This is the first in a series of short fictional mystery murder detective stories set in the 1930s combining in a series of murders in villages in the United Kingdom. The Rislington Murders (Simply Not Just Cricket) are set around a local cricket club combining an extramarital affair and childhood rejection.

Targeted Age Group:: 18 and above

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I am a lover of mystery murder detective stories especially TV detective programs. Now that I am retired I have decided to write short detective stories of about 18000 words and having plenty of time on my hands it's a good time to put my love of murder mystery stories into writing these books. This my first book, now starting to write my next book.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
All the village names are fictional, I used google to give me idea's for fictional names then added the name to my dictionary in my laptop. The names of all each person in my book do not relate to anybody I just thought of two names for each person.

Book Sample
It was a hot Wednesday evening in August 1933, and the team captain, John Sims, was picking the cricket team for the following Saturday when Felix Mason knocked on the door to see how the team was looking and whether he would be in next Saturday's match against Morton, who are a very strong cricket team. John replied, 'Yes, you are in the team on Saturday'
Felix then asked John, 'Have you heard any rumours that Anne Bonn, Tim's wife is having an affair with one of our players?'
John looked up very sheepishly said, 'Nope I've heard anything,' then quickly returned to look at the team sheet he was putting together. Felix added, 'It's just that I've some rumours going around about Anne. Still looking down, John added, 'I would not listen to these rumours as they can get out of hand and will cause trouble.'
'Very true John,' answered Felix. 'Anyway, have you got a full team for Saturday?'
'Yes, I have,' said John, 'but I have to include Josh Parry.'
'Josh Parry?' responded Felix, 'Do you mean that big head who thinks he is our number one player and thinks he should be captain?'
'I know what he thinks, and we all know he is a third rate- player. However, I have no choice other than him in the team as nobody else is available.'

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Four years into Akhenaten’s new regime, the dissatisfaction of those who practiced the old religion of Amen-Ra is growing. Hani, a diplomat already under the king’s surveillance because of the disappearance of his firebrand Amen priest brother-in-law, gets drawn into an investigation for the Beloved Royal Wife, who is being blackmailed. Meanwhile, the new vassal king of A’amu, lodged at Hani’s house until the king grants him an audience, is showing himself to be none too loyal. Hani must walk the line between his oath to the king and his conscience.

Targeted Age Group:: adult

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I started the series by showing Hani, a real personage, involved in historical events known about his life as an ancient Egyptian diplomat. But I wanted the second book to show a little more of his family life.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Hani and many of the characters (including Akhenaten and his wives) are real historical personages. Once I had Hani fixed in my mind as a man devoted to his family, I created family members that seemed appropriate and offered opportunity for continuing in the series. This in addition to the usual mystery plot.

Book Sample
All at once, Hani was conscious of a rush of bare footsteps and a swirl of skirt bearing down on him. He dragged his eyes away from the letter to see that Neferet, his youngest, had approached with her usual impetuosity and was standing in front of him, hands on hips.
“What can I do for you, my love?” he said, smiling at the sight of her dressed like a young lady, her child’s sidelock transmuted into the tiny braids of maidenhood. I can’t believe it. The last of our children, almost grown.
“I’ve decided something, Papa,” she said earnestly and seated herself on the floor beside him, pulling up her skirt to cross her legs with greater ease. At thirteen, she was still the stocky, broad-shouldered little hoyden he loved, despite the dress. “I’ve decided I want to be a physician—a sunet.”
“Is this something new? I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned it.”
“I thought you wanted to be a horse,” said Maya with a straight face. Hani tried not to laugh.
Neferet shook her head impatiently, sending her braids flying. “Oh, that was when I was a little girl. I mean, I did want to be a chantress of Amen, but…” She shrugged, with an eloquent lift of the eyebrows.
Although the impossibility of serving the Hidden One these days was a serious matter, Hani smiled nonetheless, because Neferet took after his side of the family and couldn’t carry a tune. Neither was she especially lissome, should she be inclined to serve as a temple dancer. Her dance style had about it more enthusiasm than grace, her father thought tenderly—unlike her two sisters.
“Why, that’s a noble aspiration, my dear. You’ll have to study hard. Perhaps the priests of Sekhmet at Sau have a school that accepts girls.”
“I’m smart. I’m smarter than Pa-kiki. Do I have to know how to read and write?”
“I honestly don’t know. Most doctors seem to, but I’m not aware of any women in the scribal schools, so maybe women physicians don’t.”
“We could teach you, couldn’t we, my lord?” offered Maya with a glance at his father-in-law. “You wouldn’t need to know the formal Speech of the Gods, just script.”
She set her elbow on her knee and propped her chin on her fist, staring first at Maya then at her father. “I wonder if there are doctors who take care of animals.”
“I can’t imagine there aren’t,” Hani said, recalling his days as an army scribe. “The king’s fancy chariot horses certainly had a doctor.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “But in the army, they’re all men.”
Neferet nodded pensively. “What about cats and pet herons?”
Hani was so overcome with affection for this suddenly serious girl that he reached out and tugged her braids with a smile. “I don’t know. You could start a whole new specialization. Be the first heron doctor.”
“I could.” She got to her feet, seemingly unaware, or untroubled, that her skirt was caught up in the crack of her buttocks. “Let me go talk to Qenyt and see what she thinks about it.”

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With a serial killer on the loose, the baffling mystery of Aiden’s past, and their tenuous budding romance, Aiden and Fouchard tread through a world of magic and myth on padded shoes, terrified to stir up something neither can control or defeat.

Aiden Mercer’s life now centers around lounging on the sunny beaches of his adopted country with a beer in one hand and a coffee in the other while admiring the local male population. After a rough life as a respected detective in DC, playing it cool shouldn’t be too hard, right? With the magical community on his case and dead bodies piling up around town, the responsibility of finding their killer seems fated to fall on him and deny him of his easy living.

Then there is Naël.

Cantankerous merman Naël Fouchard’s life is focused on bringing up and protecting his little sister. When DNA found at the scene of the murders mark him as the prime suspect, Naël seeks out the help of Aiden, whose reputation as a detective grossly belies his lazy lifestyle and apparent lack of ambition.

The chemistry between the strong, stoic Naël and the easygoing Aiden is undeniable, no matter how many walls Aiden builds.
If this unlikely pair can’t come to terms with their feelings for each other long enough to catch the killer, their emotional turmoil might yet allow the murderer to kill them instead.

Targeted Age Group:: Adults

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I wanted to write a story set in my hometown and since Portugal is a country of beaches and sunshine, I immediately thought of merfolk. The rest followed.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Having grown up on the beach and in coffee shops I wanted to have a couple of characters that truly appreciated both. Aiden, a beachbum at heart, gets "recharged" (literally) by nature and caffeine, so he was a perfect addition for my story. So was his love interest, a merman, for rather more obvious reasons.

Book Sample
Fouchard was sitting behind the wheel of a black Jeep, a thin dark T-shirt stretched across his muscled chest. Heat ran to all my extremities as I glimpsed the promise of his body underneath those clothes. Hell, he was fucking sexy.
“Are you coming in or are you going to stare at me for the rest of the night?” More heat climbed up my neck into my face. I hopped in and closed the door. He wasn’t wearing a coat and smelled of ocean breeze and warm nights. “Buckle up.”
We drove in silence for a while, crazy thoughts rushing through my mind. What if he was the murderer after all and this was nothing but a ruse to corner me somewhere alone and kill me? I knew better than to trust magicals, but Fouchard confused all my senses. I knew merrows were an insular species who stayed with their own most of the time. The fact that he had sought me out was telling—of what, I was not sure.
I knew I should keep my mouth shut and be on the alert just in case. But then again, I wasn’t that wise. “Are you planning on murdering me somewhere?”
After a moment of stunned surprise, Fouchard barked out a laugh. “Mr. Mercer, you followed the wrong career. You should have been a comedian.”
“Glad to know I amuse you, Mr. Fouchard.” I was annoyed. At myself mostly. Why was I so bad at following my own advice?
He fell silent, his eyes intent on the dark road ahead. “Oh, you do so much more than just amuse me, Aiden,” he said, a ring of something I couldn’t identify in his voice. Longing? Then again, it could have been a veiled threat. What did I know about sexy merrows anyway? “So much more.”

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Zombies! Eighty-three-year-old Henrietta never thought there’d come a day…

Straight out of one of those apocalyptic horror movies her nephew made her watch with him a few times. Running wild in the streets. Attacking and eating her neighbors. Making some of them turn and tear into those still alive.

But all that aside, these zombies don’t really act like any of the ones she saw in the movies.

Well — no matter what — they won’t get her, no sirree. Not when she has a sturdy home to barricade herself inside. And, not when she still has family out there that hasn’t forgotten her.

But, between her frail health and the dead scrabbling to get in, Henrietta secretly despairs…Will she stay breathing long enough to see them again?

Targeted Age Group:: Mature

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Lord Love A Zombie: Dead Inside: Welcome is part of the Lord Love A Zombie 'verse. This 'verse centers around self-aware, sentient zombies…which I truly adore. I can't count how many times I've watched The Walking Dead and wished one of the dead people would intervene on behalf of one of the living. Well, this 'verse is my take on the zombies that choose to do so.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Honestly, I made all of my characters up as I wrote. They aren't anyone I know in real life, because no one I know in real life (including myself) would survive a zombie apocalypse. This fact always makes me chuckle because personally, I want to be turned immediately. No sense in putting off the inevitable.

Book Sample
Henrietta inches them back excruciatingly slow. Those scary-looking things were still running around like crazy, jumping on people and biting them. Slamming her other hand over her mouth, the eighty three year old knew without a doubt the muscles in her forearm were going to complain viciously for that later. She'd deal with it then. Right now, Mr. Gail, her next door neighbor, was in his backyard struggling to his feet.

How he is doing that was beyond her.

Chest torn open, innards glistening and swinging lazily about, it's like he's an obscene flasher. She slides the curtain back into place. In an ideal world, she'd call the police…except, as it stands, there's no police to call. At dawn, Henrietta had seen the only police car to come down her street stop three houses away and both front doors fly open. The officer on the driver's side took off in a panicked run, shooting wildly behind him as his partner gave chase. Outpaced, the pursuing officer staggered back to the car, pawed opened the back door and began clawing at his passenger.

Though she could hardly believe it, Henrietta was under no illusion of what she was seeing. She'd seen enough horror movies in her long life. Her next door neighbor — just all the rest of the wild folks skulking around out there — were real life zombies.

Reaching out to steady her flustered self, her hand bangs up against something metal. Scrap!

Oh My God! The chair! Henrietta bumps into it as she unconsciously backs away from the window. Her heart bangs in her chest; surely her neighbor had heard the noise and was on his way over to chomp on her as their postman had on him. And if he were to try real hard, she was sure he could find a way in.

Hers was a tiny, old house that she'd inherited from her parents and it didn't have many places to hide. But afraid or not, she'd fight until her last breath. People her age didn't live this long by being complete cowards.

She waits a few minutes, listening to a warbling cry in the distance and doing her best not to put a name to who or what sent it out. For what seems like the millionth time that morning, she wishes her hearing wasn't so good for a "woman her age". Not wearing a hearing aid used to bring her so much pleasure in the past.

Blinking rapidly, she gave the back of her right hand a weak pinch. Focus, Henny!

Now her strong hearing was like a curse. I said FOCUS, girl! Straightening as best she could, Henrietta moves back to peer at her neighbor again. He was gone, leaving what was left of his right arm on the broken concrete in front of his garage.

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Dr. Nadia Markoff leads the scientific community in the study of a new metaphysical phenomenon known as Drifting. It is a form of astral projection that can see into the recent past, present, and future of an individual and has become a hot topic in the world of science. Drifters, as she calls them, are able to project their consciousness elsewhere while they sleep.
After an unexpected incident occurs during her live demonstration, she meets Thomas, a young and handsome walking contradiction to all the research results she had prided herself in. What started as a paranormal romance quickly escalates into thrilling suspense as a new movement called the “anti-drifters” starts riots endangering everything Nadia has worked hard on.
When Nadia finds her attraction to Thomas is much stronger than it should be, she must decide on what’s more important – her research or her heart?

Targeted Age Group:: 16-99

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Dr. Nadia Markoff leads the scientific community in the study of a new metaphysical phenomenon known as Drifting. It is a form of astral projection that can see into the recent past, present, and future of an individual and has become a hot topic in the world of science. Drifters, as she calls them, are able to project their consciousness elsewhere while they sleep.
After an unexpected incident occurs during her live demonstration, she meets Thomas, a young and handsome walking contradiction to all the research results she had prided herself in. What started as a paranormal romance quickly escalates into thrilling suspense as a new movement called the “anti-drifters” starts riots endangering everything Nadia has worked hard on.
When Nadia finds her attraction to Thomas is much stronger than it should be, she must decide on what’s more important – her research or her heart?

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Dr. Nadia Markoff is the leading scientist in the scientific study of an unnatural brain wave phenomenon known as Drifting which had recently been classified as a very real and scientifically provable supernatural event that occurs in special individuals with the gift.
Drifting is a form of astral projection that can see into the recent past, present, and future of an individual and has become a hot topic in the world of science. Drifters, as she calls them, are able to project their consciousness elsewhere while they sleep. Their abilities are still new enough that Nadia doesn’t know how far they range, though she refuses to give up on learning, even after an incident takes place during one of the most important demonstrations of Nadia’s life.
After that fateful event that brings the doctor closer to a new and handsome patient by the name of Thomas Cochran, romantic sparks start to fly as she helps him uncover the mystery to his powers. What started as a paranormal romance quickly escalates into thrilling suspense as a new movement called the “anti-drifters” start riots endangering everything Nadia has worked hard for.

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After a traumatic encounter claims the lives of people under his protection, retired detective Gideon Brown wants nothing more than to curl up inside a whiskey bottle for the rest of his life. But a violent murder outside his apartment sends him out the front door and into the harsh, unforgiving light of Crash City.
Before he knows it, Gideon is on the run in a city left in ruins by the death and fall of a deity known as the Last God, hunted by a shadowy figure with the power to bring the dead back to life in the most horrific of ways.
Along the way he finds a pair of unlikely allies in a rookie soldier of the militaristic Seraph and a reclusive wych. Together the three must solve the mystery behind the corpse of the Last God that still lies in a devastated quarter of the city known as the Battery. All the while dodging murderous street gangs, unholy terrors, and a violent city police force.
Gideon learns the stakes extend far beyond the environs of Crash City.
And all he wanted was some breakfast.

Targeted Age Group:: Adult

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I wanted to write a book that doesn't necessarily care about genres. My favorite stories are the ones that successfully combine darkness with humor and I wanted to take that recipe and add a fantastical twist to it.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The main character Gideon Brown, is based off the old school hardboiled detective trope, but in this case he's more like if you tried to hard boil an egg but got the time wrong and it came out a little runny on the inside. He's not particularly strong or brave, but he gets by through sheer determination, a bit of luck, and a lot of help from his friends.

Book Sample
Chapter 1
They burned a homeless man in the alley outside my bedroom window last night.
I will say, there’s nothing quite like waking up in a mad terror to the serenade of a screaming vagrant and the pungent aroma of crisping fresh. Trust me, it's a disconcerting experience.
The first thing is coming to the realization that you're not the one screaming. Sounds simple, right? Problem is, the body wakes up well before the brain does and it takes a few seconds to sort out what in bloody hells is going on. This is doubly true if said brain is clawing its way to the surface from the murky depths of a blackout drunken binge.
In this case 'what's going on' involved a bunch of assholes in bathrobes camped out in my alleyway performing some ritual involving a great deal of chanting and, as mentioned earlier, play time with gasoline and matches.
I never understood the attraction of cults. Staying up all hours of the night trying to summon some dark beastie with a name like the alphabet had been dumped into a burlap sack and dashed against the rocks a time or two. Best case scenario you stumble home in the early morning hours with aching feet and a sore throat. Worst case? You succeed and end up as part of a cosmic horror snack pack.
Where was I? Oh yeah. The screaming.
Those initial pain-filled howls were soon followed by lot more folks screaming which were in turn followed by what I'm certain was laughter before it all went silent. To be clear, it was not the good kind of laughter. No, this brand of laughter leaves you spending the rest of the night sitting on the couch with a loaded revolver in your lap.
Dawn didn't bring the peace I had hoped. A peek through bedroom window blinds confirmed the architects of the prior evening's shenanigans had vacated. But left behind was something that turned my blood cold. The words GIDEON BROWN smeared on the fire-blackened brick wall in ash, the letters three-foot-tall and bold as day.
Someone had taken the time to write out my name using the remains of a person they had just violently murdered, and they did it less than fifteen feet from where I lay my head at night. I'm not sure what kind of message they were trying to send, but it was a highly unwelcome one.
I moved back to the couch, kicking discarded food containers and dirty clothes out of my path as I went. My head pounded and my stomach gurgled. It sounded like an angry raccoon trapped in a running washing machine. It was hard to think. I needed some food in my stomach and a glass or three of something much stronger than coffee.
To say I'm not a morning person is like saying I don't like getting stabbed in the mouth with a rusty knife. I mean, the word understatement doesn't quite cut it. The only thing makes a morning tolerable are two fingers, at a minimum, of some good, hard alcohol burning away in my guts. A little intestinal bonfire to level out the mood and stop the hands from shaking. So far, this particular morning was far from tolerable.
A wall clock lay on the floor, the face smashed, glass shards intermixed with the broken remains of a bottle. The second hand still ticked away, marking the moments in a never-ending chase around the numbered circle. Broken, but still functioning. I checked the time. Still early, but late enough the city residents would be up and about their daily business.
TAP TAP TAP
My arm swung out, pistol pointed at the front door of the apartment and finger tightening on the trigger. Silence stretched. The clock ticked away, the sound seeming thunderous. One second became two, two became three, three became four.
Nothing.
I strained my ears, attempting to hear anyone moving out there, maybe the telltale sounds of someone descending the stairway leading to the street.
Silence.
With a great deal of effort, I pried my finger from the trigger and let the gun fall to the couch cushion.
"Hells man. Pull yourself together before you put a bullet into some poor mailman." My nerves were already on a razor's edge, and the unexpected knocking nearly pushed them over the edge. As my father would say, 'I was more nervous than a mouse in a sack full of feral cats'.
Quiet as I could, I crept across the room, using my foot to gently slide an empty whiskey bottle from where it lay on the stained carpet and away from the entrance. The door had one of those peepholes drilled through at eye level, the kind that allows you to view who’s on the other side without letting them see you. Peering out revealed nothing but the empty landing at the top of the stairs.
Revolver still in hand I cracked open the door and stuck my head out and checked both ways.
Nothing there.
"Great. Now I'm hearing things."
As I went to close the door, my eye caught a small white card sticking out from the corner of the carpeted welcome mat at my feet. At some point in the past, someone had drunkenly scrawled the word NOT in black marker above the factory-printed flowery WELCOME.
I plucked the card out for a closer look only to discover the dog-eared piece of card stock was one of my own business cards. On the front was my name, embossed in gold lettering with my office address below. On the back were the words Professional Skeptic in that same gold lettering.
Odd.
After checking the stairwell again to make sure there wasn't some crazed torch-wielding maniac skulking about, I tucked the card into a pocket and closed the door.
My apartment was small and, for the better part of a year, had been a haven from the outside world. A cozy den I could hole up in and lick my wounds. But right then it didn't feel like a sanctuary. It felt like a noose around the neck, drawing ever tighter.
"Fuck this."
I had no one to call on. The closest thing to an authority in this city was the Seraph and I didn’t much care for the idea of trying to explain to them I had nothing to do with the murder that literally had my name all over it. That bunch was very much a stab first, ask questions never kind of outfit. What I did know was that I couldn’t stay here any longer. I needed to get somewhere a little more public until I figured out what to do about all this.
I threw my longcoat over my shoulders and tucked the revolver in one of the pockets along with a box of shells. The gun was an ugly snub-nosed piece of malformed metal that, despite its looks, had served me well throughout the years. Given the heft, if push came to shove, I'm reasonably certain I could beat someone to death with it if I ran dry of bullets.
The smell of hot garbage assaulted me the moment my feet hit the street and the early-morning sunlight punched me right in the face. With a curse I pulled my hat down over my eyes, hunched my shoulders, and set off down the street.
There was a time when I loved walking the streets of Crash City. I would lose myself in the sights and sounds of the giant concrete beast, streams of people flowing like blood through asphalt capillaries. A juggernaut of civilization trudging forward to a bright future. That felt like a lifetime ago now. The world had been on a downward slope ever since the Last God fell.
The sidewalk was heavy with foot traffic, legions of working stiffs heading off to whatever day job kept the lights on one more week. A car horn honked as an angry commuter expressed his dissatisfaction at the inability of the vehicle in front of him to somehow phase through the dozen or so other cars jammed bumper to bumper on the shimmering blacktop.
I kept my head down and my feet forward, avoiding eye contact with my fellow pedestrians. These days I only ventured outside when I had to. But I needed food, drink, and a little peace and quiet. I knew just the place to get all three.
The Yellow Crown was about three blocks from my apartment, an easy walk. The pub was a shitty little dive of a place with more cockroaches than customers, but I could get some breakfast and, more importantly, there would be whiskey. A lack of patronage was a mark in its favor as far as I was concerned.
A squad of Seraph soldiers with their snow-white armored vests and long-handled swords came towards me, the crowd parting before them like a bow wave. I moved out of the way, keeping one eye on them as they passed.
I had been so intent on the soldiers I didn't see the lawyers until I ran right into one of them.
Dark red spots spattered otherwise pristine white button-down shirts, fresh from whatever power brunch slash ritual sacrifice they'd just come from. Jostled by the crowd I bumped into the one closest to me, a short fellow with an athletic build and a mop of brown curls covering his head. He turned in my direction as we collided, mouth still open mid-laugh from whatever joke he had just heard. His right eye was sky blue while the left was nothing but a solid orb the color of blood. He lazily glanced at me before turning back to his friends and let out another braying laugh.
"Fucking hells," I breathed as they moved away.
With a start I realized I had a white-knuckled grip on the handle of the revolver. An instinctive response to a close encounter of the douchey kind. Fortunately, the gun was still in my pocket, hidden from view and the pack of predators continued on their way, unaware of the sound and fury that nearly ensued.
It's not like I had any intention of blasting away with a hand-cannon right there in the middle of the street. Even if I survived an altercation with mop-top and his buddies three, my head would be decorating a lamppost by the end of the day. The Seraph didn't take too kindly to unsanctioned mayhem in their city. That said, I found the weight of the six-shooter in my hand comforting.
You don't fuck around where lawyers are concerned. Rabid dogs are paragons of stable behavior by comparison.
A cultist stood on a street corner, dressed in a pink bathrobe complete with a set of matching fuzzy slippers. "The New God has come!" he called as he swung what appeared to be a cowbell in wild circles above his head. "He will drown your sins in pain!" As I turned onto Fourth Street, I made sure to keep my distance in case any of the half-dozen diseases he appeared to have were communicable.
Maybe it was my jangled nerves, or the distraction caused by my still-pounding head, but it took a full five minutes or more before I realized I was being followed.
Your average person would likely have never picked up on it, but I had a hyper-sensitive awareness of my surroundings. The kind of awareness you only acquire from years of people seeking to cause you bodily harm. A well-honed essential survival instinct.
It began with the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly standing at attention, like soldiers whose commanding officer just walked in the room. Goosebumps broke out on my arms and my heart rate kicked up a notch. Something was walking in my footsteps, gliding through my wake as I plowed a path through the clogged artery of Fourth Street.
Keeping my movements relaxed and natural I snuck a glance to the side, catching a blurred movement in my peripheral vision, about twenty feet back in the crowd. A pale grinning face below the brim of a broad hat, eyes hidden in shadow. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something decidedly off with that smile, like the pearly crescent was using every one of its own teeth plus a bunch more borrowed from friends. As soon as I caught sight of my follower, it was gone again, quick enough to make me question whether I saw anything at all. A sane person might've dismissed the whole thing as a trick of the eye, cooked up by extreme anxiety coupled with an imagination kicked into high gear.
Luckily for me I'd given up on the concept of sanity a long time ago. I prefer to keep my goals attainable.
I've seen more than my fair share of weird shit over the years, but no bells of recognition rang from that brief glimpse. A few minutes later the sensation of being watched faded and my neck hairs gave up their upright vigil. Either whatever was following me had left… or gotten a lot better at hiding itself. For my own piece of mind, I went with the former option.
By the time I reached my destination I had almost convinced myself the mysterious stalker was nothing more than a byproduct of raw nerves and sleepless nights after all. Almost. A sense of foreboding had an iron grip around my heart.
I'm sure when the place was first built, the Yellow Crown had been a nice establishment, but those days were long gone. At some point in the distant past someone had made the regrettable decision to coat the brickwork fronting the building in a lurid yellow. The look had not aged well. Peeling paint exposed the rough red brick, making the entire wall look like it had some sort of scabby rash. The front of the place was dominated by a single large window so dirty you couldn't see through the thick glass. In the center was a faded, lopsided yellow crown that looked to have been painted on by blind children. Thankfully, it too, was barely visible beneath the grime.
Parked at the curb was a long and sleek limo. Jet black with tinted windows. An unusual sight, a little too up-scale for this part of town. Leaning casually to the side of the Crown's entrance was a terrifyingly ugly man.
He stood a little over six feet and was built like the brick wall he rested against, wearing a sleeveless vest that appeared to have been stitched together from the hides of mange-ridden street dogs. The skin on his bared arms displayed a host of faded scars, crisscrossing the corded and bunched muscles beneath. Shaggy and matted straw-colored hair reached his shoulders, and he sported a patchy beard that looked like it had been hot glued on by vengeful toddlers. It was the kind of face only a mother could love. Provided said mother was blind, drunk and recovering from recent head trauma.
Any other day, the sight would've stopped me in my tracks. Followed by a quick about face and the immediate creation of a fresh set of tracks in the opposite direction. But at that moment I had a raging thirst whose demand to be quenched—preferably with a liquid of the proper alcohol content—was increasing by the second. The only thing I cared about was getting a drink. If this bruiser got between me and my whiskey we were going to find out if his scarred-up hide was bulletproof, Seraph be damned.
His gaze shifted to me as I approached the door, eyes like chips of blue ice boring into me before returning to the stream of foot traffic still flowing down the sidewalk. The only change in his expression was a slight half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Yes, I was missing all sorts of red flags. Give me a break, it'd been a rough morning.
Keeping one wary eye on the scarred ganger, I slipped past and ducked out of the harsh morning light and into the darkened interior of the Crown. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I was startled by the pale ghost of a face floating behind the bar. It took a moment before realizing the apparition was my own reflection. Squinting, the lines at the corners of my eyes crinkled with deep hills and valleys of folded skin on a face that hadn't seen a razor in weeks—cheeks and chin trapped in a purgatory between stubble and full-grown beard. By the Fallen, did I ever look like shit.
That's when it hit me.
To be more accurate, that's when he hit me.
The only warning was the movement of a shadow where I swear no shadow existed moments before. A face glided out of the darkness behind me and our eyes met in the mirror. Those eyes stared out of a hard, angular face. Sharp, like the edge of a blade and those eyes, they were the unmistakable eyes of a murderer.
There was no time to react. A flash of metal was followed by a sudden roaring in my head. I tried to lift my arms as the floor rushed up to meet me, but they didn’t appear to be on speaking terms with my brain anymore. I heard voices, but the words were lost, drowned out by the rushing sound in my ears.
Then darkness was all I knew.

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First things first… This book is not an Autobiography. I am not going to bore you with my life story. You can trust me on that and read on.

“Thelu” is an endeavor to present to you the eccentric, idiotic, hilarious characters that were part of my stint as a “Thelu” and those notable and memorable events (be it funny, emotional, intense, whatever) associated with them. When I say ‘event’, it is not about someone jumping from the tenth floor and still surviving or the hero getting caught in the midst of a brutal riots. The events depicted here are the simple ones you would have witnessed and enjoyed in your own (college) life.

So, is this book for you?

If you have studied in a residential campus in any corner of the world, you can very well relate to this book. If you have not, still you can very well relate. If you have studied in a college, school or any such place, this book is for you. If you consider education only conditions brain, this book is for you as well.

Basically, this book is for everyone who can read and understand English.

Targeted Age Group:: All

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Nostalgia. The memories of my college life and the friendship we cherished. The funny events and incidents that I recall on a regular basis inspired me to write this book.

Book Sample
‘Kolo’ (in Hindi) literally means ‘Open’. This used to be the very first Institute slang that you encounter as a fresher. As soon as you hear a senior say, Kolo, you got to open everything irrespective of the place, time and mood. You have to open your mouth, open your heart, open your soul, … Body? No, it is not that bad. You need not open your body.

The first few weeks of Kolo culminated in a Freshers’ Night. I wouldn’t say that it was a grand night, it was rather mediocre. During the Kolo period (or call it the ‘Ragging’ period if that sounds more adventurous), the seniors used to identify the worthy and talented freshers, and give them an opportunity to perform in the Freshers’ Night.

As the tradition suggests, we had our Fresher’s Night too. We had an early dinner and made our presence in the Lecture Hall Complex with great enthusiasm. The largest of the lecture halls, ‘L7’, was the chosen venue. There were absolutely no decorations. The scribbles and diagrams from that day’s Phy01 (Physics 101) class was still visible in the blackboard (It used to be Green in color actually). The green board was the backdrop of the stage where the worthy freshers were going to display their talents.

The show was in progress, freshers were performing, and it was hard for us to figure out if it was a dance, skit or mime. The seniors on the stage outnumbered the actual performers. Boys completed their programs within half an hour and the stage was open for the girls. A short and plump girl appeared on the stage, held the mic and started singing,

"Jab koi baat bigad jaaye, Jab koi mushkil pad jaaye,

Tum dena saath mera, o humnavaaz

……

Tum magar andhorein mein, naa chhodna mera haath"

She sang well. But, amidst the booing, she could complete only a part of the song and had to leave the stage with a frustrated face. There was an announcement made requesting the crowd to maintain silence, rather discipline. But, no soul in that hall was in a mood to heed to that.

After a few minutes of no action on the stage, few fresher girls started with something like a dance and a whole lot of seniors entered the stage to cheer them up. They surrounded the girls completely and it was more of a jeering than cheering. The night was in full swing and suddenly the lights went off.

Yes, suddenly the lights went off…

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Featured Free Book: Book is free from 03/10/2021 until 03/14/2021 If the dates are the same, book is free one day only.

About the Book

The Fabulous 50s: It was the era that gave us Brando and Marilyn Monroe, Elvis and Fats Domino, Grace Kelly and James Dean. Not to mention the Cold War and hula hoops, the exciting new medium of television and a new kind of music called ‘rock ‘n roll.’ As if that weren’t enough, the 1950s also brought us fallout shelters, the Korean War, sack dresses and ducktail haircuts.

For a kid like ‘BobbyRandall,’ coming of age in the deep South of the mid-twentieth century meant colorful characters, charming venues and an unforgettable way of life. From the legendary black bottom pie at Weidmann’s Restaurant to ‘making out’ at the Royal Drive-In–from a pool shark named Lenard to the mad dentist, ‘Doctor Death,’ you’ll get Lost in the 50s in Meridian, Mississippi in Robert R Randall’s lively, poignant and hilarious memoir.

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About Featured Book: In The Beginning, There Was a Murder by P.C. James

Series special of $0.99 (from Mar 10-16) with the release of book 2, It's Murder, On a Galapagos Cruise.

When her best friend is murdered, Pauline Riddell finds she must take the law into her own hands if she is to see justice done.

It's northern England, 1953, rationing is still in place and the Cold War is heating up. Her fiancé is out in Korea, where thankfully that war is winding down, and she's just setting out in adult life working at a local armament factory. She’s hard-up, everyone is, but Pauline can see better times ahead, a home, a family, a responsible job, and she’s preparing for that future. Then her friend, Marjorie, is stabbed to death.

At first, Pauline is only concerned with helping the police. She’s intelligent and resourceful but also inexperienced, just out of school and still believing the world runs in trustworthy ways.

Then she finds the police think they've caught her friend's killer and they’re winding down the investigation. Pauline now realizes this is a world where you can’t always leave things to others, you have to get involved yourself. But, as she investigates and puts pressure on the police for more action, she finds the killer wants her out of the way and the police have come to suspect she killed her friend. Can she catch the killer before she either faces the same fate as Marjorie or is hanged for killing her?

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12 accounts of personal experiences from the world beyond – deceased human beings transmitted their individual story through the Swiss deep trance medium Beatrice Brunner. In a vivid manner they describe their initial experiences and encounters in the next world and provide an insight into the meaning of earthly existence and the diversity of the world that awaits us.

Beatrice Brunner (1910–1983) counts among the most important deep trance mediums in the German-speaking world. During the 35 years of her service, she channelled more than 2500 lectures from the world beyond. These lectures offer comprehensive instructions on Christian spirit-teaching, God’s creation and the “where from” and “where to” of mankind.

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Adapted from a Multiple Award-Winning Screenplay, Suckerfish City is a crime-thriller wrapped in a murder mystery delivering a darkly comedic slant on the tragic reality of South Florida’s drug underworld. A world where crime is a way of life, justice is improvised, and love is a lie.

They called him “Sucker,” but it took one to know one. Homeless since the age of fourteen, he took up residence on the ten-mile stretch of seawall between Pompano Beach and Fort Lauderdale, Florida. By day, he lived the life of a beach rat, scavenging the shoreline for books. At night, he’d read by the glow of car headlights on A1A, dreaming of the chance to contribute his own verse.

After unwittingly landing in the middle of a drug deal gone bad, Sucker would escape with ten grand cash, a kilo of uncut heroin and the beautiful teenaged daughter of a notorious drug lord. An adventure surpassing any pulp novel he’d ever read would find him pitted against machete-wielding voodoo warlords in the Everglades, crooked FBI Agents at Sea World, and a sadistic, one-eared rival while simultaneously unraveling the mystery surrounding the murder of his beloved mentor before he can escape Suckerfish City with the girl of his dreams

Unfortunately, Sucker would learn the hard way that Cupid’s arrow is deadly, and the little cherub is a horrible marksman. Hemingway said, “If two people love each other, there can be no happy ending.” Sadly, Papa never said squat about what happens if only one of them was in love. Turns out it’s the exact same thing.

Love is worse than a bullet. It kills you slower.

Suckerfish City is a cautionary tale of misplaced loyalty, blind obsession and their deadly consequences from the bestselling writing team, The Brothers Rodemeyer.

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