Month: April 2015

Maple Syrup


I was in the supermarket the other day

and I bought myself a bottle of Maple syrup.

It was the cheapest bottle on the shelf

but on the label, it read

that it was as good as any of the other stuff surrounding it.

The bottle looked nice too

it was like a little bottle of whiskey.

The next morning I made myself some pancakes.

I cooked them carefully,

remembering my days as a cook at McDonalds

piled them up and took them into the lounge room

along with the bottle of Syrup.

I poured out a careful amount on each and began to eat.

Then Mary came in

“Did you make me some?” she asked.

“No,” I answered.

“You never make me breakfast,” she screamed, “You ought to have made me breakfast.”

“You don’t like pancakes, you like cornflakes.”

“That’s not the point, you never make me breakfast.”

She stormed out.

This syrup was weak

and each mouthful became more and more sour.

“You can have some of mine,” I called, but it was too late.

She’d probably left.


I went to a “Roar -raw -slam -in your face”? poetry night last night and it was extremely good. The people who were brave enough to speak were energetic and engaging. It was full of young men and women from university who all have the world at their feet and for them anything is possible. In comparison I felt old, boring and frightened. I ordered a large Earl Grey cup of tea and had to wait half an hour for it to arrive and another half an hour until it was cool enough to drink. Because the place was so busy and I had to stand my legs started to hurt. I began to wonder if they would lock the front doors to my retirement home before I manage to get home.

But enough of that.

There seems to be huge numbers of talented writers, people who can capture the world in a poem or a short story, there seems to be endless numbers of people writing novels, submitting manuscripts and telling me that ‘I must write, writing is as important to me as breathing.’ So what chance do I have at making my novel a success? Is it all luck? You face the empty pages, the blank space is infinite, and you try to fill it with words all the while you know there are thousands of people out there with more talent, who work harder and who are hungrier for success than you are.

I had a great night — the poems were amazing and the performances were incredible. Next time they hold a poetry night I told myself, I will read one of mine. I will not read it with the energy and the charisma needed to win, but I will at least have a go.

I wish I had taken a photo of the night.

I want to share a short story of Ernest Hemingway’s which, although written years ago is still relevant to what is happening in the US today.

At two o’clock in the morning two Hungarians got into a cigar store at Fifteenth Street and Grand Avenue. Drevitts and Boyle drive up from the Fifteenth Street police station in a ford. The Hungarians were backing their wagon out of an alley. Boyle shot one off the seat of the wagon and one out of the wagon box. Drevitts got frightened when he found they were both dead.

“Hell Jimmy,” he said, “you oughtn’t to have done it. There’s liable to be a hell of a lot of trouble.”

“They’re crooks ain’t they?” said Boyle. “They’re wops ain’t they? Who the hell is going to make any trouble?”

“That’s all right maybe this time,” said Drevitts, “but how did you know they were wops when you bumped them off?”

“Wops,” said Boyle, “I can tell wops a mile off.”

-Ernest Hemingway In our time.

Check out my debut novel THE BOMBER on goodreads

It’s released on June 24th


Nick Karft

It had not rained on Tad Hill for four months. Summer had passed and now in autumn it was still dry and the ground changed from hard scorched rock to soft powder and dust. The wind picked up the soil and blew it through the air, covering everything in the fine grit. The corn crop had failed. The green shoots had come, they grew into leafy plant and then turned brown and grey, withering away. Karft had carted water to the crops, pouring it down the rows leaving the grey dirt, dark and moist. But soon the water ran low and even the small amount he could bring was not enough. He worked for hours each day, two buckets from the well, carried to the crop, half a bucket for every four plants. Still they died.
One sunset, after the corn was no more, he sat in the dust and cried. The dirt clung to his bare feet and stained them. His hard, cracked heels would forever stay brown like the soil, a reminder of his life on the farm. He lifted his left foot and examined it. He worked bare footed because the soil was soft in the crop field.
“It is no life for me if I cannot grow anything,” he said sadly. In the west, between two rocky useless hills, the sun set grandly, the golden orb settled in the shimmering red evening. Karft turned and looked to the east, the white virgin moon rose in the blue night and a bright white star shone, the first before thousands came and lit the night sky.
A mosquito landed on his brown face. He did not know, but his cheek itched and he ran his hard hands over his cheeks and the little insect fled.
His nails were longer than they should have been and dirt was crammed under them. He stood up and looked about his land. In the distance heavy smoke sat in the sky, somewhere a fire burned and at night when you tried to sleep the smoke would come to you and try to choke you.
“Please rain, come,” he said to himself.
He made his way down a dirt track he had worn by years of walking, the track was lower than the ground surrounding it and dead grass hung down and brushed his feet. By the house a dog barked and ran toward him.
“Hello Peuro,” he called and the dog slumped against his shin. “I love you boy.”
The dog looked up into his eyes.
“Lets go inside.”
Karft walked to the front door which was propped open by an old car jack and looked about before stepping inside. Peuro sat outside and softly ran his paws across a rut he had created in the dirt.
“Mom, dad?” he called.
A woman sat by the stove, it was not lit, she was mixing dried fruit, seeds and nuts into flour to make a bread. She looked up.

“All the corn is dead.”
The old woman did not answer but looked back down at what she was doing.
“We will run out of money now, I cannot stay here. I will have to go to find work,” Karft continued.

“In town?”
“No, there is nothing there for me, I will have to go to the city.”
The old woman looked up slowly. A sadness in her eyes.
“I will send money home, I can get a good job in the city. I have been talking to Mark about it. I can get a job and easily send you two hundred dollars a week.”
“We need you here.”

“No, you need the money. Once the rain returns, so shall I.”
The mother nodded. “When are you going?”

“Tomorrow or the next day, but I have to go. I can catch the freight train running steel to the east coast, it is not yet too cold. If I wait any longer I will freeze. I must go tomorrow. The train will take me right to the city.”
“Are you going to take Peuro?”

“No. How can I take the dog?”
“He will miss you.”
“I can’t take him. I am going to walk into town to say goodbye to Mary. Do you want anything?”

“Can you cut some wood before you go away?”

“Yes, I will cut wood tomorrow, enough to last you two months. I mean do you want anything from town?”


Karft walked out of the house and put the dog on the chain to stop him from following along to town. He walked over to the wood pile. There was already a lot of fire wood, but it would not last the winter. He sighed at the thought of all the wood he would have to cut before he left. It would be certain to cause him pain. He picked up the ax and examined it. The head was a little rusty but it would do. The blade was blunt. He would have to rub the sharpening stone over it and put some oil on the head. It would have to be very sharp to complete the job.
He replaced the ax and then headed off down the dirt track that led to town. It was four miles away. He walked carefully alone the track. It was stony and some of the rocks could be very sharp. He was grateful his sandals had thick soles. Some of his friends had very thin shoes and the rocks would bruise their feet. A huge ants’ nest rose up in the middle of the track and he walked around it carefully. These ants were very aggressive and would swarm up your feet if you walked on their house. They were red headed little devils, they had no poison but they worked together as a team and would bite you over and over again until you brushed them all off.
He crossed the railway tracks and walked along a dirt cattle track until he could see the town. It was a collection of houses, with a row of buildings and churches in the centre. On the outskirts were the town silos; huge, tall and yellow. Karft crossed a dry gulch and then stepped onto paved road.
Mary lived in a small house not far from the water pumping station. At night you could sit outside her house and the low hum and trickling water coming from the place would make you sleepy. Karft walked up the front steps and stood on the verandah. He looked at the timber floor and kicked a bit of the dust away from the front door and then knocked twice. A young woman with dark hair and large soft red lips answered the door. She smiled a little when she saw Karft.
“Hello Karft,” she said.
“Hello Mary.”
“Come in, take off your shoes and come in,” she waved him inside.
“Thank you.”
He kicked his shoes off and walked into the cool neat house. There was a warm smell of bread and something sweet. Mary was one of the local school teachers, she owned a computer and she had a connection to the internet. It was a nice place to be and he looked around.
“How are you?” he asked picking up a china statue of a cat and turning it around.
“Good, I am very well. You?”

“I am OK.”

She looked at him and the yellow dust stains on his clothes. “Do you want a drink?”

“If you have a glass of water please.”

“Sit down if you like.”

“I am dirty.”

“Sit in the wooden chair.”
Karft sat down and looked at the newspaper on the table. He read the headlines about the mayor’s speech in town hall and the problems of the drought and local fires.
“How is school?” he asked.

“Good, the children are great, I really like them. There are problems but I have more trouble with the parents than the kids.”
She placed a glass of water in front of him and touched his hand. “I am sorry it is so dry. I stood looking out over the land last night before sun set and I could see the dust flying about in the air.”

“It is an evil thing when it does not rain. The dry air lays down like an old woman across the world and dies.”
“Have you any idea what you will do?”

“I have come to talk to you about it, I need a favor. I am going away the day after tomorrow, I will go to the city and find work, then I can send money home to my parents so that they will be able to live. They do not have a computer. Could I send you the money and you give it to them?”

Mary sat down opposite him. “I can do that for you.”

“My mother comes into town Tuesday, if she could come by the school at lunch? I will send two hundred a week if I can.”
They spoke for half an hour, but the setting sun made Karft nervous. He stood up.
“I appreciate what you are doing for me,” Karft walked to the door and nodded, his eyes looking down at the carpet.
“So you are leaving town?”

“How will you go?”


Mary nodded.
“I had better go, it is a relief I have you as a friend.”

Mary nodded again and came across to him and hugged him. He smelled of earth and sweat. She closed her eyes as he hugged her back and she tried not to think of the dirt on his clothes. She gritted her teeth.
“I had better go.”
He shuffled out of his house, down the front steps and walked toward town.
The sun glinted off the parked cars and house windows. The streets were tinged red from the evening.
He looked at the places as he passed and put them in his mind, he anticipated that he would miss the place and wanted to remember the nice things as well as he could. He did not want to remember the dead trees and hard dirt, he did not want to remember the dust over everything. He walked past his old school and glanced up at the front door. Above the entrance was a statue of a man. He held a book and at his feet were maps and scrolls. One hand was pointed out toward the east, but the arm had been broken a long time ago and all he had now was a stump.
“Poor town,” he spoke, “I will miss you. I will come home again.”
The sun was low and if he wanted to walk home while he could see he would have to leave now. If he waited until it was dark, he would fall over. There were sticks and holes in the trail that could injure you if you could not see them.


The morning brightened as the sun came up between the hills in the distance, but Karft was already walking toward town beside the train tracks. He was dressed with his heavy jacket, a bag full of his clothes and almost four hundred dollars. The train only slowed when it reached the local station, it did not stop, but it went slowly enough for him to catch a metal ladder and pull himself up. The best place to sit on a freight train was between the trucks, where you were sheltered and it was hard to be seen. If he were caught riding a freight train he would be arrested.
The sun glinted red off the silver worn rails and the dirt road cut by railway workers made the walk pleasant and easy. His arms hurt from yesterdays wood cutting and he flexed his fingers again and again hoping that they would not give way when he reached for the metal rung to pull himself up. If his hand should slip there was a chance he would fall and injure himself or worse, fall under the unforgiving wheels.
A train sounded in the distance. From the hum it made it was going quickly, racing down the slight decline, straight for him. If it did not slow to a running pace, he would have to let it pass and catch the next one. It was too hard to grab a fast train.
The train came into sight, a long way off, it was still a mile away but it would soon be here, the driver would see him too, so Karft walked into the bushes and hid. The train came past slow enough that a sprint would bring him alongside. He had to run fast with his bag, he had to make it up the large gravel bank that held the tracks, his feet slipping and losing speed. The truck he had targeted sped past him, but the next one came and he missed it, the next came, well back at the rear and he leaped toward the ladder and gripped it, he brought his knee up and planted a foot on the ladder, his other knee smashed hard against the metal and he cried out in pain, but managed to climb up into the filthy platform at the back of the truck. Karft sat and pushed his feet hard against a metal guard and wedged himself down, he took a small pillow from his bag and sat on it. He rubbed his knee, it felt like it had been broken. The wind was cold and he buttoned his coat up tight around his neck and he smiled as the train past the station and then picked up speed. He watched the familiar buildings and roads as they shone under the new sun, the people just waking up and he said goodbye.
He laughed and his white teeth shone in his wide heavy mouth.
“Goodbye town,” he said gently, “You bastards, good bye.”
The sun shone off the large window of the Catholic Church, as the train moved on the passing trees made the reflection wink so it seemed the Church was laughing and saying goodbye.
The trip was hard and cold. After twelve hours he felt sore and stiff and would fall asleep in small snatches. Each time he nodded off he would dream he was falling and he would awake in terror, to find himself relaxed and in danger of sliding off the train to his actual death. He would instantly stiffen and wedge himself against the train again. His muscles already sore and torn would scream with pain. His knee had swollen slightly and continued to ache.
The landscape changed. Farmland, such as Karft knew had given way to hills, a mighty brown river had been crossed and houses in great rows sprung up. He passed through a town full of tall buildings and narrow lanes, faces came out of streets and windows, some looking at him. These people would not bother him.
The train pulled through some forests now, beautiful, deep and silent. Karft wondered what sort of animals lived here. The train seemed out of place to be passing through the green leafy world where the trees were tall and blocked the setting sun. Soon it was dark and painfully cold. Karft, no longer falling asleep, shivered, he stood up occasionally to stretch. He leaned around the train and was caught in a heavy blast of wind. The train moved at an incredible speed and he was nearly thrown off, but he pulled back. He was near the city now, in the distance he could see the huge buildings, the lights reflected from the clouds. It was huge and terrifying, something that man built which could be seen thirty miles away. There was only half an hour left of the journey.

The tunnels had been unsettling, it took nerve to hang on in the dark world, the freight train then came into the night again and slowed. It pulled into a well lit goods yard, when it slowed to a running pace, he leaped off and fell in the dirt and rocks. He rolled away from the train and then crouched for a moment under a yellow light pole. The electric light radiated down on him and he had to wait until his vision came back to normal. He was dizzy and had to hold to metal pole or he would fall over. He pulled his bag tight on his back and then jogged away, avoiding the large wire fence by crawling out through a dry storm water drain. After an hour of walking he found himself in a suburban street. An elevated railway track ran above him and the buildings were all three or four stories high. It was late and he found an apartment building with the door unlocked and he slept in the foyer, tucked away in a corner where no one bothered him until morning, when five little children going to school woke him with their cries and heavy footsteps.

Karft stood outside in the cold morning sun. The buildings around him blocked most of the light. He opened a letter he had kept deep into a pocket of his bag.
“Hoskins Hotel, cleaners wanted,” he read. “52nd Street…” he mumbled the words of the advertisement he had read many times. He was unsure of where he was so he read the street signs near him.
“108th Street,” he read and walked along another block until he read 107.
He walked through narrow streets, lined with impossibly high buildings, people pushing past him and cars clogging the roads. He had expected it to be like this, but there was more than he had thought, people leaning against walls, hanging out of windows, watching him, cars parked along the sides of every street, noises that beat at his skull, the terrible noise of mass inhabitation, of hell.

He found the street he was after and then made his way along looking at the buildings.
Hoskins Hotel was a huge structure, the lower part of the skyscraper was made of clean white stone and two heavy flags hung above the entrance. A man stood at the huge glass doors and held it open as people came and went. It was an intimidating facade, and as Karft looked in, he saw how beautifully lit and elegant the interior was, shining with gold and silver lights. It was early still but it was busy. He waited outside and watched. The doorman, dressed in dark black suit and black cap, glanced at him occasionally.
Karft turned and looked down at the gutter and spat. He coughed and spat again and then turned back to the hotel and walked through the doors. The doorman pulled the door back for him.
“Good morning, sir,” the man exclaimed.
“Good morning, thank you.” Karft answered and passed through quickly.
Inside the hard polished floor sparkled and the sounds of people’s footsteps echoed off the hard surface. Karft walked across to the nearest wall so he could stand still and look around without blocking anyone.
To his right there was a coffee stand, people lined up with newspapers and phones. To his left was a long counter, cream in color with bright lights shining down upon it and a sign that read; ‘Hotel Reception’. People lined up here too and seven men and women worked behind the desk, checking people out.
Karft joined the queue and waited until he spoke to a young woman.
“I would like to apply for a job please,” he said after the woman greeted him.
“Oh,” her face dropped. “In which department?”

Karft took the advert he had been keeping and opened it, he read it to her; “Cleaner?”

“Housekeeping department. Here you go, fill this out and when you come back, I’ll give it to the manager,” she said and handed him a form. He smiled and thanked her, took the paper and walked over to a bench. He searched his bag for a pen, found one and filled it out.

When he had finished he returned the sheet to the desk. The same woman who had spoken to him before came up.
“Wait over there,” she barked, pointing to an alcove where he would be hidden from the customers.

Karft stood with the form in his hand and his bag at his feet. He felt dirty and uncomfortable. He looked about to see if anyone was coming to speak to him. He was worried about where he would sleep when again it became dark. The entire city was making him anxious. Just standing in the hotel lobby he could feel his animosity toward this metropolis. He watch the people move about, calm and in control of their lives here. None of them seemed to worry about the corn or the rain. He wondered at their clothes and clean confident appearance. There was no one here like him.
After half an hour a man walked up to him.
“You have come for the cleaning job?”

“Yes,” Karft answered.
“We have nothing available.”

Karft looked at the tall man, he could make nothing of the dark eyes before him. 
“Can I leave my sheet here with you?”

“No, we have nothing, it is very competitive to find employment here.” 
The man turned and left Karft standing in the lights and shadows of the boxed in corner.


The Bomber, June 24th, Pen Name Publishing.

See my Goodreads page at

The fire in her eyes

The dark stairs,

that ascend into the house

passing the photos and huge windows,

are silent, golden timber, like the spine that holds the home erect.

For a score of hours I have sat in the Autumn dark

waiting, listening to the clock on the table in the hall.

The door closes but not before a gust of wind

peeled off from the cold street

rushes into the room and moves the newspaper off the table

and onto the floor.

She is there

and she stands for a moment without speaking.

I have seen sad things in my years

deaths and departings, destruction of order

but I knew her face would be sadder still.

The universe expands, stars are flung deeper into the dark space

everything grows further apart

she runs up the stairs, I listen to her footsteps, I hear the door close,

it echoes

I long to feel the Autumn wind again, I wished a window to fling itself open,

I want to hear the the leaves on the street.

I rise and run upstairs. I fling the door open and steady myself

I expect her to shout abuse.

But she is silent, she is naked, lying on the bed.

A novel carelessly open on her stomach.


My debut novel will be released on June 24th with Pen Name Publishing.

Visit Amazon to preorder your e-book version or wait for the Hardcover.



The Sound of Gun Fire – a short story

The men scaled the brick wall and dropped into a courtyard behind a line of two story buildings. Rubble and twisted iron lay strewn about. The mercenaries picked their way through the rubble and sat down along the building in the shade. In the distance machine gun fire crossed the city, large vehicles moved about with a loud groan and jets streaked across the sky. The men were making their way across town but had been caught in a crossfire between troops and rebels.
“Which way to get across to the bank?” the first man, Ahmad asked.
“I don’t know,” Omar answered.
“You are supposed to know,” Ahmad answered, thumping him on the side with his fists. Omar ignored him and watched a wall that had a massive crack running down it.
The third man, Mohammed, was holding his gun tightly and biting his lip. He was the ugliest man in the group and they called him dog-boy. Even his two friends called him that. He did not speak very much.
Ahmad looked across to the wall Omar was watching. “What is it?” he asked.
Omar ignored him.
“What is it?” he yelled again.
“I thought I saw a hand on top of that wall there, the whole wall shook, like someone was trying to climb it.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone, I just want to get to the bank and do the job. I had to do a lot to get us that job guarding the bank.”
“If someone comes over that wall with a gun we have to shoot them.”

“Lets just get out of here.” Ahmad said.
“No lets wait, I need to get my breath back.”
A machine gun echoed in the street behind them, nearby dust rose into the sky. The noise of the gun was a constant hammering and it scared them.
“Dog-boy, you OK?”

Dog-boy did not speak.
“Any one got any water?” Ahmad asked.
“Dog-boy has some bottles in his back pack.”

“Dog-boy, give me a drink.”

Dog-boy looked at Ahmad and smiled. His mouth was full of purple gums, he did not have many teeth and those left were black.
“In Australia they have toothpaste that grows back any teeth you have lost,” Ahmad said.

“In Australia,” Omar said. “You been to Australia dog-boy?”
Dog-boy smiled again and laughed.
“We should call you monkey-boy,” Omar said and laughed. “In Australia they would shoot you dog-boy, as soon as you arrived.”
Dog-boy smiled and nodded at him. No one was sure if he understood anything.
“They would not shoot him,” Ahmad said, “it does not work that way in the West.”
“All I know is that if I were in Australia I would not have come back here to fight.” Omar said.
“I am going back when I can. In Australia you can make as much in a month than you can all year here.”

“In Australia, in Australia,” Omar mocked him.
They sat in silence.
“This money better be good to guard this bank.” Omar continued.

“It is good.”
“It better be.”
The wall rocked again and the men looked over toward it. From another part of the wall a machine gun slid over the top and opened fire on them. The bullets hit the bricks all around them, masonry and dust exploded all around them. Omar and dog-boy ran around the corner of the house, Ahmad fell over on his side, a bullet had entered him and hit his spine. He lost all control over the lower half of his body. He lay quietly in surprise and watched as the shooter looked over the fence and then dropped down and disappeared.
Ahmad was alone. There was no pain, but the absence of pain was even more terrifying. He felt strangely free, like he was numb and floating.
“Omar,” he called out. His hands clenching in the dust around him pulling himself across to some bricks and blocks that lay about. “Omar! Mohammed!”
There was silence. It was very quiet. The wall rocked again but Ahmad could not look about to see, it was probably the wind.
He closed his eyes and then remembered his gun. He searched around blindly for it, but he could not lay a hand on it. He had nothing to clutch except dust.
“They will come back for me,” he said to himself. Even he was not certain if he meant his friends or the shooters.

He closed his eyes for it was the only comfort he could give himself. He remembered Australia. He worked in a laundry. It was hot work, heavy and uncomfortable. The people about him were all stupid people, the type that take the worst jobs but the money was good, he could often work overtime. He was allowed to do delivery work and he liked that, because he could be on his own and out in the world.
In Australia, he thought, there are rules, order. He had not known much about the Middle East except what his parents had told him.
He thought back to last summer, he had spent it in Port Macquarie, on the beach. He had fallen in love with a girl who had blonde hair and they spent their days in the water and on the sand.
“You are so funny Ahmad,” Sarah said to him.

“You swim funny, the waves scare you.”

“The waves don’t scare me,” he answered.
“You have to duck them, swim under them and don’t let them hit you.”

“I can take the waves,” he said.
At night they would go down on the beach and sit with her friends, they were all her friends. They had been kind to him.
“Ahmad? Where are you from?” someone asked him.


“No, originally.”

“My parents are from Syria.”
“A pretty bad place isn’t it?”

Ahmad had been offended, “No, it is very nice.”

They hired a car and he had driven down to the caves that formed out of sandstone up north. He remembered the road winding its way up the coast and the view of the waves as they crashed in. They had walked down to the rock pools. They saw a small octopus in a pool. Ahmad lifted a rock and smashed it down on the animal and it was crushed.
“Don’t do that!” Sarah had screamed. “That’s terrible.”

Ahmad laughed, “I saved your life, that was a killing octopus.”

“A killing octopus? That was cruel it was just sitting there.”

They had left and Ahmad had felt badly. He was sorry she had become so upset over an animal. As they drove back to town he wondered if he should apologize, maybe it would soften her but she had leaned against him and allowed him to put his hand over her shoulders.

“Ahmad, Ahmad,” someone said and shook him.
Ahmad opened his eyes and could see Omar shaking him. “Lets go, lets go.”

Ahmad closed his eyes again and tried to picture Sarah once more, her soft body and long blonde hair. It was so far from this place now.
“Why are you sleeping? Lets go.”
Omar rolled Ahmad over and could see the blood on his chest.
“Oh shit, you’ve been shot, can you stand up?”

Ahmad opened his eyes again. “I can’t get my legs…” he said.
Behind them the brick wall collapsed. Omar spun around but there was nobody there. It may have just fallen down.
Omar dragged Ahmad over to the house where he was hidden. He gave him the rifle he had dropped.
“I will be back,” Omar said and ran out of the courtyard.
The sound of gunfire erupted again but it was so close Ahmad could not tell where it was coming from, it was everywhere.
He closed his eyes again and pictured the beach.

The back cover blurb for THE BOMBER

The creative minds at Pen Name Publishing recently wrote the back cover description for my debut novel The Bomber and I think I forgot to share it so I have it below. This is what you will read when the book comes out on June 24th

“Joseph Starling has returned from war and is trying his best to resettle into civilian life. In the midst of his struggles, anti war protests spring up around him, and in this violence he is once again forced to face his internal conflicts.

When Joseph discovers his best friend has been murdered he is offered a chance for revenge, and that revenge comes in the form of high explosive.

He doesn’t feel guilty, though, he only dialed a number. Right?

The Bomber is a journey of retribution and loss, set to the ticking of a very important countdown clock.”


I like it a lot.

Please visit my goodreads site and have at look at what is happening there and give my page a like on Facebook.



A great writer

I had a chance

to open the notebook

of a man who wrote poems.

He had struggled all his life

and never been published

yet he wrote

and taught others how to write.

I had never taken his class

but I heard wonderful things

I thought there may be secrets I can find

within this black note book

I turned the pages

and sheet after sheet

were sketches

of naked men and women

joined in lust

of pointed penises

and revealed female genitalia.

I was amazed. There were no poems

only images.

Once, in an all boys high school

I hated a teacher and she me

I had drawn innocent cartoons in my books,

of cars and trees.

During class she caught me drawing and said;

stop drawing doodles in your books

your books are full of doodles.

She knew what she was saying.


Hey everyone- check out my new Facebook authors page at

Please give it a like and help me gain a bit of support.


The Bomber will arrive June 24th from Pen Name Publishing, check it out at goodreads:

The Bomber

A review for my new novel The Bomber, I am so happy to read this, please have a look.


Hello everyone,

Today’s post, I am happy to announce, is a review of a book by the name of The Bomber by David O’Sullivan, which is to be released on June 24th this year.

It is available for pre-order here:

David O’Sullivan, the author of this fantastic novel also has a blog which is most definitely worth checking out. It can be found here:

So go and have a look at it after reading the review!

This book was a unique and fascinating read. It has a different tone and voice to other books that I have read, and concerns itself with new ideas that are not often explored.

Today’s destination: Soho, America.

If I were to sum this book up in a word, it would be:

Different – (adj.) distinct; separate

The Bomber is a tale of a soldier trying to fit back into a society that no longer makes…

View original post 529 more words

Peter Monn Interview

Today I have my interview with Pen Name Publishing’s Peter Monn.  He is the author of The Before Now and After Then as well as a contributing writer to The Huffington Post and a lover of Halloween. (I also love Halloween).

1. Please tell me about yourself.
I love Halloween. The whole idea of dressing up as something else and going from house to house to either scare people or get candy is marvelous. I also am in love with old Hitchcock films. I am addicted to strong coffee, as well as alcohol, but I’ve been sober for 20 years. I’m married to a 30 year man from Venezuela so I can say I’m in an intergenerational, biracial, same-sex marriage. Oh, and I’m a writer.

2. What do you like to read?
It really depends. Because I’ve been writing a lot of young adult, I’ve been reading a lot of young adult books. I’ve probably read everything that came out in the last two years that’s been on the bestseller list. I also like reading pulp mystery novels, that have no depth but engage you in a great chase or story.

3. What are you reading right now and what do you think you will read next?
I’m currently reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. So many people have recommended it to me. I have to say, I’m not loving it so far. I’m also reading The Mysteries of Pittsburg by Michael Chabon and I’m totally loving it. Reading it feels like eating a juicy pear, the sweetness pouring all around my mouth and I have to eat it slowly because I want to savor every word.

4. Why do you like to write?
I like to lie. Not really. I write because I love telling stories. When I was younger I just loved the idea of writing stories or books and most of them were mysteries or chase scenarios but in the last year it has become very important for me to write with intention. I’m not willing to write a book anymore that doesn’t have some lesson or some aha moment in it because after all, what’s the point. Life is too short not to move someone emotionally. And in all honestly, I’m good at moving people emotionally. I suck at writing suspense and mystery novels. That is a true art form.

5. Tell us about where you come from and where you live now.
I was born in Chicago and moved to Indianapolis, Indiana in the middle of the United States when I was four. It is boring here, but a great place to raise of family and drive around late at night on deserted roads. My husband and I do not plan on raising a family but I do love a good night drive. Plus, our family is here so this is our home, although we plan to move to Miami within the next few years.

6. If you could invite any person, alive today or from history, to a dinner party who would you invite and why?
I answer this the exact same way every time I’m asked, which seems to be often. Oprah Winfrey. She is way too wise, way too creative, and has way too much power. Plus, I like to think she and I would make great friends.

7. What advice can you give people trying to achieve their dreams?
Honestly, I didn’t understand this until after I was 40, but you literally can achieve anything you set your mind to having. The trick is wanting it bad enough. You have to put action into anything you want in your life, but if you’re willing to do the work, you’ll achieve your dreams. So ask yourself, how bad do I want this?

8. Can you tell us about your book The Before Now and After Then.
It is a young adult novel about a gay teenager’s quest for himself after the death of his identical twin brother. It is also a simple teen love story, which is something I would have wanted to read when I was in high school. It has very cool musical references, original drinks from Starbucks, a righteous car and lots of kissing. It’s a cute story with a magical premise.

9. Can you tell us anything about the book you are working on and your inspiration.
The book I’m currently working on is based on lessons I learned from my mother, who passed away seven years ago. And even though she is my inspiration, it is probably more about making the most of your life, which I guess is my true inspiration.
10. Can you give us a quote from your favorite book?
“First of all,” he said, “if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view […] until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” Atticus Finch from Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.

Peter’s book is available right now. It is published by Pen Name Publishing.