Tall Stories: An Anthology of Short fiction

‘Tall Stories’ is the result of a writing group that came together to share story telling within the same fictional environment. The group was set up to allow its members to tell stories that intertwine; sharing and developing their characters and locations every time a story is told.

In this first anthology of short fiction you will find seven stories about the inhabitants of a residential tower block. Written by Chris Raven, Peter John, Connie Dalhart and Adam Bigden, these stories cover a wide range of genres and styles and will take you on a journey where you will see the same characters through different eyes, each story adding a further layer to life to Musevary Towers.

Contents:
Ernie: an Upstanding Member of Society by Peter John.
The Visitor by Chris Raven.
A Latté to Go by Chris Raven.
The Globe and Compass by Connie Dalhart.
Marley and the Nose Gnome by Chris Raven.
The Case of the Shiny Red Gift Box by Chris Raven.
The Letter by Adam Bigden.7b0e69cd6fe3d76b8cf5adc74e619905c43d65d8

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New Release! When Living Is Not Enough By Paul Raven

Maggie Benson thought she had it all. A husband she loved more than anything else in the world and a fairly comfortable life. Then like a bolt out of the blue everything changed. ‘When Living is not Enough’ is a bitter sweet story of a typical housewife in the early 1970s whose life is turned upside-down in the aftermath of a road accident. An accident that leaves her husband profoundly disabled. We follow her story through stages of denial and acceptance, hope and despair. We share her successes and her disappointments as she desperately tries to make sense of her new way of life as a Carer. A task made even more difficult because she had always relied on her husband for guidance, love and companionship.
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The Inspiration For May Elizabeth Trump

The Inspiration For May Elizabeth Trump

When I first came up with the idea for Dead Medium I was sitting in the living room of a stranger. The television had been switched on just for my own amusement and I had been left to sit there alone. Well not alone exactly, there was an elderly woman sitting in an armchair in the corner knitting. She said not a word to me but looked up at me and smiled on a few occasions before returning her attention to her task at hand.It was the only time I can remember agreeing to take my mother to see a clairvoyant. She was upstairs in an unseen room with a woman in a baggy tracksuit, whom I saw only fleetingly on my arrival. The television had failed to grab my attention so I started to imagine what mystical events were occurring above my head. I could envision my mother sitting at one end of a small table in a dimly lit room. The psychic jogger was sat opposite her surrounded by ghosts all of which were jostling for position around her. Pushing and shoving each other, even overlapping in places as they all tried to grab the attention of the athletic medium.I began to realize that if a living person needed the aid of a clairvoyant to contact the dead then surely it was likewise on the flip side of the coin. If ghosts were freely capable of speaking with the living then we would hear them far more often than we reportedly do. Even if they were merely talking among themselves, wouldn’t we occasionally overhear them as we quietly crept down the stairs in the small hours to fetch a glass of water. A further thought occurred to me: if ghosts also needed the aid of a gifted individual, why did it necessarily mean that they had to still be alive. Was there no such thing as a dead medium? Eventually my mother reappeared from the depths of mystical re-enlightenment with a wide grin, an old cassette tape and an empty purse. I bade farewell to the old woman in the corner who looked up at me and smiled again. The square of wool between her knitting needles seemed no bigger than it had been when I arrived; it was as if she had been merely rubbing two sticks together the whole time I was there. On the journey home I listened to my mother’s rendition of what she referred to as a reading. I couldn’t help analysing her every word and compiling far less fantastical reasons than she, for that which she experienced in the unseen room. It was at that exact moment May Elizabeth Trump appeared in my mind, wagging a bony finger and complaining about how gullible some people could be. I consider myself an open minded cynic. I believe that there is something more beyond the curtain of death but I find it hard to accept the validity of the vague or circumstantial evidence that some people claim to be undeniable proof of life after death. May Elizabeth Trump on the other hand had a firmer view on things; she didn’t believe in anything that she couldn’t poke her umbrella at. She was a hard nosed cynic and the perfect candidate to become the main character in my début novel: Dead Medium. B9raLkKIIAAsvm-
Featured post

Seth & The Mockingbirds

The sun was shining brightly and not a cloud hung in the sky. The flowers were in full bloom and the birds sung in the tree tops.

“Bloody birds and their bloody singing.” Seth Johnson stood outside his kitchen door looking out into the garden. His favourite burgundy bathrobe was old and becoming threadbare but, over his eighty-five years on this earth, Seth had learnt not to discard things while they still served their purpose. Even if it did smell stale and look like an old dog’s blanket, he still found comfort and warmth in its embrace.
“Bloody noisy birds.” Seth raised his double barrel shotgun and trained it on the nearest tree top.
“Bloody birds and their bloody chirping.” He gently exhaled and pulled the trigger. There was a single hollow click as the hammer struck, followed by a brief flutter of wings from the surrounding trees. He pulled the second trigger but was awarded the same result.

Seth lowered his gun and snapped open the breach. Pulling out the first cartridge, he examined it closely. Holding it up to his nose, he took a deep sniff, it smelt neither damp nor discharged. He dropped it on the floor by his feet and pulled out the second cartridge. He repeated his inspection before letting it fall next to the first. Shrugging his shoulders, Seth fumbled around in the pockets of his bathrobe, finally pulling out two fresh cartridges. He slotted them into the barrels of his gun before snapping it closed. He lifted it up again and trained it on the treetop. Click… Click.

“Bugger it.” He cracked the shotgun open and flicked the two cartridges out. They fell to the floor, where a small pile was beginning to form. A moment of fumbling within his pockets produced another two fresh cartridges. He hastily slotted then into his gun and slammed the breach shut.

“Bugger it, bugger it. God damn and bugger it!” Seth swore as he heard the two hollow clicks. He snapped his gun open a third time and shook the cartridges from his gun. They fell to the floor, landed amongst the first four and scattered them like bowling balls. With his gun hooked over his arm, he stomped back into his house, slamming the kitchen door closed behind him. The Sun continued to shine and the birds were still singing.

As night fell, the treetop began to rustle. Six sparrows swooped down from the highest branches. Each one took a tight hold of a discarded shotgun cartridge with their tiny claws. One by one the flew through the open kitchen window. Gently gliding through the hallway and up the stairs, the convoy of small birds squeezed through the small gap beneath Seth’s bedroom door. In his bed, Seth slept soundly, his favourite burgundy bathrobe was hooked to the back of his bedroom door. The little sparrows hovered above the bed momentarily, as if mocking the sleeper within, before gliding to the door. One by one, they dropped the cartridges into the deep, gaping pockets of Seth’s bathrobe, before swooping away through the crack beneath the door.

The following morning the sun was shining brightly and not a cloud hung in the sky. The flowers were in full bloom and the birds sung in the tree tops.
“Bloody birds!” Seth grumbled as he raised his shotgun.

©2014 Peter John

Suicide Ride: The Platinum Man by E. Llewellyn

“ Loved the book can’t wait until the next one be released!! ”

“ The storyline is captivating and keeps your nose stuck in the book til the end. ”

“ Loved everything about it so much that I need to go back and start over just in case I missed anything! ”

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Read the racy bi-erotic M/M rock ‘n roll romance that one critic hails as “FIFTY SHADES OF GAY – ON POPPERS!”

SUICIDE RIDE is Sunset Boulevard revisited, revamped, and on steroids. If you liked Sunset Boulevard, you’ll love SUICIDE RIDE, a wicked contemporary twist on this age-old Hollywood noir tale of love, lust, money, ambition, sex, and power.

Are you straight? Are you sure? What would you do if you were down-and-out and desperate? What would you do—how far would you go—for FAME?

Find out just how far, and just how low, Johnny Gellis is willing to go in SUICIDE RIDE: THE PLATINUM MAN (Book 1 of the SUICIDE RIDE fiction series).

You hitch your lift with this man
You’ll have your blood on your hand …

AN OLDER MAN WITH NO FUTURE, AND NOTHING TO LIVE FOR …

Norman Dimond is the Silver Man, an over-the-hill LA-based rock ‘n roll record producer who has seen better days. A set-for-life bisexual with a hard spot for younger men, he squanders his nights hustling cash-strapped gay-for-pay desperadoes who swagger into his den on the Sunset Strip, looking for drive-by love in all the right places. Lonely and at loose ends, he longs for a worthy dance partner, but despairs of finding him … Until one night, when he least expects it, in waltzes …

A YOUNGER MAN WITH A PAST, AND A DEATH WISH …

Johnny Gellis is the Platinum Man, a beautiful straight wreck who needs fixing—and who wants exactly what Norman Dimond has to give: a platform, a stage. But does he want it badly enough? Desperate to outrun his demons, he’s driving himself crazy, and is heading straight for the edge. Can Norman save him, before it’s too late?

TWO LIVES ABOUT TO COLLIDE IN A SUICIDE RIDE …

When Norman meets Johnny, their heavy-metal fenders bend, sending the male-on-male sparks flying. Johnny’s number-one-with-a-bullet hit “Suicide Ride” blows Norman’s mind, while his number-99-with-an-anchor tattoo pricks up more than just his ears. And though this hell-bent, cliff-hanging headbanger is the man-boy of his dreams, keeping him on course turns out to be a waking nightmare. Can Norman do it? Can he put him on top while stopping him from breaking down and destroying them both? The deeper Dimond digs, the darker it gets; and as the secrets and suspense multiply, so, too, do the lies. Johnny is hiding something, that much Norman is sure of; and what’s worse, he begins to feel the tug of even darker and ever more violent undertows—sinister, malevolent drags that Gellis himself cannot spin-rinse away.

SUICIDE RIDE is at once a profound work of literature and a neo-noir Hollywood bromance for the ages. Gay fiction as well as literary fiction, it’s one fast-paced rock ‘n roll romance novel you won’t be able to put down, a gritty, realistic, eye-poppingly pimped-out Ride, flush with all the car parts for a runaway success. Switching genres like lanes, SUICIDE RIDE: THE PLATINUM MAN is a total head spin—an ebullient, erudite, yet racy exploration of the ancient themes that obsess us, by way of the pop culture freeway.

Whether you’re male or female, gay or straight—if you get off on bisexual sex stories about masculine gay men seeking gay sex with straight men; if character-driven literary fiction makes you drool; if you’re a bad-ass rocking roller looking to holler; if all you dream about is getting away for awhile—then this book is your ticket to paradise.

Download him onto your Kindle or other device using the FREE KINDLE READING APPS, and for less than the price of a cheap trick, Johnny Gellis will roll right into your Car-port. Pick him up now—and you’ll live to tell the tale.

But buyer beware: better buckle up. You’re in for one hell of a HARD Ride!

“E. Llewellyn does for Gay literature what Kubrick did for cinema—redefines and elevates, and constantly undercuts your expectations of the genre. Unfettered, unflinching, bristling with emotion, SUICIDE RIDE rocks your world.” ~ Mark Peter Krasselt

Roll UP, Roll Up For The Greatest Show On Earth!

Gather Around! Come and see this new pubic blogging. Check out Blogger and Reviewer Tbird London getting a taste of her own medicine and being blogged right here where everyone can see. No reservations needed and no tickets required. No refreshments will be provided so grab a comfortable spot and bring your own sandwiches.

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