whipped his arm around its neck with the tightly wound cloth in one hand.

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Genre – Historical Romance

Rating – PG

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ARIA: Left Luggage by Geoff Nelder

The previous day, Tuesday 14 April 2015:

The shuttle, Marimar, in orbit, is approaching the International Space Station docking port.

Peering over Vlad’s shoulder at the porthole, Jena could see the International Space Station rotating. Damn, it shouldn’t have been. Along with the other four crewmembers, she couldn’t speak, holding her breath as she thought through possibilities. She’d worked darned hard to get a seat on this mission, and it looked screwed already. Several long seconds later, she touched the Ukrainian’s arm.

“Vlad, let me see.”

“In a moment. Ah…”

She gave him the full force of a glare at the back of his head as if telepathy worked. She wouldn’t use feminine wiles in spite of unjust accusations to the contrary. She knew her success was based on skill and cunning, but in this charged atmosphere, nothing worked on Vlad. Tall, slim, and wearing his dark hair longer than the American male astronauts wanted to, he was selected for this mission because of his phlegmatic coolness, which could be annoying when Jena was in a hurry.

“Vlad, can you tell why it’s spinning?”

“I think so, but I need another angle. Ah, found something.”

Jena tried a push at his elbow to gain a better view. All she could see was her own reflection: jet-black hair and a scowling face—she smiled at herself.

Dan’s worry lines pulled his black eyebrows too high. “You know why the station is tumbling?”

“There, Commander,” Vlad said, “in the solar panel supports: a metal box. It must have given the station a nudge when it jammed there. Looks like a silvery suitcase.”

Jena prodded Vlad’s shoulder. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, but I like to see things for myself, move the hell over.”

A hand warmed the  back of her neck, followed by Antonio’s breath. “Let me see too. It doesn’t look as if it belongs there, does it? Una bomba?”

“Come away now, Doc,” Dan said. “Of course it’s not a bomb. Everyone strap in for final manoeuvring.”

IT TOOK TWO HOURS for the five-man crew to match the spin, dock, and transfer to the ISS. Anxious to investigate the aberrant object, Jena rushed to the new control module. It smelt of plastic and fruit juice spilt by the installation crew. She focussed on a view screen, her nose twitching at the blackcurrant aroma. Her annoyance with sloppy work was mollified by the prospect of an intriguing problem to solve.

Surprised at seeing her breath condense, she realized how much cooler the station was compared to the shuttle. She made a mental note to check then cancelled it— health and environment was Antonio’s remit. Their occupation with the enigmatic led to the danger of procedure slippage. She glanced around, noting scuffmarks on the grey plastic and aluminium curved walls. Her frown deepened at the sight of scribbled numbers on a locker. Anyone would think the place was a building site. Then she smiled—that’s exactly what it was.

Dan disrupted her inspection. “Jena, snag that suitcase with the remote-control grabber.”

The metallic case was just big enough for a weekend away. An apparent seam existed where a holiday suitcase would have been squashed shut but no padlock. The aluminium struts on the space station were not magnetic, and yet…

Jena frowned. “Damn, it won’t shift. Someone might have to go EVA.”

Vlad headed for the suit locker. “I’ll go. I’ve nothing much else to do until my observations start.”

“Hang on,” Dan said. “Vlad, you set up the remote radiometer. Let’s see if the case is emitting nasties. If anyone is going out, Abdul has more experience.”

Jena knew Vlad would be disappointed not going for the EVA. “I know I said an EVA might be needed, but I can’t see how Abdul’s going to move it from out there if this robotic arm and its four tons of prodding power can’t.”

Vlad winked at Jena. “He might see what’s holding it down.”

Jena gave up on the remote grab. “Any ideas on what it is before you go for a walk, Abdul?”

Abdul twitched his thin moustache. “Could the case have come adrift from another part of the station? Part of the antenna housing, yes?”

“No.” Vlad looked at Jena for confirmation. “I worked on that last year. It looks nothing like the antenna components. The case out there has a raised mark on its side.”

Jena looked again at the camera image. “I agree there’s a mark. A chevron.”

She looked at Dan for the EVA go-ahead.

“We really ought to await compliance from Houston. Okay, I appreciate they might take so long that whatever it is out there becomes a danger if it shifts. So, Abdul…I don’t have to tell you…”

“Take no chances? Of course.”

Jena put her hand on her hip. “What’s the protocol for handling possible alien artefacts?”

“It’s never happened, so there is none. Or…” Dan’s eyes darted between them.

The after-thought that the case might be alien hit Jena. Dan’s high blink rate told her his mind and emotions must be in turmoil too. But Jena knew the crew must occupy a scientific detachment. What was she, a machine? Even so, she bottled up her growing exuberance.

“Protocols were possibly drawn up fifty years ago, penso di si,” Antonio said. Nothing ever fazed him.

Jena loved his Turin accent but there was something unsettling about him. She said, “We’ll make up a protocol as we go along. No, that wasn’t a joke. I mean we didn’t have any training on handling alien artefacts.” She thumbed up at Abdul as he headed towards the suit lockers.

Dan muttered as he sat at a console. Keyword searches on the procedure for handling alien artefacts came up blank. “I don’t know... Maybe I’m being over-cautious, but we should wait clearance from Houston, even if they have to convene meetings with the President—it could be that important—”

Jena interrupted Dan, noting his thinning hair as if he’d lost more with this worry. “I don’t think we should wait for Caroline Diazem to make up her presidential mind.”

Antonio smiled, his almond complexion a result of Italian breeding and Mediterranean sunshine. “Commander, this is an international mission. President Diazem is delusional. Thinks she rules the planet, si? If we wait for the United Nations to decide on what to do with the case, the end of Time might arrive first.”

“Commander,” Jena said. “Abdul’s suited up and already on his way out.” She paused, noting that Antonio was studying Dan with interest. Dan had been chosen to command two other shuttle and International Space Station missions, not just for his intelligence and resourcefulness, but for his unflappability. She’d observed that serenity didn’t always achieve respect from eager astronauts like Abdul and wondered how Dan would handle such blatant insubordination.

“I suppose I kinda gave him a go-ahead,” Dan said. “But we mustn’t let our excitement over this case get in the way of procedures. We must consider all the options.”

Jena concealed a smile and yet knew Dan had little choice.

After deploying the sensors, Vlad activated the cameras to record Abdul’s EVA. Jena knew that Vlad wanted to be the one out there. She put an arm round his shoulders.

“I love the beautiful silence,” Vlad said. “To the purist, it isn’t infinite, but it is to me.”

“Me too. You Ukrainians don’t possess a monopoly on the awesomeness out there, although you sure have a unique way of expressing it.”

Dan called over to Vlad, “Anything from the remote sensors?”

“Nothing detectable emanating from the case, sir.”

On screen, Abdul swam into view. After he clipped his boots into a strut, he opened the jaws of a light titanium grapple and touched the case. It moved.

Antonio said, “I see it’s been programmed to be helpful in the presence of humans.”

“Or in the presence of Arabs, praise be to Allah,” Abdul said, as he prepared to take the case to a small holding dock on the station.

Jena waved a hand at the screen. “Maybe Abdul’s disrupted some kind of field.”

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Genre – Science Fiction / Medical Mystery

Rating – PG

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The Passion of the Christoph by Christoph Paul (Excerpt)

The Infinite Jest of Picking Porn Titles

While getting my MA in creative writing I managed a porn store in northeast DC where the most important job was picking out which new releases we would carry. To do this job well I had to make picks based on our clientele, who was 80% older African-American/African, 10% Hispanic, 7% slumming gays from DuPont Circle, and a few old white guys who thought the Internet had spies and/or communist rogues. To make this important decision all I had was a fax paper listing the brand, theme, and title of the movie, with no pictures of the covers.

Yet each week I would pick videos that ended up selling, leaving my boss very impressed. So along with recommending we give out free watermelon gum (yes, we really did), he said he wanted me to create a report for a new employee on why I chose or did not choose a new release video so the uninitiated employee could learn the ropes.

As an aspiring writer, I took great pride in the assignment to show this new employee that we were not just picking videos, but engaging in the all-important subjects of the humanities. To finish the report I left the new employee a bibliography to back up my choices and educate him on The Infinite Jest of Picking Porn Titles

WHITE GHETTO—SHEMALE “MY GIRLFRIEND’S GIANT COCK”

I will have to get at least one shemale video. Though this is a good title; one of our most popular tranny series is Transsexual Prostitutes¹⁰. I once received a call from a concerned customer’s wife worried that her husband might actually be seeing transsexual prostitutes. I calmed her down and said that this is a fad and men only watch these videos but do not act on them. She cried a little and said something in Spanish¹¹. I felt bad for her and tried to comfort her saying, “It is very popular in the Hispanic community, but I don’t know why.” She then said she married a maracone¹², and hung up.

I am not sure why but the predominant customers who rent tranny movies are Hispanic men, who I assume to be in the closet. I asked this hot Hispanic girl¹³ who cooks hamburgers at my favorite establishment, The Korzo Haus¹⁴ why this was, and she said it was because no one is thought to be gay in the Hispanic community and if anyone asks he could say it wasn’t that “Maraconeish” because she had boobs. That aside, a big penis on big breasts is always a good transsexual movie. I will select this one unless Tranny Prostitutes is available.

ABIGAIL—LESBIAN “LONDON KEYES”

The actress London Keyes¹⁵ is a quite possible lock; she is a special combination of an Orientalist Fetish¹⁶, an hour-glass figure, and a generous backside. She is also a fan of anallingus¹⁷ which can be appreciated in the porn renting community. Though these are all positive attributes, the African-American majority does not care for lesbian videos¹⁸ and she does not fit the Caucasian Orientalist Fetish; I would have to pass on Mrs. Keyes. (Though I appreciate her style and sexual proclivity; it is not about the writer–it is about the customer.) Also the brand Abigail sounds artsy and like art films, art porn is not appreciated by the general porn public. In the end, people want to see Transformers over The Tree of Life.¹⁹

CHEATER’S CLUB—CUCKOLD “CHEATING WIVES”

Cuckold movies²⁰ do very well. There is a surprising amount of white men that come in and buy these videos. They usually look like accountants or the managers you would see at Bennigans who never excelled in sports like Dodgeball. There are some interesting theories about why many men would be into watching or getting cuckold: Evolutionary, male-to-male competition or what Dr. Robin Baker coined as “Sperm Wars”²¹ has played a role in reproductive strategy. The theory is that we could be programmed to be turned on by infidelity to make sure to produce other fighter sperm. This also plays into the idea of concealed ovulation and women liking certain types of men when ovulating²². Or it could just be the decadent times we live in. There are no easy answers to this phenomenon but until it gets figured out the writer would look for covers of dorky guys looking upset while their wife is being banged by a big penis stud.

HUSTLER—SHEMALE “SHEMALE SUPERSTARS”

This would be the second shemale pick unless Tranny Prostitutes 74 is available. The Shemale Superstars Series has very much tricked the writer. Every time the writer looked down at the face on the cover and found the woman very attractive, then looked lower and enjoyed the breasts, and then went lower to check out the vaginal area the writer saw a very large penis²³, being tricked every time. These men have such attractive feminine faces that it fools everyone who looks. Another popular title is Tranny Surprise, if that or Tranny Prostitutes are not available then I will select these two tranny films and will continue to look too low when it comes to tranny covers; it is very much porn store Groundhog Day.²⁴

POWERSVILLE—CUM SHOTS “COLLEGE SPUNKFEST”

Now the owner suggested we get one blow job film but we officially call them facials. Our customers would refer to them as “head joints.”²⁵ If you look on the back cover you will usually see a young girl with what looks like Elmer’s glue falling off her face. The philosophy and symbolism of the facial is quite a novelty and could appeal to the sense of power, as if to say, “I have so many sexual options. Instead of leaving my semen in your vagina for reproductive purposes I will leave it on your face.” On a side note, the image I’ve seen for this certain sexual practice will always be a girl at a beauty salon getting ready for a facial (the one for beautification purposes) looking in a mirror and seeing a large cock with sperm coming out toward her face. Not sure if it’s a lack of creativity or if this is the best way to advertise for the genre²⁶?

CABALLERO—GAY “THE 300”

Now this would be a good pick for gay men of all colors. The title would suggest the men would be rather buff, have good-sized penises, and I noticed gay men want a minor story they can watch after eating a good meal or after they have watched a design show on Bravo²⁷. Another definite yes.

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Genre – Humor / NonFiction

Rating – NC17

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Fifth Life of the CatWoman by Kathleen Dexter

Fifth Life of the CatWoman – Kathleen Dexter

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Genre – Fantasy

Rating – PG13

4.8 (26 reviews)

Free until 24 August 2013

“It’s easy to find history written by those who win, those who hold power. It’s hard to find history written by the ones who lose,” says the mystery history teacher, Kat O’Malley. Unbeknownst to her students, she’s living the nine lives of a cat, and her history lessons come from four hundred years of underdog experience with witch trials, prejudice, intolerance and poverty. With much coaxing from the school’s headmaster—a man with as many secrets in his past as Kat has in hers—“the CatWoman” ventures out from the mirage oasis she shares with fifty cats to teach lessons that never made it into the history books. Through her considerable gifts as a storyteller, she teaches a new generation to live as if they, too, had to live nine lives and jump back eight times into any messes they create.
But when history repeats itself and the nightmare intolerance of Kat’s past resurfaces, will she retreat forever into the safety of her cat-filled mirage? Or will she embrace her new life, her teaching and the love of the one person who knows her secret?

Ronald Probstein – The Horse Parlor

The Horse Parlor From Honest Sid

by Ronald Probstein

On pages 64 to 67 of Honest Sid I wrote about one horse parlor in NYC that my father took me to when I was five years old.  Such a betting parlor was “illegal” but there were dozens spotted throughout the City all with the sufferance of the police who were paid off to turn their heads the other way. Although their were differences in the locations and physical characteristics of the horse parlors all of them had features common to  Charlie Goodheim’s parlor described in the book. On p. 65 I write about my experience:

“My father took my hand and together we walked through the back door [of the cigar shop] into Charlie Goodheim’s horse parlor.  With its cement floor and bare stone walls, it looked like it had once been part of a garage.  Men in suits with fedoras pushed back off their foreheads stood around alone or in groups, or sat on folding wooden chairs lined up in rows facing a long chalkboard running nearly the length of one wall. All eyes were on that chalkboard. A man in shirtsleeves, wearing earphones connected to a long wire stood on a platform in front of the board, erasing numbers and writing down new ones…. Along another wall two men wearing green eyeshades sat behind the silver bars of the cashier’s cages, counting out money with a snap and a flourish while a staccato voice coming, through a speaker box described a horse race in progress.  A heavy pall of cigarette and cigar smoke hung over the room.  The customers seemed subdued, speaking quietly if at all, but the atmosphere was electric.”

On p. 66 I describe one of the race descriptions that came through continuously: “In the sixth at Hialeah—the flag is up! They’re off and running… Into the final turn and Ladybug is ahead by a length… Blue Devil is coming up fast on the outside… They’re into the stretch! Neck and neck—and it’s Blue Devil by a nose at the wire.”  “The announcer stopped talking for a few minutes after the race, and my father pointed to the chalkboard.  The Board Marker was listing the payoffs… numbers next to the horses’ names changed as the Board Marker continually erased and entered new figures.  My father said, “He’s changing them numbers to show how the odds shift before a race.  It depends how much dough people bet on a horse.  The more they bet that he’s gonna win, the more the odds go down.”

If you’re going to live outside the law, you’d better be honest. This seeming paradox was the operating principle of Sid Probstein’s life. Guileless and endlessly optimistic, he was known as Honest Sid around his stomping ground of New York’s Broadway. Sid wasn’t a tough guy, or even a bad guy. He just never had the patience for the “straight” life, grinding out a living at some monotonous desk job.

He was the quintessential American dreamer, always sure that the good life was just one big score away, a man who never stopped believing in his own good luck, even when the evidence said otherwise. He had all the tools, he was charming, good-looking, quick-witted and decent, but he had an obsession he couldn’t escape.

Honest Sid is the story of an American archetype as seen through the eyes of his son, Ronald, who loved him, and who almost lost him. It follows Sid’s adventures in the world of bookies and bettors, fighters and fixers, players and suckers set against the often-romanticized backdrop of Depression-era New York. It is also the passionate tale of the great and tempestuous love between Sid and his wife Sally, and of his son Ronald whom he idolized.

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Genre – Biographies & Memoirs

Rating – PG13

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Contact by AFN Clarke

Brian's cursing over some admin hiccup in the otherwise perfect running of the company. Hookey, like me, is collapsed in a chair, snoring. My eyes now closing. Tiredness creeping over me. Drifting into half sleep...

Tired and wet! I've been here before! Strange thoughts. Half unconscious flashback images stealing around the murky corridors of my mind. Half back in Belfast, the other here in cold wet Brecon.

“Come on! Get up! Move your ass.” I'm yelling at a mud-and-rain-soaked recruit, trying to haul himself off the ground.

“Get that fucking rifle barrel out of the mud, you stupid shit.” All this above the crack of S.L.R.s and the shouts of my N.C.O.s at the rest of the section. The ground is uneven clods of thick grass, hidden holes and pools of water. Ahead a fifteen-foot-wide stream. There's a gasp as the crow in front of me hits the ice-cold water and wallows around up to his chest, weighted down by thirty pounds of equipment.

“Come on you fairy this isn't a swimming pool! Get across!" It's the second time I've been across the stream, so I'm already soaked through and freezing cold. There's a certain delight in watching somebody else do it. To the right an ashen faced crow lying on the ground, his rifle moving in a lazy arc.

“Smith, you bastard, you're supposed to be covering. Get that rifle firing.” He looks at me and for a brief second thinks of unloading the entire magazine of live rounds into my chest. The N.C.O. behind hits him with a large lump of wood and amid screams of abuse, Smith hauls himself off the ground and wades through the water.

Despite all the abuse the lads are working well, moving carefully but quickly and, apart from the occasional desire to give up, getting on with the job in hand. The “job” is to capture a sniper position up on the hill in front of us, the position being “held” by wooden targets. The back brace on one target is shot through and starts to topple. Before it hits the ground a burst from the machine gun, over on the right flank, smashes it to tiny pieces. Jones, the crow in front of me, zigzags forwards while Smith covers him. Smith is approaching exhaustion and starting to give up. He fires, and the round smacks into the ground inches away from Jones' left boot, whines away over the hill.

“Smith you little shit, what the fuck are you trying to do?” He looks a little shaken. “Bill, sort that cunt out,” I shout to Cpl. Conway. Just one more incident to talk about once the exercise is over.

The rain is coming down harder now, the icy drops lancing into my face, stinging; sodden beret clamped to head, smock twice its weight with water. This is the most dangerous part of the exercise. Tired crows nearing the end, bunching together, firing at the targets now only twenty-five metres ahead.

“Apply safety catches and skirmish through the objective.” I try and counter the noise. The N.C.O.s catch the call and the firing ceases. Euphoria that they have reached the objective takes over and the crows skirmish through, screaming and cursing. I hand over to Cpl. Conway, who carries on with the reorganisation and consolidation of the position, and walk over to a small outcrop of rock at the top of the hill. Looking back across the valley to a small wood about two hundred metres away, three figures emerge and start running with the awkward gait of men laden down with heavy equipment. Every so often one of them trips and stumbles over the rough ground, but they keep on coming. As they get closer I can hear the rasping pants as they struggle for air, their kit clunking and squelching, bruising their hips.

L.Cpl. Hedges brings the gun crew in on my signal and positions them. I feel good.

The sound of singing and splashing carries up through the valley and figures appear at the door of the hut to watch the procession. Standing out in the pouring rain, cold and wet with huge smiles on their faces, shouting obscenities together with derisive gestures. Four months ago, they were just a bunch of out-of-work unfit youths who fancied themselves as paratroopers. Out of the seventy that originally formed the platoon, there are thirty here on the range. And they are all fit, healthy and happy. Sometimes.

Time to stop the daydream and get the last section through. So it's trot down the hill, wade through the stream and nonchalantly stroll up to where the section is waiting. Fully kitted out. Laden down with ammunition and other equipment. Now slightly nervous as the moment of truth has finally arrived.

“O.K. lads. Listen in. Safety procedures...” I run through the briefing, give them the scenario and off we go again. My platoon Sgt. just grins and disappears back inside the hut, muttering something about having to get on with the admin. His words echo strangely in the doorway.

“The Ardoyne was...”

“Ardoyne...” Someone in the background talking. Waking me.

The word is emotive enough in Army circles. That such a small area could cause so much suffering and hardship is barely credible. Before we arrived in the place, no police had been into the area, no taxes had been paid, rates, electricity bills, nothing. How big? It was split into two. The old Ardoyne and the new. The old is about three hundred yards long by the same width, crowded with terraced housing. The new is slightly bigger with a more modern standard of terraced housing. Surrounded by OPs, five in all, with nearly two hundred and fifty men patrolling it by day and night. Still the shootings occurred. Ambushes, bombs thrown. Delightful little spot to spend four or five months of your life.

Awake again. Mouth like the inside of a fisherman's boot. Numb joints, numb mind. Toms standing in the dull glow of the light bulb. Rifles in hand, slings attached to wrists. Blackened badges on battered berets. Listless shuffling, mindless banter. I file the planned route in the Ops Room and then we go out into the clammy cold midnight air. It's stopped raining. Score one against Sod's Law. Cover across the Crumlin Road. Slippery street and few cars. Up by Fort Knox and slip quietly and unobtrusively into the Ardoyne.

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Genre – Autobiography / Biography & Memoir

Rating – 18+

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Website http://www.afnclarke.com/

Unintended Consequences by Marti Green

Unintended Consequences by Marti Green

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Legal Thriller

Rating - PG

4.4 (300 reviews)

Free until 23 May 2013

How much would a father sacrifice for his child?
Nineteen years ago, Indiana police found the body of a young girl, burned beyond recognition and buried in the woods. They arrested George Calhoun for murdering his daughter, and his wife testified against him at the trial. The jury convicted him. Now his appeals have been exhausted, and his execution is just a few weeks away.
George said he didn’t do it. That the body isn’t his little Angelina. But that’s all he’s ever said – no other defense, no other explanation.
Dani Trumball, an attorney for the Help Innocent Prisoners Project, wants to believe him. After all, there was no forensic evidence that the body in the woods was George’s daughter. But if the girl isn’t Angelina, then who is it? And what happened to the Calhouns’ missing daughter?
For nineteen years, George Calhoun has stayed silent. But that’s about to change, and the story he tells Dani—if it’s true—changes everything.

Colorado Mandala by Brian Heffron

Michael paused, his flinty eyes darting out at his listeners. Yes, they were ensnared—just the way he liked them. The power of his oratory filled him up. The corners of his mouth curled upwards, and he bared his perfect teeth into a smile he knew his listeners would find intoxicating.

“… He was aaaalways cold,” Michael drawled, letting the word lounge in his mouth a bit, “but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he’d often say in his homely way that he’d sooner live in hell.

… And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and Cap, says he, I’ll cash it in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Michael stopped and drained his whiskey glass. Every pair of eyes in that bar bored into him. The women—breathing hard, visibly—and the men, too, were transfixed. Michael took all this in, and then continued.

“Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A brief scuffle in the far corner of the bar brought Michael’s gaze upward again for a beat. Shadows and light and whiskey tangoed together in his mind for a moment. An old scene seemed to flash there as well. But Michael blinked back the memory, whatever it was; no, not now. He shook it off and continued:

“A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.”

Breathing in the bar had seemingly ceased completely. His audience was all one body, one ear, and one eye. All upon Michael Boyd Atman.

“There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;

… Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were numb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed that thing.”

Michael’s voice now softened. Something snuck into it that hadn’t asked permission, and remained. What was it? His audience saw their performer naked before them and this engaged them even more.

“… Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.”

Here Michael stopped again. Had that old memory returned…the one he had tried to push away earlier? Tears welled in his eyes and he felt sheepish, almost frightened, but then—he realized he didn’t care. He let it come and the tears fell.

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Genre – Literary Fiction

Rating – PG

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Slow Burn by Bobby Adair

Slow Burn – Bobby Adair

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre – Horror

Rating – PG13

4.7 (72 reviews)

Free until 13 December 2013

A new flu strain has been spreading across Africa, Europe, and Asia. Disturbing news footage is flooding the cable news channels. People are worried. People are frightened. But Zed Zane is oblivious.
Zed needs to borrow rent money from his parents. He gets up Sunday morning, drinks enough tequila to stifle his pride and heads to his mom’s house for a lunch of begging, again.
But something is wrong. There’s blood in the foyer. His mother’s corpse is on the living room floor. Zed’s stepdad, Dan is wild with crazy-eyed violence and attacks Zed when he comes into the house. They struggle into the kitchen. Dan’s yellow teeth tear at Zed’s arm but Zed grabs a knife and stabs Dan, thirty-seven times, or so the police later say.
With infection burning in his blood, Zed is arrested for murder but the world is falling apart and he soon finds himself back on the street, fighting for his life among the infected who would kill him and the normal people, who fear him.

J.L.Lawson – What Inspired Me to Write My Book

What Inspired Me to Write My Book

By: J. L. Lawson

This is a question near and dear to my heart for which I think I can offer some clear understanding in response. Over the last couple decades I have been part of an on-going experiment: Can an Objective Path to awakening produce in an individual the properties and functions of higher centers (those which are responsible for Objective Self-Knowledge and Objective Reason)?

The path I speak of involves the removing of all non-verifiable data and emotions cluttering one’s being. In other words, scrapping everything acquired through blind belief, old wives’ tales, the plethora of “they say”, snippets to volumes of information un-vetted and unsubstantiated which through laziness or convenience has populated one’s mind and heart. At the same time carefully building up a verifiable structure of mentation, an inner construction which allows for the assimilation of verified data and verifiable information about oneself and the real world in which one finds oneself.

This two-fold endeavor has yielded, for me personally, a far more impartial perspective both of my far less cluttered inner world, as well as clearer perceptions of what is transpiring in our outer world—that place where we all must have our daily existence.

So, with our terminology clarified, how to weave such an understanding into a narrative form accessible to others? I chose the medium of metaphor and allegory—those forms which throughout the history of our species have stood the test of time for conveying the deeper meanings of our existence. I began with a simple premise:

“What if there were lineages of highly conscious individuals from the most ancient of times and emergent into the present day?”

That question, for me, would allow for a presentation both: of what would be the properties and functions of a person with higher consciousness, and also how a regular person could come to such a condition for themselves. It is the latter which, through my protagonists’ interactions with others, could become an accessible path for everyone wishing to gain what they may think they already possess, but clearly do not.

It was the follow-up questions, “What would their world be like?” even more importantly, “What would our world be like—the one which we think we know?” that forced me to begin where I did—in the past—and bring the story through the subtly changed present and into a transformed future. Hence the term coined by J. W. Campbell regarding Mr. Heinlein’s epic works: “Future Histories.”

Future History, then, according the sense in which I am compelled to use it, means the results of the aforementioned premise to have been realized in practice, extrapolated into real-time for a new view of man’s relationship to, and place within the greater world—even up to the Type III Civilization as envisioned by Kardashev. That lofty arena of such an accomplishment is one which we as residents of the present Earth are no where near even the farthest horizons. Understandably.

While our societies, to some extent, and most definitely our technologies have evolved exponentially over the last few millennia, the individual, and resultant collective, evolution of our inner worlds haven’t moved forward even the barest distance by comparison. It is the individual who must perforce begin the personal change. Only then will our collective inner revolution gain the necessary traction to propel us in the directions of the ideals set forth in the allegorical Future Histories as presented in the Donkey and the Wall trilogy and The Curious Voyages of the Anna Virginia Saga.

From the humble roots of an 1864 immigrant from the Guang, his Shoshone wife and their little hardware store in Tahoe City, to a global humanitarian NGO empire in the present day; An Honest Man is the carefully woven tapestry of the struggles and loves, triumphs and trials of the Livingsons.

The Donkey and the Wall, trilogy is the thousand step journey in pursuit of a few simple questions: What if there were ancient lineages of highly conscious individuals
emgergent into the present day? What would their world be like? And more importantly, What would our world be like? Ultimately shedding light on that eternal question: What is reality?

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Genre - Metaphysical/Fantasy/Action Adventure

Rating – G

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Website http://voyagerpress.org/

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Genre - Science Fiction/Metaphysical/Adventure

Rating – G

More details about the author & the book

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Website http://voyagerpress.org/

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Genre - Science Fiction/Metaphysical/Adventure

Rating – G

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Website http://voyagerpress.org/

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Dreams of the Queen by Jacqueline Patricks

Chapter 1

Darkness reigned in the subterranean passages. The darkness and cool, crisp air caressed her like a silken wrap. Her eyes shut as the alien voices chanting in the distance drifted to her. Weaving its usual peaceful atmosphere, the song ensnared and relaxed her. Cass always enjoyed this part of the dream, and despite the delicate balance of comfort and claustrophobia, she gave herself over to the strange voices. They enticed her, tempting her through the passageway, and she danced forward, heedlessly drawing her fingers along the roughhewn walls.

Then something changed. Tendrils of energy infused her body, tangling her limbs and sensitizing her skin like sunburn. She cringed and stumbled, her eyes snapping open.

A striking man knelt at her feet as if proposing, and her pain receded as she admired him. Long, ice-white hair curtained his bowed head, concealing his features and dark, faintly iridescent clothing, covered his slim physique.  Cautiously reaching out, she touched the crown of his head. Hair like silken feathers met her burning fingers, and a faint blue glow emanated. A static shock and a faint scent of ozone struck her. Her knees quivered and she swooned, lightheaded, before locking them straight and regaining her composure.

“My queen, the time is nigh,” he said. His baritone smoothed over her, scattering the ashes hiding the embers of her passion. 

“Tell me your name,” she said. 

“You know my name.” His head tilted up, exposing his face.

She inhaled, pinned by his bright, indigo eyes and his dilating, catlike pupils. With his pale, sharp features, she recognized him as humanoid but not human, though unbearably beautiful. Could a man be beautiful?  

“You’ve always known my name, my Cass, my Queen.”

“Tell me!” She bolted upright into darkness. The caves... She was still dreaming!  No! She clenched a cotton sheet in her fists. It bunched at her rapidly rising and falling chest.

Her bed ... she was home.

Fingers fumbling the switch, Dr. Cassiopeia Baros leaned over and snapped on the light. Faced away from Julian, her fiancé, she rolled over and smiled in relief at the sight of his very normal—human—body in repose. Having gotten used to her weekly troubling dreams, he didn’t stir; but eventually the light woke him, and he shifted awake with a concerned frown marring his softly handsome face.

Blue eyes blinking and squinting as they adjusted without his glasses, he spoke in a gravelly voice, “Hon?” He reached out and caressed her arm. “That dream again?”

“Yeah...” She entwined her fingers with his and lay back down, concentrating on keeping her breathing slow and even.

“Bad?”

“Sort of ... part of it was different this time.”

“Really?” He sat up, eyes widening. “Wanna talk about it?”

Did she? The intensity in his gaze unnerved her, and she compared his eye color to her dream man’s. What did that say about her? Probably nothing good, definitely nothing she wished to delve into presently. No, she really didn’t want to talk about it right now, especially not with Julian.

“Not now, maybe later?” She hoped he wouldn’t push. Additional details would send him into a frenzy of scientific discovery leading to her being questioned the rest of the night. If, however, she set him up to pry, he’d probably back off. For now.

“Oh ... okay.”

Bingo! Then she quickly added, “I’m just tired, and we have a big day at the lab tomorrow.”

“You’re right ... I just thought. Never mind.” Julian yawned. “We can still get a few more hours. Think you can get back to sleep?”

“No problem.” 

After turning her light off, Cass snuggled under the covers and cozied her back to him. Julian draped a slim arm around her waist and tucked her in close. A short time later, he lightly snored while she studied the gloom, her mind reverberating with the image of the extraordinary man. 

Who was he? Was he real? What did his appearance and statement mean? He sounded so ... reverent when he spoke her name and called her queen. And how had she understood him, yet none of the other voices?

“You’ve always known my name, my Cass, my Queen.”

She shivered, not entirely sure why, and tried to sleep.

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Genre – Science Fiction / Romance

Rating – R

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Emma Right – 10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer

10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer

By: Emma Right

1. Write each day. If you wrote just a thousand a word a day, which isn’t much, in three years you would have written a 1, 000,000 word book. They say it take a million words before a person became excellent in writing. So, hey, what are you waiting for, you future Pulitzer winning author, you.

2. Be yourself. Your personality should shine through your words. You are actually more lovable that you think you are. And really believe that an authors’ work is a window to his /her soul. Oops, sorry Stephen King, you wonder of the horror story genre.

3.Read books about improving the craft of story-telling if you are a fiction writer. I subscribed to Writers’ Digest, and also the Christian Writer’s Guild, and they have resources to help anyone wanting to improve. I feel I’d never be so good whereby I should stop learning, and I have dozens of books on how to write better, and I actually enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy reading fiction.

4. Which brings me to my next point: read more fiction books if you are a fiction author. Read classics, read commercial novels, read popular self-published authors. but especially read in the genre you are writing.

5.Watch movies. I think movies help a person’s imagination thrive. It’s like those stick vitamins you push into the ground to feed your plants. Each great movie is a rich source for other stories to grow from.

6. Ask yourself the “what if” questions throughout the day. Like what if gas got to so high (isn’t it already?) that we’d all have to walk everywhere, or ride bicycles? Madness right? But if gas went to $100 a gallon, who could afford to drive? How would our society change? See how your mind would run away with all kinds of possibilities from there?

7. Next time you watch movie study the reactions and tics of the actors and actresses and incorporate their reactions into your stories. For instance, if the actor is scared what’s his facial expression, or gesture like?

8. Dream. Don’t be afraid to dream big dreams and before you go to sleep, (this one I read in one of those WD books) think of the plot you’ve come up with and let your mind dwell on it as you close your eyes. You might just wake up with a best-seller. At least that’s what Stephanie Myers of Twilight said happened to her.

9.Don’t let negative thoughts pull you down. And there are a lot of negative people out there. Have you read some of those negative reviews? Even for some of the best known authors. Hey, you can’t please everyone. I got a one star review from a person who gave Suzanne Collins’s Hunger Games book a two star…I didn’t feel so bad after I found that out. But notice how I, too, search out the one stars! Forget the fact that there are so many 4 and 5 stars, I had to go search out those 1 and 2 stars. Then I had to remind myself that I was letting the negative energies of others spoil my day, and maybe even my next book. Most authors are sensitive creatures, (you know who you are,) but don’t let the sour-pusses turn your vintage wine into vinegar. And don’t you just hate it when a reviewers write, “I really hate to give this book a bad review…” I’d like to know who put a gun to their heads to force them to do what they hate–give a bad review,that is. So, don’t let the nay-sayers take you down.

10.Never give up. Some say that if the author kept on keeping on they’d eventually end up with a best seller. I bet that could be you!

Books written in blood. Most are lost, their Keepers with them. A curse that befell a people. A Kingdom with no King. Life couldn’t get more harrowing for the Elfies, a blend of Elves and Fairies. Or for sixteen-year-old Jules Blaze. Or could it?

For Jules, the heir of a Keeper, no less, suspects his family hides a forgotten secret. It was bad enough that his people, the Elfies of Reign, triggered a curse which reduced the entire inhabitants to a mere inch centuries ago. All because of one Keeper who failed his purpose. Even the King’s Ancient Books, did not help ward off that anathema.

Now, Gehzurolle, the evil lord, and his armies of Scorpents, seem bent on destroying Jules and his family. Why? Gehzurolle’s agents hunt for Jules as he journeys into enemy land to find the truth. Truth that could save him and his family, and possibly even reverse the age-long curse. Provided Jules doesn’t get himself killed first.

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Genre - Young Adult Adventure Fantasy  

Rating – G

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Website http://www.emmaright.com/Home.aspx

Justin Blaney – The System Is Dead

The System Is Dead

by Justin Blaney

News broke recently that The Cuckoo’s Calling,

a novel by unknown author Robert Galbraith, was actually written by JK Rowling, a little known billionaire who wrote a story about some tosser named Harry Potter. The Cuckoo’s Calling had sold a mere 500 copies over 2 1/2 months, but rocketed to #1 in every category on Amazon, including fresh groceries within hours of Rowling’s secret coming out. Oddly enough, the Harry Potter series sells exactly 500 copies every time Emma Watson cuts her hair shorter.

Though it seemed obvious to everyone that The Cuckoo’s Calling was a great story, it was selling about as well as a PHD dissertation on bird watching. Great reviews, which the book had in abundance, were not enough for the book to catch on. One editor, who rejected the manuscript, recalled that the writing was quite good, but the novel didn’t stand out. A reviewer on Amazon opined that the book was so well written, she would not be surprised if we discover some day that it was written by a famous author. Rowling’s secret may have been discovered because the book’s prose was so self-assured that some readers couldn’t believe it was written by a freshman author.

So if the book is great, why wasn’t it selling more?

Because without her name, Ms. Rowling was reduced to mere mortal status, subject to the same broken publishing system that plagues authors, bookstores and readers everywhere. And don’t put all the blame on editors and agents. You try to pick a bestseller from a stack of manuscripts as tall as the B.F.G.

The publishing industry’s problems are just the first page of a very bad novel. Take a look around and you’ll find a lot of systems are broke.

Consider the system we trust to bring us great movies (which cost $17 a ticket and are rarely worth the price of popcorn, which, ironically, also costs $17).

Then there’s the system we trust to bring us great music (1% of which is bioengineered by Carly Rae Jepsen’s agent to become a #1 single, the other 99% is filler, bioengineered by the ghost of Steve Jobs to waste space on your iPod so you have to upgrade to the 32gb version).

Or how about the system we trust to educate our children. We spend $10,000 per raggy-head-of-hair on public education while 25% of students aren’t graduating high school. You can’t even get a job cleaning gum off the handrails at Six Flags without a master’s degree. And 10,000 bucks? You could buy your little rug rat a desk in the world’s best prep schools for that much money and you’d still have enough to get your family’s name imprinted on a brick in the school gymnasium.

Don’t even get me started on the system we trust to govern us. In the United States, our government debt has reached $250,000 for an average family of five. Europe and Asia aren’t doing any better. I could buy a lot of bricks with my name on it for that much money.

It’s like we’re all playing Parcheesi in a burning building, arguing about whose turn is next.

What should we do about all these broken systems?

Same thing you do in a fire. Curl into a ball and stay still—-no, that’s a bear attack. In a fire, you locate the nearest exit and run.

I’m not talking about colonizing Mars–although that would be pretty cool–I’m talking about creating your own system. One where you’re in charge. If the world’s rules aren’t working for you, starting making up your own.

Do you remember in 3rd grade during recess when that obnoxious redhead kid was losing at foursquare and he tried to change the rules so he could win? That’s what I’m talking about. Except in real life, you don’t have to lose for him to win. Everyone can win. Because you’re not playing against other people, you’re playing against yourself.

The system tells you to wait for that publisher to call you back and offer you a contract– that’s what the system told the author of Harry Potter when she didn’t use her real name. But when you’re making your own rules, you build your own audience and you have a lot more fun doing it because no one is giving you impossible deadlines or designing covers with a blonde when your book is about a brunette.

You can’t trust your employer to keep you on staff when it’s downsizing time. You can’t trust your schools to teach your kids everything they need to know. You can’t trust your grocery story to sell you foods that are healthy. You can’t trust your government to do your retirement planning for you. You can’t even trust your dishwasher to clean the dishes! Or, maybe that’s just my dishwasher.

It’s impossible to win a game that doesn’t have all the pieces.

Create your own game where you make the pieces up as you go. Find friends who love and support you instead of tearing you down. Learn what you need to learn. Get out of bed. Turn off the TV. Put your phone on mute and hide it under your pillow for a day. You may not be able to become anything you want, but you can become more than you are. You may not be able to do anything you want, but you can do more than you are. It takes work. And patience. And more work. And more patience. And sometimes a bit of luck. And good friends.

You’re the only person in this world who is going to make it happen. I, for one, find that very reassuring.

So what have you been waiting for? What systems do you trust that continually let you down? What steps are you going to take to stop trusting those systems and start making your own rules? I look forward to hearing from you. Please leave your comments at the bottom of this page!

About the author

Justin Blaney is the #1 bestselling author of Evan Burl and the Falling. He’s a blogger at JustinBlaney.com and I4J.org, the creator of Isfits, and a film producer with Inkliss. He lives outside Seattle with his wife and three daughters. Connect with Justin on Facebook, Twitter or Youtube.

My father abandoned me when I was an infant.
My friends have turned against me.
My uncle beats me.
The most powerful men in the world want me dead.
They all have one thing in common.
They think I’m turning into a monster.

I’m starting to worry they’re right.

Genre - Young Adult

Rating – PG

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Tangled Secrets by Carol Preston

Chapter One

Wiltshire, England, May, 1829

The stone bench under Bill’s buttocks was hard and cold, but not nearly as icy as the twisting knot in his stomach. His face contorted as tears ran from his eyes, over his bristly cheek and into his beard.

The other prisoners gave him a wide berth. He knew they would find no words of comfort to offer him. As if it wasn’t bad enough to face the prospect of never seeing his family again but then to have the news that not only his wife but his three-month-old baby had passed away. Now Bill’s other three children would be left motherless as well as fatherless. Even the most hardened of criminals would cringe at the thought. And Bill Nipperess certainly didn’t think of himself as a hardened criminal. Poaching one lamb to feed his family seemed a paltry reason to be shipped to the other side of the world for the rest of his life.

Bill wasn’t a man to say much at any time, but now he couldn’t even bring himself to look at the small huddle of prisoners who had gathered on the far side of the cell. He wondered if he’d ever have the heart to speak again. It had been hours since the warden had hissed his gruesome message into the darkness, as if were some piece of irrelevant gossip. In another life such heartlessness would be considered utterly inhumane. But Bill knew the prisoners’ lives had ceased to matter to their jailers. Soon they would all be taken on board one of the ships being readied to sail to New South Wales. In no time at all they would just be forgotten refuse.

‘Can I get you a drink of water?’ One of the prisoners called, his voice cracked with pity.

Bill didn’t answer. He sat as stone-like as the walls and floor around him, his eyes staring into nothingness.

‘P’raps he’ll go stark raving mad,’ another whispered.

‘P’raps it’d be better to be so,’ said a third. ‘Better than knowin’ what we’re to go through … an’ thinkin’ about his younguns all alone.’

‘I heard he has sisters. Let’s hope they take care of the little ones.’

‘Small comfort I should imagine, for he’ll never see them again now.’

****

Bill was thirty years old when he arrived in Sydney Cove on the convict transport, Katherine Stewart Forbes. It was February eighteenth, 1830. Along with some of his fellow prisoners he was assigned to tented convict quarters at Parramatta and put to work on one of the farm plots taken up by members of the military corps. As the months passed, his body hardened and tanned with the physical work but his mind remained tortured. He was sure he would never heal from the devastating loss of his freedom, his home, and his family. He would never forgive himself for leaving his Martha alone, pregnant with their fourth child and ailing from the impoverished existence he had been able to provide in Wiltshire. He had nightmares about Martha’s last days and hours. Her ravaged face was etched into his mind like a raw burn. Her anguished cries woke him often and he would wretch with the agony of the sound in his ears.

However, as the months turned to years, Bill could not deny the glimpses of hope rising within him. He had heard other convicts talk of bringing their families out from England. The pessimism that had reigned in the early days of the colony had gradually been replaced by visions of rich pasturing and successful industries. Even a modest land holding and hard work could produce a life that far surpassed the meager existence available for the common man in England. Well-behaved convicts were regularly given Tickets of Leave before their sentences expired. This enabled them to work as paid employees rather than in servitude. They could become more independent and make choices about their future. If they were seen to honour this privilege they were sometimes granted a Certificate of Freedom, which saw them released from all the obligations of their convict status. They became free men in a new and growing colony where prospering was encouraged and assisted.

In June of 1839, after working hard as an assigned convict for nine years, Bill was granted a Ticket of Leave. He was given a transfer to Fielding’s sheep farm in the Parramatta area where he became known as a diligent worker; a no-nonsense character who could be trusted with responsibility. It was here that he began to dream of a better life. Although at first he had tried hard to push thoughts of his children from his mind, now he began to think about them more and more. Beth was his eldest. A pretty, fair-haired six-year-old she had been when he left. Then there were his boys: Tom and Henry. They’d been just four and two. His sisters had called Tom, ‘Nipper’, from the beginning. He wondered if the nickname had stuck. He teared up whenever he thought of their rascally grins, their hazel eyes and masses of floppy curls. Could he possibly bring them to this foreign place? Could he take them from the only family they would likely remember? Would they want to be with him? Could they ever forgive him?

****

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Genre – Historical Fiction

Rating – G

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Semmant by Vadim Babenko

Chapter 3

At that time, unusual children were the subject of much talk. Their eyes, overly intense and vivid, were mentioned quite often – as was their skill in sensing each other from a distance, and their own language, made up of interjections, which they did not shed until early adolescence. Myths circulated, and one of them was so promising that some governments decided to invest quite a bit of money in us. Of course, this was no act of charity: these people were pure pragmatists. The idea was to create a special breed, a regiment of obedient geniuses who would later be able to pay society back in full. The millions being spent were supposed to reap benefits a hundred-fold. Someone, I guess, genuinely believed that.

They brought us from everywhere, and, to their credit, put a lot of effort into us. The project was massive and not intended to be done half way. The director of the facility met each child personally at the main entrance. I can still recall his narrow face and his troubled, ailing look. And I remember something else: everyone always called him simply the Director. Proper names were just not fitting, for him or for the School.

“Hello,” he said to me quietly. “We will try to make you happy.”

For some reason, it was hard to put much faith in his words.

I didn’t believe him, but I was wrong; they all tried as best as they could. We were treated with cautious dread, as if we were overly complicated playthings. They crammed a mass of knowledge into our brains, and we were eager to learn. But playing in each youngster’s head was his own music, the beating of his own pulse, which was, in fact, encouraged. On the wall of the dining common there was even a sign that read: Do not be like everybody else! And there was another one in the assembly hall, confronting us with the question: Do you have a mission? In slightly smaller script, as if in clarification, was one more: What do you do best?

These were the rules that defined our lives at the School. Clearly, they drilled their way into us forever. I really don’t know what clever tactics were supposed to turn us into team players. Any way you slice it, that idea sounds impractical and just plain stupid. However, top brass saw it differently. They had their own plan, and they conducted training exercises and special games with us. The shrinks worked in turns and called us in for short sessions every few days. We regarded this as a necessary evil.

Sometimes, the Director spoke before us, in person. At those meetings, he was a different man – the morose, self-consumed functionary would be transfigured into a veritable prophet. He would talk in impassioned detail about our extraordinary future. About how they were going to form us into an organized force, something like a Foreign Legion, to induce bloodless intellectual blitzkriegs. He drew diagrams and schematics linked with arcs and arrows to show how they were all connected. He inscribed small squares to indicate the headquarters, reservists, support center, and mobilized groups. United and structured, we would be capable of anything. Even the most complex problems would bend to our will in the shortest time!

He truly burned with the thought of it; it was obvious this project meant a lot to him. We could see he knew how to dream, and that worked in his favor. Of course, his goal was unobtainable. But one should never demand too much from a goal.

They probably should have hung something else in the dining hall, but even that would not have made much difference. When we grew up it became clear: every one of us was insubordinate beyond measure. The Foreign Legion of Indigo would issue forth as a band of loners who could not take orders. On top of that, some of us – children with overly vivid eyes – fell into a depression that was anything but childish, despite our young, happy-go-lucky years. And we weren’t the least bit grateful – not to society or anybody else.

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Genre – Literary Fiction

Rating – NC17

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Website http://www.vadimbabenko.com/