It all begins at five in the morning.  I wake up, make a protein packed breakfast and watch parts of documentaries while I eat.  I’ve watched documentaries on Hitler, Bigfoot, social media conspiracies, economics, magic, and basically anything I can find on Netflix that interests me at the time.  Anyway, after I eat/watch I finish getting ready for my day and then make the drive to work.

Sometimes these drives to work are the best part of my day.  Anytime before six in the morning, the roads are desolate, the mornings are cool, sun is usually rising, and it is just a good time to ponder about things.  There’s something about seeing a fresh new day begin that I love.  Maybe it’s because all the angry, muckiness of the world is still asleep.  I don’t know, but early mornings, as hard as they are to get up for, are some of the best things to experience.

So, after my morning drive, I head into my day job which consists of a lot of heavy lifting and calculations of length.  I work at a labeling manufacturing business where I coat and die cut the various labels for our clients.  You’d be amazed at how heavy paper is.  In rolls of 10,000 feet and sometimes more, these things can be up to two hundred pounds.  For the most part, I like my job.  It’s a keep-to-yourself kind of job and me being the anti-social one I can be, it gives me the opportunities to listen to music and podcasts.  In fact, a lot of my research for books happens in my eight hour shifts at work.  I download a set of podcasts I think will be relevant to what I’m trying to write, and then I listen to them.  I really can’t ask for a better time because after I get off work, my day doesn’t have a lot of wiggle room.

After my shift, which ends at about two in the afternoon, I bust my way on over to the gym.  My workouts are pretty intense, two mile runs at least, three to four mile bike rides and then a half hour of heavy weights.  I’m really trying to get ready to compete in a triathlon, so my workouts have to be pretty frequent or I’ll never train my body the way it needs to be.

Now this is where it gets kind of crazy.  I’m a high school football coach as well and practice starts at 4:30.  So I have just enough time to work out, rinse off, and get a quick bite before heading over to the school to yell at kids.  I love it!  The sport, the atmosphere, the kids, the other coaches I work with.  It’s one of the best opportunities that I’ve had come across my way.  I was hesitant to take on the responsibility at first, with the craziness of my writing and work as it is, but it’s seasonal and I couldn’t pass up the chance to get back into the sport.

Practice lasts until about seven, I get home at about eight, eat, and maybe get some writing in.  Mostly though, I’ll wind down and watch an episode of the office with my wife or we’ll just talk and read together.  The evenings, like my mornings, are a chance for me to think, process what’s happened in the day.  Maybe write them in my journal if I have enough to say.  After or before the hustle and craziness of the day, it’s in these times when I’ll turn to my scriptures to get guidance, peace, and reassurance (or chastisement—it all depends on what my attitude has been that day).

After having wrote this, I realize how packed my day is.  I think the important thing, no matter how busy we are, is we need to make sure we have our priorities in the right place.  For me, it’s: God, Family, Country.  I know if I put God first, that’ll only strengthen my resolve to take care of my family, and if I know my family is taken care of, I know I can then make decisions to take care of my country and community.

Change affects everyone and it is no different for Jackson. Living in Area 38 for as long as he can remember, he knows of no better way to exist than under the tyrannical rule of Christopher Stone, son of Stewart Stone from The Nine of The United Governmental Areas, aka The UGA. This all takes a dramatic turn when Jackson finds a red, metal box buried in his yard, filled with illegal artifacts—journals, a Bible, CDs, etc.—that are from a man of whom he has no recollection of: Mica Rouge.

 The year is 2036 and Mica, unlike Jackson, does know of a better way of life but is torn apart as he sees his country, The United States of America, crumbling from within by group known as The Political Mafia. The Mafia has infiltrated levels upon levels of governmental resources and it is up to Mica and a vigilante group known as The USA Division to stop them and their dark Utopian vision. To their demise, and at the country's expense, The Division fails and has no choice but to watch The Constitution dissolve and transform into The UGA.

In a final stand, having not given up hope, Mica and what is left of The Division, give one final fight in Colorado, or better known as Area 38. However, all is lost as The Division is betrayed by one of their own, Stewart Stone. Mica is left with no choice but to hide in exile, leaving what little history he can of himself and the great United States of America, with his wife, long time friends, and newly born son in hopes that they will one day finish what he could not.

Jackson, having found this legacy twenty-seven years later, decides to start the war that will end The Nine, and he with an outcast group known as The Raiders, begins his fight with Christopher Stone in Area 38. Filled with betrayal, unity, despair, hope, hate and love Area 38 follows both Mica and Jackson in their attempts to restore what they believe to be true freedom, and where one fails, the other rises to the seemingly impossible challenge.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Dystopian Thriller

Rating – PG13

More details about the author

Connect with Mikey D. B. on Facebook & Twitter

Website www.mikeydb.com

What should aspiring indie writers know?

Indie writers have arrived and they are scarring the crap out of traditional publishers because try as they might, they can’t deny indie writers are taking a piece of the cake. And they weren’t even invited to the party. I’ve only been doing this for 2 years and it’s grown immensely during this time. So much so, that there appears to be another division occurring among the indie community itself. We’ve split into two parties. One: writers who know how to write great books and market themselves. Two: writers who know how to write good books and have not a clue on how to market themselves.

Many people are benefiting off of each party, the readers, the writers and the ones who pull the novel all together. The ones who are taking full advantage of this blooming industry, maybe just a little more advantage then they should. Yes, I’m talking about editors and proofreaders. I only bring this up to prepare you in case you are thinking all the hard work is done once you have your manuscript in hand. Unfortunately, that’s just step 1 of 5. And the last four steps can be very expensive and time consuming.

Editors. Which kind? Most editors charge by word count or page count instead of by hour. This is a good thing for authors, because it gives them more upfront pricing and fewer surprises if it takes the editor twice as long to complete. Also, there are three types of editors and their fees are different because skill set, time, and dedicated focus/complexity is much different for each level. Keep in mind, the price of an editor can also depend on level of education, skill set, experience level, or geographic location. Don’t always snag the cheapest just to save a buck. Sometimes another editor who may charge just a tad more may be worth the money where the other could be like throwing it out the window.

1) Content Editor (also called structural editor or developmental editor) – this is someone who looks at the story holistically and makes large scale (think macro level) changes to plot, content flow, character development, plot consistency/holes, believability, etc. This is the first editor you would go to, though most Indie authors can’t afford both this type of editing and copy editing, so they forego this and rely solely on beta readers or critique groups of other writers to give them this type of feedback. If you can afford one, these can be worth their weight in gold, because they will point things out that you never even thought of. But, they run anywhere from $1200-$1800 and up.

2) Copy editor – this is the person who goes through and does a deep LINE editing job. This is to look for grammar, punctuation, tense, character consistencies (ie, she has blond hair in chapter one and mysteriously has red in chapter four), readability/flow, style, etc. Expect to pay anywhere from between $350-$1,000. (All depends on book length and level needed)

Below are some ways to find editors of any price range. Most editors will agree to edit (for free) from a page or two, to a certain number of words, to a full first chapter. This lets the editor gauge the level of editing they might need to do on the book, and also gives you a chance to see if you think the editor is a good fit FOR YOU and your book. Because it works both ways and you want to make sure it’s a good fit before hiring someone on. After all, if they are missing basic stuff, it’s better to know now.

Finding editors is a tricky business. I suggest word of mouth. Look towards writers you like and see who they recommend. Vet them! Read novels they’ve edited for other people. Make sure they don’t have too much on their own plate, especially editors who are writing a novel as well as editing yours at the same time. This is a very expensive business guys and gals, so expect them to be committed to your baby and have a timeline set as to when it will be done.

Amber Tyler is living every author’s dream: her books are all best sellers and she writes full time. She has worked hard and is well-accomplished in her career, and she has the support and love of her beautiful children and girlfriend. 

But the dream soon turns into a terrible nightmare when her latest manuscript is stolen. She decides to fight for what is rightfully hers, only to find that the harder she tries, the easier it all slips through her fingers, putting her career, her family, and her life in jeopardy.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Thriller

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Lori Lesko on Facebook & Twitter

What writing are you most proud of?

Night’s Favour (http://amzn.com/B00EBNA0MU) is my first “real book” and I’m still very proud of it.  I like re-reading it — sure, I find things I’d have done differently if I wrote it again, but I also like the dialogue I wrote, the action, and I like the people in there.

When I finished that book, I actually got pretty depressed for a while, because I was so enjoying my time with Val, and John, and Danny, and Carlisle, that I didn’t want to let them go.  There’s another story with them kicking around in my head, and I’ve started planning it — tentatively called Night’s Fall — but that’ll be a while away yet.

I’m hoping that Upgrade, my current work-in-progress, will be better than Night’s Favour.  I’ve been wanting to write it for years, but haven’t quite known how.  There’s a lot of moving parts.  It’s a story about Mason and Sadie, Laia and Zacharies, Harry and Carter, and they need to be able to tell you their story first.

What books did you love growing up?

I gobbled up anything by Eddings and Feist.  Man, those guys.  I read Lindholm before she was cool and became Robin Hobb.  Really, lots of epic fantasy, truckloads of the stuff before I acquired some semblance of taste.

Science Fiction nabbed me when I found some authors who could do it and tell great stories rather than shitty science.  I was a bit fan of Niven, especially when he hit the power combo with Barnes and wrote Dreampark — and his solo Ringworld books were amazing.  Julian May.

This is where I admit I also read McAffrey.  For the dragons, not the romance, okay?

Steven Barnes.

A little Poul Anderson — it’s hard to keep up with that guy.

My tastes are (only a little) more diverse these days — I’m in it for the story and the telling of it.  I’ll read supernatural, or crime thriller, or whatever, as long as it’s good stuff — but I still find that my real interest lies in more speculative stuff.

Who is your favorite author?

You want me to pick one?

Just one?

There are so many good ones out there.  If you put my back up against a wall, I might say Richard K Morgan.  But it’d be hard to choose — I keep a bookshelf or two at home, full of real books, treasured works.  I consume most of my stuff intravenously via Kindle these days, but if it’s good, I will get the paper copy.  In a non-creepy, totally benign way I like to touch the physical copies, to smell the paper, and to feel the story in my hands.

So, next to everything that Morgan’s written you’ll also find the works of Neal Asher, Glenn Cook, Hugh Cook, Alastair Reynolds, Neal Stephenson (even though I always feel like I’ve ridden the short bus to work after reading one of his), Neil Gaiman, and Peter Clines.

There are more, but that’s a start.  I’d like to think that when I grow up and become a real writer, I’ll be half as good as half of them.

What book should everybody read at least once?

The Cloth Merchant’s Apprentice, by Nigel Suckling (http://www.unicorngarden.com/clothmerchant.htm).

It’s a bit of a rare book today — it’s one of my treasured paper artefacts.  There are still some copies kicking around used online, and I’ve just checked Amazon — it’s out there (http://www.amazon.com/Cloth-Merchants-Apprentice-Nigel-Suckling/dp/0905664086/).  It reminds me of Gaiman at his best, a story that’s gentle and startling, much like Stardust.

This book taught me that you can have adventures and romance together, and that the way a story is told is a tremendous amount of the beauty in it.  The book is honest and respectful, fun and soulful in equal measure.

I will never part with it.

Is there any books you really don’t enjoy?

Anything that’s “YA.”

Wait, don’t go.  It’s not like that.

“YA” is not a genre, not really — it’s a descriptor for a group of people who are trying to find their way in the world like the rest of us.  They’re people, clever and intelligent, and want to know more about which way is up.  They have the best parts of enthusiasm and the worst parts of inexperience.  Saying you’ve got a genre for “YA” is like saying you’ve got a genre for Czechoslovakia.

Is “YA” the best we can do when we’re trying to sell a vapid vampire romance?  I get that a vampire romance can be awesome, so let’s — as storytellers — respect our audience and encourage the brain over the beast.  Let’s not tell stories that feed on our insecurities and baser nature.

One of my favourite quotes here comes from a Master™, Stephen King.  Love or hate the man, but he’s written a lot of stuff about a lot of things.  It’s hard to cite the original source, and maybe it’s urban legend, but it feels right:  “Harry Potter is about confronting fears, finding inner strength and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend.”

Contrast with King’s example of Rowling, or Le Guinn’s Earthsea series, and you can see the gap.  It’s totally possible to write for a younger audience and respect them.  I’d like to see more of that respect when we’re telling stories to our next generation.  After all, these are the people who will be our leaders and change the world after our footprints are gone.

What do you hope your obituary will say about you?

That I lived well, that I did things that were right despite that they were hard, and that I was a good friend, husband, and human.

And that I had one foot in Heaven before the devil knew I was dead.

It’s kind of hard, though.  There’s a way you’d like your life to be like, and then there’s how the world around you impacts on the edges of that.  You’ve got people at work, or people in your social club.

Everyone knows that special person in HR.  You know what I mean.

I’d like all those people, and my friends and family too, to think that I made the world just a little bit better while I was on it.  If that was said at my obituary, that’d be enough.

Location and life experiences can really influence writing, tell us where you grew up and where you now live?

I was born in the Philippines.

Yeah, I love whipping that one out.  Truth be told I didn’t spend much time there — my parents yanked me back Stateside when I was about two years old, give or take, so my memories of the place are just a couple of scattered images.  A garden.  A few people, one of whom I was sure was my nanny.  Nothing bad — it’s a place I’d like to go visit again, with full expectation that I know nothing about it.

Speaking of Stateside, I spent some of my formative years in the US, largely at the edges — Los Angeles and New York City.  I remember sunny places where there’d be a jalopy with the roof cut off, and winters so cold that your face hurt.

I really don’t want to live somewhere where the air makes your face hurt.  What the hell is this, Pluto?

After my folks split up, we drifted across the US for just a little while, touching down in Connecticut before heading to New Zealand.  I’ve spent most of the rest of my life here in little Aotearoa.

When I got here, there were only two TV channels.  There were only cartoons on a Saturday morning.  That’s bullshit, plain and simple.

Despite my initial poor reaction to the backwater third world country that I thought I’d arrived in as a kid, I view New Zealand as my home.  I’ve travelled to a few places, Australia of course, Japan, Italy, America a few times, and the odd resort location to drink cocktails out of a coconut.

I don’t like Fiji.

People around me still think I have a little bit of an accent, and wonder where I come from.  I sometimes wonder that as well, and I like that I can lend a few different voices to my writing.

How did you develop your writing?

By abuse, mainly.

When I wanted to get serious about it, my little brother stepped up and threw me into a writer’s group — run by a pro, and it was more of a critique group than anything else.

Here’s the thing: when you write something, and you put your thoughts on paper, you think it’s awesome.  I mean, it probably doesn’t need any editing, and can go straight from your brain to the printing press at a mega publisher.  The people who aren’t getting published?

Hacks.  All of them.

Then you join a writer’s group, people who really just want to write good stuff, and wow — you will begin to understand just how much you suck.  It’s not like these people sit there and tell you that you suck, but the variety of feedback will show you gaps you never even knew you had.

So yeah.  I wrote a lot, about a lot of different things.  Sure, I was working on Night’s Favour, but I also wrote a few short stories, and some radio plays, and the odd poem or two.  All under the watchful gaze of my writer’s group, who were hard and soft, gentle and stern, but above all else, faithful to making me a better writer.

Other than that, I wrote.  I wrote around the edges of my life, and thought about writing when I wasn’t writing.  Mostly dialogue, but also about scenes, and the way things would play out.

And then I wrote some more.

Where do you get your inspiration from?

It’s possible our house was built on an old industrial spill, with some toxic chemicals that leached up through the loam and into our very bones.  If that’s the case, I’ve been super unlucky with living in houses built on old spill sites, because I’ve had weird ideas since as long as I can remember.

It could have easily have been something baked into the old Crayola crayon set I had when I was a kid.  It’s hard to be sure — was there ever a recall?  How do they make those colours?

I read a lot.  I watch a lot of movies.  I talk to people who read a lot and watch a lot of movies. I like taking something that’s a little familiar to people — say, a nice werewolf legend — and then sprucing it up with a bit of industrial magic, a virus or two, see where it goes.

Ideas are not something I’m short on.  How many of them are good ideas is probably a bit subjective, but I feel like I could sit down and write books until the end of my days, until the tips of my fingers were worn away, and not hit the bottom of the barrel.

I just want to do those ideas justice.  I want the stories to be fun and insightful — I don’t want to start writing without a good idea about the story that wants to be told.  I try and ask myself, what makes this story different?

Valentine’s an ordinary guy with ordinary problems. His boss is an asshole. He’s an alcoholic. And he’s getting that middle age spread just a bit too early. One night — the one night he can’t remember — changes everything. What happened at the popular downtown bar, The Elephant Blues? Why is Biomne, the largest pharmaceutical company in the world, so interested in him — and the virus he carries? How is he getting stronger, faster, and more fit? And what’s the connection between Valentine and the criminally insane Russian, Volk?

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Action, Thriller, Urban Fantasy

Rating – R16

More details about the author

 Connect with Richard Parry on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.rage.net.nz

Tony paced around the obese body like a vulture circling its wounded prey waiting for the moment to tear apart the meaty carcass. His steps were even, his mind alert.

Blood oozed along Tony’s forearms where the victim’s fingernailshad clawed through his skin. The desperate scratches were deep, three to five inches in length, two on one arm and three on the other.

Tony’s massive hands had functioned like steel vice grips. It invigorated him to squeeze relentlessly, well beyond the victim’s last breath.

He spat on the rotund corpse, thinking how this ornery motherfucker dared to rise up and strike him down. The thickheaded asshole didn’t learn his lesson. He didn’t listen to the warning. Cooperate, or pay the price.

Chuck would understand.

Tony had been certain this overweight, self-important black man would give in to their demands. But his ballooned ego got in his way. The zoning commission member had threatened that he would print the email and give it to the authorities.

Obviously, this man didn’t think straight, agreeing to meet Tony in a remote location to work out an acceptable arrangement. Jesus Christ! And the fat fuck brought a gun—to do what, put a bullet in Tony’s chest or through his head? This fucker redefined poor judgment. He must have had a drug problem, in addition to his fetish for skanky porn.

Tony lit a cigarette, one he’d rolled in his apartment. The smoke rose above the rafters into the dark ceiling. His fury grew while staring at the overstuffed cadaver. He wanted to stress the finality of the man’s death, pour gasoline over his body, and light a flame, just in case the victim’s heart had any remaining beats.

The former Marine searched the abandoned warehouse for the necessary props. In the back of the building, behind a pair of dilapidated offices, he located a sturdy crossbeam, maybe seven or eight feet off the dirty concrete floor. Perfect. Tony cleaned up his own mess as usual. Chuck would have to understand.

Behind the façade of every corporate takeover executives pull levers this way and that, squeezing the last profitable nickel out of the deal. But no one knows the true intent of every so-called merger. 

No one knows the secret bonds that exist. 

An Indian technology giant swallows up another private company that has deep roots in North Texas. For one unassuming man the thought of layoffs, of losing his own job to a bunch of arrogant assholes feels like a kick to the jewels. 

Until the day Michael's life changes forever.   

Perverse alliances. An affair of the heart. A grisly murder. A spiraling string of events thrusts Michael into a life-or-death fight to save a tortured soul and hunt down a brutal killer...one who lurks closer than he ever imagined. 

Greed knows no boundaries.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Suspense, Thriller

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with John W. Mefford on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.johnwmefford.com

How do you work through self-doubts and fear? The only thing I fear is losing one of my sons or a person I care about. Failing has never made me fearful. A bigger fear would be to never try to achieve my goals.

What’s your greatest character strength? Loyalty. Once I take you in, I’ll never let you go.

What’s your weakest character trait? Writing for hours, sometimes forgetting about eating or sleeping.

Have you always enjoyed writing? Always. I am an introverted/extrovert. I enjoy being around people, but value and protect my alone time to write.

What writing are you most proud of? (Add a link if you like) I am proud of all three of the books I have written. I cannot write a book in two or three months. It takes a lot of time for me to research the cities, neighborhoods and even bars or restaurants where the novel takes place. Using HUSH as an example, I wanted the legal facts to be correct and spent hours talking to friends who are lawyers, and using an online law site where I paid for answers to legal questions.

What are you most proud of in your personal life?  I am proud that I am a strong role model for my three sons. We all go through difficult times in life. They have watched me pick myself up and dust myself off more times than they’ve wanted.

What book genre of books do you adore? Thrillers of any kind. I am not into blood and gore, or reading about it, but enjoy being held on the edge of my seat.

Soon after Ann Ferguson and Ben Grable marry, and Ben unseals his adoption papers, their perfect life together is torn apart, sending the couple to opposite sides of the courtroom.

Representing Ann, lawyer Michael J. McConaughey (Mac) feels this is the case that could have far-reaching, judicial effects -- the one he's been waiting for.

Opposing counsel knows this high profile case happens just once in a lifetime.

And when the silent protest known as HUSH sweeps the nation, making international news, the CEO of one of the top ten pharmaceutical companies in the world plots to derail the trial that could cost his company billions.

Critically acclaimed literary thriller HUSH not only questions one of the most controversial laws that has divided the nation for over four decades, but captures a story of the far-reaching ties of family that surpasses time and distance.

*** Hush does not have political or religious content. The story is built around the emotions and thoughts of two people who differ in their beliefs.

EDITORIAL REVIEW: "Suspenseful and well-researched, this action-packed legal thriller will take readers on a journey through the trials and tribulations of one of the most controversial subjects in society today." - Katie French author of "The Breeders," "The Believer's," and "Eyes Ever To The Sky."

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Thriller

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Kimberly Shursen through Facebook and Twitter

Website http://www.kimberlyshursen.com/

Breakfast was a mash of overly bright post-dawn light and harsh jarring sounds.  He’d choked back some dry white toast, using black coffee syrupy with sugar as a chaser.  After he kept that down, he brushed his teeth twice before leaving the house, jacket slung over his shoulder.  He was already sweating through his shirt by the time he almost made his bus, watching it pull away from the stop as he rounded the corner.

The driver of the next bus was a man sitting proud behind the wheel, stamping with binary control at the gas and brake pedals, lurching and cursing his way through the crowded morning streets with nausea inducing irregularity.  The only blessing was that no one wanted to sit next to him — even Val could smell the Bacardi sweating through his skin.

He spent his time before his meeting surfing the Internet and drinking bad coffee and stale water.  He avoided his co-workers, taking refuge in his cubicle.  The office hummed with the gentle background of cloistered productivity, phones and conversations overlaying each other into white noise.  All except Werner in the cube next to him; that man shouted into his phone like he was trying to raise the dead.  Maybe he was — he worked the marketing angle of the project they were on.

By the time he had his meeting with Davies, the shaking in his hands had stopped, the world returning to normal levels of brightness and colour.  He was still sweating through his shirt.

“Sit, Val.”  Davies’ tailored suits were a thing of office legend, fitting a frame that spent a lot of time eating healthy food and doing whatever it was they did down at Gold’s Gym.  He stood behind a baroque desk, a screen, keyboard, mouse, and cellphone laid out just so.

Val’s personnel file was open on the desk too, a couple pages marked with cheerfully coloured Post-its.  A gold pen, Cross brand embossed on the clip, sat ready on a legal pad.

No notes, yet.

Val shut the office door behind him and settled into a chair designed for thinner men.  “Hey, Pete.  Look —”

“Hear me out, Val.  It’s not what you think.”  Davies shuffled a few of the pages of the file, as if he hadn’t already read each page twice.  “You’ve been with the company a while.”

That was a bit unexpected.  “Uh, sure.  Since —”

Davies held up a hand.  “Almost five years.  Done some good work for us.  Really saved our asses in that coding war with Unisys.”  He chuckled to himself, as if it was some beachhead victory they were remembering together.  “Top performer three years in a row.”

Val shifted a bit.  The padding on the chair was worn thin, and he felt like was sitting on raw plywood with sackcloth nailed over the top.  “…Right.”

“There’s not really a delicate way of talking about this.”  A smile that was more a grimace sat on Davies’ face.  “Since Rebekah passed, well, we’ve noticed some changes.”  Davies looked at Val’s gut, then picked up the Cross, tapping it on a paragraph in the file.  “Fact is, we still need you.”  The clock on the wall ticked by a few more seconds, the sounds of the city outside the open windows gentle.  “But we need the old you.  You’re a wreck —”

“Hey Pete, c’mon.  I crank out the code like you need.  I’m the first guy to punch in every morning…”

“And the first guy to hit the Blues at lunch.  After lunch, you’re back at your desk, but you’re thinking about your next drink.  When was the last night you didn’t knock back even just a few?”

“Everyone has a pint after work, Pete.  Be serious.  We work in computers.  And our clients are assholes.”  Val tried for some easy camaraderie.  “Who wouldn’t drink on a government contract?”

“It’s not like we work in the ER, Val.  And if it was the work that was the problem, we could fix that.  You work in a team of what, ten guys?”

“Yeah, and they come down for a beer at lunch too!”

“They don’t all go down.  With you.”  Davies examined a perfectly manicured nail.  “At the same time.  Fact is, they’re going down to make sure you’re ok.  A few of the guys — and I’m not naming names, it’s confidential — are worried about you.  They said they want to keep an eye on you.  They’ve come to see me, to ask me to … intercede.”

He grabbed a sheet from the file — this one suspiciously laid out in corporate style — and spun it on the old wooden surface towards Val.  “It’s a leave form, Val.  It’s on the house. But it’s got conditions.”

Val didn’t lean forward to look at the form.  “You’re getting rid of me.  Gardening leave.  I don’t know if I should be flattered or pissed off.”

Davies tapped the paper again.  “Maybe you should just be…  Well.  I think we both know ‘happy’ is a bit of a stretch, considering.  Get your house in order.  Drive up the coast.  See some friends.”  He paused, as if the idea had just occurred to him.  “Get some help, Val.  See someone.”

Val reached forward to get the sheet, seeing his hand shaking with either anger or the memory of the hangover. Maybe a heavy salting of both.  The form was straightforward — a month of leave, but with a small catch.

“The company wants some return, of course.”  Davies looked down in carefully constructed abashment.  “We want the old Valentine Everard back.  We want you a productive member of the family again.  We’re going to … invest, shall we say … a few weeks.  What’s a few weeks?  That’s on us.”  Nodding, Davies replaced his expression, looking Valentine right in the eye with an affable smile.  It was like watching a super marionette, as if all those management courses had taught him which emotions to try and fake, and when.  “But you’ve got to do your share.  A part of the bargain.”

It was there in black and white.  They’d even helpfully supplied a phone number and a website — probably one of the narcissists in HR.  Those fuckers thought of everything with their saccharine sincerity.   They wanted him in an alcoholics group of some kind.

“If I don’t sign?”

Davies swapped the grandfatherly smile for a look of grandfatherly reproach.  “Well Val, then things might have to get formalised.  You know how it is.”  As if it was out of his hands.  Just one of the boys, Val and him in this thing together.  “But we — well.  I don’t want it to get formalised.”  He handed the Cross to Val.

After he’d signed — like there’d been a choice — he walked out to collect his jacket.  He felt as if the entire office watched his walk from Davies’ office to his cube, the air heavy with the silence of funerals.  The hessian partitions were covered with the same old crap, charts jostling for supremacy next to Dilbert cartoons.  The odd slice of fake humanity was shown with photos printed in cheap colour on the office laser — corporate functions, team building.  Outside his own cube, he saw a photo of himself peeking out from under layers of project charts and productivity estimates.  It was like growth rings on a tree, those layers — the closer to the heartwood of the hessian backing, the older they were.

He remembered that shot, pulling it out.  The photo showed him sprawled on the ground, the thick rope for tug-o-war draped over him and his team buddies.  He’d been thinner then, the grin cracking his face one of delight.

It was probably about the time when Rebekah had first told him she was pregnant.

Valentine’s an ordinary guy with ordinary problems. His boss is an asshole. He’s an alcoholic. And he’s getting that middle age spread just a bit too early. One night — the one night he can’t remember — changes everything. What happened at the popular downtown bar, The Elephant Blues? Why is Biomne, the largest pharmaceutical company in the world, so interested in him — and the virus he carries? How is he getting stronger, faster, and more fit? And what’s the connection between Valentine and the criminally insane Russian, Volk?

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Action, Thriller, Urban Fantasy

Rating – R16

More details about the author

 Connect with Richard Parry on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.rage.net.nz

After a brisk ten minute walk Colin was stood on the pavement opposite the Aberdeen Music Hall, the venue for the first gig on Maiden’s Hair’s mini tour of the United Kingdom. He gazed at the magnificent pillared façade of the former Assembly Rooms and reckoned it was an appropriate setting for its band members who were paying tribute to legends of the heavy metal music genre that he had always enjoyed.

He crossed the road and searched out the poster advertising that night’s performance. There were no surprises; every detail on the billboard was exactly as Colin had included in his laptop file. There were six group members, all Canadian born and bred. Although the original members of the real Iron Maiden were now in their mid fifties, these young men were in their early thirties, with toned muscular bodies and a full head of hair nestling on their shoulders. Each one was every inch the rock god that they were imitating from the original band as they looked out from the billboard dressed in their ubiquitous denim and leather uniform.

Gabriel Anderson the dark haired lead singer with a pilot’s cap under his arm; Vincent Gagnon, Jordan Campbell and Nick Williams who provided the three guitar identity of the legends they were paying homage to. Jordan’s twin brother John was eerily like Nicko, Maiden’s drummer and Brandon Taylor completed the line up on bass as he mimicked Steve Harris, Maiden’s founder member. Colin was mesmerised. He couldn’t wait to hear them play tonight; if only it could have been Iron Maiden themselves! Still, he had to admit that the playlist was everything it should be, all the early favourites and a few of the newer tracks as well.

Colin’s stomach was telling him he had missed breakfast. He checked around the sides and back of the imposing Music Hall building to make certain everything was where he thought and then he walked down Union Street to find somewhere to eat. When he was fed and watered he made his way the short distance to the public library, where he spent several hours whiling away the time until he had calculated that the Maiden’s Hair entourage would arrive, ready to prepare for tonight’s gig.

Around three o’clock in the afternoon, Colin wandered back in the drizzly rain and sure enough a large Mercedes truck was parked up by the stage doors of the Music Hall. There were two roadies and it was evident to Colin that they had only just started unloading gear from the back of the truck. A couple of young lads were fetching and carrying smaller items, such as boxes of microphones, metre upon metre of leads, microphone stands, plus all the paraphernalia a drum kit comprises, all enclosed in battered old covers. The heavy lifting and manoeuvring of amplifiers, speakers, PA systems and lighting rigs was best left to the professionals!

Colin approached the older roadie and asked ‘Frankie?’

‘Yes mate. What can I do you for?’ Frankie replied in an accent not from Montreal or Ottawa but straight from London’s East End.

‘The tour management sent me up to give you a hand. I’ve just got back from several years abroad and I need to get some time in driving on the left hand side of the road again! I guess the extra pair of hands will be useful setting up too?’ Colin said.

‘Brilliant!’ said Frankie ‘Billy’s inside with a couple of staff from this place and I’m just going to start offloading the heavy stuff. If you want to pitch in you’re more than welcome mate!’

Colin took hold of the speaker cabinet Frankie shoved towards him, hoisted it easily onto his chest and walked into the building. As he walked towards the stage he had a brief smile at the corner of his mouth. One phone call to a dim young girl in London at the tour management company’s offices and he had discovered the lead roadie’s name; it was like taking candy from a baby! Neither Frankie nor Billy was going to check up on him. They would be only too happy that there was an extra pair of hands around to help with all the grafting and driving that they had to do; when you’re pretty much on minimum wage why sweat it?

The next couple of hours were spent getting the kit onto the stage and setting it up. Colin had seen it done hundreds of times on a smaller scale in The Crown and had studied footage on ‘how to’ online, so he coped well enough on the stuff he was comfortable with and steered clear of anything that was foreign to him. He watched Frankie and Billy in action and made mental notes of the various steps he needed to go through on later gigs on the lighting rigs for instance, to stop anyone asking exactly where and what he was doing when he was overseas. Life on the road as a road manager is one helluva lot tougher than lounging about with a cocktail in your hand on the veranda of a luxury villa, but Colin was pretty fit for a guy in his early forties and he had his eyes on the main prize. Travelling with Maiden’s Hair and listening to them play virtually each night was a bonus. Each gig was taking him closer and closer to his first task; to avenge the death of his precious daughter.

The sequel to the award winning ‘The Final Straw’ sees Colin Bailey return to the UK after almost a decade abroad. With a new name and a new face he still has scores to settle. His meticulous planning takes him ingeniously across Scotland and the North of England ticking names off his list with the police completely baffled. 

DCI Phil Hounsell pitted his wits against Colin before and so he is sent to Durham where he teams up with super intelligent young DS Zara Wheeler; together they track their man to Manchester and then eventually south to Bath. 

The final scenes take place on the streets of the Roman city; Phil Hounsell’s family is threatened and in a dramatic conclusion reminiscent of Holmes and Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, the two men struggle above the foaming waters of the historic Pulteney weir. 

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Thriller

Rating – PG-18

More details about the author

Connect with Ted Tayler on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://tedtayler.co.uk/