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Although my passion is medieval fantasy I have dabbled and Drabbled in many different genres. No one in my 3 writing groups writes in my chosen genre, which doesn't help, but nevertheless they are very supportive. I feel that the last two/three years have been my apprenticeship into writing and so I am now looking to change my direction. I will continue to write short stories, earn a few bob you know, but will concentrate more and more on what I love best. For if I continue with a scatter-gun approach my mind will be pulled in too many directions. And that is a double edged sword, for whilst I'll be pursing my passion to write, I'll constantly be looking at new projects. That approach has to


ME Watching the news can be a real chore. Same old faces, same old stories, it’s one continuous downpour of utter drivel. I sighed, but as usual couldn’t be bothered to turn off the goggle-box as I made plans for the next few days. The new shopping centre, stupidly named New Centre, had a grand opening coming up and that meant bargains. I could save a packet so carefully noted down the layout of the place. I don’t know what made me look up but the television showed a picture of my face. Shit! Looks like my thieving days are over.


Here is a snippet from my 2nd novel Heroes Never Fade which is currently being formatted by my editor. After the first book, my readers told me that the main evil protagonist wasn't vile enough. I wasn't sure, but I doubt they will say that this time. THE NOON START TIME had passed, yet still the Tormented King had failed to appear. In fear of their lives those closest faced an agonising decision – wake up the king and risk death, or fail to wake him and risk the same fate. They had chosen the latter option and tried to hide. The initial parade had long since disbanded with the retainers and auxiliary staff returning inside from the hot sun. Only the warriors remained. Stiff, uprigh


SKERRY The church bell had just struck midnight when the sound of silence whispered at the wind’s departure. Sitting down on the hard bench adjacent to his stone cottage, Skerry watched the stars. Like pin pricks in the curtain of night they gazed down on a weathered face. Old before his time the middle aged Norseman remembered. The boat had run aground on a sandbank, not five hundred paces from the shore. With such a valuable cargo, the three man crew would not leave the boat unattended. Ropes had been lowered for one man to swim ashore and raise the village from slumber. Foul words stung insensitive ears as the crew of three argued. Raised fists led to knives being hastily drawn from leath


Dentists! I hate them, especially with an extraction looming. I entered, sat down, filled in a medical history form, and waited. “Mr Smith.” I opened wide and received pain killing injections. Once the left side of my face was numb they asked me questions. Alas, all I managed was, ‘wot suu say’ and ‘sil urts.’ With all his strength he pulled; the nurse pulled; the assistant pulled. I felt my face coming away in their hands. Blood ran freely, the tooth extracted. I ran for the door. “Stop! You haven’t signed the consent form.” Not a chance. I hadn’t paid either.

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