Monday, 4 November 2013

Hunter - (Goran Zidar) in One Thousand Words

Hunter by Goran Zidar is today's feature on One Thousand Worlds.


Hunter-


Back Cover Blurb

Beware the hydra! Cut off one head, and two will rise to take its place. 
November 1963. 
A time of great possibilities. A time of great change. 
The world is balanced on a knife’s edge. Pulled from the brink of nuclear war, it stands poised to usher in an era of peace between the two great superpowers. 
But peace is the enemy of those who profit from division. From the shadows they plot to keep humanity in conflict. 

Kade has no idea what he’s become involved in. A conspiracy at the highest levels of government. Humans and immortals working together. Prepared to do whatever it takes to bring their terrible future to light.


About Goran Zidar

For as long as I can remember I have enjoyed reading, in fact the first series of books I can recall reading as a child was The Three Investigators Series.

My introduction to the world of fantasy didn't come until high school, when a friend of mine suggested I read The Hobbit (clichéd I know). From there I moved on to the Lord of The Rings, The Earthsea Trilogy, The Belgariad, The Shannara Books, Magician, everything by David Gemmell and so on.

I was hooked.

I have spent countless hours since then reading a vast collection of novels in a range of subjects but I always find that I enjoy the escapism offered by fantasy - especially epic fantasy - or science fiction.

Most recently the work of Joe Abercrombie, Scott Lynch, Peter V Brett, Brent Weeks, and Patrick Rothfuss have captured my attention and fuelled my passion.

The story of Hunter grew from the seed of an idea I first submitted to the Fantasy Faction Writers Corner forum, in the July 2011 Monthly Writing Competition. From there it took on a life of its own to become a kind of Historical Urban Fantasy.

I don’t know how exactly, but as the story progressed I found myself weaving in elements of various JFK assassination conspiracy theories into the tale, linking paranormal elements to the plot to kill the president. Set in New York in November 1963, Hunter is a blend of fantasy and political intrigue, where vampires, witches, and werewolves combine with the FBI, the Secret Service, and the Mob.


One amazing side effect of writing this book is how much I learned about that period in history, and the City of New York itself. I hope one day to visit there and see first-hand the  many landmarks I wrote about in the story.



Hunter

The trees had stood for centuries.

Majestic sentinels beneath an iron grey sky,  maintaining a silent vigil over a primal world. A world untouched by civilization, and free from outside influence.

Until today.

The sun hung low on the horizon, and a bitter wind caused the tops of the trees to sway. Branches brushed against each other with a clack and a swish of pine needles, moving together in a dance as old as time. In the canopy of the alpine forest, a hundred feet above the rocky ground, things were as they’d always been.

But on the forest floor, he ran.

Air gusted from his mouth as he picked his way through the ancient trunks, leaving small clouds of vapor in his wake. The thick tangle of branches tore at his arms and legs, shredding clothing as he ran headlong through the trees. Each lungful of freezing air chilled his body further. If he didn’t find shelter soon, he would perish just as surely as if his pursuers caught him.

He held one arm clasped to his side. Keeping pressure on an injury he couldn’t remember receiving. It was a shallow cut, but in this environment he couldn’t afford to lose much blood, or the precious warmth it gave him.

He didn’t know where he was, or why they chased him. He knew only one thing. A single word scrawled on a torn-off sheet of paper now stuffed into the pocket of his jeans.

Run!

§ § §

The guardian bent down to check the ground for any sign of the fleeing man. Finding none, it lifted its head and sniffed the air, hoping to catch some scent of its quarry on the wind.

All it could smell were the other guardians.

It glanced at the overcast sky. It would be night soon, and that would mark the end of their chase. The darkness was no obstacle to its kind, but the bitter cold could be deadly. At this altitude, even with the sun at its zenith, it was almost too cold for them. This explained why their prey had been able to elude them thus far, and with only an hour or so before sunset there was no time to waste.

With a shrill cry, the guardian signaled the others and resumed its pursuit. It charged through the trees, and one by one, its three fellows replied. Their piercing notes would betray their location, but it also inspired fear in humans.

People made mistakes when driven by fear, and the guardians needed every advantage they could in facing this one.

§ § §

Four blood-curdling howls echoed through the wilderness. He looked over his shoulder and snagged a foot on a root. He stumbled and came to a stop. Heart racing, he braced against a tree to catch his breath.

His pursuers were a few miles away, upwind of his current position. The howls awoke a deep dread in him. Somewhere at the base of his brain, his primitive mind associated those terrible wails with danger, and a wave of panic washed over him.

How could he hope to survive against such perfect killers?

The urge to give up was almost overwhelming. He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening as his nails dug into his palms.

He wasn’t ready to die. Not here. Not like this.

The cries sounded again, but this time they triggered something else. The stirrings of a memory, bringing with it a name … Kade.

Is that my name?

He couldn’t be sure, but it felt right somehow. The gaps in his memory were frustrating, but he didn’t have time to consider them now. He had to keep moving, especially while those things were out there.

Kade cocked his head and listened. The wind whistled through the trees, but below it he picked up the sound of running water somewhere to the south.

A river.

Water might help mask my scent, he thought.

He sprinted down the rocky incline, weaving left and right to avoid obstacles. The trees blurred in his vision as he ran past them.

A fallen tree blocked his path. Its massive trunk, easily six feet thick, disappeared into the undergrowth to the left and right. He leapt over the fallen bole, landed lightly on the other side, and kept moving. All without missing a step.

It was exhilarating.

He’d been running for miles but didn’t feel tired at all. The pain in his side reduced to a dull ache, and the bleeding appeared to have stopped. Kade couldn’t explain where this boundless energy and rapid healing came from, but he was definitely grateful for it.

He needed every advantage to survive.

The roar of rushing water greeted him as he arrived at the edge of a fast-flowing river. It was too wide to cross, so he headed downstream.

Difficult terrain close to the river’s edge slowed him down, and spray from the rapids settled on his clothes, drawing warmth from his body. He shivered. It would be night soon. Kade didn’t relish the idea of trying to find a way across in the dark.

Perhaps heading for the river was a mistake.

A branch snapped in the forest behind him.

Kade peered through the thick veil of pine needles. He couldn’t see anything in the twilight gloom, but he didn’t need his eyes to tell him there was something very big, very fast, and very dangerous out there.

One of them was nearby.

Kade’s fingers balled into fists. His involuntary response surprised him, he had no desire to fight. He took several deep breaths, consciously forcing his hands open. The note told him to run. He should heed its warning.

Escape was his only chance.

§ § §

The guardian watched from the shadows.


The scent of him – of blood mixed with sweat – threatened to overwhelm its senses. It dare not alert its brothers, lest the man discover just how close his death truly was.



Where you can buy Hunter:



Connect with Goran Zidar:

Twitter: @GZidar

Thursday, 31 October 2013

Lament for the Living (David Nicol) in a One Thousand Worlds Halloween Special

One Thousand Worlds couldn't let Halloween go by, without doing something a little creepier than the regular fantasy and sci-fi features. So today I am delighted to invite you to enter, if you dare, the world of Lament for the Living by David Nicol.


Lament for the Living-


Lament for the Living is a book featuring zombies, but 
isn't a story about zombies. It's set three years after the Outbreak 
that caused society to consume itself leaving sporadic groups of 
survivors to rebuild their lives. Lament for the Living is the first of 
three books that charts the journey of the survivors as their existence 
is threatened for a second time, but this time it's not the dead they 
need to fear. Forget the dead; lament for the living.

The first one thousand words gives a taste of the initial Outbreak, 
following the effect it has on one Anthony Redfern. If you were to read 
further, you'll be transported to three years later when Anthony 
encounters Sacks, one of the survivors who lives in a secluded 
settlement called the Sanctuary. The people of the Sanctuary, under the 
direction of their leader Tobias, attempt to remain isolated and 
undiscovered. However, another group of survivors is about to smash 
their goal.

About the author-
David Nicol is a horror and science fiction author living in Wales. Lament for the Living is his his first full-length novel.






1
Anthony Redfern R.I.P.
(again)

Anthony Redfern had a good life.  It wasn't a great life; he still bought a lottery ticket each week, but it was good enough for him to be mostly content.  After kissing his wife and daughter goodbye, he left for work.  The daily commute.  The ritual observed by millions all around the world.  Two buses, one train, shoulder to shoulder jostling with numerous strangers, standing room only, avoiding eye contact.  Through the narrow tunnels, up the narrow escalator. Once out of the claustrophobic train station came the long walk.  Flowing in the river of people. Human flotsam carried on the current of human commerce. Each day, a carbon copy of the one before.  Weekends interspersed the routine, but came and went before they could be fully appreciated.
            Each morning he'd stop at 'Happy News' to buy a newspaper.  Over time his preferred broadsheet had succumbed to the changing tastes in the world where everything was being miniaturised except for prices and coffee portions.  He handed over the cost of the newspaper, folded it and tucked it under his arm.  He thanked Pablo the newsagent, and left the narrow shop to continue his journey to work.
            Movement in the periphery of his vision caught his attention.  It was out of place.  Someone running.  Not jogging, or running for a bus.  Running like their life depended on it.  It was a woman.  Screaming.  Her jacket torn.  Another woman was bounding after her.  Her clothes were ripped and blood stained.  People deliberately looked elsewhere, turned their attention to the floor, to their watches or phones, carrying on about their business.  Right in front of Anthony the pursuer caught her prey, driving her to the floor as she leapt on her back and began clawing at her.
            “Hey!”  Anthony yelled.  He swatted the attacker with his newspaper as if she were a disobedient dog, but there was no response.  The woman on the floor was screaming and crying out for help.
“Someone call the police.”  Anthony called to those walking past.  “You,” he pointed at a passing businessman who looked back at him, startled “call the police.  Do it now.”  The businessman shook his head and quickened his step.  Cursing to himself Anthony stepped forward hesitantly, unsure of what to do.  He pushed the attacker with his foot.  “Stop it.”  She snapped her head around, growling through a blood soaked mouth, her teeth broken and ragged.  Anthony froze as their eyes met; she glared at him, but seemed to be looking through him.  Her eyes bloodshot, the irises unnaturally pale, with a yellow ring around them.  Before Anthony could react, she lunged and sank her teeth into his calf.  He screamed in pain and fell heavily backwards, kicking out with his other foot.  The heel of his shoe connected with enough force to break and spread her nose across her face, tearing the flesh from the bone and cartilage revealing the gaping nasal cavity.
            Grabbed from behind, Anthony was dragged away from the bloody mess on the floor.  He looked up to see two police officers taking control.  One, on his radio updating the control room, the other was barking orders to the badly injured attacker to back away.  Two more police officers approached from the other direction.  They drove the woman into the ground and began to restrain her.  One of the officers didn't move quickly enough and was bitten on the hand, a ragged crescent of ripped flesh oozed blood.  Anthony noticed that the victim of the original attack was no longer moving.  Blood was pooling below her and running towards the gutter at the side of the road.  Vehicles had begun to stack up on either side of the road.  Impatient drivers, oblivious to what was causing the holdup angrily sounded their horns.
            The attacker continued to struggle and snap at anyone who came close despite being handcuffed with two officers holding her legs.  One of them held up his injured hand, examining the ugly bite in disbelief.
“I can't believe she bit me, the mad bitch.”  He complained.
Anthony stared in wide eyed confusion at the scene before him.  He heard someone speaking.
 “Are you okay?”  The officer that had pulled him back asked.  Anthony turned to look at him.
“Uh, yeah, I think so.”  Anthony replied absently.  “A bit shaken up.”
“Do you need an ambulance?”
“No, no, don't be silly.  I have to get to work.”
“Right.  I'm going to take your details.  We'll be in touch to take a statement later today.  You've had a bit of a shock, if I were you I'd head home.  But obviously that's up to you.”
Anthony nodded.  He gave the officer his contact information and took a card with the incident details on it for reference.  His calf felt stiff and he limped a bit as he walked away, his dark clothing masking the blood that seeped from his leg.  He ignored the noises behind him as he headed back to the train station.  In the background he missed the scene as one of the officers bent down to check on the condition of the victim of the attack, only for her to grab him and begin biting and clawing at him before the others could react.
            Anthony walked down the steps of the railway station just in time to catch the home bound train.  He rang his office to let them know that he wouldn't be in and briefly explained what had happened.  He let them know that he'd catch up with emails at home then turned off his phone.  By the time he got on the second bus in his journey he began to feel hot, his calf felt swollen and itchy.  He'd have to soak it and then put plenty of Savlon on when he got home, he thought.

The house was empty.  His wife at work, his daughter at school.  A cup of tea and a nice warm bath would sort him out.  He was sweating.  His head hurt.  Anthony turned the bath taps on and then made himself a cup of tea.  Feeling tired from his chaotic morning he sat down on his favourite chair.  Just for a minute, with his cup of tea.  He closed his eyes.
            Anthony Redfern died in his chair.  The bath continued to fill.  It overflowed, flooding the bathroom and the rooms below it.  When his wife came home she found him.  He killed her before she could be upset about the water damage, or realise he was dead.  Their daughter came home later.  She had been out with friends to an after school club.  Together they killed her.  Then the three of them made their way out of the house and visited their neighbours.

That was three years ago.






Where you can buy The Chamber:




Connect with David Nicol:

Tuesday, 29 October 2013

Author Interview - Michael G. Munz on One Thousand Worlds

Michael G. Munz is today's interviewed author on One Thousand Worlds. An award-winning writer of speculative fiction, Munz was born in Pennsylvania but moved to Washington State at the age of three. Unable to escape the state's gravity, he has spent most of his life there and studied writing at the University of Washington.
Developing his creative bug in college, he wrote and filmed four amateur films before setting his sights on becoming a novelist. Driving this goal is the desire to tell entertaining stories and give to others the same pleasure with those stories as other writers have given to him. He enjoys writing tales that combine the modern world with the futuristic or fantastic.
Munz has traveled to three continents, and has an interest in Celtic and Greco-Roman mythology. He resides in Seattle where he continues his quest to write the most entertaining novel known to humankind and find a really fantastic clam linguini.


Michael G. Munz's Latest Book
The Interview

Tell us about your latest book.
The latest one I've written, or the latest one I've published? Let's go with the latter! It's called A Memory in the Black, and it's a sci-fi thriller set in the mid-21st century. On the surface, it's about a struggle between various groups to control an alien spacecraft found buried in a lunar crater, but on the character and thematic side it deals with the power of our memories to affect who we are and how we behave. Different characters explore that theme in different ways: One is forced to reconnect with a dangerous ex-mentor he thought he'd kicked out of his life, another is haunted by a tragedy she alone survived, and others are driven to extremes in the wake of a murdered man's memory. Memory brings these separate threads together in different ways to affect the outcome of the story. While it is the second book in the series, with some characters and events having been introduced in book one, its story and character arcs can be experienced without having read the first book.


How many books have you written?
I've written four novels. Two of these, both science fiction, are published as the first two books of my New Aeneid Cycle: the aforementioned A Memory in the Black, and its predecessor, A Shadow in the Flames. The others, both of which are flavors of contemporary fantasy, I am currently pitching to agents and publishers. I've also released in ebook form a trio of comedic short stories about characters from Greek mythology interacting with the modern world called Mythed Connections.

What are you working on at the moment?
I'm working on the third book in the New Aeneid Cycle, the working title of which is A Dragon at the Gate. I'd put this series on the back burner for a couple of years while I took a break from writing sci-fi, so I'm having a great time getting re-acquainted with the characters after releasing A Memory in the Black (long after it was actually completed) last August.

What are the most important attributes to remaining sane as a writer?
Wait, what? Remaining sane? I think I have to be just a little insane to spend my free time toiling away at fictional worlds, so I think actual sanity would only be a hindrance. Besides, insanity is far more inspiring and fun!

If you could meet any of your own characters, who would it be?
I'm terrible at choosing just one, but I think I'd have to say Thalia. She's from my not-quite-yet-published novel Murdering Zeus for Fun and Prophet, which is a comedic contemporary fantasy about the Greek gods returning to our world after Zeus gets assassinated. Thalia is the muse of comedy and science fiction (the nine Muses had to take on new duties with all of the modern genres): smart, geeky, cheerful, and awesome. She's a blast to write because everything she says is pure stream of geeky-consciousness with the confidence of someone with a half-dozen millennia under her belt. It's entirely possible that talking to her in person would drive me insane, but it'd be worth it just for how meta the process would be of talking to a muse who is also a character that I've brought to life.

Do you have a favourite character among the ones you've invented?
Again, I'm terrible at picking favourites, but Felix Hiatt, from the New Aeneid Cycle, is certainly among the top. He tends to deal with stress through humor, even at inappropriate times, so when I'm writing him I can usually just stop filtering all the odd, goofy thoughts that pop into my head and let them come out of his mouth. It gets him into trouble at times, but he's usually pretty good-natured about it. He's also a pretty darned nice guy. Of all the characters I've written, readers seem to like Felix the most. Plus he has the memories of a seventy year-old man implanted into his brain, so that's got all sorts of implications for me to work with, both serious and not so serious.

If you could trade places with any other person for a week, famous or not famous, living or dead, real or fictional, with whom would it be?
I'd trade with one of the tenth Doctor's companions (Doctor Who), but during one of the times between episodes when they're NOT actively being chased by Daleks or Cybermen or militant rhinocerous-folk. That way I've got a time machine and can use the week to pick all sorts of places to go.

What do you think about when you are alone in your car?
My mind tends to wander and my imagination starts to play. I might try to figure the details of whatever creative project I've got on my plate. I might try to come up with something funny to tweet (after I'm done driving). I might just riff to myself on things I see, songs/ads on the radio, or just random thoughts that pop into my head. If I'm lucky, I'll even get an idea for something new to write!

Oh, and at some point I think about the road and making sure I don't plow through a building. That's important, too.

What song best describes your work ethic?

I don't know that it describes my work ethic, but I have sometimes related to Sarah McLachlan's "Building a Mystery" in the sense that when I'm writing it can feel like I'm painstakingly crafting something in secret designed to capture an eventual reader's imagination and lead them, sentence by sentence, into a place of my own weird creation. It's entirely possible I've missed the point of that song, but if I have, I don't want anyone to correct me. ;)



Where to buy Michael G. Munz's books:


Find out more about Michael G. Munz

Monday, 28 October 2013

The Lies That Bind - Book One of the Hand of Fate series (Jessica Catherine) in One Thousand Words

The Lies That Bind by Jessica Catherine is today's featured book on One Thousand Worlds.


The Lies That Bind-



The Oracle’s daughter, passionate storyteller Alaria, spends every night scouring the land for new adventures to tell by the fireside of her encampment. Unfortunately, she finds more than she bargained for when she happens upon an unconscious boy with a sword of gold, who bears the holy Sign of the Heavens. It is a mark that defines him as the glorious, influential, yet potentially dangerous, warrior catalyst in her mother’s most ancient and disturbingly vague prophecy. However, before Alaria can rush home to tell her family or her sovereign – the illustrious sorceress known as the Faerie Queen – of what she has discovered, her worst fears are confirmed. Emissaries from the rival Amazon City of Light come with plans to convey the boy into the care and control of their leader, Alexis, who will seek to use his power in her long-awaited quest to become the ruler of all and wreak vengeance upon the enemies declared responsible for her husband’s murder by seemingly magical incineration. 
The arrival of the boy, known only as Skylarius, sets a series of unavoidable events in motion, as the hand of fate casts its dice – amid a backdrop of secrecy, deception, tragedy, romance, friendship and adventure – to determine the lives of all on the island of Indyria. 


About the author-

Jessica Catherine is a twenty six year old writer from Kent, England. She has a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing and 'The Lies That Bind' is her first novel.




Alaria


It is said that everyone, and everything, has a story to tell, whether it is their own story or not.
            The Oracle’s daughter, Alaria, was a gatherer of such stories. She absorbed them, fed on them, revered them, loved them furiously and ultimately passed them on – so that they would never be forgotten. The only problem was that none of them were ever really hers. So, every night, like penance, she would go in search of one of her own.

Alaria sneaked silently out of her caravan and took a look around. The air smelt fresh – of wet grass and scented oils. The encampment was motionless in the dark and only the light from the hanging oil lamps lit the space before her eyes. The giant wolves howled into the night as she scuttled quietly down the steps, past innumerable wagons and caravans. For a Gypsy, it was a pleasant sound – the sound of security. As she moved, her shoulder length brown hair swirled against her tawny-hued cheeks; her untidy corkscrew curls barely kept contained under a red handkerchief she wore like a bandana – a present from her brother – and her vibrant purple eyes glittered as short bursts of moonlight shone through passing trees.
Like every other evening, she followed her route like clockwork. She would slip out in the middle of the night and make her way south by southwest toward the borders of the known mainland. It wasn’t a short journey by any means, sometimes she barely returned to the encampment before daybreak. She knew she would get scolded for it – she grimaced at the thought – but all in all it was worth it. She would head beyond the lip of the forest, to the oasis on the other side of the rolling hills. The green undergrowth would make way for a stretch of scrubland – sun-bleached patchy grass and craggy rock – that would eventually become the sands of the vast desert to the south. It was there that she would lose herself in her imagination. The oasis was no longer a pathetic reserve in a patch of parched earth with her around; to a fourteen year old girl with a sense of adventure it was a treasure trove that she would defend from incoming bandits, and the tall palms the rooftops that she would scamper across in an attempt to conceal herself. There, she could be someone important, someone heroic – the person she longed to be – and find her own place in the old tales she would tell, even if it were make believe. But sometimes, she would stop and realise that it almost hurt inside to imagine a life so opposite from her own at the encampment. She wanted it so badly; sometimes she could almost feel it with all her senses. However, for the meantime, her farfetched dreams would have to suffice.
Even with the sights and sounds around her so familiar, still that particular night did not feel the same as all her others. It was as if there was something in the atmosphere. Having come to know the island so well, she felt she’d know instinctively if anything were wrong or different. She wondered if she were like the fabled wood sprites that knew everything going on around them. Secrets would whisper through the trees, stealing among the leaves and into their ears, so the tiniest change wouldn’t go unnoticed. When Alaria wriggled free from her imagination, she remembered it was unlikely wood sprites existed, or at least she’d never seen any. However, one thing she knew for sure – out in the real world with her something had altered, signalling the beginning of something new. Whatever it might be, Alaria knew she wouldn’t discover it lingering in her mind’s well-versed version of her beloved sanctuary. She wouldn’t waste any more time, and set out toward it once more in reality.
Making her way through the outer reaches of the southern area of her encampment, Alaria took several well-known shortcuts to lead her into Brightmoon Forest, the dense woodland that surrounded her home. Soon, she reached the foot of the hills that separated the forest from the desert. Thaymor’s Hills they were called, and – like the wood sprites – just the sound of their name filled her mind with more childhood stories. Thaymor was supposedly the last giant in existence, and when he lay down in the earth to die the weight of his body formed the hills and dales. Humans had loved him so dearly that they’d give the broad, grassy range of low peaks his name.

After a couple of hours of walking, climbing ever higher up the gentle incline, Alaria eventually reached the top of one of the flat summits. From there it was easy to spot the oasis, not too far below her; it was the only patch of green beyond the hilltops, amongst the sandy landscape that formed the Amazon kingdom. Alaria knew the Amazons’ City of Light, and particularly Alexis, their queen, would not welcome intruders so she always stayed well out of sight. She made a lightning dash, skidding down the hillside on the heels of her leather shoes, causing debris to cascade down with her and drop into the oasis pool beneath. She flinched as the stones hit the water; the sound seemed so loud in the quiet of night. However, it wasn’t really the noises she made that she had to worry about, it was purely being seen at all in Amazon territory, and she hoped that the sentries on the Great Wall – as usual – would be oblivious to her presence. Despite her happiness at being re-united once more with the place she loved most on the island, Alaria was cautious of the Amazons’ trained guards. She summoned her courage to look out toward them. Standing atop the giant man-made structure that encompassed their city on all sides, the Amazons had eyes everywhere.



Where you can buy The Lies That Bind:

Amazon UK

Amazon US


Connect with Jessica Catherine:

Twitter

Saturday, 26 October 2013

A Trainspotters Guide To Other Earths (David Stevens) on Sci-Fi Saturday

A Trainspotters Guide To Other Earths by David Stevens is this weeks Sci-Fi Saturday feature on One Thousand Worlds.



About this author-


David Stevens

Hello and welcome.
   Write a biog they say! Now there is a challenge. Stories, books, even articles are easy to do as they are held at a distance, admittedly short but still distant. A ‘biog,’ that is another thing altogether. Why anyone would want to read about the writer I can’t envisage, writers lives are really rather boring, it is the tales they tell that have such wonderful abilities. I am often told that fateful sentence, ‘I could be a writer’ or ‘I would like to write a book’. To these people I always say do it, write it, it does not matter whether it is a good book or a bad one, because it is your book, well it is until you contact a publisher, then that all changes.
   At roughly fourteen years of age I was carted off to Bangor for an excruciating length of in-depth testing, where they discovered that I was severely dyslexic and reasonably intelligent. The first was new to me, the latter something I had naturally known, but it did explain why I could not write. Then along came the computer and thanks to a good friend I acquired one, and that was the start of a long long road.
    Just to put things in place, let me point out that the computer in question was made by Amstrad and it had no, yes I said no, hard drive. In fact it used five and a quarter floppy disks and had the processing power of about 56 K. Now that sounds shocking these days but consider that 56K was about what N.A.S.A had when they put a man on the moon.
    Back to a biog. To my readers I would like to say that I hope you enjoy my work, because for me to say anything else would be a lie, as is clearly shown by the fact that I place my work out there amongst you, obviously I want it to be read, but more importantly to be entertaining for you the reader.
   The more you write the more you open yourself up for criticism, but also the more you learn and the better your writing becomes. Writers call this learning the ‘craft’ or developing it. In my case as with most, the more I developed the craft the better the stories construction became, so old stories are never as well constructed as new stories but the editing process improves with practice, that is one of the drawbacks to posting on the net, you are always stuck with the old stories. Those older stories will have a greater number of problems than the newer ones but it is not the style that matters but the content and of course the improvement.
     For those of you that just need to know more about your pet authors, consider that writing at any level is a serious commitment in both time and lifestyle. Books take a long time to develop; they are mostly created in the loneliness of an office or a chair. Sometimes, if you are very lucky they grow by a fire-side with a nice coffee and perhaps biscuits. You know, the nice oat ones or perhaps rich chocolate, but I digress.  More often than not they are written in the dark wee hours of the night and have little input from others during their actual writing. Therefore a writer must be able to be alone with them self and their characters and be dedicated to whatever tale they are creating at the time. Or as a friend of mine so succinctly put it ‘you need to be a touch mad.’
   As I said quite boring in reality, so instead may I suggest that you acquire a good book and enter into the world the writer has created for you, and hopefully enjoy it.









          A TRAINSPOTTER’S GUIDE TO OTHER EARTHS   
                                       By David Stevens.
         This might well be the second strangest
           Science Fiction story you ever read!

PRELUDE.
 
    This is the life story of a geek from a small town, who accidentally discovers, he believes, that by holding his nose tightly, screwing up his eyes into tiny slits and blowing trapped air against his tightly closed nose, he can if he gets it just right, merge and blur the universe around him, just enough to be able to slip from one plane of existence into another.
  He then discovers that the further he moves away from his start existence, the more time has split and different pathways have opened up within society.
   Little does he realize that he has discovered nothing, that he is being sought and maneuvered by an alien ‘She,’ to another place, there to become the saviour of a different world called Earth.
   This is the story of his adventures, and the enlightening road down which his life meanders. This is the story of a dedicated Trainspotter who battles a despicable malignant horror that threatens all life and how he becomes an unknown hero to millions, whilst learning a thing or two about himself along the way.                                                         

      A TRAINSPOTTER’S GUIDE TO OTHER EARTHS
The second most weird science fiction story you might ever read.
                                                                                       
CHAPTER 1

Every adventure has a beginning, so here is mine!
                                                                                     First, let me explain something you need to know. This adventure occurred to me some years ago my time, and my now wife insists that I write it down, even if it is only to be read by our grandchildren. I think she sees long lines of them dwindling into the future and all interested in their famous grandparent’s adventures. I have tried, honestly I have to remember everything as it happened, but many years have passed and I am a very different person now, to who I was when this all happened. Also the damned ship computer refuses to be of any help at all!
   I have decided to tell my story exactly as it happened to me, which means that I have written it in two parts. The first part is clearly insane, but do not worry, do what I did and accept everything that happens as being true, if improbable. I believe my tale will open the eyes of those that did not live through it, or were unaware that they were living through it: and for those of you that are going to live through it soon, what can I say?
   Anyway, all will be explained in part two, well sort of, and may even give you an explanation for some of those questions that have lurked in your darker thoughts, questions which until now have remained unexplained.
   Ok, so you now know that it all turns out pretty well in the end, but there were times I can assure you, when I did not think that it would, or will again.

My wife and my life, before my adventure.
  
   My wife was the love of my life then; she brightened up my day, enlivened my existence and I thought enjoyed sharing my exciting hobbies such as trainspotting. For the record, I believe that this is a much maligned but highly interesting hobby. Trainspotting offers many layers of fascinating achievement for the dedicated Spotter to collect and catalogue. We, I thought, had spent many happy hours in the pouring rain dressed in our matching anoraks, waiting for a two-double–0 steam train to blast passed, coating us in its sooty but exciting emissions.
   Then there were my detailed and neatly catalogued sets of important foreign stamps to glue in on an evening. All in all, I genuinely believed that the love of my life felt totally fulfilled and lacking in any hidden desires. I was sure that if something occurred to her that she would say it, and together we would explore her new hobby idea. Just like that time when she had suggested that I get ‘Plaice’ not Cod for Friday’s tea! That had been a bit interesting, and just to please her you understand, I had deliberately got one Plaice and had even extended on her idea, by adding a pickled onion each to the order. What a successful night that had been!
   My life could get no better or so I thought, until that was I got up on that dim overcast Tuesday morning, and as I always did, I made her a nice cup of tea and a boiled egg with neatly decrusted soldiers. She was sitting up in her bed, her hair net placed on the bedside cabinet I had made especially for her, she looked at me as I entered the room carrying her tray.
  “Darling do you think that you might do something exciting for me?” She smiled and I just said “Yes” and waited…
  “Darling, could you get your coat and go outside and have an adventure, without me. Then once you have explored the whole world, return and tell me all about it.”
   What was I to say, what could I do but please my loving angel, so without hesitation I put down her tray and turned to go.
   “Darling” she called to me; I half turned and waited.
  “Make it a long detailed and exciting adventure, I won’t expect you home for tea this year or maybe even next.”
   “Yes my love, well I will be off now to start my adventuring and see you again as soon as they are completed, I might even be able to take a few photos if I remember to take the camera.” I added.
   I of course would deliberately forget the camera as so far I had failed to take a single photograph with it. The damn thing just did not like me and I guess I did not like it either, so no camera.
   She listened intently hearing the front-door close, he was gone at last she thought. With the tray ignored and its lovingly prepared breakfast going cold; she shoved it away from her and across the double bed. She looked out of the window just catching sight of her boring husband as he walked away from their house. Quickly she pulled on a pair of leather jeans, and removed a matching leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet from within a box secretly kept beneath the bed. He was gone and she was ready, she left the bedroom intent on enjoying an adventure of her own.
   Well reader of my scrawled musings and adventures, you now know how I came to be the challenger of all perception. What you do not know is how I developed the ability to slip from one universe place, across the dead separating void of almost nothing into an almost identical place to the one I had just departed from, but on a parallel universe. Now that was a mouth full to say!





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