PROLOGUE: The Risen Part II

I first menstruated when I was nine years old; waking in bed to a small puddle of dampness, the morning light warming through the heavy curtains. When I felt the wetness there was shame, making itself known in the tears that came. It had been years since I wet the bed. I sat up slowly, and it felt as though I’d tipped something over, such was the gushing. The emptying. I squeezed as hard as I could and finally it stopped coming. It was too cold in the winter air and too warm beneath the layer of blankets to get up, so I guessed it was still real early, and figured it would dry. Two hours later and the day at full bloom was pressing into my bedroom, up the peeled wallpaper and the cracks of plaster, black mould spots in the corners of the ceiling. I wriggled my hips. It felt sticky. It would smell bad, I thought, wary of lifting the blanket. Mother would not be happy. I tentatively put a hand down there, feeling for the damp. Instead it was tacky, like wet cornbread dough, and when I brought my fingers to the light they were the colour of the mould.

I’m mouldy! It was a silly thought, but I was a child. I let in the ice of the air and there was the meconium stain on my faded-blue pyjama bottoms, black-red and the size of a newborn kitten. Shuffling backwards, the stain on the sheet was much larger, as black and as wide as Rhodri’s well. It looked like blood! I stifled a scream but the creaking springs of the mattress betrayed my consciousness and Father came in to make sure I was quick with the chores, as he always did. He took one look at the sheets, then back to me, and said; “So you are a girl, after all. Mother!”

I made myself as small as I could, backing up against the wall, while Father left to get Mother to deal with my problem. That he hadn’t acted much surprised settled what frightened nerves were needling in my stomach. It couldn’t be that bad. Quiet, I listened to the footsteps of the house; my brothers showed their heads around the edge of the door and laughed when they saw the blood on the bed. I quickly reached forward and covered it over, but it was too late. They ran off giggling, screaming “Raggedy Anne, raggedy Anne!” as though I was meant to know what that meant.

Mother finally entered, shutting the door behind her. She was the only woman in the house, and, I guess, after today I became the second, though it would be another five years until I menstruated again. She pulled the bedcover away and then sat on the bed, asking if I was scared. I told her there was nothing to be scared about, and she nodded in agreement, going on to tell me about the way of things with that resigned sadness she had about her, as though she was constantly experiencing something in the past. She told me to get up and then she pulled the cover from the bed. “Go to the bathroom,” she said, locking my bedroom door. I had my own bathroom, you see.

There, she told me to strip and poured some freezing water into the plugged sink. I sometimes made wee in the bathtub, which was green and black with dirt, so I didn’t much want to stand in it, but I did as I was told. The pyjama bottoms peeled away with some difficulty, much redder than the sheets, and stuck to my thick, matted hair. My skin was already hard with goosebumps by then, the lighter hair across my body prickled to attention, so the water made little difference. It stung a little over my nub, as sensitive as the end was, but I was used to that by now. Mother lathered soap into the hair on my inner thighs and up to my belly button and cleaned away as much blood as she could. I couldn’t help but notice how she averted her gaze from it, and wouldn’t touch it. “There you go,” she said, “you can do the rest yourself. I’ll leave a towel on your bed, and get you clean sheets.”

Alone, I finished washing and then dried and clothed, while my belly ached, hammering blows bouncing around my abdomen. A little cramp. I always wore long trouser legs and sleeves in those days, to cover all the hair. Even then little wisps crept beyond the hem of my sleeves, so I wore gloves whenever we left the farm, just in case we bumped into anyone. And a scarf for my neck.

Whenever I think back to my early childhood, I always come back to this day, for so much seemed to change for me from here on out. Father had it right: I was a girl. Not long after, I began to malt, waking up in the mornings not to blood, or urine, but body hair. A little later and my breasts began to grow sore, my nipples turning from pennies to old tuppences. I grew my hair long, because that was what girls did. My brothers stopped mocking and Mother even began to take me between her knees with a comb, and brush and brush for minutes at a time. She’d always wanted a daughter, and I was close enough, I guess. I don’t blame her, how do you treat an orphan baby covered head to toe in hair and with seemingly both sets of genitals? It can’t have been easy.

They named me Ffion, and Father’s surname was Adie, as in A-D, so that was how the locals knew me. Not that there were many locals to be had up here on the hill. Us Adies liked to keep to ourselves most of the time, anyway, tending to our farm and keeping the borders secure. If my family were muntjacs, then I was a vole, or perhaps a mole, my own sect within a sect, the outsider within.

Father and Jack did the heaviest work; they both had the arms to show for it too. Up early to count the sheep and pigs and chickens, while I and Dylan fed them, and then it was the two hour walk, checking that the border was secure. Where the wind – for it blew a gale up here in the hills just north of Aberffrwd – had dislodged one of the giant tree trunks or bent a section of barbed wire, they were on it, fixing it in a jiffy. Aled was the youngest, though still older than me, and his morning routine was to collect all the water for the day from the nearby stream. When I was done feeding the animals, sometimes I might help Mother in the kitchen, but most often I went off by myself, and always had, ever since I was little. They never stopped me; if anything ever happened to me then I would be a mouth less to feed. Chances were slim – mostly – because that perimeter wall was sturdy. I saw them sometimes, prowling on the other side, testing the barbs and drawing blood. Licking their wounds. One sight of Father’s shotgun and they ran.

The Risen Part II on preorder, special 0.99 price

The Risen Part I available now

SHORT STORY: The Order

Clive Barrett looked around and was dissatisfied. The pool was full of dive-bombing children – his own among them somewhere – and the animals of the hedgerow watched intently, freshly snipped. On the air, smoke and charring meat. The sound of satisfied murmurs and laughter. A bronzing sun glazed the white house with its white plaster and large white doors, and where guests stood before the mirrored windows, worlds repeated.

It was perhaps too hot for his suit, and God knows it was time to re-tailor, or more likely just buy a whole new wardrobe, but he couldn’t switch off, even if his suit buttons strained with every bite of the barbecued steak. His wife dabbed a napkin to his chin, smiling.

“Sweet one you got here, Clive,” said his long-time associate Mr. James Tunnicliffe. “Almost makes me pine for the good old days.” James was much slender than Clive, and it showed in his pale blue shorts, proud chest swirling with coarse, grey hair. Funny, how he’d ditched his paunch at the same time as ditching his wife.

Clive smiled, kissing Marjorie on the lips. “The sweetest.” Six years together, and she looked even younger than she did when he first started seeing her, back when he was still married to Ellen. Two children since, and not a stretch mark or wrinkle in sight. Amazing what money can buy, he thought.

“What about you?” she directed to James. “Seeing anyone?” She grabbed a mojito from a passing waiter and sipped.

“Everyone and no-one,” he replied. “Work has me busy all hours of the day. This is the first break I’ve had for five months.”

Clive unbuttoned his suit. “I can believe that. Missed you on the golf course, lately.”

“Whoa there, buster. You sure you wanna let your hair down like that?” joked James.

“Ha, ha.” For a moment he held his breath, then sighed as his belly bulged out. He could feel the sweat running down his back, cloying across his shoulders. It was a reminder of the weight he carried; all this real estate, the ten acres and the gardener’s pay check, his children’s school and Marjorie’s gym classes; the yacht and the four holidays a year to the Bahamas. He couldn’t forget all that, not even for a second.

Marjorie gave him a goodbye peck, and said; “I’ll leave you boys to catch up.” He watched as she went over to some friends.

James shuffled closer; together they leaned along the adobe wall, drinks and food balanced on the top. They had a view of the party and the guests sunning themselves, drinking and eating and swimming. “So life’s good, eh?” he asked.

Clive tossed him a smile, replying; “There’s always something, you know? This bill or that. Feels like the more we have, the more we have to lose. Sometimes I miss the old days, just you and I working late in the office, happy with a two-K trade.”

“Yet here we are. You could pack it in!”

“And do what? How long before the money disappears, living like this? Anyway,” he sipped from his scotch on the rocks, feeling the heat in his throat, as well as on his brow; “you can talk. What’s all this I’ve heard in the news? One hundred million dollars to charity? Never took you for the philanthropist sort.”

James’s demeanour straightened, the sunlight suddenly a hindrance in his eyes. “I never took me for the philanthropist sort, either. What about you? Are you charitable?”

“Do my wife and kids count?”

“I think not.”

“What about the ex?”

“Definitely not.”

“Then I’m all out of goodwill, here, my friend.”

He nodded. “Shame.”

Clive laughed, taking another sip. Don’t go too crazy with the drink. “Get yourself a new wife and a few kids and then see how charitable you are!”

James shuffled even closer and put an arm around Clive’s shoulder. His cologne was strong, overpowering even the food. “Have you heard of the Ultruistic Order?”

“Altruistic Order?”

“Yeah, with a U,” he squeezed.

“With a U? Definitely not.”

James tilted his head a little closer, whispering. To Clive, he felt like the angel on his shoulder. Or was that the devil? “Nor had I, until a friend told me about them.”

“What friend?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Can I get a little space?” he tried to shrug him off, but James held tight.

“In a sec. I was caught, like you, in the net. And then this friend introduced me to the Order.”

“And they are?” The cologne was beginning to sting his nostrils, joined by sweat in his eyes.

“A secret arm of the Freemasons.”

Clive laughed again. The Freemasons had tried to recruit him before, but what did he want with sweat lodges and cigars and ruling the world? He had enough of that at home. “So secret they told you about it.”

“They saw my plight and wealth. You see, the Masons of the world, all the various branches and sects… sure, they do good, or claim to. But it’s not enough. They need to keep enough back to keep up the lifestyle – to remain a Freemason! No good being poor if you want to be a part of it! You can’t rely on the world to tax itself out of poverty, and world hunger – it needs to be incentivised. That’s where the Ultruistic Order comes in.”

Clive shrugged again, and this time was successful in removing the devil from his shoulder. He even unbuttoned his collar, such was the sweat and heat hitting him now. “Uh-huh.”

“There are five levels of ascension. And with each ascension, there is a door.”

“A door, huh? Make sure you don’t hit it on the way out!”

“Listen to me, Clive. I’m telling you. These doors will change your life. I was sceptical too, at first. And then I gifted that one-hundred million dollars for access to door number one.”

“And what was behind door number one?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Of course not.”

“It’s different for everyone. The first door shows you what you need to see. There are four more after that. All I know is the final one shows you what lies beyond, and no-one has ever returned from it. Ask Ambrose Small.” James gave him one final squeeze and returned to normal posture, and Clive felt as though he’d been given a taste of this ‘other world’. “Hit me up some time and I’ll introduce you to the lodge. Be quick though, I plan on getting to door number five as soon as I can.”

“Sure.” He pocketed the information, filing it alongside pig’s heads, greased bareskin runs around the block, and blindfolded humiliation; all distant memories from his frat days. In the weeks and months that followed, he gave it no more thought, not until Marjorie mentioned an Instagram post with James standing beside a hospital sign with a freshly cut ribbon, the words Tunnicliffe Children’s Ward freshly mounted. She gave it a heart and commented to Clive how healthy he looked. Vibrant was the word she used. Clive took a closer look. Did he look younger?

“Spending some of that money on himself by the looks of it,” he said.

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“That a hint?”

“Not at all, honey. He can do what he wants with his money. I think it’s beautiful, giving so much.” She wrote a comment beneath: You are a wonderful soul… God Bless <3 .="" i="">

She received a reply: Thank you. Tell him you won’t believe #2.

“Number two?” she asked. “What’s that mean?”

Clive leaned across her in their bed, taking the phone away and slipping it beneath her pillow. “It means let’s keep the light on.”

Not long after, he was sitting in his corner office high above Manhattan, the street below painted yellow with the tops of taxi cabs, when Slack pinged on his desktop. To his left was Marjorie’s salad (she was spending the week with him in New York before flying back home to the kids on Saturday, so they could take in a show or two. He’d been spending too much time away from home, lately.) And to his right was Stan’s birthday cake. Every week was someone’s birthday, it seemed. He slid the plate closer and opened up Slack.

“Hi Clive. How’s it going?” James is typing… “Given any more thought?”

“No pleasantries, straight to it, eh?”

“No time. I’m almost at the third door. Five hundred million about to turn a village in Africa into a suburban oasis.”

“How pleasant. And no.” In truth, he had given it some thought – and then looked at his children and wondered how much he could leave for them. It was alright for James – he had no heirs. Or perhaps the children in Africa could be considered heirs, now.

“Dude, door number two alone could change your life. Take a weekend break and fly out to me.”

“I’m busy, maybe another time.” Maybe never. He said goodbye and signed off and reclined into his chair with his cake. Sounded like James had grown a little obsessive there, hopefully he’d grow out of it before he bankrupted himself. Sure was a way to make friends though, and probably his fair share of lays. He swallowed a mouthful of cake and glanced over towards The Project: a 450-metre tall work of inner-city art with 120 floors. The miniature twisted up towards the ceiling. He was too busy to be funding hospital wings and feeding African children – or his own for that matter. Gloria, Grace and Thomas smiled at him from his desktop, and he smiled back, a wave of longing washing over him. I’ll take more time off. I will.

The next he saw of James was when he landed on The Project’s helipad, the night of the grand opening. There was no secrecy behind this door; clear, solarised glass allowed a view out of the penthouse, and to the landing helicopter. James stepped out in a dervish of whipping material, two women holding their hair down on his flanks.

Clive let James find him, which he inevitably did towards the end of the evening. Marjorie had been correct; he did look younger, walking around like an airbrushed version of himself. “Evening,” he said. “You look radiant, Marjorie.” James pecked both her cheeks, and then hooked his arm around Clive’s shoulder. “Mind if I steal him away a moment?”

“Not at all,” Marjorie smiled. “Perhaps show him a thing or two about learning how to relax while you’re at it.”

“I can do more than that!” he beamed back at her. “Come.”

“How was Africa?” Clive asked as he was being lead towards a corner.

James laughed, shaking his head. “Nothing compared to this place. How much did it cost? How much did you make out of it? And how do I get in? This is one impressive feat, my friend.” His eyes dilated as he made eye contact: contract, expand, contract, expand.

Clive frowned, blinking to rid the illusion. He felt an electric thread lightning through his brain. He imagined fingers rifling through his thoughts.

“As I thought,” James said. “Amazing. There are sooo many doors. Sooo many opportunities for the likes of us. You must let me in on the action. Just a little more and I’ll have enough for the fourth door.”

“I thought you liked to keep business and pleasure separated?”

“These days, they’re the same.”

“And who’s your cosmetic surgeon, by the way? I’m sure Marjorie would love to know.” He swallowed and felt his tie tighten across his neck.

“Join us and find out!”

“I have too much on my plate, and a family to support, to start swanning off to far-flung countries splashing my cash.” He gave brief thought to answering James’s original questions, but decided they were rhetorical. “Why don’t you let off about this Order of yours?”

James was silent while he stared intently again – contract, expand, contract, expand – long enough for the moment to grow uneasy. That heady buzz flitting through Clive’s mind once more.

“Okay,” nodded James. “I can see I’m not going to be able to change your mind. Honestly, though, it’s the biggest mistake you’ll never know you made.” His face took on a serious expression, and before turning to return to the room, he looked Clive up and down and then squeezed his shoulder, almost sorrowful.

Clive never spoke to him again. Between work, more work, and family, the weeks blew by while the weekends were tiny blips on the calendar. Even when he went home, the travel time ate into those weekend hours; lost hours where his children evolved out of sight, placing him in an almost perpetual state of surprise. I should stop, he often thought. I can’t, at other times. The Project is just the beginning, a taste of the success to come. He commissioned a photographer to capture The Project at dawn, with the sun rising from the spire, and had this mounted in the new boardroom beside his new office, even grander than before. New York was full of tired estate prime for redevelopment. He couldn’t give up the opportunity to stake his name on the city.

Marjorie often commented on James’s social media posts – Clive’s own patience for anything social growing thin – the occasional pillowtalk swinging towards James’s easy lifestyle, funded no doubt by a portfolio longer than the lobby of The Project. How he could donate so much, while still growing richer, befuddled Clive, especially when the old friend seemed to spend his time between Monaco, the Bahamas, Aspen, and places he’d never heard of before. Perhaps there was something to these doors. The Ultruistic Order. He had Googled them once, returning zero results.

“Look at him,” said Marjorie, rolling over and pressing the phone to his face. “A man like that, as fit and healthy and travelled as he is, while still raking in the money. He has to delegate. Can’t you learn to delegate?”

Delegate? The very concept turned his stomach. “A man who delegates does not get his hands dirty. Cannot be said to have truly built anything.” He looked closely at the photograph. James was meditating in his red Speedos, legs crossed and fingers an O, floating above the sand by about a foot, the azure ocean calm behind him. Clive had seen enough over the shoulders of his designers over the years to know what could be done with a little photo magic.

She sighed and rolled back over. “Strange. This one is just of a door.”

Musical sci-fi & freebies

This week I have a cool little freebie for you. If you've followed closely you may already have heard about it, but many of you haven't, and that's my collaboration with doctea, who wrote the music to go with my sci-fi story Ten Billion to Ten. You can listen for free here, or download (for a donation if you wish). It's in the vein of the War of the Worlds style, and conjures some great soundscapes and visuals. I had the pleasure of a live performance by DJ Ed Steelefox (narrator). If you enjoy, do let us know! 

The image on the left was the Star Trekian set for the reading, and really added to the vibe!

Writings

It's been a good week for my writing - I managed the 2.5k short story for the NYC Short Story competition I mentioned last week, fulfilling the Mason, Obsession, and Fantasy keywords. Hopefully. Hopefully I haven't played my cards too close to my chest on that one, and I get through to the next round. It was a lot of fun! This week, it will be back to The Risen Part 2, refining the prologue and getting on with the novel. I may post the prologue here when ready, as well as the short story for the competition. Might be something fiction to read next week!

Review of the week

Had some great reviews this week. One of my favourites was for Neon City:

 Rebellion is brewing in Neon City. Great series! January 23, 2020

Take up the story after Calix and Annora surrender themselves to Neon City’s authority. Rebellion is brewing. Will the truth prevail or will the Authority just keep winning?

Movies of the week

Also found time to relax with a few movies this week, two highlights being Phantom Thread and Toys Are Not For Children. The latter was found through a blog I follow (DVD Infatuation) and sounded intriguing. From the drive-in era, it's a psychological exploitation movie about a girl with an unnatural desire. Definitely worth a watch if you enjoy that era. The YT channel seems to have a plethora of drive-in style movies which I'll have to check out!

As a massive fan of Magnolia, I was keen to watch Phantom Thread. It didn't disappoint but I wasn't convinced by the ending: it was beautiful to look at and far more sedate than Magnolia, but I think more of the underside of the characters needed to be shown for the ending to be believable, as it was I wasn't convinced by the motivation. The central pairings relationship just seemed too toxic, for both of them. Perhaps that was the point. This creative game of ours is such a fine line, between telling a story that feels real, and one that is twisted to fulfil a vision.

As always, thanks for reading. And please check out some promos below.

In the world of Altadas, there are no more human births. 

The Regime is replacing the unborn with demons, while the Resistance is trying to destroy a drug called Hope that the demons need to survive.

Between these two warring factions lies Jacob, a man who profits from smuggling contraceptive amulets into the city of Blackout. He cares little about the Great Iron War, but a chance capture, and an even more accidental rescue, embroils him in a plot to starve the Regime from power.

When Hope is an enemy, Jacob finds it harder than he thought to remain indifferent. When the Resistance opts to field its experimental landship, the Hopebreaker, they find they might just have a chance to win this war.

The war for the galaxy is at hand.

As the Greshian Empire broadens its reach, pockets of rebel forces form to combat their tyrannical rule. Death before dishonor becomes the last gasp of dying civilizations.

Brendle Quin is the death dealer. More times than he can count he has pulled the trigger to desolate entire worlds. Growing disenchanted with galactic murder, he finds himself on a course that will pit him against the empire he once swore to serve.

When two sides of the war converge, surviving becomes common ground for unlikely allies. As the battle wages overhead, they will die unless they trust one another—no simple task after years of mutual hate.

Join the crew of the Replicade, in this first installment of The Alorian Wars, as they fight a battle that will bring them to the brink of death—or beyond.

The time for audiobooks is here...

As the title gives away, I discovered ACX this week! I've been wanting to convert my titles to audiobooks for ages, but the cost has always been prohibitive. If you're a writer wishing to do the same, you should check them out if you haven't already - narrators audition FOR YOU! If you're a reader, than my books will all be added to Audible throughout the year. I anticipate Neon Sands being ready in March. So watch this space!

Some oddity this week - Neon Zero, the FREE Neon prequel - shot up in the charts. I'm not sure who shared it or where it was posted, but if it was you - THANK YOU! Or if you downloaded a copy - I HOPE YOU ENJOY! Don't forget to leave a review!

I've also begun The Risen Part 2 and have a very tasty Prologue, which I may well share next week. It has already gone in an unexpected direction, with a narrator protagonist who will be very challenging to write, but not boring! It'll be a big change from writing in the Neon world, set in middle England and Wales, blood waterfalling down the hills.


NYC Midnight Short Story Competition

I've entered this year's NYC Midnight Short Story Competition, so wish me luck! There are 4 rounds of writing (if you get through) and the first round is open now. I have about 6 days left to write a 2,500 word short story, and I've been given Fantasy, an Obsession, and a Mason as my keywords. I'm currently at a loss, but I'm sure something will come to mind. Once submitted I'll share it here. If I get through then I'll be given a new assignment and a smaller word count (and shorted timeframe). All good fun and practice!

The Outsider

I haven't read Stephen King's book yet, it took forever to finish A Clash of Swords 1, and my reading time is being eaten by other things at the moment, so I thought I'd give The Outsider TV show a go. While I did enjoy the first 2 episodes (great directing and acting) it does take its time. It's not told with the experienced viewer in mind, so there's a lot of slow reveals that we could have figured out already in the first ten minutes, in the Body Snatchers vein. That 2 hours have already gone and we're still doing these 'surprise' reveals slows the pace, but I expect the mystery to return going forward. It can't be as straightforward as it so far seems...

Bookfunnel & Story Origin

As promised last week, I've rejoined these two sites and will have a raft of promos going forward. Check out the first one with a variety of genre choices!

Recommended!

Everything is on the table when survival's at stake.

Captain James Henry is caught between a rock and a hard place – again. Merchant ships operating in neutral space near the Terran Coalition and the League of Sol are disappearing without a trace. The latest report has something the others didn’t.

A survivor.

In a far corner of the galaxy, the seven systems of the Fire Quarter face a terrible threat from a dangerous warlord.

On the fire planet of Abalon 3, evil Raylan Climlee threatens to unleash a wave of destruction in order to take control of the planet's valuable source of trioxyglobin, a dangerous but valuable liquid used for starship fuel. The only person who can stop him is Lianetta Jansen, a disgraced former Galactic Military Policewoman now turned smuggler, who is haunted by a terrible tragedy in her past. Along with her ragtag, wisecracking crew—the one-armed pilot Caladan, and the malfunctioning droid, Harlan5—Lia must confront her own demons, while trying to stop another.

Fire Fight is the beginning of the Fire Planets Saga, an epic new space opera series.

It's 2350. Cold Fusion, AI nanotech cops, and the SkyLine between a dying Earth and a developing Mars are parts of life. 

Major General Christopher Droan has survived a crisis. It left him with trauma and a deeper understanding of his dad’s distrust for technology.

Now all he wants is to focus on the love of his life, Sheeba.

It’s a turbulent time to be a Major General, even one resigned to desk work. But the calm can only last so long. When tragedy strikes Precinct 117 in Shanghai, Chris and his unit are forced to gear up again.

What waits for them in the heart of a robot with a beta personality matrix will change the planets on both ends of the SkyLine, mankind, and Major General Christopher Droan, forever.

No-one comes in peace. Every being in the galaxy wants something, and is willing to take it by force.

The Hedalt were no different. They came from the distant reaches of the galaxy to wage war. Their fleet wanted to take Earth for its prize, but we were ready. We were stronger.

For years, we fought them, ship-to-ship, until we scattered their forces and drove them back. Pursuing the Hedalt fleet to their home world, we delivered the decisive blow. We nuked their planet and wiped them out for good.

Or so we thought.

For decades, Earth Fleet sent out Deep Space Recon missions to scour the galaxy and clean up the remnants of the Hedalt Empire. Eventually, we found only ghosts – empty outposts and long-dead colonies. But, close to the edge of known space, I – Captain Taylor Ray – and my crew are about to make a discovery that will change everything.

The war isn’t over. The war has yet to begin.

New year, new releases

Happy new year to all! If you celebrated the whole xmas period I hope it was merry and full of whatever things you like doing. New books, new word experiences and plenty of mouth pleasure, (that's all food is at xmas, right?!) Mine was family filled and new years eve was Srabble-icious, with some back to back comedies. Knocking out QUEUED for 105 points in the Scrabble game was probably my highlight, ha! (Lots of double letters and double words involved.)

January has started positively on the book front, with a few additions to the roster. Neon City Book 3, Purge of Deceit, is now out and available to purchase, or read in Kindle Unlimited.

With this one, I really wanted the characters of Elissa, Annora, Deke and Calix to be the driving force of the story, delving deep into their motivations while asking questions of the city. I also wanted to try and break down a lot of the narrative limitations that the city itself posed upon ME, the writer, so that I could go into the final trilogy (Neon Driver, see previous entries) with a little more freedom. I hope you enjoy it, readers. I had a lot of fun writing it.

If you're new to my writing, or at least new to the Neon City trilogy aspect of the Neon series, then the boxset is also now available, enabling you to purchase all 3 books at a reduced rate. 

Paperbacks (and signed)

I've also caught up with the paperback situation. All 6 books in the series are now available as paperbacks (if anyone wants the Neon Zero prequel book in paperback, let me know.) Neon Sands is now selling in my local store, so I have plenty of copies of this, should anyone like a signed copy. If you contact me via email or through social media, I would be happy to send you a signed copy for £10 (plus P&P if you're outside the UK).

The Risen Part II

I'm not sure if that should be part 2 or part II. I prefer part II, but what does that do to the algorithms, if anything? Something for me to research! Anyway, as a bit of a break from Neon, my next book is going to return to The Risen world. Looking back at the story and the reader comments, there's potential there for me to tap into, and I've wanted to do a first-person narrative for a while; and the way part 1 ends offers me a perfect opportunity to explore this. The world is your typical post-apocalyptic one, set in the UK, with a monster variety. However, there is a twist - you'll need to read the first one to find out.

The sequel is out on preorder now for a special price.

New year

This year will be different. There will be a revamp, both in the focus of my writing, but also in my online presence. My Instagram and website will no longer be Stranger Writings, but Adam J Smith Author - Sci-fi, Dystopian, and Horror. This will also be exemplified on my Twitter and Facebook pages. Find me, and you will know what I write. For many writers, writing the book is the easy part, it's maintaining an online profile and building up support where the struggle begins. I think it requires a discipline and certain extravagance that many, like me, don't have. We wish we could just churn out something and put it out there and by magic, people will find it. We have to advertise it, and us too, and I often forget that.

So this blog will play a role; a weekly update whenever possible. Connecting with other authors, and sharing more about myself , while also updating on book offers. I have a 2k mailing list, but that needs to grow, so I'll rejoin bookfunnel and storyorigin, and rebrand the newsletter. And I'll grow the Facebook page, sharing more posts both related to my work, but also to hashtags like #cyberpunk #scifi and #coolshit. Or something. It'll get something done to it.

About me

My stories percolate in the shadow of the Malvern Hills in Central England; just a few long strides from a glorious view, though one not so grand or as high as the sand mountain, no doubt. Rain dapples this quaint English town (of course it does) but on clear days you can see for miles as the land ebbs and flows, green and pale fields sliced apart by hedgerow and road. The occasional farmhouse unchanged for decades. Perhaps a boxy Grand Design or two.

This is nothing like Neon, and neither is the town plagued by an overzealous hierarchy. (At least to my knowledge, though fools and kings are so often interchangeable.) So Neon is my escape; while I dream of places like Tokyo and Google the dunes of the Sahara, hoping one day to visit. Who lives here? And what do they do? Why do they do it? These questions I try to answer, pointing the character towards a goal and letting them make their own decisions on the way. I’m often surprised by the result – I hope you are too.

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