Excerpt from With the Headmaster’s Approval by Jan Hurst-Nicholson

With the Headmaster’s Approval

By Jan Hurst-Nicholson

SYNOPSIS:

The controversial appointment of a handsome widower and former US naval officer as head teacher of an English all girls’ school ignites sexual tension, rebellion and the unearthing of dark secrets, and changes their lives in ways none of them could imagine.

Adam Wild arrives at St Mary's Academy for Girls intent on restoring discipline to the once prestigious school. Not everyone is pleased. Jenna Murray believes the headship should have been hers and undermines his authority at every turn. They fight a growing sexual attraction - until a troubled girl makes a shocking allegation.

Then Nicole, his late wife’s kid sister returns from Africa with a life-threatening condition and a startling request he’s unsure he can fulfil, forcing Adam to re-evaluate his feelings about love.  Lust shouts. Love whispers. Only the heart knows the difference.

JANET SAYS:

The theme of the book is how a lone man changes the dynamics of the relationships between the women when he joins an all-female community.

In this passage I wanted to point out how women behave differently towards each other when men are around.

Barbara Crook, one of the teachers, is an outrageous flirt and is out to capture Adam, but he is wise to her and knows exactly how to handle her advances.

EXCERPT:

Adam continued to confuse the staff by changing seats in the staff room, and on this afternoon break Barbara Crook was sitting opposite him flipping through one of her women’s magazines scanning for new recipes, but also alert for articles of interest. “Here’s an interesting snippet,’ she said, settling down to share it whether or not anyone wanted to hear. “It’s titled -How to Tell If He’s the One. You can tell a man’s personality,” she read, “by the way he drives a car. You can tell how he will treat his wife by the way he treats his mother. And this is the interesting bit.” Here she paused until everyone, including Adam, was obliged to look up from what they were doing to listen. “You can tell how he will make love by the way he eats his food.”

Lauren Mathews snorted. “That’s true. You should’ve seen the way my ex gobbled his food. And he thought a belch at the end was the ultimate in a show of appreciation.”

They spluttered with laughter and Barbara Crook asked, “And did he fart after sex?” But the laughter trailed off to an embarrassed silence when they remembered Adam was there, apparently engrossed in a crossword.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, “But from now on I think I’d better eat my lunch alone in my office.”

Lisa had to admit that the atmosphere in the staff room had changed since Adam’s arrival. The companionship and camaraderie of the all-female group that sometimes erupted into girlish laughter was now absent. The faults and foibles of husbands, and men in general, were not mentioned, and medical conditions no longer discussed. The risqué jokes and innuendos, which sometimes met with disapproval but were tolerated because they were invariably funny and sometimes had them all in hysterical laughter  - after they’d been explained to Annette Woolf, did not seem appropriate in the presence of a man.  

Men did not want women to be one of the lads; dirty jokes were their domain and a woman telling a dirty joke could be met with silent disapproval, even if the men repeated the joke to their friends and fell about laughing. Women felt they should be on their best behaviour around men, afraid of their disapproval if they discovered what groups of women really got up to.

But women do behave differently when there are no men around. She remembered the time when Eleanor Stannard had shocked them all by suggesting that the electrician who was rewiring the classrooms did not wear underpants. “How on earth did you come to that conclusion?” Jenna had asked. Flustered and turning crimson, Eleanor had offered the explanation, “He was standing against my desk wearing loose track suit bottoms.” Raucous laughter had followed and Eleanor Stannard had never been allowed to forget it.

 

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Excerpt from Love and Go by Wando Wande

Love and Go

By Wando Wande

SYNOPSIS:

Winning a Go game is hard, but winning the game of love is harder.

Luke Collier knows too well he's damaged. His mom never failed to remind him of his childhood sin until the day she died. Three months after her death, he is stoned in guilt and grief.

Hao Chen-Li, a Go game genius and self-styled Mandarin Asshole is determined to shake some life into Luke by force-feeding him Go lessons. His methods are pushy and grouchy and unconventional, but they work--too well.

Their tenuous Go bond becomes an irrefutable attraction.

Luke can’t risk it; he knows too well his dysfunction. A simple bond is good enough. But simple isn't so easy when Hao is determined to make his heart submit. Even though Luke can't deny his heart's need, he is gripped with indecision: trust love's power to heal or its power to destroy?

WANDO SAYS:

     This passage shows the first real encounter between awkward Luke and anal-retentive Hao. This chapter was exemplary of the book’s main themes, two very different men stewing in hurts, bumbling around to let go of their pasts, while clinging to their passion for the game of Go.  I liked how, in this scene, an ordinary Go game (some would call it a boring game) really showcases the characters’ true personalities. Also, the several layers of conflicts and the slight turns of humors were fun to write. Humor isn’t easy for me, but I find that with the right crucible of characters, humor flows more naturally. 


EXCERPT:

The particulars of Hao’s dating profile were easy to fill: Forty, lawyer, salary—declined to say. Favorite books: The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by William Gibbons. Favorite movies: Tous les Matins du Monde. Favorite music: L'Incoronazione di Poppea. About me …

The section knotted Hao into a sticky gumball. He put aside his laptop abruptly and shot up for a deep dash of breath. The potted bamboo at the far corner of the balcony beckoned with its pasty-yellow leaves and its crinkly brown sheathing the stems. His ex, Ricardo, had warned him jeeringly about his lack of affinity for green things, and this was the result: an imminent death.

Hao squashed himself back into the chair and opened his laptop again. His cheeks glowed with its bluish light, the cursor blinking in the About Me box. This should be simple, he thought.

Just looking to share my home and heart with the right man.

Those words bled with vulnerability and sentimentality, unfitting of a Mandarin Asshole. His mind segmenting into the deep dark night, he cracked himself for the precise and respectable way to say, “Hello, I’m Hao. Let’s fuck make love.”

He moaned to the stars, gritty ghosts, above the dark tree crowns. Falling back against his chair, he clicked furiously through ludicrous handles names and avatars of shooting dicks reticulated in pink. The lone abstract-looking avatar, a knife daggering a peach, piqued him despite the overtones of atavistic bravado in the username TheAssManCometh666.

His phone rang. Clicking through the profile mindlessly, he answered, “Hao Chen-Li speaking …”

“Hello. I hope you don’t mind, sir, that Brett gave me your number. I don’t believe we have met formally. I’m Luke Collier from the Go club.”

Luke’s words died on Hao, for he was faced with a big, blunt, black flag hanging at half-mast and a man’s face tight with a sneer of marine warrior ferocity. 

“Would you be making it to the club today,” Luke asked.

Hao licked his lips and repositioned his hot laptop for more comfort. “I won’t be coming until further notice.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Zoë will be sad too. She really wants to play you again.”

“Perhaps after she memorizes all the games of Go Seigen. Now if you’d excuse me.”

The phone dropped, Hao wriggled his fingers in anticipation of squeezing those corded braids of muscle. But the profile indicated nothing of parity between them except for the scant, ‘You know what I want, you know what you want. MESSAGE ME.’ This was an ultimatum to the Mandarin Asshole.

Dear TheAssManCometh666, I am a great admirer of your titan physique. It is truly without peer. May I inquire as to your exercise regimen over drinks?

The letter impressed him with its veiled intent, but as he was about to send it, his phone rang.

“This is Luke again. There are over a thousand games by Go Seigen. Surely you don’t mean all of them …”

Some static of grumbling carried over from the phone and then a piercing whine, ruining Hao’s southern glow.

“Yes, I meant all of them,” Hao said.

“I think this would be too hard for her, sir.”

“I memorized two games a week for five years. Believe me, given the right motivation, it’s very possible.”

“Sir,” the low voice grated Hao with its sleepy insistence, “two games a week would amount to over one hundred games a year. It’d take over ten years. She’d never get to play you.”

“You don’t say. At least, she’d have grown to be an excellent player worthy of someone else’s time. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Hanging up the phone, Hao groaned, switched to excogitating. Of money, looks, and personality, one need only pick two. He had money; he should be able to lie his way to a semblance of personality.

Dawg, yo ass is tight. Let’s meet up. Obviously, not that.

Exasperated, Hao soured on these messages that would, in the end, amount to nothing. Who would care for a hairless Chinese little man with no abs? Sighing, he shipped off his original message, and then the phone rang.

“I’m really sorry sir. I’m only trying to smooth a difficult situation.” Luke’s voice inflamed Hao’s ears. He groaned.  

“She feels this isn’t the least bit fair to her,” Luke continued.

“Am I obligated to play an entitled dolt?”

“No, no, of course not. There’s no obligation, only our gratitude, sir.”

‘Sir’ was nice to hear. “After she memorizes ten games then we may talk.”

“Five might be more reasonable for an eight-year-old.”

“Ten.”

“Seven.”

“All right, all right! Seven games. And don’t you ever call me again.”

Author note: Yes, Luke calls him again one final time. 

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Recent Reads: Stalking Checklist Crafty Naked

MEH... See "Crafty" below.  I read this AFTER reading Crafty and didn't find it very helpful.  I gave up on page 80.  The voice in which it was written was just a little too cute and too folksy for me.

Usually books of this ilk are right up my alley (not because I'm a brainiac, but because I can learn from "bathroom books" like this - and they make me a good trivia player).  This one was MEH... I gave up on page 83.

EXCELLENT!  Very thorough, great examples, a wide-ranging look at all aspects of TV writing.  Lots of references, lots of samples.  The way in which it was written was fluid, efficient.  I zipped through it.

Wow! Bizarre and really cool; totally grabbed my attention.   I read this in a day.   Terrific explanations of the science behind the cases (and the science is just as likely to be chemistry and it is to be psychiatry).  Highly recommended.

Excerpt from Strictly Murder by Lynda Wilcox

Strictly Murder

By Lynda Wilcox

SYNOPSIS:

The estate agent's details listed two reception rooms, kitchen and bath. What they failed to mention was the dead celebrity in the master bedroom. Personal assistant Verity Long's house hunt is about to turn into a hunt for a killer. It will take some fancy footwork to navigate the bitchy world of dance shows, television studios, and dangerously gorgeous male co-stars. When Verity looks like the killer's next tango partner, she discovers that this dance is ... Strictly Murder.
LYNDA SAYS:

This passage is taken from Strictly Murder, the first in a series of comedy cozy mysteries starring feisty, self-opinionated amateur sleuth, Verity Long. In the excerpt, Verity is getting closer to uncovering the murderer than she realises and he decides to get rid of her once and for all, after a previous attempt on her life had failed.

As we have quite a few canals here in England, and I've spent several holidays boating on them, I decided to use one in this scene, especially as it later ties in nicely with the resolution of the sub-plot. I hope you enjoy it, and it gives you a flavour of Verity's (very British) humour.

EXCERPT:

I had reached the end of the shops along the high street and with it the comforting yellow glow of their neon lights. Ahead of me now lay a dark patch leading up to and over the canal bridge with the taxi office a hundred yards or so beyond that. I walked into the blackness and onto the bridge feeling the rough stone of the centuries-old parapet under my hand, hearing the lapping of water. When I reached the top I stopped, taking a moment to let my eyes adjust to the lower light levels. Above me the bright stars of the summer triangle sailed though the June night. I brought my gaze downwards, leaning on the top of the stone. It was very quiet and still. Below me a narrow boat, cabin lights barely masked by floral curtains lay moored, its ropes taut to the tow-path. I stood on tiptoe and peered over.

Suddenly, everything was happening at once. I heard a pattering noise, strong hands gripped my legs, I was pitched forward and barely had time to scream out, “What the …”, before being catapulted into the inky blackness below.

It wasn't a graceful dive, no forward somersault, half-pike and twist but there was definitely a degree of difficulty in it as, arms and legs flailing wildly, I cleaved the ice-cold, filthy water with all the elegance of a pregnant buffalo and went under.

Fortunately, canals aren't deep and I came to the surface quickly, coughing and spluttering, hair and weed plastered over my face. I felt a thump in my back and thrashed about madly, convinced whoever had thrown me from the bridge was hanging around to finish me off.

“Keep still, gal,” came a man's deep voice. “I've got the boat hook on yer.”

I relaxed as someone skilfully drew me in to the side of the narrow boat.

Then a woman's voice said, “I told you I'd heard a splash. Get her up, Ned, and bring her in. I'll put the kettle on.”

Well-muscled arms reached down to grasp mine and hauled me over the side of the boat where I lay for a moment doing my best impression of a freshly caught trout.

"Thank you,” I managed, as I staggered to my feet feeling like a drowned rat. I probably looked like one, too. I shivered with shock as much as with cold as the man led me down the steps and inside.

"Welcome to The Mermaid's Lair. I'm Ned, Ned Oldfield, and this good lady is my wife, Alice."

"Verity Long," I replied in a shaky voice as Ned wrapped a blanket round my shoulders and settled me on a chair.

His wife put a mug of hot, sweet tea in my hands and I hunched over it, sipping the dark brown liquid, warming my hands as well as my insides.

“How on earth did you come to end up in the canal, gal?" Ned asked having brushed aside my thanks.

“I was pushed in.”

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BETA READERS! BETA READERS! SIS, BOOM, YAY! By guest author Gloria Ferris

           After my front-line editor has scrutinized my manuscript and we’ve wrestled to the ground every punctuation and grammar error, and repaired every lapse in plot flow we can find, I print copies for my beta readers. They are my last line of defence, my last chance for perfection, before the submission letter. I know perfection is impossible, but I still strive for it.

                The really important thing about beta readers is that they love to find errors. And I love it when they do. I am profusely and genuinely grateful when they pass me their well-thought-out comments. I do the happy dance when they find anything amiss, whether it’s in timing, grammar, or punctuation. When one of them triumphantly informs me that a character stood up twice on the same page without sitting down in between, I could cry with joy. I mean, how would a mistake like that look to a publisher? Amateur time, right?

                Often, a beta reader will come back to me with a question like, “Why did Lyris get hit in the eye with a snowball in Chapter 2, but there’s no mention in the rest of the book of the eye turning black?” See, this is a good question. Not a deal-breaker maybe, but easy enough for me to go back and hit Lyris in the stomach where it won’t show, or drop in a mention of her black eye in a subsequent scene. Beta readers help ensure every little sub-plot is tied up in a pretty bow. Paying customers may not notice the bow, but they might be thrown off by the omission of a black eye.

                I have one reader with a highly-developed sense of justice. She thinks every character should get their just desserts. They should pay for every transgression. Um, no. Nobody gets away with murder in my books, but plenty of minor offences go unpunished. Knowing her as I do, I overlook the social order critiques and celebrate her gift for locating double words, missing words, missing punctuation — in short, she takes my manuscript closer to perfection.

                If more than one beta reader makes the same, or similar, comment, I pay attention. At this late stage of the writing process, I’m not keen on making any major changes to plot line or character development. But, if something is bugging several beta readers, then it will bug a lot of paying customers. Thankfully, though, this doesn’t often happen.

                I would never send out a manuscript without first filtering it through my beta readers. When I give them the printout — much better for finding discrepancies than electronic reading — I ask them to get back to me within three weeks. To encourage them to be honest with their opinions and make it easier to list their findings, I also hand them a pre-printed form. Not one of them has failed me yet.

                Where do you find beta readers? They are everywhere, and mine include relatives and friends. A few are also writers. I acknowledge them by name and thank them in my books.

                I know writers who don’t use beta readers at all, and some who only ask other writers to read their manuscripts. Whatever works, there’s no wrong way to do it. But, my little posse of beta-readers works well for me! 

 

A former technical writer, Gloria’s first mystery, CHEAT THE HANGMAN, won the 2012 Bony Blithe Award for best light mystery. She is working on another mystery novel and occasionally writes a short story or novella just for the heck of it.

www.gloriaferris.com

www.gloriaferrismysteries.blogspot.com

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Excerpt from The Last Lord of the Moors by Isabella Brooke

The Last Lord of the Moors

By Isabella Brooke

SYNOPSIS:

In the twenty-first century, who needs Lords anymore?

Richard, Lord of the Manor of Arkthwaite, lives alone in his crumbling house, resenting his hereditary position. He’s hoping to drink himself to an early grave and bring the title to an end.

His bleak plans are upset when newcomer Helena decides to shake up this fading community. She’s been jilted and she needs a new project, so she joins forces with local headmistress Vicky and together they hatch a plan to bring broadband to this remote spot. Their lives clash with Richard’s as the cable needs to be dug across his land.

But when Richard falls for Helena, it gets more complicated. She’s suspicious of men and their compliments; and he has his own reasons for wanting to stay single. Can they both shake off their histories to bring a better future to the village - and their own lives?

Contains: romance, community regeneration, pagans, over-the-top mothers, British humour, rain.

ISABELLA SAYS:

The whole fete chapter was great fun to write and the extract below is just one part of it. I’m interested in characters - of course, what writer isn’t! - but characters get really fascinating when you take them out of their comfort zones and shove them into challenging situations, and then let them spark off one another.

Here, Richard, the unwilling Lord of the Manor, has finally been dragged back into public life by Helena. It was a challenge to write a curmudgeonly character like Richard yet still keep him human and appealing enough for the reader to warm to him. Otherwise, why would Helena fall for him? Often I think people reveal their true natures through their actions, so while Richard might be saying one thing, his peace offering of a cheeseburger shows much more of his personality.

EXCERPT:

There was another flood of visitors to the fete just after lunch, and the numbers steadily built throughout the afternoon. Helena and Vicky had split up, and by three o’clock Helena was ready to crawl into a hole and sleep. She had sent someone to Ingholme to buy yet more toilet paper and plastic cups, and was just unloading their car, when Richard finally reappeared.

He was holding a greasy cheeseburger and it looked like the nicest thing she had ever seen. He thrust it towards her. “You haven’t had any lunch. Nor any decent breakfast. Three biscuits don’t count.”

“Oh. Thank you. One moment… here, Marie, these are for the far portaloos.”

Marie nodded and loaded herself up with loo rolls. She lumbered off and Helena accepted the cheeseburger. It was more than food, she knew. It was a sticky lard-based peace offering.

“That’s fantastic,” she said, after the first mouthful. “Hang on… how did you know I hadn’t had any lunch?”

He leaned on the car’s back bumper and tipped his head back, staring at the sky. “Intuition…?”

“Really?”

He dropped his chin and his gaze was intense. “Actually, no, I’ve been watching you all day.”

The bread and meat balled in her mouth as she suddenly struggled to chew and to swallow. The sentence hung in the air between them. She forced herself to eat the entire cheeseburger before replying.

“Like some crazy stalker?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because… of lots of things. What time does the fete end?”

“Officially, five, but people are starting to go home already. Then we’ve got the big clean-up, but most of the marshals are coming back tomorrow to help out.”

“Sounds sensible. You must be shattered.”

“I am… if I stop to think about it.” She sagged as she spoke.

“You’ve done an amazing job. I’ll hang around as well, help with the tidying, and then…”

“What?” She looked at him with curiosity. He folded his arms, then seemed to catch himself, and unfolded them with a jerk.

“Come back up to mine. I’ve got a tub full of left-over chili in the fridge. Needs eating.”

“Well, er…”

“Government directives mean we can’t feed left-overs to pigs any more, see. And I am sure you hate waste as much as I do. Also, you’ll be knackered. I’ll come and find you when the fete’s over.”

He stamped off and Helena shook her head in despair. He was making it very, very clear there was no romance in the air, and that was exactly how she wanted it.

Romance? Who mentioned romance? She frowned, mostly at herself. It was like telling someone not to think about pink elephants. She wiped her hands on a tissue and launched herself back into the fray.

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Isabella Brooke is the penname of a writer in North-West England. Under her other names, she writes cozy mysteries and magazine articles.
Writing as Isabella, she's free to enjoy creating warm, believable characters that find strength and humour in even the most difficult circumstances. These novels are pure escapism and such fun to write; she hopes they are as much fun to read.

She has a new blog at romancebyisabella.wordpress.com and is on facebook at www.facebook.com/isabella.brooke.author. The Last Lord of the Moors is on Amazon.co.uk at http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Last-Lord-Of-Moors-ebook/dp/B00HL03PT0and Amazon.com at http://www.amazon.com/The-Last-Lord-Of-Moors-ebook/dp/B00HL03PT0  

Follow her on Twitter @BarlowAutumn

Excerpt from Replica by Lexi Revellian

Replica

By Lexi Revellian

BLURB: Accidentally duplicated, homeless, penniless and pursued by MI5, Beth’s replica must learn how   to survive on icy London streets. Unaware of what has happened, the original Beth falls for the agent hunting her double. As the replica proves difficult to catch and the stakes get higher, he has to decide whose side he is on.

LEXI SAYS: This is an extract from my science fiction thriller, Replica. It introduces Nick Cavanagh, MI5 spec op. He’s hunting a replica who has been accidentally created and is on the run. I wanted Nick to be not entirely likeable; I wanted readers to be unsure about whether he was a goodie or a baddie. I ride a bike in London, so to get his ambivalence clear in my head, I started with his bad driving; the sort of thing I encounter and resent every day. Nick was a lot of fun to write.

EXTRACT: 

Nick drove too fast along Kensington High Street, cutting up other drivers and speeding through amber lights, tailgating anyone who in his opinion should be driving faster.

Ollie waited till they had to stop at a red light. “What’s the rush? Paul and Dario are there if the target turns up. They’ll think it funny us arriving two hours early, anyway.”

“I don’t give a toss what they think. They let her get away.” Nick’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel. The lights changed, and he accelerated, making a woman jump back to the safety of the traffic island. “If I’d been there I’d have got her. Pete should have sent us.”

“He didn’t expect her to turn up at her flat.”

“No, and I bet when she did Paul was making a cup of tea and Dario was going through her underwear drawer.”

Ollie laughed. “So what can we do they can’t?”

“We’re going to do it better. Stay out of sight in the van and wait for her to turn up again. Follow Beth One wherever she goes. Getting to her has to be what replica Beth is playing for. The two Beths talk to the press, it’s out, nothing we can do, game over.”

“So we’ll be off our other jobs for as long as it takes, I suppose. Nice break for the terrorists.”

Nick was quiet for a while, then he said, “Maybe.”

“How d’you mean, maybe?”

“Just, I can’t see Pete throwing in the towel. Saying, oh, all right, now you two totally unimportant secretaries, who just happen to have got mixed up in this top secret research we’ve spent millions of pounds on know about each other, we’ll accept it and go public.” Nick braked hard to avoid collision with a cycle courier, then hit the accelerator. “There’s no way he’ll risk that happening.”

Ollie gripped the handle above the door. “Take it easy, Nick.”

“D’you ever worry about the ethics of what we do?”

“Not a lot. I’m too busy worrying about your driving.”

“Okay, but what about this; supposing catching her is harder than everyone seems to think? He isn’t going to keep all of us running around after her forever. I’d give it a week, maybe two, tops. He’s a ruthless bastard. I reckon, if we don’t find her fast, the original will go missing. Then if the copy turns up, it’s like, boring secretary loses marbles, gets persecution complex, thinks MI5 are after her, goes on the run, ends up in padded accommodation with no one believing a word she says. To be honest, I’m surprised he hasn’t done it already. He must be going soft in his old age.”

Ollie smiled at Nick. “If we can’t catch her in a week we’re not trying. Are you worrying about the ethics of it, then?”

“Me? No. I do what I’m told, I get paid. End of.”

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Excerpt from The Devil's Trinity by Michael Parker

The Devil's Trinity

By Michael Parker

MICHAEL SAYS: 

When I was a young man, I devoured Denis Wheatley novels, always enjoying the thrill and excitement, and sometimes fear, that he conjured up. In his book, THEY FOUND ATLANTIS, the main characters find themselves trapped in a bathysphere; a kind of bubble shaped submarine, on the sea bed. There was no way out of their predicament: they were doomed. But of course, they did survive. That particular scenario always fascinated me, and when I wrote THE DEVIL’S TRINITY, I took a leaf out of Wheatley’s book and trapped my main character, Harry Marsham, known as Marsh to his friends, in a submersible on the sea bed. Marsh is the pilot of a submersible which has been clamped to a well-head by the bad guys. Unknown to Marsh was the fact that the submersible’s escape system had been sabotaged. Marsh realises he has been double-crossed when the divers leave him to his fate. He is trapped in the cockpit with all the life support systems running on a diminishing battery power. Marsh knows there is no way out of his dilemma: he is doomed. No-one, other than the villains, knows where he is. There is no way of finding him or contacting him. And as his oxygen levels drop, and the power meters move towards zero, there seems no way out.

Writing that scene was a challenge as a writer to try and get the feel of Marsh’s situation into the reader’s mind so that the question of how would not be obvious. Not that I intended it to be. Remember: Marsh was on his own and had no way of contacting anyone on the surface, and no-one on the surface (apart from the bad guys), knew where he was. And no; I didn’t let the villains have a change of heart: Marsh was on his own.

EXCERPT:

Marsh sat slumped in his seat, the agony of despair and hopelessness weighing on him like a physical burden. He stared at the instrument panel without seeing it. The images in his mind were not those in front of him, but dark, coalescing images of revenge and despair. He wanted to reach up and tear the black heart from Hakeem Khan, from Malik, from Batista, from them all. But he could not; he had no hope. Even while his heart beat strongly within him, he knew this would be the end. He lifted his head and breathed in a sigh of deep despair and closed his eyes. Now there was only blackness where there should have been light.

Beneath the dark waters he imagined the warmth of the sun in his mind; its caress like the touch of a woman. He rolled his head back and imagined the fragrance of flowers, of new mown grass, all offering a pleasure as tangible and apposite as the fear now crawling round in his belly.

He blinked and shut the hallucinatory images from his mind, bringing it to bear on the dreadful predicament he was in. He knew there was no way out of his prison and he knew that there was no way Khan would return to rescue him from his misery. He was cocooned in an environment that was designed to support life yet ironically it was holding him in a deadly embrace and eventually he would die.

Marsh wondered what death would be like. Would he succumb to insanity before death took him? Would he grow weary and eventually suffocate in his own, exhaled carbon dioxide? Would he just fall asleep and not wake? Would he be given the last, immeasurable pleasure of being with Helen, even if only in a dream?

He shook his head vigorously and snapped out of it and began to apply his mind to the problem again. He knew that to give up so soon was to accept the inevitability of death. He checked the power meters; the instruments that told him how much longer Challenger’s own batteries would last and how much oxygen was left in the cockpit.

He knew that if the oxygen content fell below a dangerously low level, the automatic valves of the oxygen bottles would bleed a steady amount of life giving gas into the bubble’s atmosphere so that life could be sustained until an orderly recovery or rescue could be carried out.

But if the submersible’s power became low and unstable, there was a risk that the bottles could eventually pressurise the cockpit and kill him.

He began to shut down various systems that were no longer need to conserve battery power. He extinguished the low grade cockpit lighting, relying instead on the glow from the instrument panel.

After about two minutes of technical distraction, he found himself devoid of ideas and things to do. He knew the was no hope of anyone finding him on the sea bed, so his last hours would be painfully slow and would probably end in insanity.

“Damn you Khan!” he shouted suddenly. “Why didn’t you just put a bullet in me?”

His shoulders sagged and he slumped back in his seat. That was the first sign of the loss of control. How long would it be, he wondered, before he was clawing at the smooth walls of the bubble in a manic, pitiful attempt to escape? He let his mind drift again, peering out into the deep, mindful yet mindless.

How long Marsh sat in torpid despair, he didn’t know, but suddenly he sat up straight. The diving tanks! God in heaven, why didn’t he think of it?

Marsh kicked himself for not thinking of it earlier but put that down to his state of mind. He forced himself to think clearer now because he believed this would be his best chance of getting out of this alive. By blowing the water from the diving tanks and the decompression chamber, he would lighten the load and greatly increase lift, and the upward thrust of the air, less the weight of the water, should overcome the force of the clamps.

He began switching Challenger back on to full power. He knew he was taking a chance because of the drain on the batteries, but it was his only hope. Once the computer signalled that all systems were operational. Marsh keyed in the commands that would open the air valves. He listened to the rush of compressed air leaving their cylinders and flowing into the diving tanks and the decompression chamber.

All at once the sea boiled around him as the Challenger purged herself of the surplus sea water, and something moved beneath him as the enormous thrust of air fought to break the power of the clamps.

“Come on, damn you” he mumbled through clenched teeth. “Come on!”

He could feel Challenger straining at every limb to break free of the deadly grip of the clamps.

“Come on,” he urged again. “Get up, get up!”

He moved his body, pounding the seat with his own weight as if to add impetus to the mighty struggle going on beneath him.

“For God’s sake, Challenger, break free damn you! Break free!”

The noise of the rushing air reached a crescendo of sound and then began to subside until finally the pressure in the tanks and the decompression chamber reached that of the air cylinders.

“No, don’t stop now!” he beseeched her. “Not now! Please, not now!”

Challenger seemed to give one last desperate heave and then succumbed to the awesome strength of the clamps.

She didn’t move.

“No. Oh God, no” Marsh looked around him imploringly. “Please Challenger, please. Don’t let me down. Please.”

But Challenger had lost the battle, surrendering herself to the deadly embrace of the clamps.

Marsh stopped shouting and cursing. His mouth fell open as tears streamed down his face. He could taste the salt on his lips and he kept blinking the wetness from his eyes. His head fell forward into his hands and he kept asking ‘why?’

He cried alone in his tiny world; a ball of encircling light, holding life like a baby in the womb, suspended in dark waters. He cried until there were no tears left to cry and soon his mind closed down and he drifted off into the merciful world of sleep.

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Excerpt from Arlo and Jake: Galactic Boot Camp by Gary Henson

Arlo and Jake: 

Galactic Boot Camp

By Gary Alan Henson

SYNOPSIS: 

The adventure continues as our heroes are shipped to Camp Balator, a Federation of Thirteen Galaxies (FTG) boot camp, reserved for the cream of the crop recruits. The training is designed to push recruits to their limits and beyond. 

Jake and Arlo meet new friends and become part of a Triad, a group of three recruits and their partners. Together they struggle to make it through the intensive training and get back the FTG Triumph, where Pixie and Leeta eagerly await their return. But there are other forces in the Universe who have nefarious plans for the prestigious camp; deadly plans. 

Can Jake make it through boot camp a second time or is he headed for another Captain's Mast? 
Can they even make it out alive? Why does danger always seems to follow our intrepid duo? 


GARY SAYS:

This is the opening scene in the second book in the series. I love this opening because it brings the reader into story immediately and sets the tone for the whole book.

It took quite a while to get it 'right'. Not too descriptive but enough visuals to grab you and hopefully hook the reader. It introduces the main characters, shows Jake's sarcastic side and Arlo's funny side. I hope.

EXCERPT:

I can see the sleek orange and black space ship juking back and forth trying to evade our pursuit. I concentrate on the port particle beam cannon and mentally command “Fire!” A brilliant sparkling red and blue beam instantly leaps from below and left of my heads up display reaching out to the ship. It passes harmlessly above the ship by a country mile. I look at my HUD readout. Ok, more precisely I missed by 800 kilometers. Damn.  “Arlo, can you get that cannon gimbal tightened up? I’m having trouble with lateral targeting.”

Arlo’s voice comes through the interface, though I can’t see him. “I’m on it, cowboy. Gimme a second.”

 The ship is starting to pull away. “Any time now, Arlo, I’m losing him.”

“Got it, Jake! Nail the bastards!”

I get off two more shots in rapid succession but both miss, though I am getting closer. Any moment they’re going to fold space and I’ll lose them. That’s it I’m done messing around here. I concentrate on my weapons display and crank up the cannon’s power to twenty percent of full and stare at the wildly gyrating ship. The green targeting brackets jerk and twist around the ship as I try to frame it inside the brackets. Finally I get a good bead, the brackets start flashing red and the gotcha tone sounds in my head. Grinning maniacally I yell “Fire!”

Instantly a beam that’s almost as big as the retreating ship erupts from below me and nails the ship in the ass. The explosion lights up space in front of me like an exploding fireworks stand. The heated ball of melted metal becomes a rapidly expanding sphere of space goop with more and more explosions going off, getting bigger and bigger. Uh oh, this is not good. I’m about to yell for evasion maneuvers when the biggest explosion yet rips through the blinding white ball of death and crashes into me. Damn, that’s gonna hurt.

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