One single choice sends Margaret on an adventure that will change her life forever!

Margaret is supposed to be a powerful witch, but much to her parent’s disappointment, she can barely produce a spark of fire to light a candle. When her friends convince her to mess with magic she doesn’t understand and can’t control, the results are disastrous.

With one bad choice, Margaret has sent herself and her friends to another world where having magic powers can get you imprisoned, or worse, killed.

Now all she wants is to get back home, but with her lack of magical abilities and knowledge, she must find help from a place that no longer exists. With the guidance of a local boy, she sets out on an adventure filled with dangerous creatures and soldiers bent on capturing them.

When her wish to go home is finally coming true, she must make a choice that will change her life forever.

Targeted Age Group:: Young Adult

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Margaret, the main character, was actually meant as a side character for another book I'm working on. Her back story was so interesting that I thought I would write a short story about her. Well, It ended up being more then a short story and morphed into a whole book.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Margaret, the main female character, is inspired by a friend I had when I was in high school. Toby was meant to be more of a side character, but he ended up growing more into the male main character. The inspiration for him comes mostly from my younger brother and his constant brooding.

Book Sample
A gust of air blew through the room, blowing the candle out. The large light overhead shattered, plunging the room into darkness. Someone screamed, but Margaret didn’t know who. The wind picked up, and her whole body shuddered. “Hold on tight. Whatever you do, don’t let go.” She yelled, forcing her voice to rise above the roar of the wind.

Her feet left the ground as a deafening shriek pierced her ears. She wanted to cover them with her hands to quiet the noise, but couldn’t without letting go of the other girls. Her body floated in the air, being pulled upward towards the ceiling. She desperately tried to hold on, but the force was too great, and her hands slipped from Emma’s and Jenna’s. She tumbled through the air. Fear gripped her chest, and her breathing came in fast, shallow gulps. She could hear someone screaming and realized it was her voice as she continued to tumble through the air in total darkness.

Without warning, a streak of lightning flashed, causing Margaret to shield her eyes from the brightness. Then there was nothing. The wind stopped. The horrible loud noise was gone, and she was laying on her back.

Relief swept through her as her heart slowly returned to normal. Thankful to be alive, she lay there with her eyes closed. It was stupid of her to mess with magic she didn’t understand. She took a deep breath and allowed her hands to flop down on either side of her.

Her fingers grabbed hold of cool grass. Her eyes popped open and she sat straight up. She shouldn't be feeling grass, she was inside when the incantation started.

Her heart pounded in her chest once more. Wherever she was, it was dark. She could just make out what looked to be an outline of trees in the distance. The stars shone brightly, and for a moment she took in their cosmic beauty. There was something different about the blanket of stars, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Then she saw it. The one thing that confirmed she was not on earth anymore. There were two moons.

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Learn life-changing insights from hundreds of bestsellers – by reading just one book.

As a busy CEO, Ayesha hated her lengthy commutes – until she turned them into her own mobile library. Soon, she was completing over 70 audiobooks each year on happiness, health, productivity, and success – while stuck in traffic. She began capturing and categorising the most valuable research from her readings for rapid reference. In doing so, she realised that it was possible to derive a handbook for life based on the expertise of hundreds of researchers. So, she set about doing just that.

The output is Cheat Sheets for Life – a concise handbook of science-backed advice on 17 dimensions of life, from health to money to leadership to relationships.

In Cheat Sheets for Life, you’ll learn:
• How playing the classic game “Tetris” can protect your mood
• The superfood that is “the most important dietary predictor of lifespan”
• Why you don’t need to have 8 glasses of water a day – and what to do instead
• The simple technique you can use to double your weight loss
• How to increase your chances of finding a partner by 25-46%
• The one factor that can predict your relationship satisfaction 10 years from now
• Why using all your vacation days boosts your chance of getting a raise
• Why you should keep a cute baby’s photo in your wallet
• How to decide whether to quit your job
• And 740+ more valuable insights!

Cheat Sheets for Life aims to be the last book you’ll ever need to pick up to improve your life. Using time-tested research, it strives to give even the busiest individual a foolproof guide to leading an optimised life.

Targeted Age Group:: Adults

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
When I was a child, my father encouraged me to read non-fiction. So, in addition to my towers of fiction, I started reading books on science, philosophy, and self-help. And I discovered, between their pages, useful insights that could help me make my life better. As I grew older, I came to love non-fiction even more than fiction, and I started reading deeply about happiness, productivity, and success. I turned my lengthy morning and evening commutes into library visits, listening to audiobooks on my pet subjects, eventually completing over 70 books in a year.
I started jotting down notes from my readings, categorising them according to the area of my life they would benefit. I discovered that, across nearly every dimension of my life, I didn’t need to reinvent the wheel. Someone, somewhere, had performed scientific studies to identify which actions produced the best outcomes the majority of the time. In effect, it was possible to derive a handbook for life, based on the efforts of hundreds of researchers.
So that’s exactly what I did. After decades spent combing through, saving, bookmarking, and taking notes from research, articles, Yale courses, and hundreds of books, I built the book I’ve been seeking all my life – a concise handbook of science-backed advice on 17 dimensions of life – from health to money to parenting.

Book Sample
1 Everyday happiness

“Of this be sure: You do not find the happy life…
You make it.”
Thomas S. Monson

We all want to be happier. Luckily, while 50% of our happiness does derive from our genetic setpoint, and 10% from our life circumstances, a whopping 40% is determined by our own actions, thoughts, and intentions – it’s in our control. Try these practices to build more joy into your life.

Cooking up instant happiness

1. Smile – Smiling tricks your brain into thinking you must be happy, as much as 2,000 bars of chocolate or receiving 20,000 dollars in cash! Even a fake smile counts. For an even bigger boost, try laughing.
2. Walk happy – The way you walk affects your mood. Avoid slouching and walking slowly. Instead, take longer strides, hold your head high, and swing your arms.
3. Make music work – Songs with 60-80 beats per minute (but no lyrics) can reduce stress. Find a playlist on YouTube. Actively try to feel happier when listening to upbeat music – it works.
4. Get out in nature – Reap the benefits of going green. Just 20 minutes in nature lowers stress hormones. Even a house plant or looking at photos of natural scenes helps you recover from stress.
5. Savour this moment – Appreciation is a more powerful predictor of life satisfaction than personality, gratitude, gender, age, or ethnicity. For best results, use all your senses when you savour the moment.
6. Consider the worst – Right now, consider all the minor choices and occurrences that had to happen to make the most fulfilling parts of your life possible. Then, imagine your life if they had never happened.
7. Take photos – Did you know that taking photos can actually help you enjoy an experience more? Go on – get clicking!
8. Focus – You’re less happy when your mind wanders than when you’re focused on what you’re doing. Avoid multitasking and get absorbed.
9. Rediscover the past – Reminiscing (even about normal, everyday experiences) can generate a surprising amount of happiness.
10. Plan a trip – Planning a trip can make you feel great, even if you don’t take it. Design for yourself the perfect day with everything you most enjoy – then go live it!

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Cheat Sheets for Life: Over 750 hacks for health, happiness and success Print Edition at Amazon

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A town on the brink.

A teen pushed to the edge.

A life changing event leads Chris Hauser to adopt a vigilante persona and sets him on a collision course with anarchy.

Targeted Age Group:: 12+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Experiences from my own tumultuous teenage years and a lifetime of being inspired by comic books and vigilante media.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Many of them are inspired by my own experiences and based on my thoughts, ideas, and complex personality.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Nightshade: The Inception Print Edition at Amazon

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Reviewed By Lois J Wickstrom for Readers’ Favorite

Folktales have magic, kings, wicked step-mothers, and beautiful maidens. Good is sometimes rewarded. Evil is sometimes rewarded. And sometimes tricksters fool their way into power. These things happen in Sri Lankan folktales, too. But, unlike European folktales, the characters are not simply good or bad. This mix of traits makes the stories take unexpected turns. How many people do you know who would invite a thief to live with them because the thief is poor? Have you ever heard of a jackal that wanted to marry a human? Or a man who tried to get to heaven on the tail of an elephant? These are a few of the interesting stories in Folktales of Sri Lanka compiled by Hannah Leah.

My favorite tale in Folk Stories of Sri Lanka is “Sigiris, the Intelligent Man.” This tale of a rich man who became poor and then rich again is full of humor and twists and turns, fooling and being fooled. Like all the stories in this collection, it has the feeling of having been told and retold through generations. Sigiris’s tasks and rewards are varied. One of the tasks is a near duplicate of a European folktale about a tailor. The others were new to me. I was also impressed to see a beautiful young woman behave rudely, but receive rewards anyway because she has a true and honest brother. Folktales don’t really have an author. Hannah Leah has done an excellent job presenting Sri Lankan folktales and thereby sharing some of Sri Lankan culture.

Targeted Age Group:: 5

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
when I'm reading an old story book of Sri Lanka, I thought it should be known to the world. so, I selected some stories and brought up the book for you!

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I didn't come-up with character's, because this story book is created by selecting stories from Sri Lankan books.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy folk stories of Sri Lanka Print Edition at Amazon

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Despite being a regressive and unhelpful stereotype, it was nevertheless accurate to say that dragons were aggressive, bloodthirsty brutes. Not George, though. He’s a self-professed ‘decent’ individual with a penchant for organic cookery, gardening, and making his own clothes. Oh, and he’s a vegan, you know!
George’s adventure begins when he decides he wants some hummus. However, as Dragonville definitely isn’t the sort of place to find chickpea-based snacks, he sets off towards People Town to visit his favourite place in the whole world, the glorious Farmer Fred’s feel-good, local, family, fair-trade, organic wholefoods store.
Follow George as he traverses Dragonville, desperately tolerating the idiots who wander into his path – before continuing on towards lovely, civilised People Town where unfortunately our heroic, massive, fire-breathing reptile encounters further unwarranted prejudice.
Will George get his delicious dip? Will he make any new friends? Will years of suppressing his true instincts make him have a terrifying and very-public nervous breakdown? Find out!

Targeted Age Group:: 18+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I started out trying to be a children's author but soon became sick of non-swearing heroes and the crushing restraints of morality. Driven by the maverick lack of focus that has dominated my entire life, I started writing stuff for my own amusement – and now I have a book series for adults featuring a poncho-wearing, vegan dragon!

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The main character started out as a child-friendly individual who just wanted to be accepted. Now he's an uptight sort who thinks very highly of himself – and is largely based upon a person I know who will remain nameless! I tend to choose characters from TV shows and mix and match their traits to form new characters. I'm a big fan of stereotypes and pretty much everyone in my books is awful in some way or other!

Book Sample
Excerpt – The Quest For The Holy Hummus (Ch1-3)
Chapter 1
It had just turned 9 am and in Farmer Fred’s feel-good, local, family, fair-trade, organic wholefoods store, things were not going well. Leaning on his counter, Julian clutched his skull through his long and now damp hair, then looked towards the man with the clipboard who stood alongside. “Surely there’s a way around this?” His voice trembled around the dried pulse-crammed aisles of the deserted shop. “If you’ll just give me more time, I’m certain I can find the money—”
“Sorry, mate.” The man didn’t look up from his writing. “Not my decision. They just send me to record what you’ve got that’s worth anything. I don’t make the rules.”
********
Over the last few months, trade in People Town’s only health foods shop had been on the decline.
Notwithstanding an unhelpful lack of assistance from known-science surrounding the phenomenal benefits of organic, vegan produce, for almost a decade, Julian Pinkerton Smith had tried his best to convince the town’s badly-in-need-of-guidance population that premium-priced, painful-on-the-gums foods were the avenue to a healthier and happier colon.
Things had initially gone well – back in the beginning, Julian could barely keep up with the demand for expensive lentils and obscure spices sold in industrial-sized bags without any information as to their points of origin. Unfortunately, however, those halcyon days were gone.
Despite being a business that championed sustainability, the only thing Farmer Fred’s was currently sustaining was a stream of red letters and court summonses. Now at over fifty-thousand in the hole, the bank had decided to pull the plug.
********
With a purposeful scribble, the man finished his list, then clicked shut his pen. “Ok, Mr Pinkerton Smith.” He took a final glance around the shop to check he hadn’t missed anything of potential value. “You know the deal. You’ve got until noon to pay up or we’ll be back with the van to collect this lot.” He ripped off a top copy and slid it along the counter.
Pushing up his thin frame on his even thinner arms, Julian began to pace down the turmeric aisle, his sandals flapping noisily over the floor. Suddenly he turned and raced back over. He looked to the man appealingly. “Is… is there any way we could extend this for a little?” Nervously, he tugged at his wispy beard – not strictly regulation uniform in the organic food industry but in practice, as good as. “Just between me and you?”
A look of terror darted over the man’s face.
DING! Julian sent the till drawer flying outwards. “Perhaps the sum of… twenty-three… no, four… pounds and sixty… this is the money I had earmarked for the children’s home, by the way… seven pence?”
Relief visibly sweeping over him, the man shook his head. “No!” he laughed. “And in terms of bribes, that’s the worst one I’ve had this month.” He began to look up and down the ‘beetroot – perfect for realistic, guilt-free burgers’ display over by the veg wall. “To be honest, I think the bank’s doing you a favour – taking this place off you. You should be grateful I’m not a health inspector!” He pushed his pen towards the spelt flour shelf where a large dead beetle could just be seen poking out underneath. “By the looks of it, you’re lucky you haven’t killed anyone. In the storeroom, as well.” He flicked his head sideways. “The droppings?”
“Um… well…” Julian squirmed then folded his arms defensively. “…we’re a vegan establishment, aren’t we?” He began to sidle behind the revolving community leaflet rack in a bid to hide the sweat patches that had now started to manifest. “We can’t very well go around poisoning and decapitating living creatures in the furtherance of making a crust, can we?”
“Mmm,” replied the man, clearly unconvinced. “So what’s with that big mallet behind the bin out back? The one with all the little, black legs stuck to it? And the broken mouse traps and the… Oh yeah! Speaking of murdering stuff, isn’t this the place where…?” He put on a grotesque expression, then mimed taking a huge bite out of something. “A couple of weeks ago, wasn’t it? That bloke who owned the jewellers? Still no trace of him! That sort of thing can’t be doing you any favours – you veggies are famously fragile at the best of times.” Suddenly he looked over his shoulder and out of the window. “Actually, now I think about it, doesn’t it come here quite regular—”
“Look!” Julian grinned broadly. “Perhaps I was a little um… un-generous in my um… postponement-of-payment offering earlier.” He delved into his cargo shorts pocket and removed a fistful of change and a few old receipts.
The man frowned. “You’re wasting your time. And let’s face it, even if I did give you more time – which I can’t because well, the bank, but if I did – look at this place! Just gone nine – peak breakfast rush – and it’s deader than the things dried-onto your wooden hammer. And probably poor old what’s his name… Mr Winterbur—”
“Um, excuse me!” Julian hadn’t become the town’s premier and only ethical grocer by listening to the twisted logic of non-believers. If this person had no power or intention of being bribed then this charade of fawning and basic human decency could go right out of the window. Julian fixed him with a glare. “Not that I have to explain myself to the likes of you, Mr I-am-just-following-orders – and we all know what that leads to, don’t we? – but our target clientele don’t tend to have nine-to-fives; most of them seem to walk dogs for a living. So getting up… before about eleven isn’t a big thing for them. No, do you know why the business isn’t currently doing quite as well as it has done? Do you? No, of course you don’t!”
The man shrugged then lifted a bottle of Totally Harmless Cannabis-brand CBD hemp oil from the counter and looked at it. “Your prices?” he said. “Really, really expensive! I can get this in the big supermarket for fifty percent less, not mention a one-hundred percent less chance of being consumed by a gigantic, green monst—”
Julian snatched away the bottle and clanged it back amongst the others in the display basket. “Those are very fair sums for the quality being provided!” he stated. “It isn’t cheap to source organic, fair-trade products, you know. To provide the peasants of the Third World with a living wage and still make me a margin worth getting out of bed for. In the past, these things were flying – well, at least walking; we’re opposed to air travel, obviously – off the shelves.”
“So, what changed?” asked the man now making his way towards the door.
“Well, people of course!” snapped Julian. “Now they’re finding new ways to be virtuous!”
The man slowed slightly then turned. “Sorry, what?”
Julian scrunched up his eyes, incredulous that he was getting his stuff repossessed by someone who didn’t even understand basic health food psychology. “Back in the olden days,” he scoffed, “you had veganism, animal rights, and the greenhouse effect – simple, just the three. You can remember that, right? Save the whale and the ozone layer and all that other guff from school? Come on, you’re not that old. So, by shopping here you could pretty much score a hat trick with those. Tick, tick, tick. Job done. Pat on the back, fuzzy glow, all sorted!” He looked wistfully towards the ‘Quinoa (it’s pronounced keeeen waaaaahhh)’ sign on the end of the aisle nearest to him. “BUT!” He spun and fixed the man with a glare. “NOW! Now they’ve ruined everything! EVERYTHING!”
The man’s brow knitted. From the safety of his office, the hippy shop assignment with its spindly Son-of-God-resembling proprietor had seemed like a one-man-job – however, now things were getting out of hand. “Sorry, I’m… I’m not following. I… I just make the lists.”
Without warning, Julian took a step towards him – just like he had done to that security guard in the monkeys-with-highly-infectious-diseases lab back in his university days only this time it wasn’t quite as menacing as he didn’t have a balaclava and a crowbar and seven accomplices. “They ruined everything!” he hissed. “They… they saturated the market! Now there are just too many things!”
“They? Too many?”
“With causes!” Julian edged forward. “Causes to support! Things to be sanctimonious about! Not an ounce of business sense between the whole lot of them.”
The man swallowed hard and took a step away. “Ok. Well, as I said, we’ll be back at—”
Julian nodded at him. “That’s right,” he seethed, mistaking the man’s growing look of panic with their sharing of a moment. “Now they can signal their virtue with literally anything without even trying. Without even leaving the house or spending any money, for goodness sakes! From the comfort of their own computer!” He curled out his bottom lip then pretended to wipe away tears with both hands. “BOO HOO HOO!” he screamed.
The man dropped his clipboard with a clatter.
“I feel so bad about fat celebrities getting fat-shamed or war crimes or whatever!” Julian pretended to blow his nose on a People Town Alternative Basket Weavers leaflet plucked from the counter. “I’m SOOOOO sensitive! Look, I liked a picture – that’s my astounding level of non-financial, non-life-affecting commitment. I mean, seriously? How can anyone make a living out of the morality industry anymore?”
By now the man had turned squarely towards Julian and was reaching blindly behind to try to open the door.
Julian continued to twist up his face. “What about the foreign farmers who can’t afford sunblock or shoes?” he spat, now beginning to circle the man who had snagged a belt loop on a large plastic-lined wicker basket of reduced food-mile brazil nuts. “The poor wretches I selflessly bend over backwards to try to support with very, very modest gains – in recent times, at least – for myself? What about them? I’m practically a charity – without the tax breaks, obviously. He exhaled deeply, suddenly beginning to calm. “Veganism and food that doesn’t destroy the planet is old school,” he said. “And not in a cool way, either. Now you can be an attention-seeking snowflake whilst still having an enjoyable and balanced diet. It’s a tragedy.” He reached down and picked up the clipboard, causing the man to flinch. “Here. Oh, the handle is higher up; you’re nowhere near.”
“OK!” With a ding, the man ripped open the door. “We – m… me and some others, lots of others, b… big ones – will be back at 12.01,” he stammered. “Don’t do anything stupid like try to hide anything listed on that document. I know you will, but don’t, ok? Oh, and if that creature happens to come by and doesn’t look to be leaving, I’d appreciate it if you could call our office and… Look, this job is minimum wage and I’ve got kids; you understand?”
As the door closed, Julian slumped down onto his counter.
This was bad. He was out of options. At midday, he was going to lose the shop.

 
Chapter 2
Far away over the hills in Dragonville, Beethoven’s 5th drifted from the open window of the small hut that sat on the outskirts. The tarmac road that ran from the town had tailed off into moss and lichens a few hundred metres back, leaving the place more or less completely cut off from the rest of dragon civilisation – exactly as its inhabitant wanted.
With a gentle clang, George slid a tray of pitta bread dough into the oven then promptly took a seat at the table. He glanced to the clock. It had just gone quarter-past and previous attempts had shown him his pockets of wholegrain deliciousness would be ready in around seven and a half minutes. Nine twenty… three, he noted. Wearily, he looked around the kitchen. What to do? There was, of course, the yeasty warzone in the sink to contend with, not to mention the collateral damage to the countertops. However, as his ankles now matched his knees in width, staying seated seemed sensible.
Grimacing slightly, George leaned over to the sideboard and smartly turned the volume dial on the record player all the way to ‘off’. He sighed deeply. A few moments of respite while he waited for the oven to beep. A violin-free period for nothing but quiet reflection and meaningful contemplation. An opportunity – perhaps – to try to get to grips with who he was and where he was going and ultimately, for what purpose had he been placed here, upon this huge, revolving planet…
Suddenly, he spotted something nestling beneath the avocado-laden fruit bowl – his bi-monthly periodical, Dragon’s Health Magazine. Still in the cellophane wrapper! “Aha!” he exclaimed. Reading about self-improvement – a most-productive use of his time!
George dragged free the magazine and began his betterment browsing. Ok, so perhaps he didn’t resemble the incredibly-toned dragons featured on the glossy pages, but he certainly shared their obvious body-confidence issues – it was just that he didn’t bother to do anything about his. It was fine, his muscles were underneath. Five tons and fat was fashionable right now. Casually, he flipped to the centre spread. ‘Fire-breathing: Double your eruption with the Pyro diet.’ He began to scan, glancing to the photograph of the huge-chested beast who was belching out an arc of flames about six-times its body length. Undeniably impressive.
A minute passed and now the smell that had started to drift from the oven was making George’s mouth water. Still poring over the images of scaly beefcakes doing their workouts, he slipped his green hands beneath the red and white tablecloth and began to vigorously rub them together. Possessing foot-long talons did make getting rid of all the leftover dough after a hard-core baking session rather a laborious task.
He carried on with his palm polishing, still trying to find his optimum rhythm. “Mmm!” He pouted as his claws began to feel smoother and smoother. “Wonderfully satisfying!” Momentarily, he brought a hand back up and turned the page. ‘Big buff thighs!’ he read. Goodness! Those things were massive! He would have silky-smooth fingers after all this. Perhaps rub a little faster? “Mmmmm! Oh yes!” The simple things in life!
Now the table was starting to rock.
George pressed on, trying not to think about the state of his floor tiles. Oh yes! Oh yes! He could feel the heat building up in his hands. And those pittas were beginning to smell divine! He was really salivating now. This was what making your own bread was all about! This was why you went through all that hassle! His forehead was starting to glisten. He bit his bottom lip. This dough-scale exfoliation felt sooo good! Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh ye—
CRASH! The whole house shook.
“RAAAAR!”
SMASH!
“Go! Go! Goooooo!”
George leapt from his seat, knocking it backwards, and then dashed to the window just in time to see an object whiz past and crunch loudly against the side of the potting shed. “My prize butternut!” he gasped. “In the garden? In broad daylight? The horrendous, filthy brutes!”
Striding towards to the door, George hastily undid his frilly floral apron and tossed it over the back of a chair. Quickly, he slid back the first bolt, then the second and third, and finally the chain, then creaked it open.
“Excuse me!” he called, raising his nose to peer above the greenery. “I say! The yooou-ths! The yooou-ths rrr-unning amok in the veg-e-table plot! Could you not…”
Now the garden was empty.
George scanned the undergrowth for signs of movement. Despicable, feral, little fuc—
WHHHOOOSSSHHH!
“WOOOAH!” A pumpkin skimmed down past George’s cheek and exploded at his feet, splattering both him and the doorstep with its mushy insides.
Shocked, he looked back over his shoulder – just in time to see a girthy cucumber looming towards him. “No… no… AAAAARGH!”
SPLAT!
The sound of scrambling came from above, followed by two slates smashing onto the patio in quick succession.
Stepping back across his perfectly-manicured lawn, George swiped the gooey mess from his cheek and nose, and flicked it across the path. “You!” He glared at his roof in disbelief. “You disgusting…ly disadvantaged individual! Come down! Come down at once!”
On the edge of the sagging eave balanced a young, thick-set female dragon with excessive daubings of lipstick plastered across her podgy, blue face. Eyes wide open, mouth agog and legs shaking, the dragon stared directly at George making him swallow hard. Slowly, she began to lift her arm and as she did, an object became visible in her hand.
“DON’T YOU DARE!” Arms now clutched over his head, George waddled away across the grass to make himself a harder target for whatever projectile was coming his way. “Incredibly anti-social conduct!” he scolded. “Get… get down here this second! Come on! I’m a sporting chap. Off my land on the count of three and we’ll attribute this the fault of society and say no more about it. One! Two—”
“Hello!” she grunted.
George blinked. “What?” Briefly, he dropped his claws to look over the top. ‘Hello’? Was that it? Dislodging his shingles and the grubby reprobate couldn’t even manage a ‘Hello, sir’?
The young dragon forced a smile and, accompanied by a sickening creaking of wood, began to tightrope along the edge holding a phone to her head. “Yeah, I’m on his roof!” she whispered. “Yep. Right here, watching me! He’s got the tablecloth stuck to his stomach.”
George cringed. What had she seen? No, don’t even go there. He fixed her with a steely look. “What on ruddy earth do you think you’re playing at, missie?” Actually, was it a ‘missie’? He squinted. Hmm, possibly? Probably safer to sit on the fence and not mention it again. Quickly, he folded his arms and put on his best extremely-cross-but-could-be-won-over-with-a-little-effort face. “I insist you remove yourself from my gutterage, forthwith! And incidentally, this is a sa-rrrong!”
The dragon, still on the phone, looked down and shook her head. “Not on your life, you big salad-tosser!”
George winced. Dietary-related discrimination. Ok. What to do? What to do? He looked around. There, propped up against the shed, was the ladder he used to trim his apple trees. That would do it. “Now come down this instant!” he demanded. Purposefully, he took a step over. “Or there’ll be some pretty serious trouble!”
“N… no way!” Hurriedly, she began to ascend towards the chimney stack.
George reached the shed and looked back to see the dragon still hadn’t taken heed of his request. “I mean it,” he called. “Don’t make me come up there.”
Now perching precariously on the cowl, the dragon looked down. “G… go back inside and I… I’ll come down by myself,” she called, clinging to his weather vane. “I um… doubt that thing’s even strong enough to hold your weight!”
George tutted quietly to himself. A size-based insult, coming from her?! She wasn’t doing herself any favours. As he hoisted the ladder from the floor, he began to feel adrenaline running through his veins. “There’ll be severe consequences,” he explained. Too right there would be; he was more than familiar with the law on dealing with trespassers. “This is your Last Warning! And for the avoidance of doubt, that’s a defined term as per section three of the Protection of Residential Property Act 1967, better known colloquially as ‘You’re My Bitch Now!’”
The dragon stared back and once again lifted the phone to her head while trying to hold on with only one arm.
For a few moments, George stood there watching her squirm. Home-security scholar that he was, he was well aware that he needed to wait at least four and three-quarter minutes between giving a Last Warning and administering any lethal hand-to-hand self-defence – not that it would go that far hopefully but it was always good to have carte blanche with these things. That said, waiting much longer also didn’t seem wise; the roof was already creaking badly and if it gave way, the fat criminal would probably sue him for loss of self-esteem. Plus, there were the pittas to think of.
A glob of teary trespasser snot landed silently on George’s head. Instantly, he felt his temperature rise. A broom handle! Yes, that would do it. There was precedent for that; the so-called ‘Just cleaning off the moss’ defence. He could go and grab the big sweeping brush and crack on with his annual maintenance, oblivious to the presence of anyone who ought not to be there in the first place. No. No. George quickly forced the utterly permissible idea from his mind. Given her position and the roof’s slope, she would likely barrel directly into his rockery, where he had spent nearly an hour planting bulbs only last week. Now, if he could coax her along a bit, on the other side it was just tarmac…
A rustling at the bottom of the garden dragged George from his legal loopholing fantasy.
CRASH!
“OIII!”
“LOOK AT US!”
“YOOO HOOO!”
Five dragons leapt out of the bushes on the other side of the fence and blasted flames into the air.
“YEEE-HAAA!” called the dragon on the roof, jumping up and hurriedly swiping-dry her eyes. “Told you I’d do it! You all owe me a fish lump surprise from the Tapeworm Roulette sushi bar!” With a huge leap, she flung herself from the guttering and down into the carrot patch, leaving deep footprints in the mud, then raced down the garden and knocked the gate flat in her attempt to vault it.
Charging down the path, George reached the boundary just in time to see the pack stampeding into the distance. “Why, you… you… you beastly unfortunates!” he yelled. “You disgusting destitutes! You disgraceful dregs!”
From down the track, the roars increased as George’s rebuke fuelled their excitement.
“You just wait until I see your parents!” he continued, his anger suddenly spiking as he noticed the still-steaming insult that had been deposited next to the celeriac. “If I catch you in here again, I’ll… I’ll…” Electrify the fence? Bear-trap amongst the broccoli? Crossbow connected to a courgette? George stopped, took a deep breath, and silently counted to three.
Walking along the previously-spotless, now mud-splattered fence, he furrowed his brow at the carnage. With a groan, he picked up a set of vegetables that had been arranged into a distasteful reproductive image – although considering that dragons barely wore clothes and certain none below the waist, it was surprisingly inaccurate. Teeth gritted, he threw them onto the compost. “Such a waste,” he muttered. “Not even ripe yet.”
Wearily, George began to try to reattach the trampled runner beans to their scorched canes but soon gave up. Why? he asked himself. Why did they have to behave like this? Why couldn’t they just stay in their grotty concrete town and leave him alone in the nice green bit on the outskirts? With a heavy heart, he scooped up the remains of a politically-incorrect garden gnome, then set off back towards his hut.

Chapter 3
George had lived alone on the furthermost edge of Dragonville for nearly as long as he could remember.
It wasn’t as though George had never tried to get on with the rest of his species, although it was fair to say he hadn’t tried very hard. During his early years, he had, of course, attended school – Dragonville High Comprehensive. George’s schooldays ought to have been a happy time, however, his inability to not really irritate everybody due to an out-of-principle sensitivity towards literally all mainstays of dragon society – even the less objectionable ones – had quickly meant that he became a target for victimisation.
Unfortunately for George, the years of name-calling and beatings did nothing to suppress his unorthodox opinions and he remained an oddball who would go through day-to-day life attracting abuse from all angles. However, Dragonville being Dragonville, it was only a matter of time before things escalated far beyond the point at which George could stand there and look about, po-faced. The final straw had come one fateful Monday lunchtime in an event that, to this day, remained vivid in his mind and still caused him to wake during the night, dripping in sweat.
********
The town hall clock had just clanged 1 pm as George entered Staphylokebabus, the newest and therefore, for the moment at least, the cleanest-looking takeaway on Dragonville High Street. Normally, George wouldn’t bother with these sorts of establishment; he knew they only sold deep-fried animal entrails and, as a recent convert to veganism, could never find anything appropriate to choose. However, this place was new so perhaps they were different? There was always hope.
Clad in a bright yellow, chunky-knit polo neck – his most-recent homemade creation – George joined the queue and began to scan the giant, illuminated menu boards out in front. ‘Dog eyes in chilli sauce. Cat intestines with garlic mayo. Barbecued badger ribs (hot).’ He continued down half the options before giving up. “Yuck!” The same old stuff. Apparently, he was going home to roast another cauliflower. He began to edge himself free. “Typical!” he groaned. “Absolutely ruddy typic—” Suddenly, something caught his eye. Squashed into the bottom right-hand corner of the menu were the words, ‘Deep-fried spicy fal’. It must be ‘falafel’! thought George, instantly brightening up. The single obligatory option for the non-meat-eater. They didn’t forget me!
George slipped back into the line and now stood patiently with his polo neck pulled right up over his nose in the hope that the ethically-sourced wool might counter the stench of the unethically-sauce-covered flesh that seemed to be everywhere. Did they use separate oil to fry the non-meat products? he wondered. Did they use different utensils to pick up different things? He glanced to the half donkey which was revolving on a spit on the other side of the counter, and then to the server dragon who had just given his bottom a very thorough scratch before delving claws-first into the shredded cabbage. George pulled his jumper up a bit higher. It probably didn’t make too much sense to think about what happened in the back, out of sight.
Over ten minutes of ignoring dubious food hygiene went by.
“NEXT!”
George stepped to the front.
The server dragon repositioned his paper hat and leaned forwards, leaving greasy claw prints on the surface. “What d’ya want? Lunchtime special?”
“No, thank you,” said George quickly. He had no idea what the special was but was one-hundred-percent confident he would not be interested. “I’ll have the deep-fried spicy falafel, please. Sorry, I’m assuming that dish is suitable for vegans; you couldn’t possibly confirm, could you?” The server looked confused so George began again, “The falafel,” he pointed towards the corner of the menu, “does it contain any animal products?”
Still looking directly at George, the server opened his huge mouth. “Dwayne!” he yelled. “Does the deep-fried spicy flamingo contain any animal products?”
“Fl… flamingo!” spluttered George. “You… you think I would eat flamingo?! That’s… that’s not even how you would start to spell flamingo!” That was a quarter of an hour of his life that he wasn’t getting back. “F-A-L is what you’ve written!” he snapped. “It’s obviously falafel. Fal… fal… falcon, maybe? I suppose I could have just about accepted that; it would have been slightly more predictab—”
“Fallow deer?” quipped the dragon who stood immediately behind in the queue. “Bit tenuous?”
George glared over his shoulder. “Not helpful!” Seriously hangry, he spun back to the server whose still-open trap was now really irking him. “You… you believe I, me! – a plant-based patriot of nearly two months – would ever, ever, ever put flesh – of any sort – inside my body?” Now his neck was starting to spasm. “That I would ever consent to such a barbaric act? I’m appalled at the mere suggestion! Literally—”
“Oi! George!” snarled a voice from behind. “How’s about you calm it down, hmm?”
“—literally, literally appalled!” George carried on. “You contemptible carnivores are once again questioning my beliefs! My heartfelt beliefs of virtually nine weeks! How… how dare you?! I mean, meat! MEAT! Meat is murder! You’re all m… murderers!”
“George! Leave it out!”
“Incredible!” he spluttered. “My lifestyle is being ridiculed by a bunch of appalling, murderous, murderous… you’re all an absolute disgrace! An absolute downright absolute disgrac—”
“George! I said, that’s enough!”
“Filth!” he hissed! “Every last one of you! Unfit-to-walk-this-earth murderous, murderous filth! Pure, stinking, filthy, dirty—”
“GEORGE!”
“—filthy, dirty, filthy, dirty, filthy, dirty, filthy—”
“GEORGE! GEORGE, I MEAN IT!”
“—dirty, filthy, dirty, filthy, dirty, FILTHY, DIRTY, F—”
WHOOOOSH! A ball of fire sent the server diving for cover before spreading out around the walls and ceiling.
“Yowwwww!” Snapped back into reality by the sensation of being encased in fizzling lemon knitwear, George rolled frantically onto the floor, trying to extinguish himself. “Aaaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaargh! Aaaaargh! Aargh! Ahhhh! Ahhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh!” FZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
“This is the last time!” came a voice. “Get the fat weirdo!”
“Hmm? What?” Still shrouded in smoke, George looked up just in time to see a tattooed, blue fist whizzing towards his nose. “Dylan! No—”
CRACK!
“Owww! Crikey! No!” George brought his claws to shield his head.
WHACK!
“Owwwww!” gasped George. “Sorry, Dylan – and your charming gang-related friends – there’s been—”
“You won’t do this again will you, Georgie Porgie!” Dylan glanced sideways at an incredibly muscular red dragon. “Tyler, put your back into it!”
SMACK!
“Ooooof!”
“Still rubbish!” snapped Dylan. “My mum can kick harder!” He let out a deep, frustrated sigh. “We talked about this, didn’t we, Tyler? And we revisited your training, didn’t we, Tyler? Sorry, but we in The Dragonville Massive have standards to uphold. I’m afraid it’s gonna have to be a verbal warning!”
“Aw! What?! No way! For f—”
“Now do it again!” snarled Dylan. “Neutralise the weirdo – like we practised.”
“No, no, quite unnecessary!” gasped George, now unsure if the excrement in which he was rolling was his own or that of a third party. “Already most-agonising, certainly no skills-issue here, a good 8.5 on the pain scale—”
SPLAT!
“Oooooh!”
WHACK!
“Ooooof!”
SMACK!
“Motherf—!”
Cackling laughter rang out all around the shop, followed by more kicks and stamps. Slowly the lights faded and George’s moaning fell silent.

When he awoke a day later, at first George didn’t know where he was. In a dim room, surrounded by blood-splattered curtains and an unpleasant stench of stale urine. It seemed familiar but his head was still very fuzzy, plus there were lots of places like this in Dragonville. The library, possibly? Then, as his vision fully returned, the photographs of grinning doctors and nurses posing around his naked, unconscious body confirmed it. He was in the accident and emergency department. Again.
And that was it. There, handcuffed to a sodden bed with ringing in his ears, George made his decision. From now on, he would keep away from everyone in Dragonville. He would go as far away as he possibly could – right to the outskirts – and he would live all by himself. No more dragons.
********
Back in the kitchen, the smell of freshly-baked bread was comforting and as George hurriedly removed the tray, he smiled with relief. “Not a second too long. Impeccable!” You could do a lot in seven and a half minutes.
Doing his best to put the probable hate crime in the veg plot from his mind, George plated up four of the pittas and went to the refrigerator knowing exactly what he was looking for. The ultimate in comfort food. A delicious-yet-healthy spread that would complement his wholegrain baked goods perfectly. The life-blood of the happy vegan – organic hummus. However, as the fridge light illuminated his excited, chubby face, in an instant he remembered the previous evening. “Midnight snack!” he groaned, clutching his brow. “None left. I completely forgot!”
Irritated, George dug through the shelves, shoving bunches of celery out of the way and dropping radishes onto the floor. “Must be something suitable,” he muttered. Flavoured soy spread? No, he didn’t fancy it. Avocado dip? Meh. Tofu? Not even sure why he had bought that.
With a bang, George closed the door and then looked back to his heaped plate. Now the bread didn’t seem so golden and delicious; more dry and bland and desperately, desperately tasteless.
A nervous tingling had now begun in George’s palms.
It was hummus – and only hummus – that he wanted. But this wasn’t a foodstuff you could get in Dragonville – or at least not the ultra-virtuous version of it that George had in mind. This involved a far more masochistic and therefore worthy trip. He took a breath, drawing in a deep lungful of the intoxicating kitchen smell, then held it until his eyes glazed over. “FUUUCCCKKK!”
A perilous challenge now beckoned – a wholly unnecessary one brought about through a sheer determination to be awkward. An endeavour to make his life needlessly difficult. An escapable experience. An avoidable adventure. It was him all over. Classic George.
The siren song of the hallowed chickpea dip was calling to him – and that meant only one thing. It was time to travel to People Town – and more precisely, its ethical grocer. It was time to visit the glorious Farmer Fred’s feel-good, local, family, fair-trade, organic wholefoods store.

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FREE on Amazon, Apple, Nook, and all your favorite e-book publishers
*Also…download free bonus chapters by following the link inside!*

She was always lying.

A gentle soul searching for sincerity in an insincere world.
A tale-spinner living in a maze of lies.
A story that unfolds when two hearts meet.
What is sincerity, what is freedom, what is true love?

If you’re in the market for contemporary romance that slides like ice cream down your throat, look no further. Novella DAISY FIELDS is a perfect long-weekend read, or a wonderfully romantic gift for your gentle—or crazy—sweetheart.

*     *     *     *     *

She’s twenty-two or thirty-nine. She’s from Texas or from Alaska. Her mother left her when she was little… or was she abducted? She’s stalked by a loan shark, but she’s never taken a loan.

When David decides to take the wacky, quirky Kalifornia Mooney as his housemate, he doesn’t expect his world to be turned upside down. As their mutual affection grows, so does the inexplicable chasm between the two friends. Kalifornia keeps her life shrouded in mystery, and no matter how much time they spend together, he doesn’t seem to know the first thing about her. Who is she? What is she so afraid of? Is she a refugee, as she claims to be, and if so, what is she running from?

Targeted Age Group:: 16-60

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
DAISY FIELDS is a contemporary romance novella that slides like ice cream down your throat! I started it because I wanted to try writing from the perspective of an HSP like me. David Nighthart is a soft-spoken, SLR-yielding hero whose perceptiveness toward those around him is a key ingredient in the romance that unfolds.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I wanted to write a romance novella that's a bit off the beaten path. I was specifically interested in writing from the perspective of a man, preferably the sort of guy you don't see on the covers of most romance novels. David is passionate but gentle, attractive but unassuming. With the wacky, young freelance writer named Kalifornia, I created a playful counterpart to David. I think they make for an unusual but very engaging couple.

Book Sample
She was always lying.
“It’s the loan shark,” she said as she pocketed the envelope that had been left in our mailbox. I’d only had the chance to glimpse the name in the return address: Jackson Jackson. “Have you ever been involved with a loan shark?” she asked.
I had not.
“Keep it that way,” she said. “This guy’s been on my tail for some time. I owe him a crap load of money.”
“Really,” I said.
She stole a couple glances at me while I put down the grocery bags to unlock the door. “Yeah, really,” she said, already growing defensive. “I was nineteen. Young, beautiful, and naive. I had no idea borrowing a hundred bucks could be such a risky affair.” She paused. “A hundred and fifteen.” Our eyes met. “And seventy-five cents,” she concluded breezily.
“I see,” I said. “He got you with the interest, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Um, the interest? Like twenty. A week.”
“Twenty what?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Percent? Bucks?”
“Yeah, can you believe it?”
I waited a moment. “Yen?”
She ignored me. Her gaze hovered spacily over the celery hearts sticking out of one of the bags. Veggie sticks for dinner, I thought. After a moment, she took off her sopping sneakers and lined them up neatly beside my boots on the mat. The moment she unbent and caught me smiling, her pout returned.
“It’s not funny, you know,” she said. “If you ever find yourself eighty thousand dollars in debt, you won’t be laughing.”
“Oof,” I said. “That’s a lot. I’m sorry.”
I sounded so serious it caught her off guard. She made that face—the “surprised fish face,” my friends called it. She searched me, first directly, then, turning her head a little to the side, from the corner of her eye. I picked up the grocery bags and stepped into our apartment.
“I’d help you if I had money,” I said.
She smiled uncertainly and began to wiggle in an attempt to shrug off her backpack.
“So…” I said. “You were nineteen when you borrowed a hundred bucks. There’s a twenty percent weekly interest. Now you owe eighty thousand dollars. How old does that make you?”
She stared at me with her mouth open. A smile came into her eyes.
“Do you need a calculator?” I asked.
She adjusted her glasses. “It’s insensitive to ask a lady about her age,” she said. “Really, I’m surprised at you, David.”
She began to wiggle again. I smiled and tapped on my chest, showing her that her chest strap was still clipped.

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Inspired by the brotherly love of Vincent and Theo Van Gogh, Brothers Sen Gogh ruminates about the pains of a sensitive soul, the inability of society to identify artistic talent and the heartbreaking tragedy of a flawed brotherly relationship.

Soubhik Sengupta is an indie musician with emotional fragility.

Sourav Sengupta is an indie music producer who is unable to launch his brother.

Will their life follow the script of the life of Van Gogh brothers? Will Soubhik be appreciated for his talent? Will he find his lady love? Will Sourav be able to convince people of Soubhik’s talent? Who is Prashant, who calls himself the modern Gauguin? Will Indrani be able to leave her checkered past to lead a family life with Soubhik?

With their life script following the brothers separated by one and half centuries, Brothers Sen Gogh is a journey into the real nature of artistic freedom, the intricate relationship between talent and destructive sensitivity, struggle of the life of an indie musician and the perils of an alternate life. Traveling in the bylanes of Mumbai, the story tracks the tragic lives of the Sengupta brothers as they try and build an alternate life following their passions.

Targeted Age Group:: 18+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I was inspired by the relationship between the Van Gogh brothers. Vincent Van Gogh is certainly one of the most famous artists in the world, but few knew that Vincent earned very little during his life. He lived off Theo, his brother, who was an art dealer.

The book portrays a relationship between the Sengupta brothers, one of whom is an indie musician and another a music producer. Their life script mirrors the Van Gogh brothers story, of does it?

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The characters in the book are derived from my passion for indie music and a deep study of their lives. The characters try to lead a life of passion and integrity and deal with a lot of hardship due to their inability to compromise on their principles. There are other characters that are loosely based on the Van Gogh story, like the one of Prashant, who is a stockbroker much like Gauguin. Revealing more about characters would be spoiling the surprise, so I will stop here.

Book Sample
RAVINDRANATH SENGUPTA COULD not even look up to see Sourav. The
weakness was overpowering and he knew he had a few precious last days.
Sourav had come to Shibpur in midst of a couple of launches that he thought
were crucial to his career. He did not care though. For him, his family meant
more than anything else.
He was a little puzzled though when Dad sent away Soubhik and asked mom
also to go out. "What is it that he has to talk to me that he can not share with
Mom and Bhikuda?", he wondered.
Dad asked him to come closer. He bent and brought his ear closer to Dad's face.
"What is it Dad?, Don't worry, the doctors here are the best, they are going to
make sure you are out in a week."
Dad made a face indicating he did not agree with the doctor.
"They don't know anything. I know I am going to go. I am not unhappy. I
have lived a happy life. I am proud of both you and Soubhik. And I am more
proud of your love for each other. You truly are the Van Gogh brothers of the
modern age."
Sourav knew Dad admired Vincent Van Gogh for his creativity. He was not
aware of the other brother though.
"Who was Vincent Van Gogh's brother"
"You are. Please take care of my Vincent, dear Theo", said Ravindranath
feebly and closed his eyes.

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Losing Control Over Yourself
One of the biggest problems we face today in this progressive world is the lack of nutritional food included in our diets. The world is changing rapidly, and so are our habits with each passing year. The world has progressed tremendously over the years, and it has directly affected the way of our living in one way or another.

Autophagy is not just another diet in the market to influence bloggers, fitness enthusiasts, or celebrities. It is a lifestyle. It is a healthy habit that you willingly indulge in and make the most of throughout your life. Regardless of its simplicity and easiness, autophagy comprises several unique sequential steps – transport to lysosomes, degradation, and utilization of discarded products – as each step may differ from the other. The process of autophagy is quite different from other extracellular processes. Three types of autophagy – macroautophagy, microautophagy, and chaperone-mediated autophagy are discussed thoroughly in the book along with promised advantages and long-term benefits on your health.

The book covers multiple concepts and guides as to how these concepts can be adapted into lifestyle choices and habits to make the readers healthier happier and live longer concepts being tackled include losing weight through an extensive explanation of what to eat and what not to eat the idea behind or Autophagy and how it can lead to anti-aging benefits and different diet plans we are what we eat and this book is all about Eating Well Sleeping Well and How that Can Make us Stronger, Healthier and Happier!

Your mind and body needs legitimate chance to unwind in which they can recoup from all the pressure and weariness they have experienced. An appropriate recuperation is just conceivable if sound wholesome eating regimen is put inside the body to catalyze the procedure.

“This book contains information about dietary patterns that you can adopt to sustain better health in modern society. Autophagy is one such process, as proved by Dr. Yoshinori Ohsumi. His research on the subject bagged him a Nobel award for this groundbreaking contribution to the health industry.”

Visit Website: https://myketoblog.net

Targeted Age Group:: 15+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Michael Del Buono, is a health practitioner who operates on Autophagy and a healthy lifestyle. He strongly believes that the true way of living a healthy and nutritious life is to train your body as well as your mind. Throughout his life, he has advocated the benefits of Autophagy, and how it plays a huge role in our life in combating several illnesses, obesity, and potential health threats. His book, “Autophagy and Fasting Step-By-Step Guide” ISBN: 1952263344, is his masterpiece, where he informs the readers about the abundant advantages of Autophagy and the science behind it.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Michael Del Buono, is a health practitioner who operates on Autophagy and a healthy lifestyle. He strongly believes that the true way of living a healthy and nutritious life is to train your body as well as your mind. Throughout his life, he has advocated the benefits of Autophagy, and how it plays a huge role in our life in combating several illnesses, obesity, and potential health threats. His book, “Autophagy and Fasting Step-By-Step Guide” ISBN: 1952263344, is his masterpiece, where he informs the readers about the abundant advantages of Autophagy and the science behind it.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Autophagy And Fasting Step-By-Step Guide Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Autophagy And Fasting Step-By-Step Guide On Amazon

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Book is Bargain Priced starting 03/09/2021 and ending 03/15/2021. Check the price on the book before you purchase it, prices can change without notice.

About the book:

A journey through space, a dimensional slip, and a dark uncharted region in the galaxy, all add up for big trouble.

Centuries in the future at the Space Agency HQ near the galaxy centre, Intergalactic craft 1B sets out to look for reported missing ships. Space Agent Jim Long finds himself in an uncharted section of the universe; forced into immediate action to save the craft and crew.

The spacecraft enters an unknown area that throws everything into a state of chaos. Stranded, and shifting into other dimensions, communication to the outside mysteriously cut, causes confusion and fear. Mysterious deadly foes duplicated appear in different time-shifts ready to cause mayhem and death. Finally, the crew challenged to fight on everything abhorrent to humanity, sexism, racism, and extreme religion, under the control of dark, malevolent spiritual beings called the Nomed.

Will Jim and crew ever escape from this fiendish driven environment? With his usual drollness, wit and fortitude, the Nomed use Jim for their amusement until the situations become critical in a nerve-ending climax.

Link to get bargain ebook

A missing scientist and a deadly discovery. An unknown organisation with a global agenda and a new detective, who is good at ice hockey.

‘Not Yet Detective’ Charles Burns hasn’t been named to a newly formed task force. That was supposed to happen Monday. But a brilliant young scientist and his revolutionary discovery have disappeared. Has he been kidnapped or is he complicit in a terrorist plot to commit mass murder?

SOMETHING IN THE WATER Book One: “Drowning” follows Charles Burns and a newly formed unit of the London Metropolitan Police in real time as they search for a missing scientist and try to stop his discovery from becoming a weapon against humanity. Little is known about the scientist, but his work has attracted the attention of more than just the Health Ministry. It’s unclear who knows that the formula has a fatal flaw, and could become a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands.
“The complexity of the plot, the action, and the depth of the main characters makes this a real page-turner.”
– Amazon Reviewer

Targeted Age Group:: 18+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The "Something in the Water" series" was inspired by humankind's insatiable appetite for 'making the world a better place' and our failure to do so. Science and technology are advancing faster than we can deal with the consequences of this appetite.
In Book One: Drowning, a scientist wanted to prevent the deaths of millions, but something went wrong on the way to 'saving the world' and now an unknown organisation has plans to weaponize the formula.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The scenario was clear before the characters. I wanted to create a main character of superior intelligence and skills who is dissatisfied with his limited role in the world. I also wanted him to have likeable and un-likeable traits, giving the reader the choice to like/admire, or not. Likewise, the victim and the antagonist. All of them think they're going to save the world but only one will.

Book Sample
PART ONE: FRIDAY NIGHT

23:41

“What do you mean he’s gone, Dawson?” Detective Chief Inspector John C. Wayne had not been expecting a call from Detective Sergeant Michael Dawson, only a text message to confirm his subject was in bed. And he was not expecting that for at least another hour. Wayne had hoped to be asleep before it came.
“Gone. From the opera,” Dawson panted. “Professor Veda, and Kaia. He— they’re gone, sir.”
Wayne could tell that Dawson wasn’t his normal self but somewhere between confused and exasperated. Or drunk.
“All right, Dawson,” said Wayne. He kept his voice low and even out of habit, as the calm voice of reason. “No need to panic. They probably left early, before the fat lady sang. Purcell isn’t for everyone.” Or anyone, really, he thought.
“All right, Dawson. What happened?”
Dawson sounded slow, but even. “I fell asleep, sir. I believe I was drugged.”
“You believe?” Wayne caught his voice and offered an excuse. “It’s Purcell, Dawson.” He wanted to believe the easy explanations. But the worst-case scenario kept needling him.
“Yes, sir it was. But…”
Wayne let the silence hang as he walked back to his office, phone in hand. He put it on the desk next to his touch pad.
Wayne tapped the pad and dragged his finger diagonally to pull a 16×16 grid of camera feeds onto the left-hand screen. Each image had a small dialogue window below it with an abbreviated address and the camera’s GPS coordinates. Wayne could see the last opera-goers still filing out of the Opera House.
He sent the link in a message to Special Analyst James Tully’s phone as he continued to scan the viewers:
You up? Need you on this. More to follow. Show it to HOLMES.
Wayne knew Tully’s expertise with the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System would come in handy one day. He hadn’t expected it to be today. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as he continued to toggle round the camera feeds. Each highlighted image bulged out of the grid in a 3D effect as he zoomed in on his target.
Wayne saw the block of feeds from the car park off Drury Lane and highlighted and dragged it over to the right-hand screen. He watched as life played in three-second clips on each of the fourteen cameras in-and-around the three-storey car park.
He could see Dawson, dressed in a tuxedo standing next to the Peugeot assigned for ferrying Dr Veda and his date to the Royal Opera House. Wayne noticed the passenger door was slightly ajar.
“Did you open the door?”
“No sir. It was open just like this when I came up here.”
This was a crime scene now, and Wayne went into management mode. The Home Secretary had given him Dr Veda exactly thirty-five days earlier when Veda had arrived in London from Oxford University. Wayne had no idea who Veda was before he got the call, and he said so. She explained that Dr Veda was doing important work for the Health Ministry, and his personal safety was of the highest importance.
The Home Secretary expressed concern that Veda might have difficulty adapting to life in London, so it was decided that he would have a plainclothes officer as his driver for an undetermined short-term transition period. Wayne accepted the Home Secretary’s explanation before considering whether the professor had value to anyone or faced any threats.
Wayne had assigned Michael Dawson to the first official posting of the MCU2. Dawson’s file was one of the first few dozen files Wayne had culled from his initial candidate search of the Met’s personnel database. One phone call to Dawson’s superior in the Intelligence Command had put him on Wayne’s short list. Still in his twenties, Michael Dawson was one of the youngest officers to earn the rank of detective. But Wayne was most intrigued by Dawson’s two failed attempts to join MI6. They met once, and Wayne revealed little about the task force he was creating before Dawson volunteered to request the transfer himself. He accepted his first assignment with few questions, and Wayne appreciated that. But it wasn’t a babysitting job anymore.
“Well, you did look, right Dawson?” Wayne didn’t wait for Dawson to reply. “What did you touch?”
“I pulled it open by the latch, but I didn’t get in. Just looked. No contamination, sir,” Dawson asserted.
“But you looked,” Wayne repeated without reproach. He was curious. “Well? Anything?”
“Yes sir. Looks to be two small drops, on the inside of the door next to the lock button. Right here.” Dawson held his phone at an angle and focused the camera on the pair of droplets.
“Looks like blood, sir.”
He used his free hand to point at them from outside the window, flexing his index finger and bending his thumb to pinpoint the spots and the small gap between. Dawson held steady and waited for the inspector to respond to his find. Wayne glanced at the screen on his phone. His eyes were busy as he pulled up a map of Greater London on the main viewer on his desk.
“Have you got a photo of them?”
“The blood stains?” asked Dawson.
“No, Veda and…”
“Kaia? Yes sir. A few,” said Dawson. “From tonight,” he added. “Shall I share them, sir?”
“Well, yes. Ms Rebane,” Wayne tapped his desk. “Send me the best one with both. Now,” he said. “I’ll send it out A-S-A-P.” He always spelled it out, like Duke Wayne would have done in one of his classic war films. Wayne disliked the way too many people had made the acronym into a single word.
He had already dragged and dropped the file photo of Dr Veda onto the centre screen and was preparing to send it out with an alert, but a photo of both of them together would make more sense. Besides, Wayne realised he hadn’t any photos of the girlfriend, despite her seeming to take up more and more space in Veda’s world since they first met a few weeks earlier.
Dawson’s message arrived and Wayne smiled at the attachment’s title as he opened it, but didn’t laugh at the irony until he saw the image of the couple standing in front of a phone box around the corner from the main entrance to the Royal Opera House.
“Dr Who, indeed,” Wayne wondered aloud.
“Sir?” asked Dawson. “Didn’t it come through?”
“It did, Dawson. I was referring to the caption you wrote. Dr Who?”
“Oh, that,” Dawson breathed heavily. “It was a joke. The lady at the box office asked Dr Veda to repeat his name when we were picking up the tickets. I took the photo just after.”
Wayne had a dossier on the young scientist. Now he regretted not performing due diligence on the woman when Dawson had first informed him about the budding romance in Veda’s life. But he had no reason to be suspicious before tonight.
After all, according to the memo from the Home Office Dr Nicholas Veda was a relatively unknown scientist from Oxford, working on a cure for typhoid or some such disease, and of little interest to anyone outside the Health Ministry.
Wayne had read the good doctor’s bio and was quietly happy to hear that spring had finally arrived for Veda when Ms Rabane entered his life.
But suspicion rang like a fire bell in Wayne’s ear as soon as he saw the photo of the stunningly beautiful Ms Rebane standing next to the meek and humble scientist. He knew full well it didn’t only happen in the movies.
“No, it’s fine, Dawson.” Wayne cornered his dubiety in the back of his mind and went on cordially, “Well, stand by, secure the scene, and I’ll get a team over there.”
“Yessir!” Dawson exclaimed, sounding relieved.
Wayne rang off, then opened his directory. He paused, his thumb hovering over the screen. His first instinct had been to request the Home Office to call in extra military, double or triple the street patrols in the vicinity of the Opera House and give them the order to detain Veda and his date on sight.
In a moment he could send out an alert to every level of the Metropolitan Police Service, have the photo in the phones of every uniform in the Greater London area, including transit and airports, through the Met’s COMS system. And have thousands of eyes scanning the city for the well-dressed scientist and the knockout that must be accompanying him.
If he was sure there was foul play involved, he had to act. But he wasn’t.
Wayne’s unit had been officially active for almost three months but in fact had yet to engage in any official action. At the administrative level of the Met, all the commanding officers had received a directive to cooperate in any way requested if called upon by the Unit and DCI Wayne.
Despite being active, the unit was far from operational. No need had arisen to engage any other branch of the Metropolitan Police to date. Wayne had his core of First Officers in place but had deliberately kept the unit offline at the Met, and had remained on standby with the Home Office since St Valentine’s Day, awaiting a direct order.
The directive to supply a security escort for the Health Ministry’s virologist had appeared to be an excuse to be logging active hours until Major Crimes Unit 2 went operational. Wayne grimaced at his phone and scanned his directory for his contact in the HO. He read the time.
“Almost midnight.” He put the phone down and sighed. But the grimace refused to loosen as his eyes roamed the map.
Wayne wasn’t ready to call the Home Office until he was certain that the two young lovers hadn’t simply slipped out of the Opera House for a little snogging. Even now they might be thinking about calling Dawson to pick them up. He was hoping the blood at the scene was somebody else’s—preferably nobody’s.
Either way, putting the Met Police ground forces and surveillance branches on it seemed prudent. He quickly typed a draft alert on his desktop.
Getting his team engaged and up to speed came first, he reasoned, if only by a few seconds. Wayne dragged their mobile numbers into the address box on the message pane. Then he paused to consider exactly who else needed to see the alert. How high, and how wide do I wave this flag?
His gut told him he was facing the Unit’s Inaugural Event, but his head reminded him of the potential for political disaster.
After being introduced by the Home Secretary at her Easter Tea with the Superintendents, DCI Wayne had reached out to every commander in the Service to get a read on their reaction to the directive. Most reacted with the proper acceptance, all with varying degrees of reluctance. Wayne had restated the delicately worded article that described the position of his MCU2-cum-Task Force in the Met’s hierarchy.
He had got a good read on many Commanders in the series of face-to-face meetings which he held after the Home Secretary announced Superintendent John Wayne’s reassignment to the newly activated MCU2.
They were labelled meetings in his calendar but Wayne had tagged some as chat and some F2F discussion depending on how confrontational he anticipated them to be.
His assumptions had proved right in all cases. Most of the leadership within the Metropolitan Police Service understood and accepted that the new directive was about action not authority.
Wayne knew all of them well enough to know it would be difficult for some of these capital ‘L’ leaders to see it as anything but castration should the need arise for them to step aside and let Wayne take charge of and deploy their assets.
There were a few too many in high places with designs on climbing higher before they retired. If he had to pull rank to get things done, it would mean inaction until the Home Office reacted, leaving Wayne paralysed.
Worse yet if the two escaped lovebirds were to turn up getting it off in the bushes at Lincoln’s Inn Park, a ten-minute walk from the Opera House…
He hadn’t dismissed the public sex fantasy solution, but had to consider all eventualities, including activating Charles Burns, but only if the situation dictated.
He decided to send the notice directly to Dispatch, to engage the eyes of the Met—at street level only. IT Guy and Tully will have to find answers to the bigger questions. As they arise, he thought.
Wayne drew his hands back from the keyboard, leaving them hanging stiffly as he considered the next steps to follow the general alert. He opened another window on the left-hand viewer that displayed the location of each team member’s phone on a smaller scale map.
He noted the locations and proximities to his primary points of interest. Wayne tapped on the touch pad to send the instant message—with the photo and details—to each unit member’s phone, and also to an officer in Dispatch he knew well enough to trust to be discreet.
He watched his phone, waiting only a few moments before the message read confirmation appeared on all message tabs.
He knew that within minutes the alert would be sent out to a few thousand Met police patrols, constables and special constables across all the boroughs of London.
By Wayne’s calculation, if the two young lovers had simply slipped away from Dawson, they would be spotted and quickly reported.
There was the real possibility that Dr Veda and Kaia Rebane were abducted from the car park, and the reality was that Wayne had no idea why, much less who.
An Albanian prostitution ring? Racists or terrorists? He fought off the impulse to call his contact in the HO and demand some answers about Dr Veda and his work.
Instead he opened the stream linking his computer display directly to Intelligence Specialist Analyst Tully and IT Specialist Inspector Guy Tellier and pinged them both for immediate response.
As a second thought, he sent Tellier another short message with Veda’s telephone number and email address. He quickly typed in the subject line:
And their tweets etc., leaving the message blank.
Wayne closed the phone and checked his watch, then turned his attention to the maps on his monitors. He confirmed his time and distance estimates and contacted three members of his team, sending each a message with an address and a brief directive.
He sent Detective Sergeant Semi Riza to the car park on Drury Lane, informing him that a forensics team should follow his arrival. Then he sent the address and Riza’s contact details in a second message to his ally in Dispatch requesting a forensics team and directing them to follow Riza.
In a separate message he requested dispatch of a wagon to take Dawson to the infirmary for toxicology tests and monitoring.
Wayne kept an eye on the message tab and shot glances up at the computer monitor as he typed and sent another message. He placed the phone on the desk and relaxed and flexed his digits, his arthritic index finger still slightly curved, as if reluctant to relinquish its grip on the phone.
The reply came in only a few seconds. He let out a long, satisfied breath and his grimace slowly turned upward, approaching a smile, as he read it.
Detective Sergeant Martin Blennerhassett confirmed he would take his car and meet up with a second patrol at Veda’s residence in Kensington. Wayne dispatched Detective Sergeant John Aitkens directly from Scotland Yard to Veda’s laboratory, as he was the only team member on duty. He determined that Aitkens and two uniformed officers would be arriving there before the others reached their destinations.
Wayne allowed himself a sigh of relief. The Incident Response had quickly become an investigation and his unit had it under control. His first steps had been sure. He felt confident that he had ticked all the required boxes if anyone in the Home Office asked to see the protocol.
The physical teams were in place or en route and the digital intelligence was being gathered and analysed. For the time being at least, he needn’t involve any of the Higher Ups in the Met or the HO.
Either his team would find Veda and Ms Rebane in the next few hours or he would get a call from whoever snatched the professor and his girlfriend.
The possibilities swirled in his head. Violent abduction, a disappearance at least—planned or coerced? And Kaia Rebane. Wayne had to ask himself again why no due diligence when Dawson first mentioned the Estonian beauty in his daily reports. He cursed himself for not ordering Dawson to do a background check on her.
But Wayne didn’t see a security threat when the details came down from the HO about this police escort assignment. The only potential conflict he could imagine would be in London traffic, and that was Dawson’s business. He turned to the window and gazed at the endless flow of traffic on the Embankment below.
It was supposed to be…nothing.
Wayne sent another message to Tully:
Need to see everything on Veda and Kaia Rebane A.S.A.P.
Something told Wayne that adding Charles Burns to the receivers list would be advisable. His eyes wandered to the short, two-drawer mahogany filing cabinet to the right of his desk. He inherited it when he took over as Superintendent of The Specialist Branch in 2002, and it was the only furniture that had survived the move to his new office at MCU2.
He visualised the folder in the top drawer containing the transfer papers for Charles Burns. He had been holding off on signing the order to make it official.
But the current situation was expanding rapidly, and the former Major Charles Burns had front line experience in many extraction and hostage recovery missions—all with unqualified success—during his years with the Canadian Joint Task Force and British SBS.
Wayne hoped it never came to that. He reasoned that even if it didn’t, he needed more boots on the ground, pronto.
Wayne located Burns’ phone at the Alexandra Ice Palace. He pressed the dial button. Wayne knew Burns’ experience in JTF2 could be valuable if the worst came to worst.
He rang off after he heard the first ring and stared at the number display. He calculated the distance to the Opera House and sent a text message directing Burns to call in A.S.A.P. then he set his phone down on the desk again.
Wayne arched his back and stretched, feeling the late hour.
“The night’s just getting started,” he mused aloud.
Then he made two direct calls. One, a logical choice and another, a gut reaction, centred somewhere near the throb of fear just behind his diaphragm.
He direct-dialled the security office at the housing complex in Kensington where Veda had been living since he began his work for the Health Ministry. After identifying himself, Wayne had a brief chat with the woman who had been on duty since 20:00. He asked if she had noticed any disruption to the video feeds.
“Not tonight, no sir.”
Wayne asked if she had photos of the residents and if she knew Dr Veda. She answered, “Yes and yes, sir.”
She reported no sighting of Veda, because he left for the opera before she came on duty.
“According to the key log,” she said. “His key should be in the lock up.” And it was. The guard explained how Veda, like many of the residents, took advantage of the services provided by the building management, but Wayne barely heard her. He was racing through the possible endings to the evening.
He asked if the guard had access to the recording of the video for the hours previous to her coming on shift. The guard kept it a little coy.
“Now, why might you be looking for video following one specific citizen, Mister Wayne?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Wayne.” He politely took the guard’s mobile number and sent her the general alert looking for Nicholas Veda and his date as persons of interest to Major Crimes Unit 2.
“See my message? That’s why.”
The guard apologised with a nod and went to work on her computer.
She typed a few commands and scanned through the images on a smaller viewer to her left.
“Nineteen-oh-seven. There he is. And his date.” She paused slightly before she concluded, “Dressed to the nines.”
Wayne imagined by her tone that the guard might be more jealous of Veda than of Kaia.
“And not been back.”
“That’s right sir. I’ve seen three exits and no entries in the last three hours.”
“Almost four,” said Wayne, trying to express appreciation. “Well, a team should be arriving soon to see if Dr Veda returns and will likely wait until he arrives.”
Wayne got a little edgy when the guard balked at the idea of letting anyone in without a warrant.
“Will they have something… on paper, or something, sir?”
He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, as if they held a worry stone or string of beads. “This alert status authorises the Metropolitan Police to immediate access anywhere, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, good. If you have a problem you can contact the Home Office directly,” Wayne paused. “At nine am tomorrow.”
Wayne poked his touch pad a few times with his stiff right index finger. “I just sent you the number,” he said, and waited for the guard’s reply.
“I understand, sir,” she acknowledged. “I want to help in any way.”
“Good. Meanwhile, keep a line free to call us if you see the good doctor, and detain any strangers until we get a good look at them, yes? We’ll keep the link open on your video feed, so we’ll be with you.”
“Understood, sir.”
Wayne knew she hadn’t looked at the number he texted her. He wasn’t sure if she needed to be reassured of all she had taken in, but he admired her for protesting and then capitulating. She obviously understood the situation and would act as directed.
“It was Purcell,” he added, as consolation. “They were going to a Purcell opera. Do you know Purcell?”
When the guard explained with a grunt that she didn’t, he added, “Well you’re not missing anything. Detective Sergeant Blennerhassett and his team are en route and will arrive…” he checked the map and calculated the distance between Blennerhassett’s phone signal and Veda’s flat in Holland Park. “in about seven minutes. Do let us know if you see anything.”
Wayne rang off, looking at his watch and calculating how long it would be before Aitkens and the uniforms got down to the lab, and wondering why he didn’t ask the conscientious young security guard’s name.
He flagged the number on his outgoing calls list, and next dialled the security desk at Dr Veda’s newly constructed lab in Uxbridge Road, Shepherd’s Bush. Any optimism he had left was slowly drowning.
Wayne panned his focus to the video feed from the cameras at the building where Veda’s modest lab took up about two thousand square feet of the lower level.
The camera angle was fixed at the opposite end of the corridor beyond the lift and stairwell, directed toward the door, with the entry scanner taking up most of the foreground.
On the right side of the frame he could see only the corner of the security desk and what looked like a tall, empty rolling chair that was pushed to the corner behind the desk, its back turned as if it was being disciplined for some misbehaviour. Wayne was not able to remotely zoom or pan the camera.
Mech. fail, read the sidebar.
Wayne grumbled. He tried and failed to remember the last time he spoke to any of the three officers on duty at the lab in the sub level.
Wayne had received the contact details and a dossier on each man assigned to the detail by the Home Office. But he had only had perfunctory contact with them since the assignment began four weeks earlier, and only during office hours.
He dialled the number for the derelict HO man’s phone and let it ring once, giving him the option to return his call, as he toggled through the viewer index to find the video feed from the main foyer. He zoomed in to the security station and entry gate.
A guard sat motionless—completely still for several seconds—behind the desk. Wayne wondered if the video was indeed live. He scrolled through his directory to the number for the building’s reception desk in the foyer. A private contractor had handled the building’s security since before Wayne had even heard of Uxbridge Commercial Plaza.
The man in the chair fit Wayne’s idea of a night watchman—old and lonely. He watched as the man stirred and put his book down to answer the phone on the desk.
“Number Ten Uxbridge,” said the guard in a Glaswegian accent.
“Right. Good evening. Detective Chief Inspector John Wayne here, Metropolitan Police, Major Crimes.”
“Really?” The guard sounded unimpressed. Wayne let it go. He was relieved to have confirmed that the camera feeds were, live again, and so was the guard. He chose to assign the sarcastic response not to a man who was junior in rank, but rather credit it to a man senior in years.
“Yes,” Wayne continued evenly. “Turn and look at the camera above your left shoulder and wave. Please.”
The security guard complied despite his initial disbelief. Wayne gave a curt “Thank you” and went on to explain how his unit had “spotted some anomalies in the signal transfer” and how he hoped the guard would be able to help.
“It’s because of this I need to ask you a few questions…” Wayne let his last word hang, making it sound like a question itself. He smiled out of one side of his mouth and waited until the security guard took the cue and gave his name and details.
Wayne asked if any visitors had come this evening, if and when any disruption in video occurred since the guard had started his shift, some five hours earlier. There had been no disruptions and no traffic in or out since 18:48, the time code of the last handprint-verified exit by an employee of one of the companies from the third floor.
“And I’ve had no contact with the officer on duty downstairs this evening,” the guard added rather curtly.
Wayne let the guard know that a team was on its way and that they would need access to the lower level elevator. The guard asked Wayne to repeat his name and the names of the officers on the way over.
“Just covering me arse here,” the guard explained. Wayne smiled at the phone and repeated the names of the men due to appear any minute at the guard’s desk.
“And it’s DCI Wayne here, of the Major Crimes Unit. You have the number. Yes?” He waited for the gruff Scot to read back the number before he rang off.
Wayne was never the kind of officer to wear his insignia as a reminder of his rank to anyone. He had risen to the rank of Major as a young man in the military and to the rank of Superintendent in the Met, starting there thirty years earlier as a sergeant. John C. Wayne shared the same build as his famous namesake, and he always carried himself with the same authority.
Now in his sixties, Wayne had officially stepped off the ladder, but not out of the chain of command. He had resigned his office with the former Specialist Command to assume the lower official rank of Detective Chief Inspector to lead the newly formed MCU2.
The unit had been set up to report directly to the Home Office and was not to be nested under any other unit in the Service, including the existing Major Crimes Unit. The full authority and autonomy granted by the HO fit with his own mandate to create a more direct response to national security threats than what the current levels of bureaucracy in the Met and the MI branches had been crippled by.
MCU2 was to become the more accurately titled Major Crimes Task Force before the current Home Secretary’s term came to an end in a little over two years. Wayne had begun working on the germ of the idea over three years earlier with an officer and old mate from the military in the Home Office.
Now it was official. The new Home Secretary had writ large her dissatisfaction with the status quo and even hinted at her mistrust of the accountability of MI5 and MI6. Three months ago, she cut the ribbon without a ceremony, and told everybody to get on board.
Wayne had been tasked with assembling Major Crimes Unit 2, with the tacit approval to poach the other commands in the Met. Wayne had done so, to an extent, for several months before he formally accepted the command of MCU2. And Wayne had reached out through international channels to a few chosen candidates on many occasions, long before the previous Home Secretary departed.
It was only a matter of days after the announcement that Wayne had an Official Roster—the only way the Metropolitan Police Federation would approve any transfers.
Wayne had recruited three men internally: two he knew personally in the Specialist Branch and Dawson, whom he almost had to pluck out of MI5. Wayne approved three other transfer requests after conducting over twenty interviews.
Employment contracts were signed with Guy Tellier and the other non-MPS members of his IT team and Marty Blennerhassett, the ‘Irish Import’ as he had dubbed himself.
“If we ever get enough men for a side, Chief,” was his joke. If we ever get a game, was what he inferred in the several weeks that had passed with no directive.
The unit had no open cases, no investigations. No orders.
Wayne’s MCU2 was just getting started and any orders were expected to come from the HO.
His unit would work with any and all of the Met Commands, directing units from each and any branch as required. Wayne had been given the authority to engage any number necessary of available police, from any branch, including military and intelligence resources to create a task force instantly, and ad hoc.
Despite telling every new team member of the dynamic shift of the paradigm, some had suggested they were still sceptical of how self-directed the unit could be. In each case, the point had been carefully made that the Unit’s autonomy was in question, not Wayne’s authority. Their respect for him was unanimous.
Wayne had not given much thought to what a first operation for the unit might look like. But he had not imagined it would look like this night.
He returned his focus to the video feeds from the car park and the Royal Opera House. He highlighted four views from each and began toggling them all to play back in reverse real time. Each viewer showed people and autos moving in a backward dance. Wayne confirmed that he had opened links to allow Tully to see his desktop and then called him directly.
“Tully. Wayne here. Are you getting this? We need facial recognition.”
“Yes sir,” Tully yawned. “I’ve got it, and HOLMES and I are on it.”
“So, you’re asleep there,” Wayne snorted.
“No sir. I’m in a handi-cab. Be there in ten. But we are on it, sir.”
Tully may have yawned but he did not sound at all tired. He was engaged and already fired up. Suddenly his tone changed.
“Bollocks! Ah, sir it seems there’s erm, an irregularity.”
Wayne was looking at the screen with the eight views of the Opera House and the car park, still playing in reverse. They all went blue at the same time, 22:10, all looking like an old television that had been disconnected from its VCR but not turned off.
“I know,” Wayne stared into the blue void facing him. “What is it?” He couldn’t hide his shock at seeing his most crucial source of intel wiped clear before his eyes.
Tully sounded angry, and a little surprised. “We don’t know yet, sir. I’m working remotely until I get in, but I’m online with HOLMES and I’ve just messaged IT. Guy’s ahead of us and already has some major suspicions. It looks…”
“Like trouble,” Wayne said with a grunt.
He watched the unchanging screen and the time code race backward as he first doubled, then accelerated to five times faster. The screens all stayed blue until 19:19 and magically, life was restored to them.
People and cars once again resumed their jerking, backward dance. Wayne and Tully both made a note about the time out and time in for the “Blue Out”, as Wayne had named it.
“It’s some kind of hack…”
“Hack? Are you telling me the London Metropolitan Police Service has been hacked?” Wayne worked his jaw as if he had chewing gum in his mouth for the few seconds before Tully continued.
“Yes sir. But no. Maybe a DoS, a denial of service but…” Tully trailed off. “Really unclear now. Guy can’t say how big it is, or where it came from. Maybe he’ll know how by the time we…” Tully stopped. “What’s the plan, sir?”
“How big it is?” Wayne’s baritone wavered. “You mean the range of the blackout? Was it more than just at the opera and car park?”
“Seems so, sir.”
Wayne looked up at the screen and began selecting the camera feeds from a wider radius around the Opera House and the car park in Drury Lane. He dragged their images to the centre display and typed in the time code to check their playback. Grid by grid, it looked like half of London was blue. CCT cameras offline everywhere.
Wayne realised his fantasy of a tryst in the car park with a beautiful dancer was not how Veda’s evening would end.
He straightened himself, as if he were giving an order to the assembled troops.
“The plan is to find Dr Veda and his date.” Then he added, “I think we must assume an abduction has taken place.”
Tully wanted to reassure himself more than Wayne. “Guy can’t say where the disruption entered our communications network or where it originated. But nothing…” He trailed off again then hastily added, “Guy will have more answers. We haven’t got any confirmed ground level reports yet, but IT is reaching out.”
Tully was less surprised and more concerned now, as he repeated, “two hours.”
Wayne was silent. His mind was racing through an ever-growing list of officially and unofficially recognised extremists.
Tully cleared his throat. Some of the anger was still there. “We’ll all know more in ten minutes.”
“Right,” said Wayne. “In your office in fifteen?”
“I’ll put the coffee on, sir.”
“With your smartphone, right?” Wayne rang off before Tully could stop smiling and respond, “Yes, sir.”
Wayne went back to his desktop and opened a search, but he paused to consider where to begin to set the parameters. He sent a copy to Tully with the caption: any ideas?
Wayne’s hand hovered over the keypad as he debated a call to the Home Office.
Wayne checked his messages, then called Burns again but got voicemail. He dropped the call and sent Burns the general alert message, and waited with growing unease.

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Amanda is a bullied and lonely girl who masks her pain in a fantasy world of her own creation…. until one day her fantasies come to life and bring her hope and a true friend.

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