Santa’s Treasure Hunt Blog Hop

Welcome to Santa’s Treasure Hunt blog Hop.

All you have to do, is follow Santa’s sleigh as he travels around the world.

Write down the Christmas word, given on each blog. Then click the link to get to the next stop. Please comment on the Christmas stories and poems the writers have featured especially for you.

When you’ve finished the hop, email your list of the Christmas words you have collected to kazzmoss@gmail.com.

Everyone with the correct list will go into a draw to win all the eBooks in Santa’s sack; not only are there many books, but there’s also a huge range of fiction genres for you to enjoy.

This blog is hosted by karenjmossman.com. If you get lost on your way. Just pop over to my blog where I have all Santa’s stops linked up in order.

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A short story, by Paul White

Purely for your enjoyment this Christmastime 2022

_{©PaulWhite2022}

YOU CAN’T TRUST ANYBODY

Gary was a very happy man as he waited on the Northern line underground platform for the next tube to take him home to Finchley. He could not help but grin inanely from ear to ear as he considered the rich pickings he secured over the last few hours.

Work today had gone extremely well, it was one of those rare days when everything fell neatly into place when everything went perfectly.

Maybe it was because there were a lot of new tourists in town, this being the start of the Christmas season, or maybe it was the newly laid snow, the decorations, baubles, presents, lights, and lanterns that were encouraging the masses to venture into the city? Either way, the jostling, bustling throngs of unsuspecting transient punters made it the perfect working environment for Gary.

Gary’s first dip was a gift. He was leaning on a corner of a wall, scanning the crowds for an easy mark, when a young woman stopped next to him. She was juggling with a suitcase on wheels, some carrier bags, a handbag, and a Starbucks coffee.

She was oblivious to his presence as she stood her case upright, propped the carrier bags against the case, placed her handbag on top, and rested it against the pull-along handle. Balancing her coffee on a waste bin, the woman prized the lid from the paper cup, added three tubes of sugar, and stirred her skinny latte with the small wooden stick.

By the time she sweetened her coffee and raised the cup to her lips, Gary picked up her purse, and a brown envelope from her handbag, and collected two carrier bags before disappearing into the massed throng of pedestrians.

His second theft of the day was also simple. An old couple were arguing over some irrelevant minor point, while a young boy, Gary assumed a grandchild, was running in circles around them, screaming at the top of his voice.

As he approached the arguing pair, he used the child’s misbehaviour to fain a trip, falling against the old man. After telling the old folks they should keep their child under control in the future, Gary vanished into the crowd with a thick leather wallet, full of cash, lifted from the elderly man’s jacket pocket.

Gary loved the older people, the ones who still favoured carrying large bundles of cash rather than credit cards. He could spot a ‘cash cow’ at a hundred paces.

This was the way his day went. Easy mark after mark, purse after purse, wallet after wallet. It was a bumper day. Gary’s duffel bag was now so heavy with his ill-gotten gains, he decided it was enough work for one day.

Which was why he was grinning widely as he waited on the platform at London Bridge underground station. Two minutes later his train arrived, accompanied by the usual drafts of sooty-scented air, electronic wheezing, and metallic clattering. What was not so usual was the number of passengers, or indeed the lack of them. Possibly, he thought to himself, it was because he was travelling back home far earlier than usual, missing the rush hour madness.

Gary looked around the carriage, there was a blue pin-stripe suited man, reading the Telegraph newspaper, a woman, with a tiny dog, wedged into a plaid handbag, and a girl listening to her iPad.

It was the girl who he focused on.

He wanted an iPad, and this one had a pair of Dr. Dre headphones attached. He considered how he would acquire these items. Quickly deciding he would sit opposite the girl, and then, as the train was ready to leave a station, he would grab them, jumping through the sliding doors right at the last moment. He smiled, envisaging himself standing on the platform, waving to the distraught girl as the train pulled away.

Luck was with him once more as the other passengers, the blue-suited man, and the handbag dog woman, alighted at the next station leaving Gary and the girl alone in the carriage.

As planned, he sat opposite the girl, who momentarily glanced at him, before continuing to stare blankly through the window into the darkness beyond.

The train lurched to a sudden stop.

He was flung forward landing on his knees, his nose cracking painfully against the girl’s right kneecap. Blood erupted from his nostrils. With both hands cupping his nose, he sat back on his seat, moaning with the pain. The girl pulled a wad of tissues from her handbag, as she stood over him, concernedly, telling him to put his head between his legs; she said it was the best way to stem the flow.

“I’ll be ok,” Gary mumbled through the bundle of tissues.

The girl found some wet wipes, cleaning the blood splatter from her leg. She placed a hand on the back of his neck, guided his head down. “Keep your head down for five minutes,” she told him, “It will help stop your nose bleeding” adding, “I know, I’m a nurse”.

Gary did as she instructed, keeping his head between his knees, and the tissues pressed to his nostrils.

The train stopped at a station, he could hear passengers boarding, wondering if this was the station he would have taken the chance of stealing the iPad from the girl. It probably would have been, he was never one to miss an opportunity, unless, like this dammed nosebleed, it was something out of his control.

Soon the train was underway again.  He was certain by now his bleeding would have subsided. Gingerly he raised his head, lifting the tissues away, ready to ram them back if his blood was still flowing.

It was not. The bleed had stopped, even if the aching pain remained. Gary looked about, wanting to thank the girl for her help. But she had gone, clearly, she got off the train at the last stop.

It was a pity; he would have liked that iPad, but hey-ho not to worry, excluding his nose it had been a profitable day as the contents of his duffle bag confirmed… his duffle bag… where was his bag?

Gary abruptly stood, staring open-mouthed at where he was sitting. He looked on the floor, under the seat. His bag was gone.

With some disbelief he realised someone had stolen his bag, his day’s takings… the girl… the bitch. She had made him put his head between his legs and then stolen his bag.

It was incredulous.

You just can’t trust anybody these days.

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I hope you found the hidden word in this story. Remember, everyone with the correct list will go into a draw to win all the eBooks in Santa’s sack. What fantastic PRESENTS they would make!

Now pop over to Chantal Bellehumeur’s blog and search for the next hidden word. Simply follow this blog hop link, https://author-chantal-bellehumeur.webnode.page/promotions/

Have a very merry Christmas, and may 2023 prove to be a most enjoyable year.

I hope you will find a few moments to browse my website, and even select a book or two, after all, you should treat yourself too at this time of year, you know you deserve it.

http://bit.ly/paulswebsite

Perfect for Kids & Parents

I am not one for regularly promoting subscription services, even those about books, or with an educational bent.

However, this service, Amazon Kids+ is something I feel would benefit many children while giving parents the security and peace of mind about their children using devices.

Designed for children aged between 3 and 12 years, and parents of all ages!

Amazon Parent Dashboard

Discover the books, videos, educational apps, and games kids enjoy in Amazon Kids through Parent Dashboard. Also gain access to child activity and manage settings that include adding content from your personal library, setting daily time limits, modifying web browser behaviour, pausing the device, and more.

Time Limits

Limiting your child’s screen time can be challenging without the proper tools. Amazon Kids lets parents set daily limits, or restrict certain categories – like apps and video – while leaving unlimited time for reading.

Age Filters

Amazon Kids Age Filters ensure that your child sees age-appropriate content within Amazon Kids+. Parents can also adjust Age Filter settings to tailor the experience for each child.

Learn First

With Learn First, parents can block access to games and cartoons until after educational goals are met. For devices with the Bedtime feature enabled, parents can control when Amazon Kids shuts down for the day.

Individual Profiles

Parents can create up to four individual child profiles and give each child selected access to videos, books, Audible content, and apps from their personal library. It’s like giving each kid their very own personalised tablet.

No Surprises

While in Amazon Kids+, kids don’t have access to social media and can’t make in-app purchases without parental approvals.

Endless Fun for Kids.
Peace of Mind for Parents.

Amazon Kids+ is an all-in-one subscription that gives kids access to thousands of kid-friendly books, movies, TV shows, educational apps, and games on compatible Fire, Android, iOS, and Kindle devices.

Parents also receive access to easy-to-use parental controls that allow them to find the right balance between education and entertainment. Parents can personalise screen time limits, set educational goals, filter age-appropriate content, and also manage web browsing and content usage based on their preferences.

Starting at £3.99/month after the one-month free trial, Amazon Kids+ gives kids unlimited access to a world of content to explore and parents the confidence that all content is age-appropriate.

Click this link to see and read more, https://amzn.to/3bRQ76J

A free short story, just for you.

For those who don’t know…

I am Paul White, a multi-genre author of fiction, non-fiction, and semi-fiction.

Many of my short stories are available under the ‘Electric Eclectic’ brand, some are eBooks, others paperback collections, while a growing number are those wonderful Pocketbook Paperbacks that are increasingly popular because of their size, as they really do fit into your pocket. Perfect for reading while commuting or away on vacation.

You can find my books on Amazon and many other bookstores. All are shown on my website

Now, on with the story.

This one is titled ‘Free Spirit’, enjoy.

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FREE SPIRIT

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When I walked into the apartment, I knew this project was going to be fraught with difficulties.

Firstly, the place has been unoccupied for some time; a musty dampness prevailed its entirety. I sensed this staleness was not simply neglect but an ethereal odour of others’ lives, of previous tenants.

Secondly, there were many pieces of furniture still in situ; old, dusty brocade curtains hanging at the windows, personal effects, a small trinket box sitting on the dark wooden sideboard, a silver-backed hand mirror laid on the dresser, and a time-worn leather-bound book on a side table, near the musty, torn chintz-covered armchair, all emitting a staleness of abandonment.

Before I could start the repairs and redecoration, I would have to clear all this old junk from the building. That would involve putting in some extra hours, late nights I had not planned. I was sure the extra effort would be worth it in the end because it is not often one can find such a large home for such a low rent in a neighbourhood of this stature.

On Friday, after work, I hurried to the apartment, eager to begin the clear-out and clean-up.

Once achieved, I could start on the repairs. Tearing off the old wallpaper, ripping up the musty carpets, filling the holes where pictures once hung, all that sort of stuff.

Then I would be in the position to begin to decorate what was to be my new home, my first home.

Fresh paint, light colours on the walls, modern, sleek, designer-style furniture, new light fittings, and mirrors. I like mirrors, they lighten even the dullest corners. I wanted the place to be what I can only describe as understated urban chich.

I was excited.

Tonight, I would be alone. My friends, the ones who offered to help, were all out on the town, or so they said. I don’t blame them for not being here today, after all, it was a Friday night.

Tomorrow, I had promises, commitments from them. I would have a small troop of workers grafting away all day in return for cold beer and snacks, oh, and pizza at the end of the day.

But tonight, it was just me.

My first task was to wrestle the largest items of furniture into a group by the lounge door, so my team of workers could easily carry them out to the skip, which was due by eight o’clock in the morning.

I was surprised by the weight of the old furniture. I’m uncertain if it was Mahogany or Oak, but it took all my effort to ‘waltz’ it across the room. No wonder the previous occupiers had left it where it stood.

By the time I had shifted all the pieces, I was sweating from the effort.

Opening the window did not cool me down. The air was too heavy and humid, and too weak to do more than slightly move those heavy curtains.

It was now midnight, but before I finished for the day, I wanted all the drapes removed, the litter from the floors swept and binned. I wanted this room ready for paper stripping, and carpet removal.

By the end of the weekend, I would be happy if this room and the hallway were ready for my creative attention. If I could get at least one of the two bedrooms stripped too, well, that would be a bonus.

Right now, my stomach was grumbling. I needed to eat. Anyway, it was time to take a break. A stroll to the all-night cafe on the corner, where I could grab a coke, a sandwich, a pork pie, or toasted sandwich. It would do me the world of good to eat something.

Once in the café, I decided I would be wasting time if I stayed to eat, so I carried my refreshments back to the apartment.

Wearily lowering myself into the tatty chintz armchair, I froze. Looking around the room in disbelief. The coke slipped from my grasp, spilling over the threadbare carpet.

The furniture, and I mean all the furniture I spent the last few hours moving into a group close to the doorway, was now back in its original position.

It was as if I had not moved a single item.

The window was closed, the curtains still, the lingering scent of neglect somehow stronger than before.

There was something more.

I could hear a faint melody floating into the room. Trumpets, brass. Smooth music. Perhaps a nineteen-forties swing band?

I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts. This was not possible.

I moved the furniture. Placed it by the door.

I was trying to convince myself I had not, purely for my sanity.

The music was playing softly.

Surely it was coming from another apartment. Yet it sounded far closer, emanating from somewhere in this apartment.

Maybe I was overtired. Whatever; I needed to get a grip on myself.

I followed the sound, walking slowly along the hallway until I was outside the room where the music was coming from.

Someone was playing a joke on me. My friends have seen me leave, deciding it would be funny to mess with my head.

Angrily I snatched open the door, ready to yell at whoever was doing this, whoever found it funny to try and scare me.

The volume from the gramophone blasted out a crackling version of Chattanooga Choo Choo as I stepped into the room.

I halted, standing stock still.

I could not comprehend what I was seeing. This room was perfect. A nineteen-forties parlour. No damp, no faded wallpaper, no rotting furniture.

It was bright, new, perfect.

“Come in, David,” she said, “sit yourself down. I have been waiting for you.”

To my right, I saw a handsome-looking woman. She was wearing a flowing evening gown, long white gloves, and a pearl necklace.

In front of me, a well-ordered room, brightly lit and warm. Behind me, a cold dank hallway, the discoloured wallpaper peeling from the walls.

This was surreal.

“Don’t be shy,” she said, “come, sit, enjoy some champagne.”

She was holding out a wide-rimmed coupe glass at arm’s length. Hesitantly, feeling I had little option, I took the glass from her hand.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Oh, you young people, you are always in such a hurry,” she replied, smiling, and lifting her glass towards mine.

We touched glasses. Automatically I said, “Cheers.”

She smiled at me again, replying with a “Chin, chin.” She sipped her champagne without wetting her dark red lips.

I sat, bolt upright, in a small chair, and as nervous as hell. She lay back, relaxing on a chaise lounge opposite my chair.

If I were dreaming, this was far too real.

The woman spoke. “So, you want to move into my home, to come and live with me. Do you, David?” Her eyes were firmly focused on mine.

“There must be some confusion,” I said, “I have just bought this apartment, it’s mine.”

“Oh no, David,” she answered, shaking her head, “It will never be yours, it belongs to me, and forever will.”

 “I don’t understand,” I replied.

 She nodded understandingly, reaching out, placing a gloved hand on my knee, patting me like a reassuring aunt.

“My husband built this building back in the early 1930s. I have lived here ever since the day it was completed. I shall never leave. Now, I like you, David. You are a fine young man, so I am willing to let you stay if you wish to share my home with me?”  She left the sentence hanging.

I sat motionlessly, my mouth ajar. I did not know what to say.

“Well, David” she prompted, “what have you to say?”

“This place, it’s a mess, all old and rotting. I need to clean it up, do repairs, redecorate, get new furniture… except this room, your room, its lovely, I mean it’s really nice.” I knew I was gabbling, the words tumbling from my mouth faster than I could think.

“Oh, David.” She said, “don’t worry about that for now, just tell me if you will be happy sharing my home.”

“But when people come, my friends, family. How do I explain this room, or you?” I asked.

She smiled like an understanding aunt looking at a child. Patting my knee again she said, “No one will know, David. No one except you.”

“But this room, when people look around, they’ll…”

She interrupted me. “More Champagne. You look pale, you’re shaking. A good drink will settle your nerves.” She continued, “Think, David. This apartment, how many rooms are there? Don’t answer, but this room is not one of them, is it?”

I was mentally counting, walking through the apartment. She was right, this room was not one of them. This room did not exist.

My mind was in a whirl. “I, I, I don’t know. The furniture, I moved it. I put it by the door, now it is all back where it was. Then I heard the music and… and, I followed the sound. It led me to this room.”

Her laughter filled the room, “Oh my dear boy,” she said, “I have thrown you into a right tizzy, haven’t I?”

I gulped the last of my champagne.

“I have something stronger if you prefer?” she said, “a whisky, perhaps. I know what you men are like.”

I was nodding. It was an almost unconscious action as my mind was whirring. Random pieces of thoughts flew through my mind.

“Do not fear. You may decorate the apartment as you wish. I will not stop you, David. That is, if you want to live here? Now, before you worry too much, I don’t leave this room, well, only when the need arises, and I am sure I‘ll have no reason to venture out while you’re here.”

“I would like to live here but, who are you?”

“Oh, my. I have been remiss, haven’t I? How rude of me for not introducing myself. My name is Evelyn, Evelyn Keyes-Johnson.” She held her hand towards me. “So, David, are we friends. Shall you be sharing my home?”

I took her hand and shook it, although slight, Evelyn had a firm grip.

“I would like to stay, and I would be happy sharing with you,” I said, although I had not totally convinced myself. “I do have a question though.”

“Ask away, young man.”

“Are you a ghost?”

Her laughter filled the room with lightness. She smiled a wide, bright grin.

“As I died many years ago some people may call me that,” she said, “but I prefer to consider myself a free spirit.”

END.

Free Spirit©PaulWhite2022

FLOYD, an excerpt.

It is rare for me to post about my works in progress (WiP) on this blog, but today I make an exception.

Following is an excerpt from a novel I am working on titled ‘FLOYD’, which is a fast paced ‘slasher’ style story, about the deranged psychopath, Floyd, who is on a mission of revenge against all those involved with his committal to an institute for the insane, after he murdered his wife.

WARNING: The following contains scenes of extreme graphic violence and more than a sprinkle of bad language & swearing, so readers discretion is advised beyond this point.

… Floyd did not expect the Bitch to run at him. Neither did he think she would seize the carving knife from the counter. He was wrong on both counts.

She crossed the floor fast. He managed to dodge the blade as it whistled past his face. Instinctively he grabbed her arm, twisting it so she would drop the knife. But the Bitch continued to struggle, the long steel blade sliced the top of his thigh. It was damned painful.

Floyd kicked her knife-wielding arm away with his foot, keeping hold of her other arm. Then she was spinning towards him again. He took hold of both her forearms as they wrestled. Bending her wrist, forcing the knife away from his face caused the tip to sink into the top of the Bitch’s left breast. Floyd heard her flesh pop like a sausage.

The Bitch seemed oblivious. She pulled the blade free and stabbed it towards Floyd. This time he was ready, he knocked the knife from her grasp and took hold of her hair, jerking her off her feet.

The other Molly, Floyd’s new Molly appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Go on Floyd,” she shouted, “give the Bitch what she deserves. Go on Floyd, give her hell.” His Molly was bouncing up and down with excitement. Her presence bolstered his reserve, Floyd’s blood came back to the boil. Without thinking he dragged Bitch across the floor by her tangled blond hair.

“Stop, stop, you bastard,” she screamed. He ignored her, pulling her roughly up the staircase. She half bounced, half backwards scrambled, her legs flailing as she tried to keep her body moving to stop her entire scalp from ripping off her head.

Floyd lost his grip as they reached the landing, he stumbled to his knees, a great clump of tangled peroxide hair entwined between his fingers. In an instant the Bitch was on him, her small fists ineffectually battering against his back. He pushed her off easily. Standing, he grabbed her by her left arm, pulling her to her feet.

For a second they stood, panting and staring into each other’s eyes before the Bitch spat into his face. Flecks of spit, snot and blood-splattered Floyd. He hit the Bitch with a sweeping backhand. Her head bounced off the wall and she collapsed, an unconscious heap on the floor. Blood began pouring from her nose and the puncture wound on her breast.

The new Molly cheered. “That’s the way Floyd, you teach that fucking Bitch a lesson.”

Floyd hoisted the Bitch from the floor, carrying her limp body into the bedroom and tossing her onto the bed, noticing for the first time the red weal’s adorning her buttocks. So that is what the Bitch was into now, was it? So, she found she likes a bit of pain with her pleasure. Well, she could certainly look forward to some pain now.

Floyd took his leather belts from the dresser and strapped the Bitch’s hands together, tying them above her head to the bedstead. He used her stockings to fasten her legs to the bedposts at the base. The Bitch was now restrained. Spread-eagled and at his mercy, something he would have her begging for soon enough. She could not fight him now. She would have to answer his questions… or suffer the consequences.

“Let me look at your leg, you poor thing,” said his Molly, crouching on the floor in front of Floyd. “It’s quite deep. I think it will need stitches. A clean-up and some tape will help for now. Come on.” Molly led him into the bathroom.

“Oh, oh, look at this,” Floyd said pointing to the floor. “That fucking bitch has bled all over my fucking cream carpet. I’ll never get the blood out. For fuck’s sake, it will cost a fortune to replace.”

Molly bathed his wound, temporarily taping it together with some plasters from the medicine cabinet. He changed his dishevelled, blood-soaked clothing. “Grab me a cold beer, Molly,” he said, as he made his way back to the bedroom. “I am certain the Bitch will make this thirsty work.”

Floyd splashed the Bitch’s face with some of the cold beer. She blinked and coughed as she regained consciousness. “Now, now Molly, my dear,” he said looking down at her, feigning a smile.

He spoke softly, much like talking to a child. “Now I have your complete attention, your undivided attention, you will answer my questions, no lies, no evasion. Do you understand me?”

The Bitch struggled against her restraints. “Untie me, let me go,” she demanded.

“Oh, but I thought you liked that type of thing, a bit of bondage, a good thrashing?” He kept his smile in place as he spoke.

“What?” she asked.

“The red marks, the welts on your fat arse. There is only one way they got there,” he said.

“You’re not man enough for me to let you do that. You don’t excite me or stimulate me enough, not one little iota. You never did. Now untie me, you bastard.” The Bitch’s voice was screechingly loud.

“After you answer my questions.” Floyd perched himself on the edge of the bed and gently stroked the Bitch’s head, brushing the hair away from her eyes. “That must feel better. I know how you hate it when your hair covers your face.”

“Let me go, Floyd. This is not funny anymore.” The Bitch spoke a little quieter but through gritted teeth.

“Oh Molly, you must listen to me,” he said, bending close and grinning.

“Fuck you.”

His voice changed to a spiteful hiss, “For once in your fucking life listen to me, hear me, answer me, you bitch.”

“Fuck you.” Molly was shouting again.

Floyd punched her full in the face. He found the crunching sound her nose made is it snapped deeply satisfying.

The new Molly stood behind Floyd, her arms wrapped around his waist, she rested her head on his shoulder as she spoke. “You know the truth. You know she’s been cheating. Why not finisher her off now, so we can be together.”

Floyd looked at the Bitch laying on the bed. Her face was turned away. She was crying. Her body shaking with each sob. The fuck, she looked so pig ugly with her mouth screwed up like that. Besides, there was blood and snot everywhere.

Glancing over his shoulder, the pretty face of his new Molly was smiling at him. There was no contest, no contest whatsoever.

“Your right. Let’s get rid of this bitch,” he said.

Molly stepped backwards and held up the kitchen knife, the one Bitch Molly picked up in the kitchen, the one she used to cut Floyd’s leg.

“This should do it,” she said.

He took the knife and held it in front of the Bitch’s face. “So, you like something long and hard inside you, eh? You like some pain, do you?”

This was it.

This was it. This was his dream.

This was the moment he recalled from all his nightmares.

The Bitch lying on the bed, looking up in fear, in terror. During his dreams it seemed wrong, it frightened him. But now it all made sense. It was a premonition. A warning about this evil Bitch’s intentions.

“Go on Floyd, do her.” Molly was bouncing with excitement again.

“Oh, I shall. I am going to slit her throat from ear to ear.”

The Bitch was staring at him. “Who the fuck are you talking to? You sick bastard.”

He smiled, “Say hello to Molly, Molly.” Floyd reached out and pulled the new Molly to his side. “Look, isn’t she beautiful? She looks like you used to before you changed, before you cheated, before you became an old haggard Bitch. My new Molly is taking your place now.”

“You’ve lost the plot, Floyd. You’re sick. Sick in the head.” The Bitch spat out a mouthful of blood. “You’re hallucinating, seeing things.”

“She looks like you did once, do you know why? Eh, do you?”

“There’s no one there Floyd, you’ve turned fucking psycho.”

“She looks like you because she is you. My new Molly’s from a parallel dimension, a multiverse.”

“Fuck you, fuck you. You sick cunt. Now let me go.” Molly began to scream. Loud, high pitched screams and shouts for help.

“Shut her the fuck up, Floyd,” new Molly said. She had stopped bouncing up and down and was covering her ears with her hands. “It hurts my head.”

Floyd straddled the Bitch, one knee each side of her chest. His left hand forced her chin up, exposing her throat. He held the knife inches from her eyes, “Say goodbye, Molly. Say goodbye.”

The Bitch shrieked an ear-piercing, spine-tingling scream which vibrated every bone in his body. The knife sliced through the Bitch’s flesh like a butcher cutting pork. Her screams turned into a bloody bubbling gurgle. Floyd noticed the realisation and saw the disbelief in the Bitch’s eyes as the last moments of her life soaked into the crisp white linen bedsheets.

“Oh, my love, you did it, you did it,” said the new Molly, slinging her arms about Floyd’s neck, smothering him kisses. “You are such a darling.”

“Time for another beer I think,” said Floyd…

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FLOYD continues to be a Work in Progress, I’ll post more here when I’m nearer to completing this story.

In the meantime, why not read another of my books, perhaps an Electric Eclectic novelette like ‘A New Summer Garden‘, a classic Crime Thriller.

‘The Orb‘, a fast paced Urban Fantasy Thriller.

Or maybe ‘Mechanical Mike‘, a retro, pulp-fiction comic book yarn?

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The above are available as eBooks/Kindle, with A New Summer Garden and Mechanical Mike also as Pocketbook Paperbacks.

You can find all the above books, with details, along with my other books, on my website, http://bit.ly/paulsEEbooks 

Feel free to browse around, ask questions and follow me on Facebook,  https://www.facebook.com/paulwhitewriter

Inspiration does not have to be Pretty.

A good writer has no need to look for inspiration and ideas, they will come flooding unto them.

The fact is, each moment of every day we are surrounded by a million and one stimuli which only need us to recognise their being. We must feel, hear, sense what is around us, what is happening in front of our eyes.

We must allow our perception to absorb, to let our mind create fiction and fantasy from implied interpretation. We must permit our creative seed to run wild.

I have written on this subject before, albeit from another perspective, in a post called The Curse of the Muse

 

This post is a little different.

A short while ago, possibly a good few months past, I read a post on a social media site from one of my connections. I think ‘friends’ is the general term used.

I was touched by the raw honesty of the post; so much I saved their words so I might use them as a basis for my own writing, either in situation or character creation.

I feel a little guilty for ‘stealing’ these heartfelt outpourings, yet, I am acceptive to the reasoning of creativity and the understanding of where, how and by what means we writers find our inspiration.

You see, most of my works, regardless of genre or setting, focus on our humanity, on social and personal interactions and on life itself.

The following is an edited version of the social media post mentioned. I am sure you will understand the reason it resounded with me, especially if you are a reader of my books and other works.

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This is it… 

“This isn’t poetry.

It’s not placed on a pretty post.

There are no pictures to pull you in.

This is just me needing to vent and I suppose those who want to know will read it through; there are a few thousand of you, maybe more and I’m just this sickly, tiny, thing who is easy to overlook.

My life isn’t an open a book, but should the play ever be released it will read like a tragedy of comedic design, one that tears the heart and rips the mind.

Irony, you’ll find, is the underlying theme.

I was everything I was told I would be; yet with time viewed through a rear-view mirror, I am nothing which holds value beyond the front door and those therein are on their way out.

I’d leave too, but domestic skills, they don’t count and writing words has yet to pay the bills; besides, without a degree to back up the lines, there are those who say I’ve spent the last three years wasting my time.

It’s pride, I know, but I’m pushing four decades old and I’m not sure I’m equipped to go back to the shit I did before I became a mom and wife.

I mean no offence, but I’m better than a burger to flip, or the next bag of groceries to sack, my mind knows too much to do that any longer.

I could go back to school, try and educate, but what do I do with the stack of debt that’s all late?

I have no resume. That’s the cost, the loss, of being nothing more than a stay at home mom.

What now?

Who am I without the domestic, the wife, the parental role to play, day to day?

So much needs to change and I’m scared to death I’ve waited too late.

Surely this cannot be my fate?

Even this, the sound of my self-pity makes me sick; but this decline of mine, it didn’t happen overnight.

It wasn’t quick.

My worth was stolen by minuscule measures, so slender the slices, I failed to feel the knife and yet looking at my life there’s nothing left but a bloodied mess.

I should find my way out of this.

I’m not as weak as I seem, but at this moment, I am on my knees.

This is not who I am, but damn, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be.

I’m a little lost and there’s no one looking for me.”

***

I titled this blog post, ‘Inspiration does not have to be Pretty’.

It does not.

Neither do the resultant writings. But I genuinely believe our words should be honest, open and emotional. After all, these are the driving factors of life, our lives. It is what we all have in common, it is what we all respond to… even in fictional stories.

Thank you for reading another of my Ramblings.

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Please subscribe/follow this blog if you have not already done so. The button is on the top right of this page. I appreciate your support, Thank You.

Visit my website (HERE) to see my books, works in progress and other projects currently underway.

Selfie!

Publish your book at little, or zero cost?

This is what The Frugal Author says you can achieve, in this book of the same name.

He has written this book as an aid for independent authors in pursuit of economical, prudent self-publication.

The Frugal Author produces his own eBooks, paperbacks and high-quality hardcover publications with very little if any, financial outlay.

This book is full of the distilled results, the acquired knowledge and personal practice of being a successful indie author who dislikes paying out more than is absolutely necessary.

In this book, he explains how he achieves that, along with insights into indie publishing and sharing his ideas of how you too can implement the same type of methods for your own books.

The Frugal Author is NOT a ‘how to’ book. It is NOT a step by step guide or tuitional publication. The Frugal Author simply shares methodology, ideas and principles which you can adopt fully or partially, implement in part or whole over time and adjust to suit your own working practices.

You may well ask what credibility The Frugal Author has? and you are right to do so.

To date, he has published 19 books, ranging from children’s stories and poetry to psychological suspense. From Tales of Crime & Violence through to true accounts of Life in the Warzone. Pulp-fiction comic book yarns are written alongside romantic stories and non-fictional military social history.

The Frugal Author is a true multi-genre author. He is also a multi-format author having eBooks, Paperbacks and Hardcover publications.

Two of his books are recognised and authenticated Amazon bestsellers.

 

He is a well-known and respected member of the global Indie Author and Writers community and a founding member of APC, Authors professional Co-operative, Founder of Electric Eclectic books and chief editor of CQI Magazine.

He is acknowledged for the help and advice he shares and the initiatives he employs to help all writers succeed, irrelevant of their experience.

Now, he is sharing some of his ideology and methodology with you in this book, The Frugal Author.

Download yourself a copy today, start saving money and start heading into profit… NOW.

 

Wherever you are in the world,

you can get your copy of

The Frugal Author right HERE.

 

Dark Words

Dark, deep, emotional… My new book… 

http://amzn.to/2DQjmR0 

We all have dark times in our lives; times when the clouds of uncertainty gather about us, when the shadows in our minds slam shut the doorway of hope.

These are times when the future looks bleak, when tomorrow is nothing more than a harbinger of anguish and our past lives a wasteland of futile labour.

Sitting in darkened rooms, listening to sad songs and reading dark words lends a little comfort to our souls as we contemplate the tattered remains of our world.

This book shares those days, the long cold nights of loneliness and apprehensive dread of what bleakness awaits us when the sun rises.

Like you, I have visited this world of soulless existence. It is where part of me shall always remain, huddled in the gloom, in corners of the deepest recesses of my mind.

Paul White

Grab your copy today

http://amzn.to/2DQjmR0

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Looking for more books? Why not check out CQI Magazine’s ‘Must Reads‘ for 2018

With The LIST

The LIST 2018 – The definitive guide to this years ‘Must Read’ books.

Surely, The LIST is the best collection of ‘must-read’ indie books anywhere.

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Each book listed here has been recommended, commended or selected by CQI Magazine or the publications respected and trusted literary connections.

The LIST is one publication you will want to constantly refer to when looking for a new book for yourself or as a wonderful and unexpected gift for a friend, colleague, or family member.

I suggest you bookmark The LIST to make re-visiting and reading a sinch in the future.

Got friends… how about sharing The LIST with them?

For notifications about future great publications like CQI Magazine, and The Gift Collection ‘follow‘ this blog 🙂

Click on the cover image above to read The LIST now

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Looking for a darned good short story?

Then check out the Electric Eclectic novelettes, great reads and the perfect way to find your next ‘favourite’ author.

Go take a look at Electric Eclectic books

What is… Electric Eclectic (for Authors)

Before I talk about Electric Eclectic in detail, lets set the layout of the indie publishing ground.

It is something like this….

 

I constantly hear writers say they are looking for new ways, or better ways, or alternative ways to market their books.

I also hear many authors saying they would like to find an effective way to promote their books without spending a fortune.

Not forgetting those who lament they never knew about a new initiative, or would have loved to be in at the beginning of… whatever it may be.

In this post, I shall offer you one of those alternative ways… and the opportunity to get in on the ground floor of something special… read on, but only if this is the type of opportunity you would really like to grasp.

The general consensus it seems, is Facebook adverts don’t work; unless you are willing to give all your hard-earned cash to Mark Suckonaburger (to gain a small exposure to a limited number of people for a minimum amount of time and still have no guarantee anybody, outside of your regular social network, will actually see this paid for promotion.)

The same goes for the confusion which is Goodreads and the plethora of similar book/author/reader platforms such as (in my opinion) the expensive Library Thing. Authors Den tries hard but is much the same and just as confusing as Goodreads.

Of course, you can pay for people to ‘give away’ your books, there are plenty who are willing to freely distribute all those months of your hard work, not to mention the money you have invested for… well, more of your money.

They will use the old adage, the saying that a short-term investment (read loss) is a way of gaining new readers. You know the type who will take your free offer, one of those folks who ONLY read free books “because there are thousands of free books ‘out there’, so why do I need to pay for any?” type of folk.

Why then, should they suddenly have a change of heart and convert to actually paying to read someone’s creation because they see your book going for free?

It is NOT going to happen.

Books are perceived to be devalued when they are offered free.

If you ever do find a grand number of these folk, enough to create an income large enough to sustain an author’s life, please let me know, because no one else has achieved that, so you would be making groundbreaking world history.

Please do not get me wrong, I am not against people paying for marketing or promoting books. All I ask is you consider exactly what they can/are doing for you and what realistically you can expect as a return on your investment.

Try calculating the cost/return using this thought process:

Equate the cost/fee the person/company is asking, as a royalty return per-book. (after tax).

Calculate how many book sales that figure equals.

Note how long you have to achieve your target.

This will tell you how many paid for books you MUST sell to replace that spend. (Your break-even point for this promotion.) and how long you have to accomplish this.

Remember, this calculation does not take into account the amount of money you have already spent on getting the book published in the first place, such as cover design, formatting, editing, maybe printing costs and so on.

If you are looking for a return, or to achieve an income from your promotion and marketing, doing this simple calculation is a good way to judge the portent of such an investment.

You do the math.

You decide if its genuine value for money.

 

 

Now… to Electric Eclectic. (EE for short)

Because I often approaching marketing from a slightly different angle, some can find my concepts a little confusing or difficult to comprehend at first, even though I try to keep things a simple as possible.

What gives me the right to write this… and who am I anyway?

I spent several years working in marketing, primarily with the larger advertising agencies such as John Walter Thompson, BBDO, Saatchi & Saatchi and so on. It was back when computer manufacturers had names like Sinclair, Dragon and Amstrad. Google was something to do with cricket, Windows were for looking through and cleaning, telephones had curly wires attaching them to the wall and programming used a language called Basic.

 

Dragon Computers (32 & 64 bit)

I now employ many of the principles learnt during my time in London, albeit updated and developed to work on social media, in the marketing of my own books. Doing so has served me well; I am a recipient of several literary awards and I am credited as an Amazon Bestselling Author.

Continuing with the development of my online marketing techniques, I have created a way for authors to earn royalties from their advertising while promoting their books.

I have branded this as Electric Eclectic. 

You see, I know most, if not all writers have many short stories, part stories, old stories lingering in rarely accessed files. These stories are the ones they have not finished yet or are keeping to work on at a later date, (a date which never comes), or once used in a charitable anthology years ago. Some are little more than rough notes waiting to be developed, others unused cuts and edits from a previous novel.

No matter which or why they are there, most if not all writers have unused ‘stuff’ lingering around.

I have an idea how you can Moneytise these loitering tales.

At the same time authors are spending even more money, time and effort discounting and giving books away, ones they have worked so hard and so long writing. They are doing so in the rather vague hope of hooking the odd appreciative reader.

This is to me, like throwing the proverbial ‘shush’ at the fan. Sometimes called the shotgun or scattergun approach. Using a big unfocused blast in the hope we hit something.

More often than not, all that happens is we suffer splashback.

You must admit, it all looks and sounds a bit amateurish and silly when considered from this perspective.

So… what have I devised which makes any difference?

The answer is Electric Eclectic books.

It works like this; You (the author) digs out one of those old stories, one of your half-written, lingering, lost works, or you could write a new piece for Electric Eclectic books. It’s up to you.

The story is edited and formatted using EE guidelines, a cover produced under the same EE format, (working within the EE guidelines is of paramount importance) This results in the creation of an eBook between 6K and 20K words.

In other words, a Novelette.

By creating this book or books, (there are no limits to the number of EE books any author can produce, although two to three would be a good starting number.) using the Electric Eclectic branding, the book becomes an EE book.

The author pays a small, once only/lifetime fee, to licence the use of the EE brand for their book. (It is a franchise licence if you wish.)

The EE licence applies and is associated with the books ASIN. Therefore, each book requires its own EE licence.

(Sorry, but certain parts of the EE formatting and branding system can only be revealed to authors after the licence fee is paid. They will not be revealed here.)

The Author publishes their own book, under their own name on Kindle and any/all other sites they wish.

ALL rights remain with the author.

The author keeps all royalties.

As an EE author, you now benefit from the Electric Eclectic branding.

This means sharing in the exposure of all EE book promotions and marketing; the general ongoing brand marketing, the general promotions, even each individual title and author promotions helps the brands overall publicity. Not forgetting inclusion in online magazines and recommended book listings and the EE search page on Amazon.

The final part of the jigsaw is… when readers purchase an EE book, not only does the author receive the sales royalty (rather than paying to give their book away), but the readers are shown and directed towards the author’s other books and works directly by hyperlink.

To conclude; by using unused stories, re-published works etc. Electric Eclectic branding allows authors to earn from their stories which were previously just collecting dust. EE books link readers directly to your other books, greatly increasing potential sales of your prime works.

Increasing income, having a greater chance of sales and gaining new readers, saving money on marketing and reducing costs by not discounting or giving away your major books, makes publishing an Electric Eclectic book a win-win situation for all authors.

Electric Eclectic is a marketing brand designed for the promotion of indie-authored books.

Electric Eclectic is NOT a publisher.

Electric Eclectic do NOT take any royalties.

Authors are not contracted, leaving them unrestricted regarding other publishing options.

Would you like to join us?

Would you like to be one of the first Electric Eclectic authors?

Let us know your interest by emailing Electric Eclectic at EEbookbranding@mail.com 

 

 

 

Time to catch up

I have been working on an awful lot of ‘Stuff’ these past few weeks.

I am always busy, it keeps me from hanging about on those street corners. But these past weeks I have been busier than most.

Let me give you a clue….

Over the last two weeks, I wrote approximately 630,000 words, 350,000 last week and 280,000 the week before.

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I have promoted the November edition of CQI magazine, the Sci-Fi season special. Click on the cover image to read.

I am in the midst of compiling two annual catalogues for CQI, ‘The Collection – a guide to year-round giving’ and ‘The LIST 2018′ a catalogue of commended and acclaimed books.

During which time, I have beavered away at marketing to keep my two latest books high on the Amazon sales lists. Successfully.

 

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I finalised and formatted a further two books, including designing the covers. They are:

Dark Words – dark tales & darker poetry is scheduled for release on the 1^st of February 2018.

 

 

 

Within the Invisible Pentacle, a collection of intriguing feminine titles is due out on the 1^st of June 2018.

 

 

 

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That done, I can concentrate my efforts on completing two other WiP:

Floyd a Novel about an escaped psychopath on a bloody rampage of revenge and…

On the Highway of Irreverent Rumination & Delusion, which is a rendering of my past blog of the same name, about musings of life, living and our society, with many additional perceptions, formed into a book.

I am hoping to have both completed by the end of 2018… but who knows?

Take a peek on my website for a better insight to these WiP. http://paulznewpostbox.wixsite.com/paul-white

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Included in this time, right up until yesterday morning, I have published three new eBooks, Kindle ‘novelettes‘ under the collective brand of Electric Eclectic.

Electric Eclectic books are absolutely fantastic, they enable readers to ‘taste‘ a previously unread or unknown author at the extremely low price of just 1.00 (Dollar/Pound/Euro). HOWEVER… unlike many low-cost books all EE novelettes are vetted to ensure they meet exacting standards, so readers can buy Electric Eclectic branded books with confidence.

EE is a Franchise, where the individual authors benefit from the marketing and promotion of being associated with the prime EE brand itself. Enquiries about becoming an EE author to EEbookbranding@mail.com

My current EE novelettes are:

North to Maynard, a tale of Gremlins in our modern world of high tech.

Three Floors Up, where a psychotic man watches those below until…?

Mechanical Mike, a tongue-in-cheek sci-fi robot story, set in Paris during WW2.

You can see all three on Amazon at:

http://amzn.to/2zIjYqF

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Oh, I have also helped a fellow author to create a fully illustrated children’s book, written by an eight-year-old girl. A project not without its problems, but one where I have enjoyed overcoming the challenges.

I took three days out to travel to Belguim during this time period too.

 

My book, Life in the War Zone was a finalist in the Authorsdb cover contest. http://amzn.to/2hyQHKh

 

 

 

My Outsized, Hardcover, children’s book, The Rabbit Joke, came away with a Bronze medal. https://www.peecho.com/print/en/263512

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I last posted on this blog on the 23^rd of October, I think. So, I have been lax here.

My other blogs, A Little More Fiction, where I post short stories 

and my travel blog Wild Geese, have both suffered neglect.

I hope to put that right by posting in both at some point over the next day or so.

I did manage to post for Remembrance/Veterans day on my Virily blog, that did get some good feedback.

Whereas many of the social media sites, where I am usually active, have had to manage without too much input from myself.

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I am sure too, that somewhere down the line I shall discover things I have agreed to do for some people or organisations, that have been left at the wayside…

Sorry folks, but some ‘STUFF’ had to give.

I still have a shed load to do and much to catch up with, but I am getting there one step at a time.

I suppose this is my way of saying, if you don’t hear from me for a while I have not forgotten you.

Feel free to give me a shout, message or email me whenever you wish, I am about doing my ‘Stuff’ somewhere.

Keep happy, Paul.