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DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DAPublished authors, unpublished authors, previously published authors; writers, story-tellers, yarn-spinners, tall tales, tell-tales, sneaks, snitches, poets, playwrites, publishers, Cocks and Bulls, book worms, Book reviewers, booksellers, literary agents, publishers, narrators, wordsmiths, biographers, critics and philosophers, printers, book designers & of course - readers!DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DATA STERS TO TANTALISE !DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DASLEEPING WITNESS by BRYAN MOOREWhen local bigwig and property dealer, Warren Tate, is found dead, his luckless financial adviser, Nat Foskett, finds himself charged with a very seriouis crime indeed. With all evidence pointing at Nat there seems to be little hope of ever proving his innocence unless he can hunt down the real killer himself. With things looking bleak for Nat his luck is set to change when the county Sherrif's daughter, the delectable Ermentrude, a local police officer with a point to prove, takes it upon herself to help Nat's cause. When a second murder takes place Nat is again in the frame; the FBI turn up to investigate and Erm finds herself pushed off the case - but desperate to uncover the truth and prove Nat's innocence, both Erm and Nat continue their investigations in secret and as they become increasingly suspicious of the FBI's involvement and their relationship with the Pentagon...and as further bodies are found, Warren Tate's death becomes more suspicious than they could ever have imagined. Nathaniel Foskett trudged round the lake. Although still in his thirties, his lack of height accentuated the look of his portly figure. American ladies described him as cuddly. An embarrassment, as it was the unattractive ones who insisted on clasping him to their bosoms. As a chartered accountant, a tax consultant and a financial adviser, he considered exercise of the brain to be of far greater importance than exercise of the body. But as today was a free day, he'd been advised by his client, Warren Tate, a property dealer and local big-wig, that the other side of the lake was well worth a visit and that he should get over there and sweat off a few surplus pounds on the way. Even though Nat was never at a loss for words (an adviser's natural forte), he couldn't come up with an acceptable excuse. At his normal pace, it took him quite a while to locate the alleged beauty spot, but it needed no more than a cursory inspection of his surroundings to conclude that a horizontal position might serve him best. He stretched himself out on the lush grass and rested his mass of dark brown hair upon it. He focused his greyish-green eyes on the cloudless, bright-blue sky above. He could hear the water gently lapping the bank, intermingled with the constant buzz of hummingbirds. A meadowlark burst into song, sweet, soothing and so restful. Perfect, he thought. How good it felt to be alive. His eyes closed and his mind drifted into space. For a moment, he was conscious of the sound of distant voices, but only for a moment. Cra-a-ack! Nat stirred but slumbererd on. from Sleeping Witness by Bryan Moore. © 2006. ed, mumbled, and slumbered on.READ AN EXCERPT from Sleeping WitnessNathaniel Foskett trudged round the lake. Although still in his thirties, his lack of height accentuated the look of his portly figure. American ladies described him as cuddly. An embarrassment, as it was the unattractive ones who insisted on clasping him to their bosoms. As a chartered accountant, a tax consultant and a financial adviser, he considered exercise of the brain to be of far greater importance than exercise of the body. But as today was a free day, he'd been advised by his client, Warren Tate, a property dealer and local big-wig, that the other side of the lake was well worth a visit and that he should get over there and sweat off a few surplus pounds on the way. Even though Nat was never at a loss for words (an adviser's natural forte), he couldn't come up with an acceptable excuse. At his normal pace, it took him quite a while to locate the alleged beauty spot, but it needed no more than a cursory inspection of his surroundings to conclude that a horizontal position might serve him best. He stretched himself out on the lush grass and rested his mass of dark brown hair upon it. He focused his greyish-green eyes on the cloudless, bright-blue sky above. He could hear the water gently lapping the bank, intermingled with the constant buzz of hummingbirds. A meadowlark burst into song, sweet, soothing and so restful. Perfect, he thought. How good it felt to be alive. His eyes closed and his mind drifted into space. For a moment, he was conscious of the sound of distant voices, but only for a moment. Cra-a-ack! Nat stirred but slumbererd on. from Sleeping Witness by Bryan Moore. © 2006. ed, mumbled, and slumbered on.From the Author: BRYAN MOORE - Some while ago I read a murder/mystery written by a contemporary writer. It stumped my completely. The real mystery was how it got published in the first place. The storyline alone would have made the great Agatha Christie turn in her grave. I was convinced I could do much better by creating a story based on the Chrisitie concept - how a good murder/mystery should be written. I know she didn't write with a great deal of humour but I was fed up reading about gloom and doom. My aim was to keep the reader glued in his or her seat with a mystified smile on the face."Injected with the perfect balance of Suspense and Humour - this is a twisting, turning and absolutely classic, murder mystery romp!About the AuthorBryan Moore is an accountant by profession, though he entered the Army in his youth and spent time on the staff of Sandhurst,the UK's major officer-training college.He originated and related stories to his children, and in 1993 collated these into a children's book. In the same year, his first poem was included in a National Library of America's publication. A few years later, Shelagh Nugent published his first short story. Since then, many poems and short stories have appeared in print.When his pen is not conjuring up a set of accounts or even a few murders here and there, he takes on the guise of the lazy man's Bill Oddie, by studying a variety of bird-life and animal life in his own back garden.PRAISE for SLEEPING WITNESSthe author had me laughing for ages afterwards! ~~~ Set in America the story immediately throws you into well-described action... it's exciting!DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DAA PEEK AT OUR FUTURE BOOKS!DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DAGANG WARFARE by PETER St JOHN (ISBN 978 1 906146 46 7) Extract 1 ~Some say it began when my aunt called Mrs Jay an irresponsible harridan. Others blamed it on Dummy’s pyjamas. There are even some who say it was the fault of the rose hip competition. But I know the true story: it all started with a bag of liquorice allsorts. Jenno Bryce had helped me get my cart ‘Lightning’ back from the Pepper Mill Lane Mob after they had temporarily ‘borrowed’ her and I wanted to show my thanks. As I never got any pocket money, it was difficult to know what to give her. But when my next lot of sweet-ration coupons came along, I sold most of them to make a few coppers. With this, and a couple of coupons left-over, I bought her a bag of liquorice allsorts at Ma Jennings’ corner store. As I went into the school yard, I saw Jenno near the gate talking with her brother. As I was going over to her with the bag held out in my hand, Harold Crawley ran straight at me. “Look out Creepy!†I cried, getting ready to dodge. But I was too late. He swerved to brush by me and deliberately knocked my hand upwards to send the bag of sweets flying. It was typical of Creepy’s rotten tricks.Gang Warfare Extract 2 ~~~~Did I say my aunt was not the understanding kind? What an understatement! She was the kind who lets fly with blistering broadsides first and seeks explanations afterwards—that is—if she bothers about seeking explanations at all. My reception as I went into the house was far from understanding: “What have you been up now, you terrible child? You go out for firewood and come back with a black eye! Can’t let you out of my sight for an instant. Who did this to you? It’s the second time now you’ve come home in such a state. You’ve not been fighting I hope.†“I’ve not been fighting Aunt. It was JJ’s gang. You see—“ She didn’t let me finish. “That hooligan John Jay did this? That great oaf has done it again?†I did my best to stop her going off the rails: “Aunt it was dark. It may have been an accident. I’m not sure—†“An accident? An accident?†she yelled. “I’ll give him accident. Just you come with me.†She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of the room. I thought for an instant that she was taking me to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. But she pulled me past the bathroom out of the back door and into Lions Avenue. She’s taking me to a neighbour for help in patching me up, I thought. But we continued to the end of the avenue and turned right into Layers Lane. “Where are we going Aunt?†“Never you mind where we’re going,†she growled. “We’re going to get justice, that’s where we’re going.†“But Aunt,†I pleaded, “you don’t understand. I—†“I understand well enough that John Jay has done this and he’s going to answer for it,†she interrupted. My pleading was in vain: we continued our rush onwards. “But Aunt—†I said again, by now a bit alarmed. “Don’t you ‘but’ me. I’ve got eyes in my head. I can see well enough what he’s done. And he’s going to answer for it, or I’ll know the reason why.†My aunt was aroused. I could see there was nothing I could say to stop her. So I just let myself be dragged along by her. I was, in any case, getting a bit out of breath. To tell the truth, I felt a kind of morbid curiosity growing in me to see where all this would end.About the author Peter St JohnThe London-born author has had a varied career beginning shortly after the Second World War as a military pilot. On leaving the Royal Air Force, after six years of service, he became a Chartered Engineer working in aerospace research, notably in the development of large rockets to launch space vehicles. This work took him to Woomera in the Australian desert, to four year's residence in Paris and to the newly-established European Space Centre in French Guiana.He then returned to Australia where, after various interesting activities including the establishment of an enterprise to prepare technical manuals for industry and a spell as an examiner of patents, he became member of a project management team in the Royal Australian Navy charged with the development and construction of a patrol frigate. The project was well advanced when it came to an end through Government decision.It was at this moment that the Australian Senate began recruiting staff for a restructured committee system. On applying for a post, the author found himself appointed Secretary to the Australian Senate Standing Committee on Science and the Environment. Eight years later, after having prepared parliamentary reports on eleven major public inquiries, he was recruited to join the staff of the Australian Science and Technology Advisory Council reporting to the Prime Minister.During this time he became interested in the work of the Inter-Parliamentary Union, based in Geneva. The Union, established in 1889, works to foster peace through parliamentary action as well as to help strengthen parliamentary democracy throughout the world. Prominent members of the Union have won the Nobel Peace Prize on eight occasions. The author, recruited in 1984 was responsible, amongst other things, for managing the library and supervising the Union's regular publications.As a writer, he has prepared numerous technical papers and reports including a two-volume reference compendium on the parliaments of the world. Four novels have also come from his hand.He now lives in France where, from retirement he is president of a cultural association active in the promotion of creative activities.He has a son, two grandsons and a great-grandson.GANG TERRITORY by PETER St JOHN (ISBN 978 1 906146 47 4) Extract 1 ~~~~“Wot yew a-doin’?†came suddenly a small girl’s voice from the direction of the henhouse on the other side of the fence. I hurriedly turned my back to it, did up my trousers, and spun round to see who had spoken. There was nobody to be seen. “Where are you?†I said. “Oi’m in ’ere,†came the voice, “in the ‘en-‘ouse. Oi c’n see yew through a knot ‘ole. Wot yew a-doin’?†“What I’m doing is none of your business. What do you think you’re doing, spying on me.†“Oi’m not a-spyin’; jus’ watchin’. Oi’ve bin a-watchin’ all mornin’ ‘n yew’r actin’ peculiar, so? wot yew a-doin’?†“You’ve been in the hen house all this time?†I asked incredulously. “Naw, Oi c’n see yew frum moi winder too.†I looked up at the house about forty yards from where I was standing. “You’re lying. Nobody can see into this space from the windows of your house.†“Frum moi winder Oi can,†came the gleeful contradiction. “Moi winder’s in the attic.†I glanced up again at the house and, sure enough, let into the roof was a very small skylight. I had never thought that anyone could have a room immediately under the roof. “Well that’s not a reason for spying on me.†“Oi weren’t doin’ no spyin’. Oi just see’d yew. Yer noo, ain’t yew? Wot’s yer noime?â€Gang Territory Extract 2 ~~~~I looked up to discover the Slug and his bodyguard standing in front of me. “Well, if it ain’t the sweet little choirboy!†sneered the Slug. “Are yew goin’ ter sing a hymn fer us?†My heartbeat increased abruptly. “Leave me alone Snaylor!†I cried. “Ain’t yew goin’ to sing a nice little ole hymn? Ee’s got such a loverly voice Oi ‘ear.†He grinned at his bodyguard. “Go away and leave me alone.†“We’ll leave yew alone when yew’ve sung for us,†replied the Slug, giving me a push in the shoulder. “Come along now, sing nicely.†A crowd was beginning to gather around in anticipation of a diverting spectacle. “I’ll sing, if you sing first,†I declared with a bravado I was far from feeling. Snaylor didn’t like this attempt to turn the tables. He scowled at me. “Sing!†he ordered. “You first,†I insisted politely and made a sweeping bow in the style of the Three Musketeers. This brought an amused titter from the audience which I exploited by adding, “or perhaps you can’t sing.†The Slug didn’t enjoy being mocked. “Anythink wot yew c’n do, Oi c’n do. Now sing!†“I bet you can’t piss over the wall.†This caught him off balance. I must admit that it rather surprised me as well. I had not intended to issue a public challenge of this kind. It just burst out of me without reflection. “Wot wall?†he asked suspiciously. “The privy wall,†I replied, glancing towards the boys’ toilet. There was a kind of gasp from our hearers who had gathered round even closer. “Yew can’t piss over the privy wall,†said the Slug scathingly. “Yew couldn’ even piss over ya own shadder.â€DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~D A~DATHE HAUNTED MAN - RICHARD SIMReview Richard Sim has created an intriguing first novel which captivates and enthralls its readers with his sumptuously depicted portrayal of a deeply superstitious country rife with political unrest. --The Editorial ReviewDA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DAI F IT FALLS by NAOMI YOUNGRaphael, an ex-guerrilla in the Guatemalan civil war, has returned to live in the capital where he works as a reporter for the newspaper Siglo Veintiuno. He has a girlfriend, Lola, who he has been with for two years. Raphael has seen Lola with another man (Josue) a couple of times. He accuses her of cheating on him. They argue and she storms off.Rosario Recinos, a reporter on another paper, is found murdered and Raphael is asked to write an editorial about it. He unearths a story that Rosario had been working on concerning the killing of a pastor, Manuel Chavez in Chimaltenango, and Raphael goes there to investigate. Colonel Almendrez Lopez was suspected of the crime, but never brought to justice because of his military connections.When Raphael returns he can’t find Lola at her office, or home. Fearing the worse, he begins checking hospitals and finds that she has died. At the hospital he meets Josue, who introduces himself as Lola’s boyfriend. A policeman asks Raphael to identify Lola’s body; apparently it was murder. Josue is distraught and Raphael ends up staying the night with him.The police question Raphael and insinuate he killed Lola in a fit of jealousy, but then they release him. When Josue doesn’t turn up to a meeting they’d arranged, Raphael goes to check on him and finds he’s been beaten up by the police who also suspect him of Lola’s murder.Meanwhile, Raphael has contacted Lola’s sister, Andrea, who turns out to have been the mistress of the murdered journalist Rosario. She shocks Raphael by telling him how much Lola really loved him. In his confusion Raphael buries himself in investigative work, during which he finds a picture of Colonel Lopez kidnapping Manual Chavez. Later, he comes across a file that implies that Lola had been informing on him to a third party. While it is obvious the file was planted, Raphael can’t see that, and this discovery tips him over into a path of illogical thinking driven by his own fears, paranoia and guilt.During the wake and funeral he further convinces himself that the only solution is to confess to Lola’s murder. He is interviewed by Lopez, who is now a police officer, who says he doesn’t believe that it was manslaughter, but pre-meditated murder.Raphael is jailed, pending trial. Andrea comes to visit him and cannot understand why he confessed. Josue also visits Raphael and admits that he never had an affair with Lola. He reveals she had written him several letters, the content of which meant they could have been used to make forged notes that were planted in Raphael’s house. Although he can never know exactly what happened, Raphael believes again in Lola’s loyalty and love for him, and finds peace.Raphael is convicted and given life imprisonment for Lola’s murder. Andrea continues to visit him and their friendship grows. Josue emigrates to Spain. There is a hint that Colonel Lopez will get his comeuppance in the future.ABOUT NAOMI YOUNG - in her own words:I have an MA in Creative Writing from Manchester Metropolitan University.I have always wanted to be a writer, but have been writing seriously for about ten years and have had poetry published in various anthologies, most recently in: Entertaining Angels, compiled by Geoffrey Duncan, Canterbury Press, 2005; and Courage to Love: An Anthology of Inclusive Worship Material, compiled by Geoffrey Duncan, Darton Longman and Todd, 2002 - winner of the LAMBDA Literary Award 2003.In 2003, I organised a reading of local poets at the Cambridge Borders store, which was very well attended, where I also read and was the MC. In 2000, I organised Words for Life a week long writing workshop with Sanchez Elementary School, Austin, Texas, culminating with a presentation at the University of Texas, a Proclamation from the Mayor of Austin and publication of the children’s work. I was also a collaborating writer for Floricanto a week-long writing workshop with Austin High School and the Gardner Betts Juvenile Center, sponsored by La Pe,,a latino arts organization.In July 2004, I started my own quarterly magazine called Velvet, aimed mainly, but not exclusively at the more mature, intellectual and non-scene lesbian community. The magazine is run with a team of volunteers and I am both business manager and editor. We have succeeded in staying in business for two years and have been able to attract some well-known interviewees such as Sarah Waters, Sandi Toksvig, and Louise Welsh.I live and work in Cambridge and am currently working on a new novel.DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DATHE FROZEN HEAD OF MONSIEUR MILENKO by ELIZABETH McDOUGALLFor twenty-three years Elizabeth McDougall accompanied her husband, BBC Foreign Correspondent Ian, around the globe on three continents and in seven countries in what were, to put it mildly, ‘interesting times’. Mau Mau; Vietnam; the communist uprising in Malaysia; Yugoslavia under Tito; Moscow during the Cold War and other communist bloc countries all come into her story. Ian wrote lively letters from his many assignments away from base, the real story behind the official one of his encounters with statesmen of varied political persuasions, soldiers and rebels fighting for their independence and difficult customs officials who entertained strong objections to his BBC portable recorder. All these letters, plus many press photographs, Elizabeth kept. They have been used to illustrate her story. It depicts the life of a journalist’s wife coping with her husband’s many absences, the necessity of quickly learning foreign languages and the problems of raising a family all over the world. She also had the pleasure of observing, close-up, glamorous and famous personalities of the time, among them Brigitte Bardot, Jackie Kennedy, Ava Gardner and Madame Nikita Khrushchev. Elizabeth also experienced a less agreeable incident when she was nearly captured by Vietnamese communists outside Hanoi.DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DAMASS DREAMS by BERTA FREISTADTAt Eye the Girls cafe in Paradise, story night is the most popular one of the week. And where is Paradise? Who knows or cares. The people who live there are just like the rest of us with work-day blues, secret dreams, private obsessions and parents who let them down. Although it’s true to say that some of them are a little different. There's Ryo - a bewildered child with her gift of clairvoyance out of control; Dortha, in love with a tree fairy; Nuala, nearly killed by numbers and Roseen pregnant by a giant bird.And if most of the heroes are women it’s not that men aren’t important, indeed if it weren’t for men Paradise would never have been built. But when we meet them it’s in a times or places far away, like the terrible city of L. And of course the male figure is a frequent visitor; the Tally-man and his silver dog, or Johnny’s brother who is a woman, not to mention Le Duk, leader of the Winged Bandits.Refugees from a catastrophic time, the women battle with the elements, with the pressures of love and work and getting drunk and with figures of evil and danger who are drawn to their community. Story time at Eye the Girls frames this saga - a chap book of fragments that build to a mythic whole.Mass Dreams is a collection of connected speculative fiction pieces about stories and storytelling and the power of words. It's discourse and narrative of an unnamed time or place debate many issues of contemporary relevance, like sexuality and gender, the nature of truth and the family, among others.Mass Dreams of the Future will find a readership amongst those who enjoy fantasy, cataclysmic and utopian/dystopian fiction. Also those who enjoy adult fairy stories - stories that deal with the serious and fascinating issues of life and yet break from the bounds of reality into a wider cosmology. This collection of stories is heir to those early tales of matriarchal fantasy - The Wanderground by Sally Gearhart and Dorothy Bryant’s Kin of Ata, while some of the wilder characters might have come from Olaf Stapledon’s Last and First Men.DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DAExcerp t: The final page from ~ Exit From the City of L.DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA……He smiled like a sprite, held out his arms as though to hug us and made a kind of obeisance, and suddenly he was gone. Running off through the lighted doorway back to the sick room with his sister on his tail. No-one spoke. Dortha was sweeping up the glass as I picked up the dress and the other things. People were going home in twos and threes. Arms around each other. No-one would sleep alone tonight, that was for sure. I followed the strange two and found the sister crouched by her brother picking glass from his feet.‘Good job the bottle was brown’ she was saying angrily. I said, ‘Don’t cut your hands, will you.’ And she looked up at me with such a mixture of pain and longing.I knew where I was wanted tonight. And I marvelled that the history we had just seen, that surely she too must have shared in some part, had produced two such loving, courageous people. Charlie refused the dress and asked for trousers and a shirt. I said we’d see about it later. We bound his feet and he collapsed beneath the covers sleeping immediately. She wasn’t looking at me so I took her hand. ‘Serena,’ I said, ‘come with me.’ And she did. Followed me like a lamb. And it seemed that they did things there much like we did them here. Though there was a tension in her I’ve never felt before. But it was by no means unpleasant and after all the confusion she was precious for being a true woman. She wept a little, not much, and I think it was more because she had called ‘Mary’, rather than had wanted that woman. Finally we slept as the sun came up and I felt happy that her face looked more relaxed than it ever had since she’d arrived here. For myself too, of course. She was a beautiful woman. When I woke a few hours later she was gone. So were some of my clothes. Trousers, shoes, a shirt and a jacket. They never said goodbye. I wondered how a woman who looked like a boy and a man who had the body of a woman would fare. What would he do now the pills had gone? I hoped she, at least, would return. She owed me for the clothes. ~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA About Berta FreistadtDA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA~DA Berta Freistadt is a Londoner ( born 1942) of mixed heritage: Mother, Irish-Scottish, Presbyterian with RC leanings. Father, Austro-Czech, a Jewish refugee. She has a Master’s degree in Screenwriting and is a teacher, poet and writer, published on both sides of the Atlantic. She originally worked in theatre – acting + back-stage; became a drama teacher in London’s east end where she wrote her first play. Between 1981-1991 there have been 9 productions of her plays in London, N. Ireland, Canada, & Australia. Her poetry is much anthologised and has won several awards and she has been commissioned several time to produce ‘special occasion’ poetry. In 1992 she co-edited a book of gay poetry for The Oscars Press - Language of Water Language of Fire. Her own book Flood Warning (Five Leaves) was published in 2004. Her fiction has been published in various anthologies and magazines. Mass Dreams, a chapbook of visions and fairy tales, was the winner of the London Region of the Undiscovered Authors 2006 Competition. Berta is now a discovered author!As well as being a sometime/somehow writer, she teaches Memoir, Creative Writing & Poetry (hands on doing it not just reading it!) at Birkbeck College of UL and other institutions. She lives alone with Mr Charlie-Bluebell in a house that backs onto a cemetery and enjoys the quiet neighbours.Most of her family live in California & Missouri.
Our 'Once upon a time' moment happened in 2005 when ex-Random House Director, Graham Miller, founded Discovered Authors. Over the previous years it had become clear just how increasingly difficult it was for new and experienced authors to become and remain published due, in part, to the commercial restrictions imposed by publishing houses and the book trade.Thus emerged our vision of an Independent Publishing House dedicated to supporting authors in a variety of different ways. We aim to support all writers who have a passion and desire to see their work in print!So come in and explore our MySpace profile where we can introduce you to the exciting possibilities we offer to make YOUR book into a published reality!
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