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Category Archives: Authors

Interview: Matthew Harffy

23 Friday Aug 2019

Posted by patblack in Authors, Books, Fiction, Historical fiction, Interview, Literature, Novels, Writing

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Aria Fiction, Author interview, Bernicia Chronicles, Historical fiction, Matthew Harffy, Swords

Swords! Blood! Nobility! Let’s meet Matthew Harffy, author of The Bernicia Chronicles!

It’s all about you, what’s your name and what’s your story?

My name is Matthew Harffy and I have been a published writer of historical fiction since 2015 when my debut novel, The Serpent Sword, was released. It was the first in a series of novels called the Bernicia Chronicles set in seventh century Britain. So far six novels and one novella have been published in the series, but there are more planned.

Of course, the date of my first publication does not mark the date I started writing. I had dabbled in writing short stories and segments of stories all my life but had never taken it really seriously until I started The Serpent Sword back in 2001. It took me many years to complete and then to edit, partly because I had no idea of the amount of work needed, and partly because of the quantity of research required in writing a book set in a historical setting.

Matthew 4

Apart from the writing I have worked as an English teacher and translator in Spain, and as a technical author in the UK. I’ve also sung in several rock bands.

I live in Wiltshire with my wife, two daughters and our dog. And since last year I have been a full-time writer.

Tell us a bit about your latest book

My latest book to be published was the sixth in the Bernicia Chronicles, Storm of Steel. It tells the tale of the series protagonist, Beobrand, as he goes in search of a missing girl. His quest takes him over the sea to France where he is beset with many challenges and malevolent powerful enemies.

The latest book I have handed in to my editor is, Wolf of Wessex, due for publication in November. This is the first novel I have written that is not part of the Bernicia Chronicles series.

Wolf of Wessex is a taut, fast-paced thriller that hurtles through the narrative as quickly as the main characters rush through the wilderness towards a climactic confrontation with dark forces. I loved writing it!

After writing six novels in the same series, I was excited to bring some new characters to life. I hope that readers will, like me, fall in love with Dunston, the dour, world-weary woodsman, and Aedwen, the resourceful orphaned girl, whose plight forces him to leave his forest refuge.

Matthew 1

What are you reading at the moment?

At the moment I am reading The Deaths and Afterlife of Aleister Crowley by Ian Thornton. It is published by Unbound which enables authors to crowdfund publication of their books. I have had an interest in Aleister Crowley for a long time, so I helped to crowdfund this novel. I am only a short way into the book at the moment and the jury is still out as to whether I am going to fully enjoy it or not. It’s an unusual book, that’s for certain. I just had a quick look on Goodreads and it definitely seems to have split reviewers. If you are interested in Crowley, the occult or the historical events of the first half of the twentieth century, you may well enjoy this book.

Movie Magic – what actors would you cast in the big screen movie of your book?

This is always a really difficult question to answer. Rather than give the names of any stars, I would just say that the actor who would play Beobrand would need to be physically imposing and able to carry off the fighting believably, but would also need to be able to portray the sensitivity of the troubled hero. And of course, it wouldn’t hurt ratings if he was extremely good-looking too!

Matthew 3

What writing projects are next for you?

I have just finished the first draft of book seven of the Bernicia Chronicles, Fortress of Fury. In it Beobrand is stretched to the limit as Bebbanburg is besieged, and he has to confront old enemies and struggle with a forbidden passion that threatens to destroy him and the kingdom.

Next up, who knows? There will be more Bernicia Chronicles, but I have recently had an idea for a novel that I might just have to investigate a bit more before making a decision on which book I should tackle next. Exciting times!

Matthew 2

Many thanks to Matthew for his time and an ace interview. Read the books, and connect with Matthew, right here: 

The Bernicia Chronicles

http://getbook.at/TheSerpentSword

http://getbook.at/CrossandCurse

http://getbook.at/BloodandBlade

http://getbook.at/KillerOfKings

http://getbook.at/WarriorOfWoden

http://getbook.at/StormOfSteel

https://getbook.at/FortressOfFury

 

Wolf of Wessex

https://getbook.at/WolfOfWessex

 

Novella – Kin of Cain

https://getbook.at/KinOfCain 

 

Website: www.matthewharffy.com

Twitter: @MatthewHarffy

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewHarffyAuthor

 

Interview: Ger Hogan

05 Monday Aug 2019

Posted by patblack in Authors, Books, Crime, Crime fiction, Fiction, Interview, Literature, Mystery, Novels, Writing

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Tags

Books, Crime, Novel

It’s all about you, what’s your name and what’s your story?

I’m Geraldine Hogan, a writer, reader, dog walker and a bit of a hyphen-obsessive!

I’ve written four contemporary fiction novels – published by Aria under the name Faith Hogan. All feel good, Uplit books based in Ireland, The Girl I Used To Know is in bookshops now in paperback.

This year, under my own name, I’ve got two crime books hitting the ebook shelves. The first, called Silent Night is out on August 23rd with Bookouture.

I live in the west of Ireland with my husband, four children and a very happy Labrador called Penny.

Ger cover1

Tell us a bit about your latest book

Silent Night is described as a gripping, unputdownable start to a crime series…

It is the first in a series set in Corbally station in Limerick, with Iris Locke and Ben Slattery working in the south-eastern murder team. Iris’s first case throws her back in time to an unsolved case of her father’s and she finds herself catapulted into a no-mans land where soon it is very hard to figure out which way is home.

What do you love about your chosen genre?

I started off writing crime, but as luck would have it, I turned to contemporary fiction and managed to get picked up by a fantastic publisher. Still the crime bug wouldn’t go away and so I tinkered with old manuscripts until I had something I was really proud of.

I’ve always read crime – like most readers I started out on Secret Sevens, graduated to Miss Marples, discovered John Grisham as a teenager and there was no going back from there.

I have to say, that at the end of the writing journey, having dipped my toes in both puddles, I love writing in either genre and would find it difficult at this point to chose between the two.

The fact is that whether I’m writing crime or contemporary fiction, all of my novels are character driven, so for me, it’s all about those voices in my head and getting them on the page!

Author Faith Hogan

What are you reading at the moment?

At the moment, it’s The Girl in the Ice by Robert Bryzanda. I tend to read wide, unless I’m asked to read something in particular and while I’ve had this book a while, it’s only now I’m getting round to it and I must say, I’m really enjoying it!

Next up is Minna Howards new book That Long Lost Summer (Aria- Head of Zeus) and after that, I’m diving into Louise Candlish’s Our House (Simon & Schuster UK)– which I’m told is very smart and sharp, so I’m looking forward to it!

Movie Magic – what actors would you cast in the big screen movie of your book?

Oh, dear… obviously, if I had a choice, I’d cast Keanu Reeves – who wouldn’t? But he wouldn’t look anything like Ben Slattery, who’s a bit more… Ray Winstone!

As to Iris – well she starts off as a bit of a Cadbury’s Bunny girl, but ends up by book two being a lot more careworn – I certainly think Saoirse Ronan would be well able to carry this one off!

What writing projects are next for you?

At the moment, I’m knee deep in edits – I’ve spent the summer going from editing one book to the next! Currently, I’m working on the structural notes for Book 2 – the follow up to Silent Night. Then, after a few weeks for summer holidays, I’m looking forward to diving back into a book I wrote a few months ago which is going to be shipped into shape hopefully in the Autumn.

All this editing, is making me a little cabin crazy to get at something new though and there are a few ideas bubbling away waiting to get on that page….

Thanks so much!

Connect with Ger here:

Amazon: https://geni.us/B07S9XPT9TCover
Apple Books: https://apple.co/2EFNp00
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2JLt7qm
Googleplay: http://bit.ly/2IhXz8n

The Family – the thriller of the year, out now!

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Posted by patblack in Authors, Books, Crime, Crime fiction, Debut novel, Fiction, Literature, Mystery, Noir, Novels, Pat Black, Writing

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Crime, Debut novel, fiction, Novels, Pat Black, PR Black, The Family, Thriller, writing

My debut novel, The Family, is available now for Kindle, Kobo, Google Play Books, Apple Books and NOOK.

Becky Morgan is a survivor.

Her family were wiped out by a serial killer in France 20 years ago.

She was the girl who got away.

Now, she’s looking for the killer – but he has his own unfinished business to take care of…

Who will win this deadly game of cat and mouse?

The-Family-v11-HR

 

Interview: Lisa Hobman

25 Thursday Apr 2019

Posted by patblack in Authors, Books, Fiction, Interview, Literature, Novels, Writing

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Author interview, Books, fiction, Lisa Hobman, Novels

It’s all about you – what’s your and what’s your story?

I’m Lisa Hobman and I grew up in West Yorkshire. In 2012 my family and I relocated to Scotland after falling in love with place during holidays. It was after this that I began my writing career and have since published 14 books.

Lisa1

Tell us a bit about your latest book.

A Summer of New Beginnings is set along the stunning north coast 500 route in the Scottish Highlands. It tells the story of broken hearted, luxury travel writer, Zara, who is suddenly catapulted front her comfort zone and asked to cover the route by bicycle! She expects to hate every second but along the way learns lots of new things about herself and human nature in general. It’s a romantic story with a few giggles and a wee bit of a The Proclaimers along the way.

What do you love about your chosen genre?

I’m a total romantic at heart, so I love to be the weaver of spells that sprinkle a little love into my characters’ lives.

Lisa2
What are you reading at the moment?

I’m reading the Ann Cleeves’ Shetland series and absolutely loving it. I like to read outside of the genre I write to expand my horizons. I’ve just finished binge reading all of Lisa Jewell’s suspense novels too.

Movie magic: what actors would you cast in the big-screen version of your book?

Ooooh now then… I think Richard Madden would have to play Lachy, dark and brooding but with a sense of humour. And I think Charlotte Ritchie would play a great Zara! Quite demure and very pretty but with an inner strength and great comedy timing!
What writing projects are next for you?

I’m currently working on the first of what I hope will be a series set on the Isle of Skye. Having visited a few times it feels like the perfect setting for a story. The scenery is breathtaking and I’m excited about bringing it the attention of my readers.

Many thanks to Lisa for dropping by The Ox. You can connect with her right here: 

Twitter: @LisaJHobmanAuth

Facebook: facebook.com/LisaJHobmanAuthor

Instagram: @Lisahobmanauthor

Interview: Karen Osman

17 Wednesday Apr 2019

Posted by patblack in Authors, Books, Fiction, Interview, Literature, Novels, Writing

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Books, Interview, Karen Osman, Psychological thrillers, Thrillers

Another interview with a team-mate from Aria fiction – psychological thriller author Karen Osman!

It’s all about you – what’s your name and what’s your story?

My name is Karen Osman and I’m an author, writing psychological thriller books. I have always written in some form or another from a very young age. I loved it and it was, and continues to be, a daily part of my life – even on holidays! I started writing novels in 2016, when I won the Montegrappa Writing Prize for The Good Mother, which then led to a three-book deal.  Prior to that, I set up my own business, Travel Ink, offering content writing services to the travel and tourism industry which still runs today.

Karenpic2

Tell us more about your latest book, The Home.

My second novel, The Home, is a psychological thriller, set between the 1970s and 1980s, about successful career woman Angela whose memories of an abusive children’s home affect her adult life. The book delves into the darkness of living in a children’s home, casting a shadow over family ties and what it means to belong. Abandoned as a baby, Angela is desperate to escape her supposed refuge, yet despite being adopted and taken into the hearts of a wealthy couple, the scars of her childhood remain. When Angela discovers the identity of her birth mother Evelyn, their reunion is no fairy tale and as sinister events start to unfold, Evelyn fears she may not survive her daughter’s return.

It was motherhood that inspired the plot; As a mother of two young sons (aged 2 and 4) myself, I still remember that double-edged maelstrom of emotion of those new-born days – a mix of joy and worry – and it’s been a powerful influence in my writing for my new book, The Home. At the same time, I was researching about the horrors of children’s homes in the ‘60s and ‘70s, much of which only came to light many years later.

It’s incredibly disturbing that such events could have happened in places which are supposed to protect children. From here, I started to develop the outline of a plot and the character of Angela was born.

Karenpic1

What do you love about your chosen genre?

I love everything about psychological thrillers including the pace, the plot, and the whole premise that even the best of people can be driven to carry out chilling deeds. I also like the fact that this genre makes the reader think and try and work out the twists.

What are you reading at the moment?

Cecilia Ahern’s Roar – a fabulous book. I run an online show called Karen’s Bookshelf and it’s actually the book of the month for that.

Movie Magic – what actors would you cast in the big-screen version of your book?

Angela, one of the main protagonists, is 27 years old, ambitious and career driven and the 1980s, when the book was set, was an interesting time for women. On the one hand, Margaret Thatcher was a powerful example of what could be achieved by women, but on the other hand, sexism was very much present. I could imagine someone like Margot Robbie playing the role. The hardworking personality of Angela is the polar opposite of her birth mother Evelyn, the other main character, who is content to rely on government support and often plays the role of the victim, abstaining from as much responsibility as she can get away with.  Maybe Jessica Lange?

What are you working on next?

My third novel, The Perfect Lie, is about a lawyer who is representing a young woman who has been raped. As the case develops, the lawyer is reminded of a past she would rather forget and her perfect life starts to unravel. It’s out in September 2019.

For more info, visit www.karenosman.com

Interview: Anita Davison

27 Wednesday Mar 2019

Posted by patblack in Authors, Books, Crime, Crime fiction, Fiction, Interview, Literature, Mystery, Writing

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Anita Davison, Aria, Author interview, Books, Interview

 

Here’s an interview with my Aria fiction team-mate Anita Davison – author of the Flora Maguire mystery series! 

It’s all about you – what’s your name and what’s your story?

Anita Davison and I’m long enough in the tooth for my story to take up far too much of this blog so I’ll just go with frustrated historian who took to writing when the kids left home. Not because I suffered from empty nest syndrome but, with them out the way I finally had some time to write.

Tell us a bit about your latest book.

My most recently published novel is The Bloomsbury Affair from Aria Fiction which is the fifth book in the Flora Maguire Mysteries, a series of Edwardian cosy mysteries set in London and Cheltenham.

Flora 5-A Bloomsbury Affair Colour (1)

What do you love about your chosen genre?

Historical fiction has always been my preferred genre to read, but when I began to write, I was conscious of the fact that authors writing stories about real historical characters did a far better job than I could. I love murder mysteries so decided to use the historical aspect to create atmosphere, interest and flavour with an additional problem for the heroine to solve. My amateur sleuth has to wheedle out culprits without most of the modern methods of crime detection and forensic science, so the research aspect was great fun not to mention fascinating.

What are you reading at the moment?

A much-anticipated murder mysteries series written by an author friend of mine, Alison Stuart, the first of which is called Singapore Sapphire due for release this year.

Movie magic: what actors would you cast in the big-screen version of your book?

All the romantic looking ones who look good in period costume – Rupert Friend, Matthew McFadden, Aiden Turner, Tom Burke, Dan Stevens, Kit Harington, Daniel Day Lewis –  Ooh sorry did you want some girls too?  OK then here’s a few-

Saoirse Ronan, Jenna Coleman, Eleanor Tomlinson, and I would love Kelly Riley to play Flora’s mother. [She’ll need ageing a little though – sorry Kelly]

What writing projects are next for you?

I’m toying with a possible sixth book in the Flora Maguire Series but need to have a serious discussion with my publisher about that. Another project I have in mind is a murder mystery in London set in 1915. While my heroine’s husband is fighting on the Western Front, she discovers her best friend murdered and is determined to find out who killed her with the help of her suffragette aunt who persuades her to volunteer at the Women’s Military Hospital on Endell Street, staffed entirely by women to treat war wounded. Similar to the Flora Maguire stories but with more drama.

Many thanks for inviting me onto the blog!

No, thank you!

Connect with Anita right here: 

Website: www.anitadavison.co.uk

FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/anita.davison

GOODREADS: http://www.goodreads.com/AnitaDavison

TWITTER: @AnitaSDavison

This Thing You Humans Call Love

22 Wednesday Jun 2016

Posted by patblack in Authors, Books, Drama, Fiction, Literature, Pat Black, Short Stories, Short Story, This Thing You Humans Call Love, Writing

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Amazon Kindle, Bargain books, Book launch, Celtic FC, Glasgow, Kindle, Loch Lomond, New authors, New books, Road to Loch Lomond, Scotland, Seville, Short stories, Visit Scotland

Banks

These days, days, days, run away like horses over the hill

My brand new short story collection, This Thing You Humans Call Love, is now available for you to order.

Don’t be misled, there are no space aliens in this book, though there are a lot of odd creatures and strange new worlds.

Short stories are my favourite things to write. You don’t take an eternity to plan and draft one, you can get right down to business, and if you get it wrong, it’s no big deal to redraft, or simply move on to the next one. If there is such a thing as a professional short story writer, then that’s what I’d like to do when I grow up.

With one glaring exception (which you can read here), these stories are all set in and around Glasgow, or have a very strong connection to the place.

I’ve chosen July 3rd 2016 as my launch date quite deliberately. It marks 30 years since I first started writing a big project, when I was just a kid. It’s the equivalent of Hal 9000 coming online, or Roy Batty being born… hang on, it’s nothing like any of these things.

It’s also the 30th anniversary of the day I found 50p in the street and bought a comic with it. I was delighted with that result.

Anyway, I like the symmetry of it. Hey, I bullshit for a living.

I hope anyone out there crazy enough to buy this book enjoys the tales. I put a lot of me into them. Comparatively speaking, it won’t cost you very much at all.

Motley crew books: Adrift

02 Thursday Jun 2016

Posted by patblack in Authors, Books, Drama, Fiction, Literature, Novels, Pat Black, Writing

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Boats, Book, Fragment, Fragments, Ionian, Lost at sea, Novel, Novels, Ocean, Peril, Rescue, Sea, Shark, Tiger shark, writing

20160602_102146

My fingers wanted to type “Motley Crue” there, even after I’d told them not to. 

Adrift was my attempt to write about modern-day peril on the high seas. The idea was that a small tourist boat would get lost in the Ionian, or maybe the Med, following a huge storm.

The passengers, a crude cross-section of British society, have to take command of the vessel without any navigation or seamanship skills after the captain – a chancer who cuts corners and maintains his boat on the cheap – suffers a fatal heart attack.

Things get a bit Lord of the Flies as cliques develop, alphas and betas emerge, blood gets spilled, wives are coveted, and food and water runs out. A huge tiger shark begins to stalk the boat, too. Maybe a giant squid, or a fucking sea serpent. Why not?

Sea monsters are about as plausible as a boat remaining lost in the Ionian Sea for any length of time, with rescue planes, GPS navigation, satellite distress signals and god knows what else on hand to help effect a rescue. 

The scenario still intrigues me: the notion that our ideas of home, safety and civilisation are as thin as a pane of glass in your patio door. It only takes a moment of crisis to completely change the game, and nudge us towards a more primal state. Hey, for some, the difference is only a pint of lager or two.

I was inspired by my first two “big” foreign holidays which didn’t involve being a drunken dickhead with like-minded dickheads, taken when I was in my mid-20s.

I met some strange people. Probably I seemed like a strange person, to them.

I remember one girl on an overnight cruise ship to Egypt at our dinner table who made a face like a cat’s arsehole just about every time I opened my mouth. It turned out that the three couples assigned to our dinner table were Scottish, English and Irish. My opening line: “Hey, sounds like the start of a joke!”

Everyone laughed politely, except this girl, who made a face which stuck for the rest of the trip. It became horribly obvious that I’d done something to piss her off. 

Being a sort-of good, nominally catholic boy at the time, I blamed myself. I thought: it’s my accent. It’s too rough. They don’t understand when I’m being ironic, or simply cracking a joke. My facial default mode isn’t “smile”. They call it “resting bitch face” these days. All of these factors can add up to an unfriendly picture. 

The girl came over at the end of the trip and said: “I just want to say sorry to you. I spoke to my husband; I didn’t understand you were joking with the Scots-English-Irish thing.”

So, it wasn’t my fault, after all… she was a moron.

They’re out there, alright.

Separately, we had dinner with two other couples we met, one of whom were extremely well-to-do property developers, while the others were ordinary working folk from Inverness. It was like the Frost Report sketch with the Two Ronnies and John Cleese. I think we were in the middle. Well, possibly. I know my place, anyway. The upper class couple (they passed out business cards at the end of the night) were jaw-droppingly, casually rude about the Inverness woman’s appearance.

I wondered how the clear social stratification on show at the Thai restaurant could be altered by a simple piece of bad luck, or a moment of crisis. Other writers might imagine a wife-swapping party. It goes back to that primal thing again. 

I sucked my teeth when I re-read the opening paragraphs, after a gap of more than 10 years. It’s something I was guilty of quite a lot at the time. In describing a woman, I’d start by outlining her body; and by “outlining her body”, I mean things I like about women’s bodies. Their breasts, their legs, their buttocks… possibly their eyes, if I was feeling magnanimous.

I’d probably read too many horror novels by sweaty, bulging-eyed British men in my youth and imbibed some of their prose style. I can’t even put this on the blog, I thought. 

But when I read on, I realised my 27-year-old self knew what he was doing. I follow this blunt appraisal by describing the meathead who’s making the original description – a no-necked boor who quickly asserts himself, for all the wrong reasons, when crisis strikes. The type of man who has women categorised, ticked off and possibly even verbally abused without ever taking a look in the mirror himself. Note also his second name: Tamworth.

The description of human bodies as something you might see on a hook in a butcher’s is a very deliberate nod towards what is going to happen later, when matters of the flesh don’t relate so much to idle fancies in the Mediterranean sunshine as something you might actually eat, if you were more than a little peckish.

So, a tip of the hat to my younger self, there. Although for some, head-hopping is a writing no-no. 

I received one of my rudest ever pieces of criticism from an agent when I sent the first three chapters off: “This dialogue is not believable at all. If you want to be published, you have to get that right. Can you imagine people saying this stuff in real life?”

Well, obviously, mate. That’s why I wrote it down.

But the final analysis must lie with the reader.

Perhaps I could re-set Adrift in the Tropics, somewhere remote in the Pacific – or any place on this planet where people could plausibly get lost at sea…

Out of all the Undead Books, Adrift is the only one with a premise that I could see making print. Whenever I lose heart, I always tell myself: worse books than this have been published. Much, much worse.

Anyway, here it is: chapter one. Anchors away! (Aweigh? Ole!)

  1. ALL ABOARD

Chas Tamworth could tell that she was British before he even heard her voice. That two-tone sunburn across her shoulders was a dead giveaway, something that marked out the UK holidaymaker from other white sun-seekers, almost an actual anthropological trope. Her exposed skin from the neck down was lobster red as she climbed on board, but the parts of her that peeked out from beneath the bikini top were fishbelly white.

She would’ve been a nice girl if it weren’t for the sunburn, Chas thought. Generously built. Plump. Big up top. Dimples in her cheeks and her stomach as she stepped onto the gangplank towards the boat. Unabashed about her squashy belly, which Chas liked a lot, without knowing why.

Chas turned to his wife Denise and whispered, without taking his eyes off the girl: “She’s well done, eh?”

Denise peered over the rim of her sunglasses. “To a crisp,” she said, without moving her lips.

Denise was draped over the best deckchair, her wire-frame body and tinted hair fully exposed to the early morning sun, a G n’ T in her hands and a novel face down on her lap. She watched the sunburned girl and another man clamber on board the boat, noting the folds in the girl’s exposed stomach as she bent over slightly to drop onto the deck. She seemed ill-at-ease with the gentle swaying of the boat. The man had a cute face but he was a bit stocky. He had on an eyesore of a T-shirt, a psychedelic jumble of horizontal stripes of varying breadth and shade. Denise grimaced. “His T-shirt doesn’t look well,” she said to Chas.

“It’s like a broken TV set,” Chas muttered. Chas – shaven-headed, brawny and hairy-chested – was sat on the second best deckchair, clad only in his bathing shorts and expensive little sandals. He was putting on his sun cream, forcing the last of the Factor Five out of a tube. The tube gasped as he released it. He smeared the cream over himself, squinting as he slipped off his Elvis sunglasses to rub around his eyes.

To the couple stepping onto the boat, Chas’ eyes were surprisingly small once the glasses were off. Sam Bannen, the man with the sunburned woman, thought the big fellow looked a bit piggish as he squinted into the morning sunlight and wrinkled his bulbous nose. Like a football hooligan. Definitely English. He must have a Union Jack beach towel lying around somewhere, Sam thought.

Sam’s wife Lia, the sunburned girl, took his hand as they moved uncertainly onto the deck off the gangplank. The boat was moored at the little harbour and the water was calm, but Lia didn’t quite like the way the world suddenly became unsteady both under her feet and in her line of vision. She had a horror of seasickness, drowning and fish. But she had not considered any of these things as being a possibility when Sam had urged her to go on the one-day cruise around the islands.

She glanced over the side into the sapphire waters, noting the barnacles and other creatures dotted down the length of the pier’s legs and the side of the hull. A tiny school of orange fish huddled around the structure, seemingly taking shelter in the shadow. Even by the side of the docks, it looked deep enough to drown in.

“There’s no chance of a storm or anything, is there?” she asked her husband.

“Actually, there is,” Sam grinned. “But it’s forecast for tomorrow.”

“Bloody hell. I thought there wasn’t going to be any rain at this resort?” Lia tugged her sarong, lifting it a little higher on her midriff. The material chafed her reddened skin and she suppressed an urge to scratch it. There were two other people on the deck already, and they were both looking at her. There was one bald guy with a bull neck; he looked like a rugby player or something, a big lump of a bloke. She had to squint to look at him; the sun glared off his smooth, sweat-beaded head, his scalp seemingly aflame. Beside him there was a skinny girl in a red one-piece bikini sipping a G n’ T.

Lia fancied a G n’ T. “Look, you must be able to get drinks,” she said to Sam. “Already.” She nodded at the couple on the deckchairs. They both nodded back. “I fancy one of those.”

“Looks like a G n’ T,” Sam said. “Bit early for a G n’ T, isn’t it? Even for you.”

They stopped the conversation as they approached the other couple, sitting down on two of the less privileged deckchairs set in the shade. “Morning,” Sam said. “Looks lovely out, eh?”

Chas had put his Elvis sunglasses back on. He smiled at Lia and Sam. “Blooming,” he said. “Another scorcher. By the way, I’m Chas. Pleased to meet you.” They shook hands.

Denise smiled, taking Sam’s proffered hand. She had a firm, dry grip, but she only took hold of his index and middle fingers, a child’s handshake.

“And I’m Denise,” Denise said, after a pause.

 

**********

 

“The Firebird,” Amy Smart said, pulling her long blonde hair back into a ponytail. “Stupid name for a ship, don’t you think?”

Struan McPherson put his glasses on and squinted into the sunlight at the boat. There, on the side, was the black lettering etched out against the brilliant white hull. Beside the name was an abstract figure of a fiery phoenix, a sort of red arrow with a beak and orange flames undulating out from the back. From a certain angle it might have been a jellyfish.

“Not appropriate, you’re right. I suppose it’s got some kind of special meaning to the captain. Maybe he doesn’t realise that he’s mixing his metaphors slightly by applying an aeronautical name to a nautical vessel.” Struan’s Highland Scots accent ruffled the vowels, shuddered the consonants; these sounds continued to delight Amy, even after so many years.

“Do you think we should tell the skipper?” she grinned. “Ask him to change it? How about The Fiery Fish?” They were walking along the jetty, bypassing the other yachts and speedboats tied up in the little island harbour. It was still early but there was a lot of activity on board the vessels, ropes and lines rattling, sails sighing on the yacht, chatter as supplies were loaded aboard for that day’s tourist intake. Buoys dipped in and out of the water as the boats rocked gently. The dark-haired, tawny-skinned men untethering lines or loading boxes openly glared at Amy as she walked past them. A few smiled.

Struan didn’t mind this, or didn’t notice. “Perhaps we should wait until we get back to port. It could be a long swim home if he takes offence and decides to make us walk the plank.”

“Doesn’t look like there’s many on board,” Amy said. She could see a few heads bobbing about on the deck just past the gangplank. “I thought we were late. Do you think it’s normal to have just the six passengers?”

“Six is just fine,” Struan said. “It’s not that big a boat. I’m happy enough with the extra space, anyway. You remember all those French people we were squeezed up against the last time we took a boat trip? That was tres mauvais.”

“Get away!” Amy said. “They were fun. It would’ve been a boring trip without them. At least they were having a laugh.”

“Fun? They were rude. They only seemed fun to you because you couldn’t understand what they were saying.”

“They started singing Frere Jacques. That was fun. And I know what that meant. Well… I know how the tune goes, anyway.”

“Bof!”

“Bof yourself.” They linked hands. He gave her a kiss as they went up to the gangplank.

“Ladies first,” she smiled, and motioned Struan to go forward.

 

****

 

 

“That’s the most ginger man I’ve ever seen,” Chas said. He hadn’t meant to say it so loud; Sam barked a short laugh, while Lia’s eyes bulged in astonishment. “Sorry, no offence if any of you are secretly ginger, but…”

“Hey, some of my best friends are ginger,” Sam tittered.

Struan was ginger. His hair was of a darker tint, more like stained wood or ancient terracotta pots unearthed after being buried for centuries. His goatee beard, though, was a few shades brighter, as carrot-red as his hair had been when he was a youngster. He was tall and rangy, and had the look and the three-quarter length shorts of a surfer or an animal rights protester. Then Chas saw who was following up the gangplank and his laughter died away. Tall and blonde, with tiny little shorts and a –

She looked right at him. “Hello!” she called out. “Top of the morning! Whew!” Amy strode past Struan and sat down in the empty deckchair in between Chas and Sam. “What a day!”

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” Lia said, from the shade. She twirled her black hair girlishly around her fingers. “Couldn’t have picked a nicer day for a cruise.”

“Whereabouts is our captain?” Struan said, his Scots burr causing everyone’s head to snap up. “Is there anyone else on board?”

Sweaty sock off the starboard bow, Chas thought. He’s got a real live ‘See You Jimmy’ hat on, too. God almighty.

“Don’t know where he’s gone,” Sam said, standing up to shake hands with the newcomers. “He said he had to go pick up some supplies, or somesuch.

****

One hand settled on his paunch, Captain Jack Mills leaned back in his chair and drained off the last of the coffee. He sighed and placed the little cup back in its saucer on the table. From this moment forth, each and every single morning, things begin to get better. He smacked his lips.

Looking up from the cup, he could see the sombre eyes of Gregoris peering down at him from behind the café bar.

“Why do you always look so upset, Gregoris?” Captain Mills said. “You should be pleased to see me.”

“You are a regular source of business,” Gregoris said, in a gritty smoker’s voice, “every morning and every night too, Jack.”

“That I am,” Jack said. “I’m in this fine establishment just about every day, isn’t that true?”

“That’s true, Jack.”

“I’m the first face you see in the morning, and the last arse you kick out at night, wouldn’t you say that was so? I’m almost part of the furniture.”

“Yes, that is so.” Gregoris scratched his white beard. The hairs on his chin, like those on his head, were stiff and spiky like a cat’s whiskers. “What do you want, Jack?”

The Captain cleared his throat and leaned forward. You couldn’t tell how heavy he was when he was standing; six feet three in his socks and almost as broad again, he carried it well. But when the Englishman sat down, it was then you noticed the belly, stoked with liquor and rich food for all the years he’d been on the island. “I’ve got a proposal for you. It just so happens, there’s a vacancy on board my ship.”

Gregoris laughed. “You have many vacancies on your ship Jack. This much, we all know.” He picked up a broom and started sweeping the stone floor. He half-turned his back on the Captain while he worked on a corner.

It wasn’t that Gregoris didn’t like Jack. They had always been civil to one another each morning Jack came in, even after those nights when Jack had stayed till long after the English women had left and the music was switched off, and Gregoris and his brothers had to lift the seafarer’s head off the table and propel him out of the door and into a taxi. Their conversations had become part of the ritual of opening the café for the owner. And yet it was more than just familiarity borne out of habit. Gregoris couldn’t deny that he had a certain fondness for the man; he could burst with the most irrational optimism, that special quality common to all truly hopeless men. But Gregoris would make any excuse to make himself busy if the mornings with Jack dragged on a little and the other customers, regulars or otherwise, took too long to arrive. There was just something tragic about the man, Gregoris decided, something desperate.

“Well, business is picking up,” Jack said. “It so happens I’ve got a charter party today. A tour of the islands. Six good English people, Gregoris. Appearing at the dock, at nine o’clock. And I’m short of a mate.”

Gregoris stopped sweeping. “I see. I thought you had taken on some help?”

Jack made an impatient gesture. “That fool? He jumped ship to work for somebody else. He wasn’t quality, Gregoris. Quality’s hard to find. And you need quality out on the sea. I need a quality man. To do an easy job.”

Gregoris thrust his porcupine chin out, a gesture which always tickled Jack. He looked like an exasperated tortoise. “I told you after the last time, I’m not happy about Yannis going to sea with you. Not the way you carry on at nights. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, Gregoris,” Jack said, leaning back in the chair. “You think I drink on the job? Come on, what do you take me for?”

Gregoris said nothing.

“Look. I just need someone to pour the drinks and untie a few lines for me. It’s nothing difficult. And it’s not like we’re going to get rough seas.”

“This is not what the weather reports tell us.”

“Not till tomorrow, Gregoris. Plus it won’t be as severe as people are saying. I bet it won’t even blow the fluff off your prick.” Gregoris winced at this expression. “Besides. We’ll be back here by ten o’clock. With British airs and graces and the girls slapping our faces.”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll pay him double whatever he’s getting in here.”

“Double!” Gregoris spluttered. “Who is your charter, Mr Prime Minister and The Queen?”

“Well, I did say it was good English people,” Captain Jack said, rubbing his thumb and fingers together and leering. “Ones who don’t argue. Ones who always think it’s a fair price. Yes? Come on. Yannis is a big boy now. And it’s cash in his pocket towards his trip to America. Let’s see if he fancies another trip on the ocean waves with his Uncle Jack. See if we can’t toughen him up a bit out there! What do you say?”

Gregoris sighed. “I might be able to spare him. But it all depends on him. I’ll call him and find out.”

“That’s more like it! For that, I’ll have another coffee. I’ll drink to our health.”

“To your health,” Gregoris said, feeling underneath the bar for his mobile phone.

 

 

******

 

Yannis killed the engine on his moped and put it on the kickstand. He could see Jack through the window of his father’s café, leaning back on his chair, his open mouth booming silent laughter. He wondered if Jack had been drinking already; wondered if the big man would be sneaking sips from the bottles he kept in the wheelhouse beside the First Aid kit during the voyage. Yannis had done the sums and he would be mad not to take the trip out on the boat with the old man. Today was his day off and he would have been happier in bed, but the offer was too good to miss. One thing he could say for Captain Jack; the old man was quick enough with his money. Too quick for his own good, maybe, but it was cash towards next year. This was all-important.

He took off his helmet and ran a hand through his thick, curly black hair. Hateful hair; every night he would try his best to flatten and straighten, to tickle and tease it into submission with gel, mousse, even his sister’s spray which made him smell like a pansy. But by midnight, like in the fairytale, it would have unravelled back to its wild, untamed foliage. Some women loved to run their hands through the hair as he served them at the taverna; some were even sober enough to look disgusted when their hands came away covered in the translucent soup he had covered his head with.

Chantelle-Grace had not looked disgusted, though. And she had run her hands through his hair a lot. Chantelle-Grace, who he would be meeting outside the Metro Bar tonight. Alone, she had said; meaning without the squawking friends who had got in Yannis’ way the past couple of nights they had gone out together. There would be plenty of time for him to go home again after the voyage was over for the night, to  get cleaned up and put on his good clothes. Chantelle. He mouthed the word to himself without realising it, this tall, handsome young man of nineteen, as he went across the square to the café to meet Captain Jack.

“Thank Christ for that, there he is,” said Chas. The others on the boat looked to the gangplank. There was a tall, heavily-built man lumbering towards them, dressed in khaki shorts and a white short-sleeved shirt with buttons missing. He wore a battered-looking cap, with strands of greying hair sticking out from beneath. There was something of an old military colonel in him, Chas thought, or maybe an ex-copper. Something in the posture, his movements precise for such a big man. Definitely a uniform guy; he decided he would chin the skipper about it later on when things got quiet.

The captain had huge hands, and the boat swayed noticeably as he pulled himself aboard. He looks like he could’ve been a bit of a boy in his youth, Sam thought to himself. Looks handy. He noticed Lia grimacing as the vessel swayed a little; her hands strayed to the seat of her deckchair and she gripped it, hard. Perhaps reading his thoughts, Lia smiled at him. “I know. If we sink, that won’t help.”

“It’s the same on a crashing plane, too. Not very effective. Unless there’s a lifeboat under there.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Gritting your teeth can work wonders though.”

“Good morning shipmates!” Captain Jack boomed, presenting himself on deck with a quick salute. “Sorry to have to abandon ship briefly, I was forced into press-ganging this young fellow on board for today’s trip.” He indicated Yannis, who nodded and smiled with his eyes downcast as he followed the captain along the gangplank. Denise looked up, her eyes peering over the rim of her sunglasses. Tasty, she thought. And only a little fellow.

“Now I’ve already met some of you,” – here the Captain nodded to Chas and Denise – “but presently I hope to make everyone’s acquaintance before we set sail for the islands. As you can see, it’s a lovely morning, and conditions are perfect for our voyage today.

“I’m Captain Jack, and I’m in charge of the good ship Firebird. My first mate Lieutenant Yannis is here to assist me, and he’ll be happy to serve you all refreshments at the bar just inside the main cabin. Please feel free to call us ‘sir’ and salute, but this is not an essential on board for today.

“Now before we prepare to cast off, a few safety notices. If, at any point during the trip you should feel seasick, no problem – give me a holler and I’ll be happy to stop the boat, and you can get out for a little walk until you feel better.

“In the event of the boat sinking, you will find lifejackets in the marked cabinets fore and aft. Unfortunately, the emergency helicopter is in for repairs, so lifejackets will need to do if you should go into the briny.

“We set sail at…” he peered at his watch, “ooooh, whenever I feel like it, so in the meantime sit back, make yourselves comfortable, and prepare for a trip into the deep.” There was a smattering of embarrassed applause, started by Sam and Lia. The Captain doffed his cap smartly, then unlocked the wheelhouse at the bow before disappearing inside.

Struan’s gaze followed the captain as he passed through the door, then arched an eyebrow as he spotted a loudhailer system bolted to the wall. “I bet you this guy’s a frustrated comedian,” he said, indicating the speaker. “He’ll be talking to us on that thing all day.”

“What thing?” Denise said. Suddenly, there was a sharp whine as the loudspeaker shrieked into life.

“Apologies ladies and gentlemen, just checking to see if you’re all awake!” Jack’s voice boomed forth. The group burst out laughing.

Yannis began untying the boat from the jetty, fumbling some of the ropes, worrying that he hadn’t got them all. He could see the whole dock collapse in the wake of the Firebird, trailing along behind the boat out to sea. Another part of him was rejoicing at the vision that was the tall English girl with the ponytail, forgetting for the moment all about his Chantelle. It would be a pleasure to serve, he thought.

The holidaymakers chattered away among themselves, pitching in the odd comment to each other about the weather, the apartments they were staying at, all the restaurants and bars they hadn’t enjoyed. The final checks were completed, and then the engines roared into life. Foam surged up from the propellers at the stern; soon the boat began to pilot away from the jetty. At first the motion was so slow, Lia began to wonder if they were moving at all; then she realised that the dock was angling away from the boat. She had a slight moment of disorientation, then a sense of the universe being out of sync, the horizon pulling away from the foreground; then the engines roared again and the boat leapt through the dock and out to sea. Even Denise cheered as the wind caressed their heads and tossed their hair.

Lia stared at the water hissing against the side of the boat, white foam creeping over the deep blue in stark, probing fingers. “This isn’t bad, this!” she cried.

The Day I Tried To Do Chick-Lit

28 Saturday May 2016

Posted by patblack in Authors, Books, Chick-Lit, Fiction, Literature, Media, Novels, Pat Black, Pop culture, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Books, Chapters, Charlie Dimmock, Chick-Lit, Fragment, Home renovation, Minty McGee, Novels, Opening chapters, Phil and Kirstie, Property, Salutary lessons, Sarah Beeny

20160525_094215

In those desperate early noughties, I had a crack at chick-lit.

I noticed that even people who weren’t normally into reading bought and read these books – and lots of them. They all seemed to have the same covers and the same plot. 

I’ve never looked down my nose at the genre – I read novels about prehistoric sharks eating people – but I supposed that these stories were all written to a strict formula, and if I followed it, I couldn’t miss. 

As you’ll see… not the case.

I didn’t have a title but I had the name of my main character: Minty McGee, a red-headed TV property show presenter. She meets someone she doesn’t get on with at first, but eventually sparks fly, etc etc.

More interestingly, I didn’t tell the story from her perspective, but from that of a runner/gopher called Jess – Sancho Panza to Minty’s Don Quixote.

For obvious reasons, I didn’t send my sample chapters to anyone. So this post is an act of literary masochism; but even so, I cannot bear to include the subsequent chapter where we meet Minty’s gay best friend. That would be an act of literary sadism.

I guess you can write novels to formula, and people have made plenty of money doing so for their entire careers. But you can’t reduce them to that. They’re horribly complex things to put together, regardless of whether they’re about giant prehistoric sharks or kooky interior designers. Luckily I didn’t persevere with Minty for too long before taking this on board. 

Do play along at home with your “a man wrote this” bingo cards. I’ve got my head in my hands at the part where I say Minty has “a long skirt”, and leave it at that.

I’m not sure what was going on in my mind with Minty McGee. Could she have been a fantasy figure – like Red Sonja, or Sarah Beeny as drawn by Frank Frazetta? There’s definitely an element of that in there. I was careful not to describe her body in any great detail: I thought the hair was enough for the imagination to work with.

In 2004, as now, I thought property renovation shows were the very devil. So many nights I sat at the other end of the sofa, grinding my teeth, as people on television became anxious that their £400,000 budget for a bit of painting and decorating might not be enough.

This was when people talked about a “property market bubble, heading for trouble,” but not too seriously.

I guess it’s all to do with building a secure and comfortable dwelling place, one of the most basic human impulses. But there are other impulses, and as my time as a property TV show widower went on, I began to pay attention to these. I found it difficult to get Sarah Beeny off my mind, or that lass with the red shoes. Kirstie?

I didn’t really fancy her, but I used to fantasise about a night out with Kirstie. She’d start off by telling you about her ex-boyfriend and how badly she missed him. Then she’d get horribly pissed, far too soon. Some bloke called Phil would send her dozens of texts, their tone becoming increasingly desperate, but after a while she’d ignore these. She’d launch herself at you in the taxi queue. You’d participate out of a sense of fascination rather than lust. Disgusted onlookers would tell you to get a room. I think they call this cognitive dissonance. And maybe I had a night out like this, once or twice.

My Sarah Beeny fantasies were more focused on a night in, rather than a night out. How big a house, and how much work would it need? We could convert the loft. I’d spend a lot of time re-plastering the twin room. We could investigate the basement. And so on and so forth.

The garden is strictly Charlie Dimmock’s domain, though. I’d meet her there at dusk. You wouldn’t need a drop of drink. The plants would sigh with the dying light. The air rich with scents and buzzing with invisible activity. You remember Charlie? She had red hair. There’s a lot of Charlie in Minty’s DNA. I have no aptitude for gardening whatsoever.

If there’s any lesson to be learned here, it’s: don’t write something if your heart isn’t in it. Perhaps even more pertinent: don’t try to write positively and without irony about something you hate.

Had I continued with this folly I might have called it The Ballad of Minty McGee. It’s a better title than it deserves…

 

“Minty, don’t you think this is a bit-”

The car lurched over a speed bump. Jess’ chin touched her chest.

“-Fast?”

Minty slid her sunglasses down her nose and winked at Jess. Her red hair burst out behind her in the wind, streaks of flame flickering against the sunburnt paint of her convertible.

“We’re going to be late,” Minty said.

“We’re not going to be late. Minty, I think I saw sparks there.”

Minty smirked. “Well. You’ve got your seatbelt on, haven’t you?”

“That’s hardly the point,” Jess said. “If we crash and explode, they’ll hardly say: ‘Well, at least they died with their seatbelts on’.”

Minty barrelled through amber lights. Behind other windshields, Jess could see open mouths, bared teeth, bulging eyeballs. “Don’t you like this car?” Jess said. “In one piece?”

“We’re going to be late,” Minty said again.

“We are not going to be late,” Jess said, exasperated. “We meet Jim-Bob and the crew outside the house at one o’clock. It’s ten past twelve. It takes ten minutes to get there. How can we be late?”

“We’re taking a detour,” Minty grinned, her hair caught in the slipstream like a fighter pilot’s scarf.

Jess glanced at the organiser in her lap. “A detour to where? Minty, you know you have to film today, then later on you’re meeting Peter. What detour is this? When did we organise this? Jesus, what was that?” The car lurched again, stuttering over some small obstacle on the road. But Jess hadn’t seen any speed bumps. “A dog? Or a child?”

Minty looked unsure for a moment, biting her lip. “A hole in the road? I dunno.” She glanced at the mirror and wrinkled her nose. “Poor design, that’s probably all it was.”

Jess shook her head. “Okay, so where are we going on this detour?”

“We’re taking a drive. Up the Boulevard.”

Jess snapped shut her organiser. “The Boulevard. Why?”

Minty turned off onto the main road. Trees appeared by the side of the road, brilliant green in the afternoon sun. “This is why. Look at all this,” she said, smiling. “Greenery. Now this is good planning.” The trees lined up on either side of the road, planted in perfect symmetry, all roughly the same height. The road tapered off towards the horizon, white lines shooting forwards. “This is design Jess, my love.”

“Now I know you’re mad,” Jess said.

“Just look at it,” the girl driving the red convertible said as they hurtled down the neat, ordered rows. “It’s all so simple.”

 

*************

 

“We’re late,” Minty said, sliding out of the car. She took her time about it too, smoothing down the long skirt, tousling that hair. She slid her sunglasses back on top of her head and clicked a button on her key ring to activate the alarm. Jess always expected this car’s alarm signal to purr, the contented sound of a lean cat curling up on itself. But it simply gave out a cheerful boop and the hood stretched itself out, wrinkles straightening, the soft top resolving itself into hard angles and leather sheen before clicking into place.

Minty watched all this coolly. Then she looked around the street she was parked in. Terraced houses, dirty red brick, sparse patches of grass with concrete bald spots. “Does it say which number we’re supposed to be going to?”

“Well it’s not exactly a number,” Jess said, turning pages back and forth in her organiser. “It’s a house name, but I can’t make out…I can’t even read my own writing… here, what does this say?”

Minty peered at the slanted lettering. “Hmm. ‘Pick up two pints milk, cotton buds, baby wipes’,” she said.

“Funny girl.”

“That’s why I’m the one on TV, honey.”

“Look at the other part of the note,” Jess said. “At the bottom.”

“Ah. The house is called ‘Rhiannon.’ That’s nice.” She looked around the street. “Celtic. Earthy.” Here she bunched her shoulders – “I like it.” She spotted the Orions and the Fiestas, the Puntos and Saxos and Cinquecentos and Bravas. “Not sure if it fits into this neighbourhood, but I like it. Rhiannon. Yes.”

“‘Yes’? Wasn’t it Fleetwood Mac?” Jess said.

Minty took a few seconds, then pretended she got it. “You’re the one who should be on the TV,” she sighed. “Okay. Suppose we’d better get looking. And you should take your time, love,” she added, as Jess began to root around in her bag, trying to find a slot for the organiser among the threaded hairbrush, the torn envelopes, the fingers of lipstick. “We’re late already. That means we have to take it slowly. We don’t rush.”

You Be A Pirate, I’ll Be A Cowboy

18 Wednesday May 2016

Posted by patblack in Authors, Books, Fiction, Pat Black, Short Stories, Short Story, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Amazon, Anthology, Cheap books, Collection, Ereader, fiction, Kindle, Short stories, short story, You Be A Pirate Ill Be A Cowboy

Pier

You must admit, it’s a decent title.

I’ve changed the cover, as the last one was too busy. I’m not sure about that shade of blue on the banner at the bottom, mind, but that’s easily changed.

This is a full collection of original short stories, and it’ll tide you over until the next one (due out in the summer).

Help push me into the Amazon top one million!

https://www.amazon.co.uk/You-Be-Pirate-Ill-Cowboy-ebook/dp/B01DGOM31A/

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