The River

I don't know Edan Aldridge. He shares a passion for pocketknives that means we end up on the same forum sometimes. A piece Edan wrote struck me, and I asked him if he would like to publish something on my blog. He promptly produced this awesomeness. Oh, and Edan is 16. 

The sky looked like death that day, not that it mattered much to him. He kept his eyes on the mottled gravel below his feet as he followed the meandering path down the river. The gazebos and seesaws of the WPA park that had stood there had long ago gone to seed, and the rough-hewn track that lay nestled on the bank was all the remained. He walked it slow and steady, knowing where it began, and where it ended, and what would be there to greet him.

    

On occasion, the long way gave him solace, but today the river path gave him no comfort. That morning he'd woken up to the same aches and bruises, as well as some new ones that had appeared after the previous night's altercation, if you could call it that. The man had made good on his drunken threat yet again and, as the boy had come to learn, there would be more to come when he got home. The home in question was a tired, cramped mill house bolted to a sparsely wooded hillside on the fringe of town. The view from the small, listing porch was disheartening at best. Off to the right, the wide, green river with it's ponderous barges and soot spewing mills wound out of sight among the hills. On the opposite bank, the sharp rim of West Virginia jutted high into the gunmetal sky. To the left of the house, the oppressed downtown clung to the flattest land that the Ohio valley had to offer and extended slightly up into the hills away from the river.  It was a dark place. He ran these scenes through his head as he walked, and managed to stay preoccupied with them until he scaled the hill and found himself standing before his blue, weathered door. He looked into the narrow front window, braced himself, and stepped into the house.

He'd never quite gotten used to the smell. It assailed him as he shut the door. The stench of cheap cigarettes, mildew, and one hopeless, worthless old man. He felt it settle on his clothes and in his hair. God, he hated that house. When he first entered, the air was still and dank, but the silence was soon fractured by the man (as long as he could remember, he'd been "the man", never much of a father) lurching up from his chair and swaggering toward the boy. Long years of practice had told him what was coming, and he ducked the initial blow. The man let go an inhuman growl, and took another swing. By then, however, the boy had run down the hall and was in his room, door shut and the homemade barricade set tightly in its slots in the door frame. He huddled on the bed, listening to the wind buffeting the outer walls, and the man battering the door with his huge fists. Eventually the barrage ceased, and the room was silent.

The young man sat pensively on the bank, examining the pistol. It was a week later, and he had two less teeth, and had decided he'd had enough. The new cut on his cheekbone had begun to heal, but his right eye was still black and both were bloodshot. It had been days since he'd had any real sleep, and he hadn't been back to the house on the hill in almost a week. After the last onslaught, instead of running to the safety of his room, he'd gone to the man's small dresser and retrieved the pistol. It was a Smith and Wesson Detective Special. The barrel was scratched and rusted in places, but the original bluing was intact in spots, the checking on the walnut grip was worn almost smooth. He palmed it, along with a small box of .38 cartridges, and ran out the door. He'd been sleeping on the path by the bridge since then, slowly eating down the $5 in his pocket and biding his time. He wanted the man to be sober for this.

The 9th dawn after his exodus was a long time coming. When it did come, he hopped on the road at the end of the bridge and followed it into town. He went past the hardware store and into the small diner next door, spending his last quarter on a cup of coffee. He drank meditatively, and, when he finished, he got up slowly and headed back to the house on the hill. He loaded the pistol carefully as he walked. Soon, he knew, there would be no more little, weathered house with its murky windows, no more endless showers to relieve himself of the stinking smoke and sweat, and no more man. At this thought, he quickened his step. Soon, he told himself. Soon.

He stood on the porch for what felt like a century. The pistol hung loosely in his right hand, hammer back, waiting. He should be up soon. And then he heard him. A faint rustling in the front room, a muffled curse, then the sound of him banging around in the small kitchen in the rear of the house. Enjoy your last meal, old man. Then the slow, steady steps. Coming from the back, growing louder and closer till they were just to the other side of the door. Then it opened, and the young man fired.

The first blast knocked the old man back into the living room. The shot had been carefully aimed, and hit him  just over his left knee. He staggered back and fell against the small couch that squatted by the foot of the stairs. The second shot hit him square in the stomach, and the next two shots hit a few inches higher and to the left. The last one caught him three inches above the right eye, and, just like that, it was all over. The young man looked at him for a moment, then rolled the body over and grabbed the wallet out of his back pocket. He went back into the kitchen, grabbed the keys and the coffee can from under the sink, and walked out of the house for the last time. The sage green Plymouth Duster cranked after the fourth try, and he rolled down the hill and toward the river. When he reached the bottom, he wound his way down the road leading toward the river, and crossed into West Virginia. The car ascended the switchbacks laboriously, until he was finally at the top of the bluff. The road kept to the edge, a thousand feet above the river. Eventually, he came to a stop, and left the car on the side of the road. He went to the edge and looked across the river into town. Only then did he look down at his hands. He had always been pale, and this made the blood look particularly fresh and nauseating as it slowly dried on his palms and under his fingernails. He wiped them on his jeans, and looked across the water again. He could see his street through the trees, and he watched as two black and white Fairlanes with bubble lights climbed toward the summit. It was then that it occurred to him that he was on borrowed time, but this didn't detract from the flood of relief. The man could never touch him again and, at least for now, he was free.

Edan Aldridge lives in the suburbs of Charlotte, North Carolina and began writing and drawing comics at a very young age. An overwhelmingly negative response to his initial work led to a transition into songwriting. He soon tired of this as well and has been honing his craft as a writer for the past five years. He also likes to call himself a photographer, and operates the blog, "Moveable Feast." He hates cats.

B is for Bitch.

I don't know a whole lot about Sue Grafton. I have never read any of her work. My mom likes her books, but I don't know her, her chops, or how she sees her role as a writer. Because I am not familiar with her writing, I will not comment on it. Grafton would have been wise to take a similar approach instead of disparaging indie, self-published writers when she said:

"To me, it seems disrespectful…that a ‘wannabe’ assumes it’s all so easy s/he can put out a ‘published novel’ without bothering to read, study, or do the research. Learning to construct a narrative and create character, learning to balance pace, description, exposition, and dialogue takes a long time. This is not an quick do-it-yourself home project. Self-publishing is a short cut and I don’t believe in short cuts when it comes to the arts. I compare self-publishing to a student managing to conquer Five Easy Pieces on the piano and then wondering if s/he’s ready to be booked into Carnegie Hall.”

Well now...that sounds bitter and conceited. 

I am an independently published author. I have been writing professionally since I was 14. I have done the HARD work of writing and editing and publishing stories, novels, songs, and essays. I studied Creative Writing at SFSU, where they take writing VERY seriously. And all this time, I was disrespecting Sue Grafton without knowing it! I feel like such an asshole. Me, a wannabe...the nerve! Sue Grafton has every right to be outraged by something she knows nothing about. I mean, she is an 'official' writer type author person...hero to tepid mystery lovers everywhere. SHE EVEN KNOWS THE GODDAMN ALPHABET!

Self publishing a shortcut? Why did it take me so long then, Sue? Why? I mean, I spent like seven minutes doing research, wrote for a couple hours and uploaded my novel straight to Kindle, but it still took the better part of a day. Or is that not long enough for you?

Grafton's assumptions that indie writers don't do research or learn about their craft is offensive and small-minded. And the arrogant world of literature is one of the only places this shit happens. There are amazing indie bands...you don't see bigger artists calling them wannabes. Graffiti artists have become famous, but they get shown and praised. Art, produced by the artist, is a beautiful thing. But writers are insecure and elitist. Or are we? See, these generalizations are slippery things, Sue.

I bet I've written as many words as Sue. I've also worked with at-risk and learning challenged kids, introducing them to the written word. I wrote for years before I ever submitted a short story. I have studied the craft of writing for two decades. I have read the greats (sorry, I never got around to you, Sue). I was too busy reading Walt Whitman, Stephen King, James Joyce, Mark Twain and other self-published, wannabe hacks.

Writing is hard. One might even argue (listen carefully here, Sue) that writing, editing, promoting, and selling a book all by yourself is a more impressive feat than giving a draft to a team of editors and then letting the focus groups and editors/marketing gurus take your words and, let's say, 'improve them'.

I've been a writer for a while. I actively try to help other writers because I see this all as a team effort. But there is no 'I' in team. I is for individual. I is for ignorance. I is for idiocy.

Not only is Sue Grafton out of touch (some of the best writers working today are self-published), but she has the audacity to sit in her glass house and cast aspersions on 'wannabes' like me. One would think, even if she believes that all self-published, indie writers are hacks, that she would have the class to enjoy her success and not denigrate others - a whole group of people who are trying to achieve success in a field which has been good to her. She could have just written another groundbreaking novel. She could have kept her mouth shut. She should have kept her mouth shut.

I don't know anything about you, Sue. Maybe you're a nice lady. Maybe you're a bitch. Given the above arrogance and superiority complexing, I'm leaning towards the latter. For now. And I'm going to go out on a limb and say that your writing is not quite up to the level of the masters I listed above - those self-published assholes like Twain. That's right, I'm going to make a blanket statement generalizing your work based upon one answer to a question in an interview. I would look into this more, but that would require research, and I have a book to finish - I started it yesterday...I want to have it up on Kindle by this afternoon.

Anytime you want to see what an indie writer can do, I'm easy to find. Sue, you're a wealthy lady. I'm not (wealthy or a lady), but I'll bet you $50 that, in ten minutes, I could write a better story than you. So, bring it. Ten minutes, two pens, and as much paper as you need. I'm ready when you are. Put your money where your mouth is, Sue. I'll be waiting, looking for shortcuts that lead to the cathedral of hypocrisy where I can badmouth an entire movement because, well, E is for ego.

PS - I know you apologized (of your own free will and with no encouragement from your publisher, I'm sure), so I'm sorry I called you a bitch. There. Friends again.

'I told you so.' by Yvonne Hertzberger

Another friend (and another outstanding writer) grabs the mic today. Give it up for Yvonne Hertzberger, everyone. Enjoy the story and check out her books. (Thanks for classing up the joint, Yvonne!)

“I told you so.” She could hear them say it now; smug, grim, condescending smiles on their faces. And they had. That was why she had never been able to go to them, to ask for help. Now she pressed her back into the cramped crawlspace under the family room floor, in the dark. She barely fit her body around the pipes leading to the second powder room.

The family room had been added after the fact, so it had no basement. She knew he couldn’t be bothered to come and drag her out. He didn’t need to. She’d have to extract herself at some point. He’d gloated about it aloud from the top of the stair, enjoying taunting her.

She shivered in the dank cold and placed protective hands over her distended belly. Would she make it 'til morning? If she left her hole now she doubted he would leave her alive this time. How had she come to this? A cramp seized her, making her hitch her breath. Be still, baby. Hold on. Just 'til morning.

A drip fell on her knee from the ceiling. How could that be?  There was nothing wet there.  Oh, yeah, that’s what it was. Piss. He had pissed on the mat over her head. The walls, too, laughing, “Now, clean it up, whore.” She’d never been unfaithful. He knew that. 

This was the first time she had directly disobeyed him, refused to submit to his favourite ‘punishment’.  She’d done it for the baby. It would kill the baby. She shuddered as she replayed the scene.

“Stand up whore. Spread your legs.” He stood there, arms akimbo, feet set firmly apart, waiting – waiting to kick her there. She’d almost obeyed. He usually let her be after that. But the baby had kicked. So she’d turned and run. He had managed a flying kick at her belly as she ducked away from his grab for her hair. She’d made it as far as the stairs, to this hole, just out of reach under the stair - unless he put in some effort – effort she wasn’t worth.  

Another cramp assailed her. Not now, baby, Wait. Wait 'til morning. Wait. Could she hold on?

“How long do you think you can stay there bitch?” Then he changed his tone, laughing as he sang, “Come out, come out wherever you are...” 

She almost cried out as another contraction hit her hard, biting her knuckle to hold back the sound. It might be enough to make him come down after her. She thought about what had triggered him this time. Oh, yeah. Supper. He’d come home late and the chicken had dried out. He’d thrown the searing thing at her, hitting her across her neck. She could feel the burn, now that she remembered. Good thing it hadn’t been the beans. They were sitting in scalding water. 

When another hard cramp called her attention to the trickle of dampness that went past her panties and onto the floor underneath her, she could deny it no longer. Likely caused by that kick to her belly.  Labour. Four weeks early. Not now. Not yet. Oh, baby, hold on. Just 'til morning. 

Morning.  If she could make it 'til then. He’d go to work. He never missed work. He always left, confident that she would be waiting for him when he returned, supper cooked, pretending nothing had happened. He knew she didn’t have anywhere to go; didn’t have the guts to leave him either. It was why he had bought the old farmhouse, far from anywhere. 

They had soon lost contact with her parents. Who had given up first? Them? Had she? Had they ever really loved her? Or only when she was their good little girl? Did they have any idea how she lived, now? Would they care? A lone tear slipped down one cheek. 

Another contraction, stronger than the last brought her back to the present. How long had her reverie taken? Things were quiet upstairs. Had he gone to bed, secure in the belief that she would have his breakfast ready when he woke? How had she missed hearing that? She tried to stretch into a better position. It only caused her to scrape the skin off her left shoulder. 

She listened - and listened. Nothing.  Another contraction. No time to lose. She had to act now or they’d both be dead. Hold on baby. Biting her lip against the pain of extracting herself from her hole, she eased first one, then the other leg out in front of herself and waited for the pins and needles to stop as circulation returned. She crabbed on her rear, feet first, across the small space to the stairs. Holding her breath, praying there would be no noise, she pressed one foot against the door to open it. Good. It hadn’t latched. She listened. Nothing.  Light still seeped out from the living room. Not gone to bed then. Now what? Was he waiting, watching? Panic almost sent her scuttling back into her hiding place. A movement in her taut belly stopped her. 

She eased out further. No sound. Was he asleep in the chair? She levered herself onto hands and knees. Silence. She crawled into the kitchen and reached one hand up to the counter, grabbing hold of it to heave herself to standing. Another contraction made her double over, but she managed to keep one hand on the counter top so she didn’t fall. That’s when she realized where she was. In the drawer below her hand - the knives.  No, she could never do that. Another contraction.  The baby. She had to, for the baby’s sake. Slowly, ever so slowly, she eased the drawer open.  When no sound came from the living room, she let out the breath she had been holding. There it was. The carving knife, the long curved one, the sharpest one. In her hand. How had it got there? She didn’t remember picking it up. She slid one foot in front of the other. She needed to see where he was. She didn’t want to kill him. Only to get away. If he was asleep she had a chance. He was a sound sleeper. It took a lot to wake him.

She peeked around the door. Yes, there he was. A light snore emanated from his throat. His head lolled back into the corner of the wing of his favourite chair, the green one.  Maybe she could sneak out.

A gasp of pain escaped her when the next contraction hit. She froze in panic. Had he heard?

His eyes opened. He regarded her with a laconic, lazy smile. “Now, you don’t want that thing,” he drawled. He rose out of the chair, lithe and alert, like a cat on the prowl. His tone changed to a snarl and he lunged for her - for the knife. “Give me that.”

She jabbed as hard as she could. 

A slow look of surprised crept over his face. His hands went to his stomach where blood oozed around the handle of the knife. 

She backed away. 

He tried to follow but stumbled and fell in the doorway to the kitchen. 

So much blood. She had never seen so much blood. He made it to the counter and gripped it with a slippery, bloody hand. She watched him slide to the floor, a pool of blood spreading under him.

Did I do that? She tried to remember. Had she stabbed him? Had she? Her mind went blank. Another contraction brought her back. She looked at her husband. He lay unmoving, pale. Was he breathing?  She waited, watched. No movement, no rise and fall of his chest. Dead then. My god, what had she done?

The phone. She needed an ambulance.  He had grabbed it and knocked it to the floor when he fell. She sidled over to it and managed to dial 911. “Which emergency service do you require?” 

“Help me,” she sobbed, “please help me.” The phone, slick with blood, slipped from her grasp. Before she could retrieve it the next contraction cut her short. This one doubled her over and she had to sink to the floor.  The next one came right on top of the last, making her cry out.  She put her hands on her belly. No. Not yet. Wait. We’re almost there. Wait. She forced herself to her knees and began to crawl to the door. Not knowing why, she lifted her skirt to check between her legs. The head. The head was there. Too late. 

She rolled onto her back just before the next contraction. The rest of the baby slipped out. She heard a cry. I’m here, baby. Mama’s here. She gathered the last of her strength, reached  down to lift the wet little body onto her stomach and cradled her hands around it.

That’s how they found her, a drying pool of blood around the placenta on the floor between her thighs. 

The female ambulance attendant took the baby from her lifeless hands and, ascertaining that he was alive and appeared well, quickly cut the cord and wrapped him in a heated blanket. That done, she knelt down beside the still cooling body, the baby in the crook of one arm. She studied the ashen face of the dead mother, then reached out one hand and stroked the hair back from her forehead. “It’s a boy,” she whispered. “He’s going to be fine.” 

Yvonne Hertzberger is a native of the Netherlands who immigrated to Canada in 1950. She is married with two grown children, (one married) and resides quietly in Stratford, Ontario with her spouse, Mark in a 130 year old, tiny, brick cottage, where she plans to live out her retirement. She calls herself a jill-of-all-trades and a late bloomer. Her many past paid jobs included banking, day care, residential care for challenged children, hairdressing (her favourite) retail, and customer service. She enjoys gardening, singing, the theatre, decorating and socializing with friends and family.

Hertzberger is an alumna of The University of Waterloo, first with a B.A. in psychology, then and Hon. B.A. Sociology and stopped ½ a thesis short of an M.A. in Sociology. She has always been an avid student of human behaviour. This is what gives her the insights she uses to develop the characters in her writing.

Hertzberger came to writing late in life, hence the label ‘late bloomer’.  Her first Fantasy novel “Back From Chaos: Book One of Earth’s Pendulum” was published in 2009. The second volume in the planned trilogy “Through Kestrel’s Eyes” is available currently and the third book in the trilogy “The Dreamt Child” is pending.

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Yvonne+Hertzberger

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/YHERTZBE

Facebook Author page: http://www.facebook.com/EarthsPendulum.YvonneHertzberger.author

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Yvonne-Hertzberger/e/B006X3DEOC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Yvonne-Hertzberger/e/B006X3DEOC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Memory and Writing Fiction

Scott Bury grabs the mic today with a guest piece about memory. Thanks Scott!

As I’m writing this, it’s July 31, 2012. I remember this day exactly 47 years ago.

On that warm, sunny Winnipeg summer day, I was standing on the front steps of my parents’ home. My father was sitting on the top step in front of me, and around me were some other kids from the neighbourhood.

I cannot remember what the conversation was about, but I can remember that at one point, I said, “today is the first day of August.” I remember feeling that I was kind of going out on a limb; I remember not being sure that what I said was true.

“Not quite,” my father said. “Tomorrow is August first.”

And I can remember, strangely enough, feeling pretty good about that—about being close to knowing the date, because I was sure that none of the other kids there had any clue what the date was. I can remember at least one of them being surprised that I was as close as I was. After all, even a grown-up could err on the date by one day, right?

I was four at the time (now you know my age). There were no cell phones to check the date and time on. Phones then were heavy, clunky black things tethered to the wall by stout wires, or screwed to it in the kitchen. Actually, every family I knew had only one phone.

That’s one of my earliest memories. JD asked me to write about my earliest memory, and how it informs my writing.

I remember the white stucco house with the blue wooden trim. The front yard seemed as wide as a park, and I remember the oak tree as immense, with a canopy that gave enough shade for family picnics.

I don’t know whether this memory directly informs my writing. But I have always loved blue-and-white houses, and I was immediately taken with Cycladean architecture when I saw pictures of it during high school.

But there is one lesson I think we can draw from this. Think of your own favourite memories. They’re probably not about big, dramatic events. They’re probably of quieter moments with your families, when you’re not doing anything in particular. No one says anything life-changing.

If there is something about this memory that has any effect in my writing, it’s that. People don’t usually speak in full sentences, and what they say does not seem memorable, at first. And yet, that’s what we do remember. At least, I do.

This is where I find a lot of fiction writers go wrong. They try to pack so much into dialogue that it sounds false. Listen to some of the everyday conversations around you. People almost never speak in full sentences, they make mistakes all the time, they start sentences, change their mind part-way through, backtrack part way and substitute words. And if you ever tried to re-create the funniest, most enjoyable, laughter-filled conversation you ever had on paper, it probably came out as gibberish. This is one reason Obama sounds so different from most other people: his words are carefully crafted. This is why most politicians sound false: they’ve prepared what they say.

I know that stumbling speech with little import makes for bad reading. But still, I remember those quiet times and those gentle conversations, and to me, they’re the most real memories I have.

Scott Bury is a journalist, editor and author based in Ottawa, Canada. His first published novel is The Bones of the Earth, available on Amazon. You can follow his blog at scottswrittenwords.blogspot.com.

It's all in the Paperwork by Richard Godwin

          His charm wasn’t contagious. No vaccines were made against it. He didn’t even know what a Rorschach test was. Dolphins hated him and dreamed of eating him. He tried growing a beard but he looked like a twat. He’d been known to make people throw up just by walking into a room.

          Josh Adams started out as a campus rapist. He tied two students to their beds and fucked them with a Dos Equis bottle. He stood in front of the mirror for hours imitating the Dos Equis ads, saying over and over ‘I am the most interesting man in the world’. He played the all-round good guy in front of his friends and flunked his geography course. Until he found his true career path, he’d only ever been interested in geography because he wanted to travel. He’d never left the States, in fact he’d never travelled out of Kansas. When he became a cop he didn’t even own a passport. 

          He made a lot of arrests and got on the good side of his corrupt, racist boss who ignored his misdemeanors and sloppy paperwork. He liked to strip search his female arrests.

          One day he was called to the scene of a bank robbery. Two masked men had beaten up the manager. Josh had no interest in catching them and instead looked for records of any recent releases from jail.

          He arrested Blake Thomson, one time thief and petty criminal who had gotten out of jail a few days before. Blake was shopping out of state when the robbery occurred.

          ‘It’s all in the paperwork’, Josh said.

          Blake gave him the receipts to prove it. Josh buried them and Blake went back to jail.

          Josh’s boss retired and he took over. His obsession with Dos Equis returned and he bought a fake beard and kept a supply of the beer at the back of the station. One night he arrested a tall blonde called Cindy. She’d thrown a glass at the barman in a nightclub. Josh walked into the cell wearing his beard and stuck his hand up her skirt.

          ‘I am the most interesting man in the world’, he said, and stopped suddenly.

           He felt a dick.

          ‘What the fuck?’, he said.

          ‘I’m a boy’, Cindy said and started laughing.

          Josh broke Cindy’s jaw then smashed himself in the face with the butt of his gun.

          Cindy was sent to jail for assaulting a police officer. He ran into Blake there.

          ‘That fucking pig’s scared of trannies’, he said. ‘He thinks he’s that guy on the Dos Equis ads, dresses up like him.’

          ‘It’s good to meet you Cindy’, Blake said.

          When Blake was released Josh was nearing retirement. He’d bought a stable where he kept a horse. He’d ride out on it wearing his beard, thinking of all the amazing things he’d done with his life. It was a beautiful summer morning when Blake caught up with Josh.

          Blake stepped out of his pick up in a long black dress with a police badge on it, army boots, a Colt 45 and a fake beard.

          He found Josh sweeping the floor of the stables.

          ‘Who the fuck are you?’, Josh said, staring at the large man in the dress.

          ‘I’m the most interesting man in the world’, Blake said, ‘and I’m here to serve you papers.’

          ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

          ‘I think you ought to read this’, Blake said and handed him a piece of paper.

          It read ‘Acquisition Notice: you are now my property, I own the police.’

          ‘It’s all in the paperwork’, Blake said.

          He pistol whipped Josh, opening up a deep gash in his forehead. He removed his police badge and stuck it in the wound.

          ‘You’re mine, now vend motherfucker’, he said, kicking the tip of the badge so it jammed deep into his skull.

          ‘You might be a useless fucking cop who doesn’t do his paperwork, but I’m going to give you an interesting death.’

          He turned him over and stuck his Colt up his ass and blew a hole through him.

          ‘I’m going to have a bottle of Dos Equis’, Blake said, and headed out into the sunlight.

Richard Godwin is a good friend and great writer.  He was kind enough to loan me this piece.

Author Bio: Richard Godwin is a widely published crime and horror writer, whose work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies, including recently Pulp Ink. Apostle Rising, in which a serial killer is crucifying politicians and recreating the murder scenes of an unsolved case, was his first published novel. It received excellent reviews and is under offer for two foreign rights acquisitions. He has recently Published Mr. Glamour, and is working on the sequel to Apostle Rising. You can find out more about the author at his website: http://www.richardgodwin.net/.  His Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse are popular interviews he conducts with other writers:http://www.richardgodwin.net/blog.