Thursday, 24 January 2013

It's all about the extracts - 'In Too Deep'

The below is from Craig Henderson’s In Too Deep

WHAT IS IT ABOUT CHRISTMAS that you want to nail it to a cross and set fire to an effigy of all that has been taken from you?
What phoenix would rise from the ashes of Christmas past and, clasping you in its talons, wheel off into a sky ripped asunder by the conflagration of all your hopes and dreams?

This is how it begins, questions taunting me between the half-light of sleep and wakefulness. I’m aware of my body twitching, snaking out its feelers into the unknown.
When the dreams begin they’re so vivid, truth and myth, legend and lies merge until there is no longer a clear indication of reality, of experience or fabrication, only further questions dragging me back into the vortex of denial.

Water rushes by in a never ending wall of white noise, blanketing the sounds of revelry that are already a distant memory. Naked apart from her bikini bottoms, she kneels in the icy river, hands cupped as she flings water over her head in some silent benediction.
You watch the water streaming over her breasts, her head flung back to the heavens like she’s part of a Sports Illustrated photo shoot. This hurts more than her words, this flaunting of what is no longer yours, perhaps never was. At the same time, you’re aware of a total lack of contrivance in her actions. Her mind operates on some instinctual level you have never been able to penetrate, no matter the promise of her body.
And yet, this realisation brings no relief, only adds to the sense of disbelief sucking your world inward with the inexorable pull of gravity, as you stare at her crumpled clothes beside you on the bank, nonchalantly discarded like your heart.
Part of you wants to stride out and thrust her beautiful face under the surface, snap her out of this madness with the threat of something unimaginable. But to touch her would be to die, you know it as clearly as the water that seems to have borne all this from out of nowhere, over some horizon you have never seen and cannot envision. 
It’s beyond comprehension. You’re a few feet from the only person you care about, and so alone you can hardly breathe. Isolated in a world far removed from all you know. Stranded by a high tide you didn’t see coming, deposited amongst the flotsam of your own expectations.
Heart threatening to explode in your ears, you turn and strike out into the undergrowth, oblivious to the voice that no longer has a face, to the light-hearted banter drifting like smoke on the wind, taunting you with its irrelevance. Darkness settles through the forest, a whispered revelation. Branches slap at your body, ineffectually, painlessly, after her words.

I burst out of the forest, the dream, to the sound of banging downstairs.
Almost tripping down the steps, I rush to the front door and then hesitate, contemplating the implications. It’s her, I know it, coming back to me as I knew she would. Taking a deep breath, I pull the door open, but there’s no one there. The screen slams in front of my face, yawning open again with the breeze as I stand there, bewildered. I think of ripping it from its hinges, but a light comes on in the flat opposite, so I drag it shut, close the door and slump on the lounge.
The heat forces me back upstairs, where the ceiling fan distributes the warmth evenly around the room, sucking the moisture from my body as it does so. I reach out to her side of the bed out of habit, pulling her pillow to my chest as if I can squeeze life out of the hopes and tears distilled within it.
Rolling onto my back, I hug her to me, watching the fan revolve with such concentration the blades stall and send the room spinning into orbit.

Why did you offer up your heart so readily? I love you, you’d said, three words that had fallen on deaf ears and returned to haunt you with the spectre of your own longing. Could you not see what you’d thought had been love welling up inside, constricting each breath, quickening your pulse—had been merely anxiety? The desperation of a lifetime of loneliness, the neuroses of unreturned feelings that flowed like charged particles beneath the surface of your skin.

About the Author
Craig Henderson has written several prize-winning short stories, notably the joint winner of the 2012 Trung Sisters Creative Arts Competition, one of six winners in the 2012 National Year of Reading Learn to Read Writing Competition, and highly commended in the 2012 Ada Cambridge Prize for a Biographical Short Story and the Melton Short Story competitions for 2010, 2011 and 2012. His work has also been published in Offset magazine and various other magazines and websites. He has always been fascinated by the power of the written word to explain what common sense cannot, is studying Professional Writing and Editing part-time and is a full-time child wrangler.

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It's all about the extracts - 'Reach for the Moon'

The following is from Tuan Ho's Reach for the Moon

IN A WORLD STILL GROWING, where cars and boats abounded, but not planes or any kind of air travel, a young boy named Jerry was sad, not because he lived in a town where everyone hated his family, but because he couldn’t see his father for a very long time.
His father was taken into the back of a police car and shipped to a secluded island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, one he shared with the world’s most dangerous criminals. And Jerry did not know why. His mother tried to explain what his father did, but he was too young to understand.
Jerry lived alone with his mother. He walked to school each day, not understanding why the other kids teased him. One day, as he was walking home from school, a man he had never seen before stood in his way.
The man was dressed in black with a black cloth wrapped around his face, revealing only his eyes. ‘Are you the boy?’
‘Sir, what boy?’
‘The boy of the father they sent away.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘There’s something you need to know. Your father was a good man, he never did anything wrong. They just didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘Sir, know what?’ Jerry asked.
‘The secret. Here, sit down next to me. I’ll tell you a story, but make sure you don’t tell anyone.’
Jerry sat down on the bench and the man told him why they sent his father away.
Jerry’s father was a man named George. Everyone around town knew of George because he had a special talent. He was born with super-strong shoulders that could carry anything on them: people, cars and even boats. He could hold it all.
And, because of this, he became a very rich man. Normal everyday townsfolk and rich kings and queens from faraway lands paid him lots of money to move things that couldn’t be moved: a giant elephant that fell down a well and a young prince’s car made of solid gold that had become stuck on an icy road, making it impossible for any person or machine to retrieve, and Watson the Whale from the seaside town Sargar, who had become stranded on a beach after being cast out from the aquarium for eating so much and no longer being able to jump through flaming hoops like a circus lion. George faced these challenges without stress and completed them with ease, and his wealth grew through the stratosphere.
One night, while George was lying on his lawn, looking up at the moon, he wondered if humans would ever travel to the moon. This thought excited him so much he sprang to his feet and reached for his phone and called his friends to ask them to call their friends.
The next morning, in the city square, George was surrounded by thousands of people. The following hour, he was joined by thousands more. Once they were gathered together, George told them what they were there for. It was for a historic event. One no one had attempted before.
It was to reach the moon…

About the Author
Tuan Ho is just another human who lives on planet Earth and enjoys doing fun things like feeding ducks, cycling like it's the end of the world, eating delicious food and, most of all, writing. He often stumbles upon inspiration while sitting in silence, listening to the stillness of life, or enjoying a relaxing shower. Other stories strike him like lightning.

PURCHASE this story and fifteen others for US$2.99

ORDER your hard copy for $15 including worldwide postage by emailing me – payable via PayPal, bank transfer, money order or bank cheque.

Craig Henderson returns tomorrow with an extract of In Too Deep, runner-up in the 2012 Ada Cambridge Prize for Biographical Prose, and published in the 2012 Willy Lit Fest anthology and Platform magazine.

Thanks for visiting,

Wednesday, 23 January 2013

It's all about the extracts - 'Saigon Siren'

The follow extract is from Antonio Iannella’s biographical short story about Stroke with a capital S, Saigon Siren

I often heard that at the beginning of my recovery, even thought it myself. ‘What the? I’m only thirty-eight.’ In my brain’s infinite wisdom, it decided to have its Stroke while I was travelling through Vietnam with my wife and kids, leaving me paralysed from the neck down. Talk about pulling the rug out from beneath you, bursting your holiday bubble or squashing that travel bug.
There we were, an adventure of a lifetime, six months in planning and weeks of learning to say thank you in Vietnamese. Organising a holiday takes longer than the holiday itself. But we often don’t remember that bit. Our mind wipes it from our thoughts, deletes it from our files. But, in this case, it was our family holiday that was almost erased from our memories.
A near death experience is likely to overshadow tales about cruising across the muddy waters of the Mekong River, or walking through fields that once staged a horrendous war. One moment I was standing in the hot sun, listening to the tour guide talk about how the Vietcong ambushed the American soldiers. Then, shortly after, I was lying in an Intensive Care Unit beneath fluorescent lights listening to doctors speak about Stroke.
Stroke is such an unglamorous name, but I guess there’s nothing glamorous about it. It takes possession of you. I was a complete Stroke novice before it happened to me. Suddenly, I’m in a world of needle jabs, oxygen masks and medical terms I can’t spell. A learning curve similar to the experience of buying your first flat-screen television. Though you know nothing about them, the Harvey Norman salesmen asks you, ‘Do you want a built in digital tuner, high definition, contrast ratio, thirty-two or forty-two inches?’
‘I don’t know, I just want a Plasma.’ By the time you leave the store, you know everything there is to know about the technology, Brian Naylor style. Oh, and let’s not forget, you become an expert among mates.
Only thing is, there’s no extended warranty that comes with the brain, no exchange policy and definitely NO MONEY BACK GUARANTEE...

About the Author
Antonio Iannella began his writing journey after experiencing a near-death stroke while holidaying in Vietnam with his wife and three young children. A musician, songwriter and music producer for over twenty-five years, he predominately writes non-fiction tales exploring the challenges stroke survivors face. His first manuscript, Saigon Siren, is a heartfelt memoir intimately sharing his painful rehabilitation, told with honesty, love, passion and glorious Aussie humour. Antonio’s plan for 2013 is for Saigon Siren to be published in conjunction with the release of The Lion Tamers debut album, Lost Translation, which he is writing and recording in his Melton recording studio, Studio four99.

PURCHASE this story and fifteen others for US$2.99

ORDER your hard copy for $15 including worldwide postage by emailing me – payable via PayPal, bank transfer, money order or bank cheque.

If you like what you’ve seen so far, come back tomorrow for an extract of Tuan Ho’s fantastical short story, Reach for the Moon.

Tuesday, 22 January 2013

It's all about the extracts - 'The Palace and the Tower'

Today’s extract is from Kim Cook’s short story The Palace and the Tower

LINA GREW UP IN a palace made of glass. In a glass nursery, she listened to stories about princesses falling in love with princes. She learnt the arts of governance in a glass study. And, when she was older and her father, the king, lay dying, she greeted the arriving suitors in a glass hall and winced at the thud of their boots against the glass floor.
The suitors treated her with small courtesy, for she was the sole heir. They were princes all, well-attired and groomed. Lina supposed they were handsome—the serving women they took to bed seemed to think so and her father, the king, spoke of their bravery and wisdom—but she sat in a wooden chair at the foot of her father’s glass dais and pondered why she had a gaggle of suitors on her doorstep when there were princesses trapped in towers waiting for a heroic prince.
She wondered why her father had trained her to govern if she needed to have a prince. When she sat at her father’s bedside that evening, reading to him from his favourite book, holding his cup to his lips, she asked him so.
Her father coughed, spluttering over the bed-linens. ‘Daughter,’ he said and for a moment fell so silent Lina feared he had stopped breathing, ‘you must marry.’
‘Can I not rule, Father?’
‘Would our neighbouring kingdoms let a woman rule alone? Or would they send their armies to take you and wed you and claim your throne?’
She thought about her history books and the kingdoms that had fallen after the death of a childless king and shook her head. ‘No, they would not.’
‘Choose one,’ he said, reaching to clasp her hand in his shrivelled fingers. ‘Whichever is the most pleasing to you, but if you love me, choose one.’
She could not agree, so said nothing. Perhaps if she got to know the princes better, she might be able to choose an acceptable consort. After days of pondering, Lina declared a ball would be held.
The suitors muttered amongst themselves, complaining about her indecision, the expense and even that she dared summon them to a ball, but they came.
Lina’s women dressed her in a silver gown and soft slippers, and she danced with each prince in turn. Some were intelligent and some were possessive; some were clumsy, or stupid; some were kind and considerate; some were grasping; some were flattering.
She danced the night and the two that followed in the arms of one prince or another, but could not make a decision. She knew she would wed for duty, not love, but hoped she would look at one or two of them and feel a fluttering in her heart like the palace women did. She hoped to find a prince who was least abhorrent and most malleable. One who, when she thought of him sliding a ring on her finger, joining her in her chamber, wasn’t quite so objectionable.
The following day she returned to her father’s bedside.
‘Daughter,’ he said between coughing fits, ‘have you chosen a prince?’
‘No, Father.’ She looked away from his grey and sunken face. ‘I cannot.’
‘Oh, Daughter,’ he whispered, his voice a rough crackle. Bright blood spotted a cloth the nurse dabbed at his lips. ‘Do you deny my death?’
Lina bit down on her lower lip and turned her head to better hide her tears. ‘Of course not.’
‘Choose one,’ he said, gasping for breath between the laboured words. ‘Whichever is the most pleasing to you, but if you love me, choose one.’

About the Author
I'm Kim Cook, and I'm genderqueer with a side dish of fabulous. People stare at me in public because they can't figure out my gender and because I have the fashion sensibility of a child rummaging through a box of crayons. I like chocolate and rainbows and writing fantasy novels in second person. I hate boxes and non-accepting people and having to conform to anything save correct Australian English. I'm a Professional Writing and Editing student based in Melbourne, Australia and am currently working on a novel, a novella, various short stories and a play script involving characters who are some flavour of queer. My preference is to write about the lives and experiences of lesbian, transgender and non-binary characters, but also about abuse, mental illness and living with disabilities. My first anthology, Crooked Words, will be available as an e-book in February 2013.

PURCHASE this story and fifteen others for US$2.99

ORDER your hard copy for $15 including worldwide postage by emailing me – payable via PayPal, bank transfer, money order or bank cheque.

Tomorrow I’ll be posting an extract of Antonio Iannella’s biographical short story about surviving Stroke, Saigon Siren, which was commended in the 2012 Melton Short Story Competition.

Monday, 21 January 2013

It's all about the extracts - 'Time and Time Again'

Today’s extract is from my short story Time and Time Again, which won the 2011 Melton Short Story Competition, was highly commended in the 2010 Henry Lawson Literary Awards and has been published in Platform magazine. It goes a little something like this…

IF I HAD MY TIME AGAIN, I wouldn’t be hanging from my neck.
If I had my time again, I wouldn’t have twisted a sheet into rope, tied one end into a noose, the other to the boardwalk handrail, and flung myself into the chasm below. I wouldn’t have planned it for months, or thought about it every waking hour for the last three years in this god-forsaken prison. I wouldn’t have rammed Big Lue’s head into the hand basin over and over when he tried to shank me in the spleen for the second time, the first right in front of two screws who insist they saw nothing. His life wouldn’t have trickled down the drain before the ambulance arrived and I wouldn’t have been sentenced to an extra twenty-five years.
If I had my time again and knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have resisted so violently when four cops dragged me out of the pub and tackled me to the ground, and one of them wouldn’t have fractured his skull on the pavement. I wouldn’t have argued with the bartender when she said I’d had enough to drink, or smashed a bottle over the security guard’s head when he tried to wrench my arm behind my back. I wouldn’t have drunk so much that when I fell off the stool a red haze painted ridicule on the faces staring down at me. I wouldn’t have gone to that bar, or any bar, and blown all but that night’s drinking money on that pokie machine trying to win back what it had scammed from me countless nights before.
If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have broken my boss’s nose or quit when he asked why I was two hours late and why I hadn’t picked up the paint as he’d asked, again. I wouldn’t have still been sanding architraves and rolling out walls when kids half my age were managing building sites of their own, confident their lives were going to turn out just fine. And, on the morning of my old man’s funeral only days before, I wouldn’t have gotten so drunk and stoned that when the priest announced God would welcome the bastard into heaven and forgive him for all his sins, and so should we, I couldn’t help but stand up and shout, ‘He should burn in hell!’ And, on the way out, I wouldn’t have spat on Dad’s lifeless face—all makeup and prosthetics, smiles and pleasantness—a visage of some kind of saint...

About the Author
Editor and contributor Emanuel Cachia won the 2011 Melton Short Story Competition, was Highly Commended in the 2010 competition and the 2010 Henry Lawson Literary Awards and was on the short listing panel for the 2012 Ada Cambridge Prize for Biographical Prose. He is a freelance editor, book producer, workshop facilitator and, when time allows, an avid gamer. He has a Diploma of Professional Writing and Editing, is studying a Bachelor of Communications and dedicates his writing to his wife and two children, who mean worlds to him.

PURCHASE this story and fifteen others on Amazon for US$2.99

ORDER your hard copy for $15 including worldwide postage by emailing me – payable via PayPal, bank transfer, money order or bank cheque.

Up tomorrow: an extract of Kim Cook’s short story, The Palace and the Tower.

Sunday, 20 January 2013

it's all about the first extract - 'Talking in Tongues'

This first extract is from Craig Henderson’s short story Talking in Tounges, which won one of six joint first prizes in the 2012 National Year of Reading’s ‘It’s never too late … to learn to read’ writing competition. Without further ado…

YOU LEARN TO READ one word at a time, just as you learn to walk one step at a time. But walking is easier, once you get the hang of it. You just lean forward and put one foot in front of the other. While learning to read is a constantly evolving challenge. Words change, as do meanings. The trick is to read between the lines, to go beyond the words and immerse yourself in the story.
I’m Ben, by the way. At fifteen, I’m already hooked on words and the strange hold they have over people. Take my family—please someone, anyone. Sorry, that’s an old joke and not a very good one. Maybe I should just tell the story and let you decide what to do with them.
It all began about a year ago when Dad started talking Italian.
Dad is not Italian. He’s as Aussie as Vegemite … er, Blundstone boots … I mean, Bundaberg Rum. I know those aren’t good examples, but you get what I mean. At the footy, Dad could balance a stubby and a meat pie in one hand, while tearing out his hair with the other and hurled obscenities at the umpire at the same time. Dad is the only person I know who could say, ‘fair dinkum’, ‘struth’ and ‘bugger me’, all in the one sentence.
Everything changed one day, when he sat down to breakfast.
He turned to me, winked and said, ‘Buon giorno.’
I almost choked on my Cornflakes. I might have thought he was joking, if it hadn’t rolled off his tongue like he was the Pope.
Mum was on another of her religious charades—full on Catholic, I think—so she just rolled out a Hail Mary and went back to scraping the burnt bits off the toast.
My younger brother, who is thirteen, has ADHD and OCD—doctors seem quite fond of acronyms—along with Tourette’s syndrome. Mum reasons it is God’s will that Joey was born with these afflictions and only the will of God can take them away. And that is Mum’s great dilemma, since being denied a miracle by her own Lutheran God.
Rather than lose her faith, Mum decided she must be barking up the wrong tree. She converted to Buddhism, Hinduism and Masochism, before doing the rounds of the other Christian faiths; the Seventh Day Adventists, Mormons, Presbyterians and finally the Catholics.
But Buddha, Ganesha, and Jesus, Joseph and Mary had failed to deliver the goods, and Mum was ripe to test the waters of less mainstream religions. I guess Dad’s ‘renaissance period’ pushed her closer to those Gods who occupied the fringes of the religious pecking order. She started doing voluntary work at the library just to get out of the house, I think.
With Joey and Mum caught up in their own worlds, I suppose I was the only one that noticed Dad’s slide into an ethnicity that didn’t belong to him. My older sister, Melanie, had turned goth two years ago and was seldom seen during daylight. Mum had given up trying to save Mel’s soul. I think it was the tongue piercing that finally threw her, or perhaps Mel’s I do it with the devil tattoo.
Either way, it was up to me to work out what was happening to Dad and, more worryingly, just what the hell he was talking about. I tried the library first, only to find all the Italian phrasebooks had been checked out, along with the How to Learn Italian CDs. I should have put two and two together right then, but hey, I’m fifteen and there’s a lot going on in my life. Since we didn’t own a computer, I had to book internet time at the library after school and trawl through sites searching for translations to Dad’s latest utterings.
To begin with, Dad spoke a mixture of English and Italian, with the odd colloquialism thrown in. His native tongue gradually slipped away, though, sliding into pigeon English and then full blown Italian. By then Mum had taken up Hare Krishna, so our house resembled a backpacker’s lodge.
Dad would walk into the lounge after work—and God knows (sorry Mum) what language he spoke at the council depot—saying, ‘Ciao, Angelo. Ciao, Beniamino. Ciao, Elena.’
Buon giorno,’ I’d reply, the only Italian I knew at that stage.
From the kitchen would come Mum’s mantra, breathed over the latest variation of lentil soup. ‘Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare, Hare.’
Joey was busy killing aliens on the PlayStation, muttering a ceaseless line of obscenities, head jerking to one side and his body twitched in time.
Non piu,’ no more, Dad would say. ‘Di niente,’ not at all. But Joey just kept ploughing those two-headed freaks into the ground…

About the Author
Craig Henderson has written several prize-winning short stories, notably the joint winner of the 2012 Trung Sisters Creative Arts Competition, one of six winners in the 2012 National Year of Reading Learn to Read Writing Competition, and highly commended in the 2012 Ada Cambridge Prize for a Biographical Short Story and the Melton Short Story competitions for 2010, 2011 and 2012. His work has also been published in Offset magazine and various other magazines and websites. He has always been fascinated by the power of the written word to explain what common sense cannot, is studying Professional Writing and Editing part-time and is a full-time child wrangler.

READ the entire short story for free as part of the sample available on

PURCHASE this story and fifteen others for US$2.99

ORDER your hard copy for $15 including worldwide postage by emailing me – payable via PayPal, bank transfer, money order or bank cheque.

Check back tomorrow for an extract of my award-winning short story, Time and Time Again.

Thanks for visiting,

Monday, 14 January 2013

it's all about the writing - the book!

it's all about the writing is an eclectic collection of sixteen well-written, thought-provoking short stories by emerging writers Craig Henderson, Antonio Iannella, Kim Cook, Tuan Ho, Joshua Holland and myself, Emanuel Cachia.

The stories contained within cross fiction genres including Young Adult, Science Fiction, Literary, Action, Fantasy, Adventure, Family, Humour, Mental Health and Multiculturalism. There's a little Memoir and Creative Non-fiction and other pieces that refuse to be classified so easily.

Call them what you will, there's something for everyone.

Expect to laugh and cry, giggle and weep, cringe in horror and pump your fist in triumph, often while reading a single story.

You won't be disappointed.

Available on Kindle for USD$2.99 at (ASIN B00AVS9AR0),

Hard copy for $15 including worldwide postage by emailing me - payable via PayPal or Bank transfer, and

Free to borrow via the Kindle Owner's Lending Library. For more information, visit (I receive a small payment each time it is borrowed).

Next up: an extract of Craig Henderson's short story Talking in Tongues, which won one of six $1,000 prizes in the national year of reading's 'it's never too late to learn to read' short story competition.

Thank you kindly for your support,

Monday, 7 January 2013

Busy times

The last few months have been busy ones. For a start, I was on the editorial panel for the thirteenth issue of Platform magazine and had my award-winning short story, Time and Time Again, published with them. 

If you would like a copy email me or Bruno Lettieri.

I produced a collection of short stories, Tales From 222, featuring pieces by Diploma of Professional Writing and Editing students.

My blog post on creating a Twitter account was published in the fourth issue of SEED magazine for 2012. Fingers crossed they'll have me back in 2013.

Another anthology I helped produce was Survival, a collection of short stories, poems and photographs by Professional Writing and Editing students. I was responsible for creating the inside page design, laying out the pieces, creating the front and end matter, liaising with the printer and preparing the electronic files according to the print spec. Thankfully, most of the editing and prrofreading was done in my Publishing Studio class. I'm really proud of this one as, even though it may never be released publicly, it is a fantastic looking book showcasing work by emerging writers, poets and photographers.

Halliday History is a 208-page family history I edited/proofread, designed the cover for and had perfect bound. I changed the format from A4 to a less formal 210mm X 260mm. This made it look less like a financial report and more like a cosy read. The 8-page index was a challenge, but I enjoyed working with the author and delivering an in-depth family history in an engaging way.

I ran two workshops on making handmade books, one at the Melton Shire's Art Beat Festival and another at the Caroline Springs College. 

In conjunction with Victoria University and Rotunda in the West, I also produced the headline event at Melton's Art Beat festival, The Storyteller's Role: a deep conversation between authors John Marsden, Michael McGirr and Sydney Smith and MC Bruno Lettieri. We had a great turnout and received some fantastic feedback from the audience and council. With a little luck, we'll see more big-name, literary authors out my way.

As part of promoting literacy in Melbourne's West, I optimised The Write Zone's Facebook page, created a YouTube channel to post clips from Rotunda in the West events and introduced one of the presenters at Rotunda in the West's My Enduring Love Affair part 2 (2.0)

And, finally, the big one: it's all about the writing, a collection of sixteen thought-provoking short stories by emerging writers Craig Henderson, Antonio Iannella, Kim Cook, Tuan Ho and Joshua Holland. A few of my stories are in there, too. Check out the Kindle version on

Over the next few weeks, I'll be posting extracts from the stories and a little about them and the authors. Feel free to read the sample on Amazon, borrow it on your Kindle and, if you like what you see, buy the full ebook or email me and I'll post your hard copy for $15 (payable via bank transfer or Paypal).

Thanks for visiting,