GMTA UK Author Review Seek Magazine

GMTA Publishing UK

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Contents: Pages 3 - 4: About Great Minds Think Aloud Chris McKenna Page 5: Introducing Chris McKenna Page 6: Bardo by Chris McKenna Pages 7 - 9: First Chapter Excerpt from Bardo George Stratford Pages 10 - 11: Introducing George Stratford Page 12: Ain’t Finished Yet by George Stratford Pages 13 - 14: First Chapter Excerpt from Ain't Finished Yet Page 15: Buried Pasts by George Stratford Pages 16 - 20: First Chapter Excerpt from Buried Pasts Kate Tenbeth Pages 21 - 22: Introducing Kate Tenbeth Page 23: Unlucky Dip by Kate Tenbeth Pages 24 - 26: First Chapter Excerpt from Unlucky Dip Page 26: Unlucky Dip Reviews Mike Evers Pages 27 - 28: Introducing Mike Evers Page 29: Campaign Of The Gods by Mike Evers Pages 20 - 34: First Chapter Excerpt from Campaign Of The Gods Page 35: The Spirit Archer by Mike Evers Pages 36 - 41: First Chapter Excerpt from The Spirit Archer Page 42: How to request books to review

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About Great Minds Think Aloud: GMTA is a small publisher publishing through Amazon, Createspace, and Barnes & Noble.

Benefits for publishing with GMTA are free internet promotion, free day promotion through use of the Kindle Direct Select plan, giveaways, blog tours and various internet social marketing techniques. GMTA has worked hard for authors over the past year and a half helping them get more notice on the web and so far we have had overwhelming success. By offering publishing and publishing services we intend to become more a part of that success.

Contracts with us include free internet promotion, production of cover art, creation of blogs, like pages or other social media to help the author gain the attention of the online community and guidance to other avenues of promotions that could further help the author with their works. GMTA does offer help contacting bookstores, and other venues to set up signings and will send a copy of any books published through GMTA to Barnes & Noble through the small publishers program. We also contact Publisher's Weekly with review requests. We have a staff of proof-readers, beta readers, and editors working with GMTA that charge reasonable fees for their services. However, these fees are the responsibility of the author. Though we screen manuscripts submitted to us, no editing will be done unless a contract is accepted and signed.

Our editors work directly with our authors and cover artists to provide the best service possible. We do ask if the author provides artwork for their covers that it be royalty free and from a reputable site, otherwise any artwork used for covers will be provided by GMTA. Cover design and artwork is free for any author published with GMTA; however we do charge modest fees for cover art not created for GMTA authors and more information about that can be found on this site. The only fees GMTA charges authors is $35.00 for the publication of print copies, this fee goes toward paying for the ISBN and Expanded Distribution of the published work.

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GMTA Publishing UK Contracts for each individual book published with GMTA will be signed and locked in for a full year from the date of acceptance. These contracts are exclusive in the United States though the author can seek publication for the works in other countries if deemed necessary to reach a certain audience. For more information about GMTA Publishing & Services or if you have any questions feel free to contact Kitty Bullard, greatmindsthinkaloud@gmail.com or by using the contact form on the contact page.

Please be sure and read our submission guidelines in full before submitting your manuscript to GMTA. Kitty D. Bullard (Publisher, PR, Cover Artist, Book Formatting) ~*~

The GMTA Staff are: UK AGENT - KATE BAINBRIDGE ~*~ Publisher, PR, Cover Artist, Book Formatting: Kitty D. Bullard ~*~ Cover Artist: Amber Rendon ~*~ Editors & Proof-readers: Jasmine Denton Laurie Will Lilly Jean Lisanne Cooper Valarie Fletcher ~*~ Promotional Assistants: Dawn Colclasure (Children's) Kate Bainbridge (UK Authors Promotions, Romance & YA) Kitty Bullard (Fantasy, SciFi & Horror Promotions) Mark Lee (General Promotions) ~*~ GMTA UK GMTA Publishing

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Introducing Chris McKenna

Chris McKenna was born in Scotland in 1983. After graduating from university he worked as a programmer in Scotland and then Austria, before giving up his day job to explore the Far East.

Presently Chris is working as an English language teacher in Asia and has lived and worked in many countries including: China, Japan, Indonesia and the Philippines.

We would tell you where he lives now, but by the time we do he'll probably be living somewhere else.

Goodreads Facebook Twitter Chris McKenna is also available for Interviews, Guest Posts and Features. ~*~ Published works to date (Not by GMTA): Paradigms ~ Published December 1st 2010 by Gypsy Shadow Publishing Company The Truth About Faeries - first published May 14th 2011 Published works to date (by GMTA): Bardo - Published August 20th 2012 by GMTA Publishing

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BARDO (Chris McKenna)

Nikki finds herself in a world between realms, the Bardo, and time is running out.

Soon her essence will be scattered forever. Can she pull herself together?

Bardo , based loosely on the Tibetan Book of the Dead, follows Nikki, a young schoolgirl who has an.... unfortunate accident and finds herself trapped in the Bardo.

It won’t be long before she'll be scattered across the realms. With only a dog to guide her, can she re-unite herself in time to escape?

Fun, fast and humorous, Bardo asks questions about some deep issues, including who we really are, the nature of life and death and why schools insist on students wearing school uniforms when there are much more fashionable options available.

Create Space Amazon Amaon UK Barnes & Noble Paperback 211 pages ISBN: 1479159565 ISBN13: 9781479159567 Kindle Edition 142 pages ASIN: B009038MQ2

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Bardo - Chapter 1 I was born, I did stuff and now I'm running. Running is a massive part of my life. It's something which I seem to end up doing a lot. I'm not talking about athletics here - I'm not some kind of freakishly long-legged running girl or anything like that. I just mean running to get from one place to another in as fast a time as possible. To be fair, that's usually because I am late.

The world looks down on late people - school especially looks down on late people. Nobody gets that it's just something about yourself that's impossible to change. You wouldn't snub someone or punish them just because they had blonde hair, would you? - By the way I'm not blonde. You wouldn't judge them for being tall, would you? - I'm not that tall either.

I can't believe I'm going to be late for my maths exam! My mother’s going to kill me.

Today it wasn't even my fault. I have to admit there have been a few days now and then where I've...well... 'rolled over.' But it wasn't like that today. Today it was the school’s fault. I mean why do they have to insist on perfect pristine uniforms? Is it going to make a bit of difference to my 'learning ability' if I wear a skirt or not? I don't think so. And why do the shoes have to be so uncomfortable? We're sixteen years old; we deserve a comfortable, maybe even fashionable pair of shoes! Worst of all, why did my mother carelessly sit the hoover on top of one of my shoes – the left one - so that I had to spend half an hour searching for it?

Well anyway, hi! I'm Nikki and you've joined me on what is turning out to be the worst day of my life. So far I've made it about three-quarters of the way to school.

I'm thinking that if I cut through the park and keep up the pace I might just be able to make it for the start of the exam. I'll miss registration class, there is no doubt in that, but it's the exam that's the important thing. Furious teachers I can deal with later.

Normally I avoid the park. It's not dangerous or anything like that, well, not in a scary kind of way. But on a nice sunny day like today it's tempting just to sit down and have a little seat in the morning sun. I've missed more than a few classes to a sunny morning in the park. After school, the place gets filled with bull headed footballers – not my type – and Barbie doll girls – not my friends. But at the moment it's quiet, still, comfortable. Don't stop! I have to keep running!

It's as I make my way along the rows of conifers that line the path on the far side of the park that I hear a bark. Well, more of a yelp than a bark. Now I know what you’re thinking: a dog barking in a park, so what? Stop getting distracted and get to school! But the odd thing was that it sounded like it was coming from the top of one of the trees. There it is again. I'm sure I heard it!

I jog back to the tree. It's one of the really tall conifers that line path and where is one of the places that the bulls and Barbies go to make out behind. At first I don’t see anything and I'm starting to think that all the stress is getting to me or http://gmtauk.blogspot.co.uk/

GMTA Publishing UK something equally Oprah. Then I see the paw, a little white cloud prodding out at the top of the tree. It's not a big dog, but it's a dog for sure. Moving back I can see it clearly, all black but for the single white paw. Probably some kind of mongrel by the looks of things.

“I know you can't answer me!” I shout, “but how in the hell did you get up there?”

No response. For some reason I'm surprised. In the distance the school bell rings. I could make it if I run. I'm sure of it.

“Sorry pup,” I shout up the tree, “I've got to go, I'll be in big trouble if I don't.”

The dog gives a yelp in reply and paws around a little, almost as if it's about to make the suicidal jump. Just my luck. I look around hoping to find someone to tell.

Someone with more time than me, but the path is deserted.

“I'm sorry,” I shout again.

I look towards the school. Look back to the tree. Then start climbing.

There are certain types of tree that are just meant to be climbed. Conifers are not one of them. First of all I have to get down on my hands and knees just to get under its skirt – I'll be late now for sure, but at least no one is going to be more angry because I'm late and dirty.

I fight my way up through the tight branches. Pushing them aside is an effort and more often than not they whip back slashing me across the face. I'm starting to think this might not have been the best of ideas. It's harder than I thought to make progress and my arms and legs are getting tired. Now, not only will I have missed my exam, but I'll also have failed to save a dog in the process. Life is not looking good right now.

A clump of branches tears off from the tree and start to fall back, but I'm able to snatch a second, firmer clump just in time. It's getting high and dying is beginning to look like an option. Better that than having to go tell my mother I missed my maths final to go tree climbing. Both scenarios would have the same end result: me dying. But the second one involves a lot more shouting beforehand.

Just as I'm sure my hands can't take any more little cuts and that my body is too heavy to climb any higher on the branches that are becoming very very fine, I see the dog. He's watching me with a sort of calm curiosity. His body nested in a little cluster of fine branches, the single white paw held high and forward as if there might be something wrong with it.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” I say, trying to keep my voice in a tone that I hope will make it clear what I mean. “Now I'm just going to reach over and pick you up, okay? Whatever you do, don't bite me, it's a long fall and I will drop you and we will die. Do you understand?”

The little dog cocks his head to one side. http://gmtauk.blogspot.co.uk/

GMTA Publishing UK “I'll take that as yes then.”

I bring my hand slowly towards the dog and he sniffs it for a moment.

“Don't even think about it!” I warn him.

He licks my hand lightly in response.

“I should think so too.”

Grabbing as tight as can with my other hand, I'm able to get my arm over his little body and pull him round so that he's hanging by my waist. I take a deep breath.

Time to try and get back down.

Even with one hand, it's easier than I thought it would be to get to the ground.

The branches that had got in my way on the way up, move aside easily with the weight of my feet while providing me with more support than before, even then there are still a few close calls. Still I'm still relieved when my feet touch the solid ground.

Getting out from under the tree I place the dog in front of me and stare up at where we've just come from. I am so lucky that I didn't die. What was I thinking? I look across to where the school is. No, really, what was I thinking? I am so dead.

A little yelp draws my attention back to the dog. He's sitting there with his tail wagging and his little paw held out in front of him.

“Okay, off you go,” I say, “Go and find your master, or whatever.”

The dog sits watching me.

“So what? I've to take you home now as well? Don't you think you've caused me enough trouble for one day?” I spot the green and brown streaks all over my formerly pristine white shirt. “Come on, look at me,” I plead.

He still just sits there.

“Oh, all right then,” I say spotting a little gold tag on a nice blue collar. “Let's see where you stay then.”

The tag is blank- why am I not surprised? I shake my head and sit on the ground. My skirt’s already filthy anyway, a bit more dirt and dust is not going to make much of difference. The dog hobbles over and gives a me a gentle lick on the hand.

“I know it's not your fault,” I say. “Well, except the part where you go climbing trees and get stuck. How did you get up there? At least can try and find a vet and see if he can do something for your paw okay, boy?” I suddenly have a moment of doubt and pick up the dog, checking under its belly. “Yes, boy. I'm glad we've got that sorted. Now what should we call you?”

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Introducing George Stratford

I was born prematurely (feet first, all two and a half pounds of me) in Croydon, South London during early June 1944 - just four days before Hitler's V1 flying doodlebug bombs began raining down all around our neighbourhood. Years later my mother told me the story of how our house (with us inside) had one almost miraculous escape from these bombs. Maybe there's a novel somewhere in this for me? It's a strong possibility.

My father was a Canadian bomber pilot serving with 78 Squadron RAF Bomber Command. He was killed in action on his 28th mission when I was six weeks old.

Before I was born, my mother was also very involved in the war effort, serving as a WAAF at the top secret Bletchley Park establishment where the famous German Enigma code was eventually broken.

My first published novel, IN THE LONG RUN, had as its backdrop South Africa's real life event Comrades Marathon - 55 miles of torture run over massive hills, most years in considerable heat and humidity. This was selling spectacularly well for a first novel until my publishers went bust virtually overnight, so not a single penny of royalties ever found its way into my pocket.

I later re-published the title with Booksurge, now Create Space. The book features a foreword written by BBC broadcaster and former Olympic athlete, Steve Cram. Steve, whose world record time for the mile stood for over eight years, also provided a jacket quote stating, "A gripping tale from start to finish." That's Steve with me in the second picture, taken at the launch party of the original version of IN THE LONG RUN in March 2000. This was held at the London HQ of advertising giants Saatchi & Saatchi, where I was working at the time as a copywriter.

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How the heck did I ever manage to get myself such a job in Don Draper land at 51 years old when only three years previously I had been a long-term unemployed bum with absolutely no educational qualifications to my name? That's another story altogether. One that I've just finished writing in a bio called AIN'T FINISHED YET. I can indeed identify with many aspects of the fabulous TV series Mad Men, although sadly from a personal point of view, with very little of the gratuitous sex and huge salaries involved.

BURIED PASTS, now available in paperback and electronic format with Great Minds Think Aloud, is a tribute to the father I never knew. It's no coincidence that the central character Mike Stafford's surname is so similar, nor that he comes from Brandon, Manitoba, my father's hometown. Even the fictional RAF 79 Squadron is as close as possible to the real thing. In fact, I visualized Stafford as being my father throughout the writing. I liked to fondly imagine that this is how Dad, had he lived, would have responded to the same difficulties and dangers that Stafford finds himself confronting.

Website ~*~ Published works to date (Not by GMTA): In the Long Run - Published July 24th 2006 by Booksurge Publishing Published works to date (by GMTA): Ain't Finished Yet - Published September 2nd 2012 by GMTA Publishing Buried Pasts - Published June 10th 2012 by Great Minds Think Aloud ~*~ George Stratford is also available for Interviews, Guest Posts and Features.

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AIN'T FINISHED YET (George Stratford)

From 50 year old jobless write-off, to award winning writer at the world’s most famous advertising agency. At fifty years old I finally realised that I’ve become a bum.

Worse than that, I was an unemployed bum with no educational qualifications whatsoever to my name during the recession of the early 1990s. So how the heck did I make the huge leap from this sorry state, to working in the Mad Men world of major league advertising at Saatchi & Saatchi, London? And, by way of a bonus, also get to live out my very own 15 minutes of fame that pop art legend Andy Warhol promised everyone way back in 1968.

From the BBC to the British national press, for a short while it felt as if everyone in the media wanted to talk to me. But the truth is, none of this would have come about without a lot of luck, not to mention help from some wonderful people along the way.

AIN’T FINISHED YET will tell you all about the amazing, amusing, heart-warming, great, (and even ‘not so great’) experiences that I encountered en-route in one simply magical six-year period.

Create Space Amazon Amazon UK Paperback 388 pages ISBN 1479246514 ISBN13: 9781479246519 Kindle 378 Pages http://gmtauk.blogspot.co.uk/

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Ain’t Finished Yet - Chapter 1: Time to Give up?

Just like the smoking habit, I found signing on at the Job Centre every fortnight simply in order to collect the resulting giro payment dangerously addictive.

It was never meant to be this way. During the latter part of 1990 I had the beginnings of a novel I was desperate to write rattling around in my head. It was with me day and night. But despite all this rattling, there was very little in the way of words actually getting down on paper. Why? Because my story centred around South Africa’s unique Comrades Marathon, and without a lengthy research trip to Natal, I was painfully aware that didn’t know enough about the event itself, or the South African way of life. In fact, nowhere near enough if the novel was to turn out as authentic as I wanted it to be.

I was working as a French polisher with a Bournemouth based shopfitting company at the time, and my request for extended leave was met reassuringly enough.

‘Sure, go ahead and take all the time you want,’ I was told. ‘Obviously you’ll have to quit for now, but your job will still be here for you when you come back.’

I don’t doubt that this was said in all sincerity at the time, but things have a nasty habit of changing when you least want them to.

Having spent virtually every penny of my savings, I returned four months later to discover that the company had been taken over by a much larger concern. The new broom had swept devastatingly through the place, on its way effectively dumping my French polishing department into one of the large rubbish skips outside in the yard.

Hello Job Centre. *

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*

I left Secondary Modern School in 1959 at fifteen years old, and with no qualifications at all apart from a swimming certificate and something educational called the UEI Part One. No, I can’t remember what the letters stood for, nor have I ever met anyone in later life who has even heard of such a qualification. It must have been some kind of government invention that was created and aborted all in pretty much the same breath. For all the good it did me, the letters might well have stood for Useless Exam Initiative.

This lack of paper credentials, plus a birth certificate that showed I was hardly a teenager any longer, meant that the Job Centre wasn’t exactly overflowing with opportunities when I first arrived to sign on. Especially after the few other potential French polishing outlets in the area all stated quite firmly that they were not taking anyone on at present.

This was during the recession of the early 1990s remember. My written applications to all and sundry mostly went unanswered. Any time an interview was

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GMTA Publishing UK actually granted, you could almost see the queue of rival applicants for the same position stretching all the way around the block. Nearly all of them would be considerably younger than me, and it wasn’t a particularly hard challenge for them to trump my swimming certificate and UEI either. I think a book of Green Shield Stamps could almost have achieved that.

‘We’ll let you know if you’re successful,’ was the inevitable outcome. Except that no one ever did.

Lower and lower my expectations sunk, until after about six months of this repeated failure, something inside of me suddenly snapped. To hell with everyone, I told myself. If they don’t want me, I don’t want them. I’ll settle for a life on the dole.

And that’s precisely what I did for the next year and a half. With no family depending on me for their daily crust, it was easy. The social life was pretty nonexistent, but at least I was able to keep a roof over my head and sufficient tins of baked beans in the larder. My days were spent working on the South African based novel that had been the precursor to all of this, rarely churning out fewer than a thousand words a day. Surely, I kept telling myself, a major publisher would jump at it once it was completed and turn my life around? That was my justification for this self-indulgent existence anyway. My evenings, when not continuing with my writing, were mostly spent in front of the TV becoming an expert on Corrie, Eastenders et al.

The roof in question was the spare bedroom of my long-standing friend, Peter Paterson. I’d moved in as a lodger with Peter and his family in 1974, supposedly for a couple of months at the most. Nearly twenty years later I was still there.

Although I was regularly claiming my unemployment benefit all of this time, for some strange reason (maybe there was a glimmer of misplaced pride still remaining?) I initially baulked at claiming Housing Benefit too. This meant that Peter’s weekly rent was frequently short, or, in some cases, missing completely. I did do a few odd jobs around the house for him by way of compensation, but this came nowhere near to covering the money I actually owed. His generosity over this matter deserves to be recorded. I did finally get around to claiming Housing Benefit, but not until a further year had passed.

Of course, this situation couldn’t possibly continue forever. I had turned into a bum, and was shortly due to receive a wake-up call from a most unexpected source.

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Buried Pasts (George Stratford)

Personal demons can be a killer.

Even after eighteen years, Canadian pilot Mike Stafford still carries a powerful sense of guilt over the death of his best friend during a huge RAF bombing raid to Berlin in 1944. He eventually returns to England for an inaugural squadron reunion full of apprehension over what the visit may produce.

Siggi Hoffman, then a young German girl of twenty, also has terrible memories of a personal loss from that same wartime night. She too is unable to forget. Nor has she ever been able to forgive.

When fate throws these two together in a small north Yorkshire town during the summer of 1962, the past collides devastatingly into the present. And all the time, lurking ominously in the background, is an unknown enemy intent on extracting violent revenge. Personal demons are only one of the many problems that must now be overcome when Stafford and Siggi find themselves fighting to survive.

As long buried secrets are finally revealed, events reach a literally explosive conclusion.

Create Space Amazon Amazon UK Barnes & Noble Paperback 334 pages ISBN: 1849237999 ISBN13: 9781849237994 Kindle Edition 392 pages ASIN: B008AE86XQ

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Buried Pasts - Chapter 1: MARCH 1944 Five had already gone. It was Stafford’s turn next.

In the rapidly fading light of a chill Yorkshire evening, he eased the big Lancaster bomber into position at the end of the runway and applied the brakes. The noise from his four Rolls Royce Merlin engines increased to a roar as he ran them all at full revs.

To a pilot of Flight Sergeant Mike Stafford’s experience, the pre-flight checks were second nature. Not that familiarity with the take-off routine ever eased the tension of the moment for him. Nor, he considered, was it likely to make things any easier for the six members of his crew scattered in their respective positions throughout the length of the now violently shuddering fuselage. Each one of them would be going through pretty much the same range of apprehensive emotions as himself while preparing for yet another trip to the ‘Big City’ – Berlin.

Below them all in the darkness of the bomb bay lurked the aircraft’s nonhuman cargo: one 8000lb ‘cookie’ bomb, plus well over a thousand small incendiary devices.

Stafford shifted position slightly in his seat. He prayed it would be only their bombs, and not the entire bloody plane, that came crashing down on enemy territory tonight. But the odds on another safe return to base were debatable. They had already managed to survive on twenty-seven occasions. Still, he told himself, only three more missions to go and their tour of duty would be completed. After that there would be a nice spot of leave to enjoy. Even as this pleasant thought formed, he remembered that many crews did not even get beyond their first five missions. Was it unreasonable to think that Lancaster K for King may now be flying on borrowed time?

Pre-flight checks completed, and with engines now running steady, he waited for the green light that would signal his clearance for take off. Altogether there were seventeen Lancasters from 79 Squadron at RAF Wetherditch on operations that night. They were leaving at one-minute intervals.

The green light came.

Stafford applied full power. The heavy bomber trembled as it began its forward surge. Rapidly gathering pace, it thundered down the runway. Outside the marker lights set on the ground flashed by. Eighty miles an hour – then ninety – then one hundred.

At this speed Stafford eased back the stick. The Lancaster, heavily burdened with its bomb load plus over two thousand gallons of high-octane fuel, clung stubbornly to the ground before finally yielding to the law of aerodynamics. As the four propellers clawed furiously at the air for more altitude, he raised the undercarriage.

Once again they were on their way to Berlin. http://gmtauk.blogspot.co.uk/

GMTA Publishing UK *

*

*

Stafford was well aware of why Berlin had been nicknamed the ‘Big City’.

Quite apart from the sheer size and importance of the place, the city’s ground defences were the most formidable in Germany. Hundreds of heavy flak guns, each capable of destroying a plane with a single shot, had been massed together to protect the German capital. Situated as it was in the heart of the country, a trip there meant that K for King could expect to be in the air and under threat of attack for around eight hours. Maybe much longer if damaged or forced to take a diversion.

Enemy night fighters were an almost constant danger. Those defending the target area would be waiting high above the flak barrage like birds of prey. With their vastly superior speed and armament, these Luftwaffe pilots were sure to find many more easy pickings before the night was over. Tonight’s raid numbered nearly a thousand aircraft - the sky would be packed with potential victims. Far too many for the German fighters to gobble up completely before the opportunity had passed.

Survival in a Lancaster, and in the even more vulnerable Halifax, often came down to nothing other than the passing whim of an enemy pilot.

‘Eeny – meeny – miny – mo,’ Stafford murmured to himself in a moment of dark humour. *

*

*

The navigator’s voice sounded over Stafford's intercom, giving him his course for the first leg of the journey. A few minutes later they crossed the English coast just south of Hull and were heading out across the North Sea. Further snippets of information came from both the flight engineer and navigator. Twice he made slight adjustments to their course to compensate for the strong crosswind they were experiencing.

Twenty-five miles out over the water, he once again flicked the intercom switch on the front of his oxygen mask. His accent was pure Canadian. ‘Pilot to gunners. Test your guns now.’

Flight Sergeant ‘Geordie’ Heatley was the first to respond. Exposed for the duration in his isolated transparent turret at the tail of the aircraft, everyone on board knew that his was the loneliest and most dangerous job of all. With just four lightweight .303 machine guns for company, he made a tempting target for the 20mm heavy cannons of any night fighters coming in to attack from the rear.

Each of Geordie’s guns fired off a short burst into the night sky. Above and behind him, their Kiwi mid-upper gunner, Sergeant Phil Thomas, went through the same routine.

‘All guns okay skipper,’ both men reported.

From the very front of the aircraft, the broad south London voice of Sergeant Jimmy Knight also responded. ‘Same here skipper. All guns okay.’

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GMTA Publishing UK As the bomb aimer positioned in the nose turret, it was Jimmy's job to double up as their front gunner.

Stafford smiled at his best friend’s chirpy tone. They were both only twentyfour years old, but just two months ago Jimmy had surprised everyone by getting married. Stafford could still hardly believe how suddenly it had happened. Not that Jimmy was making the most of his new status at present. With his wife many miles away in London, the couple had seen each other only twice since their day at the registry office. Stafford smiled again. There was little doubt how his buddy would be spending his time on leave once they’d got through this tour of duty.

Jimmy’s voice came over the intercom once again, bringing his mind back to the job in hand. ‘Bombs selected on all switches skipper.’

Stafford acknowledged this, at the same time casting his eyes around the sky.

He could see two other Lancasters, but already their squadron was being scattered by the strong crosswinds.

After two hours in the air, Flying Officer Doug Short, the navigator and only commissioned officer on board, came out with the words that the entire crew were apprehensively waiting for.

‘Enemy coast ahead.’

Stafford responded to this with a general broadcast. ‘Right you guys, cigarettes out and keep your eyes open. And no lights on if you can help it.’

They flew over the Danish coast at 18,000 feet and began to climb until Stafford levelled out at 21,000 feet. He glanced yet again at the airspeed indicator. At this higher altitude it was approaching 220 mph.

It wasn’t long before Warrant Officer Hughie Smith, the Flight Engineer occupying the seat alongside Stafford, was offering further advice. ‘I’d ease back on the revs a bit skipper, we’re drinking up the fuel.’

‘Thanks Hughie.’

The engines dropped a tone as Stafford acted on this advice. They sure as hell wanted enough fuel to get them back home. He then checked himself. That was always assuming that K for King would be making the return journey. There was no room for complacency. *

*

*

A deep frown formed on Siggi Hoffman’s face as the Dresden to Berlin train ground noisily to a halt thirty miles short of its destination.

‘Not another delay,’ she sighed to herself. They were already running over three hours late. At just twenty years old, Hitler’s war had been with her for nearly a quarter of her life. It felt far longer. All she wanted right now was to be home again

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GMTA Publishing UK with her mother and elder sister, Astrid. Although away for only a few days, she was already missing them both quite badly.

Her whispered words must have sounded louder than she imagined. A uniformed soldier sitting directly opposite gave her a wry smile. ‘Better to arrive late than not arrive at all,’ he told her. ‘I’m sure there is a very good reason for us stopping again.’

He hesitated before adding; ‘Are you from Berlin?’

Siggi studied him briefly before replying. He was only two or three years older than herself - a corporal in one of the infantry divisions she would guess by the look of the insignia on his jacket.

‘Yes, I live in Steglitz in the south-west of the city,’ she said, deciding that the soldier was being genuinely friendly and not interrogating her. ‘I’m just returning from visiting a relative in Dresden.’

‘Did you enjoy your visit?’

‘It was … ‘ She shrugged in a vague, non-committal way.

He took the hint and did not press her with further questions.

Maybe the expression on her face had discouraged him as well, she realised. In truth, it was all she could do to suppress a shudder as she recalled the last three days spent with her uncle. She would never understand how her relative had become so indoctrinated into Nazi party ways. When younger, she had always thought of him as being a fair and reasonable man. Now he was a fanatic. Just prior to her departing he’d even had the nerve to suggest she should be proud that her father – his own brother - had sacrificed his life for the Führer on the Russian Front.

She clenched her fists as the memory of this provoked a spurt of anger. Her father had never had the slightest belief in the cause he’d been compelled to fight and die for. She had no belief in it either, nor did her mother and sister. In many ways all three of them hoped that Germany would lose the war. Better that than a lifetime under the Nazis.

But it was one thing to think these anti-party thoughts – quite another to express them openly. There were people everywhere prepared to report such loose talk to the Gestapo, so on the surface at least, she and her family were forced to go on supporting the Nazis. At the same time, in spite of the increasing demands being made of the population, each of them did as little as they could get away with to aid Hitler’s war effort.

Straining her eyes to see in the dimly lit carriage, she looked at the watch on her wrist. It was 9.30 pm.

‘Why have we stopped again?’ she asked a passing guard.

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GMTA Publishing UK The man paused briefly to spit on the floor. Siggi felt disgust at both his manners, and sense of hygiene. ‘The British bombers are coming again,’ he almost shouted at her. ‘Hundreds of them.’ He then continued on his way down the carriage, muttering loudly to himself.

Many other passengers nearby also heard the guard’s words. A concentrated murmuring developed almost immediately. An old lady two seats further along began praying in a loud, shrill voice.

Siggi’s thoughts immediately went out to her mother and sister. Not Berlin again – surely not? Why couldn’t they leave the city alone? She tried to reassure herself. The majority of the bombs were usually directed much more towards the city centre than to suburbs like Steglitz. Their area had escaped reasonably lightly until now, so why should it be any different tonight? Although it was strictly forbidden under the blackout laws, she tugged nervously at the window blind, raising it a touch to peer outside.

She could see little in the darkness apart from the fact that they were in the middle of the countryside. Then a distant droning reached her ears. It was the all too familiar sound of approaching bombers -- a sound that was invariably the prelude to ear-shattering noise, fire and death.

The sound rapidly grew, as did the babble of voices on the train. Disregarding the rules, more people began raising the blinds. Some even opened the windows and leaned out in an effort to spot the planes.

‘There’s one!’ exclaimed a middle-aged man with a moustache clearly modelled on the Führer’s very own. ‘And another! And another!’

The noise from the bombers was now very loud. In contrast, a hush descended over the carriage, as if the passengers were suddenly realising the vulnerability of their position. Siggi knew they would stand little chance while crammed together like this if a stray bomb were to fall nearby.

The guard returned. ‘Everybody off the train,’ he ordered.

No one needed telling twice. Siggi was swept up in the mad crush as people began scrambling for the nearest door. For over a minute it was sheer madness. Then the soldier who she had spoken to briefly was by her side. He placed a protective arm around her shoulder. Grateful for his help, she allowed herself to be guided safely off the train. Together, they walked to the middle of a field. Both of them gazed skyward.

The flak guns had now started, their noise competing for supremacy with the monotonous drone of wave after wave of bombers. Searchlights probed the sky, endlessly searching for targets to trap in their glare.

And then they heard the first of the bombs falling. Even at a distance of thirty miles the sounds – and the smells -- reached them clearly. Looking away, Siggi buried her face in her hands.

Like the old woman on the train earlier, she began to pray. http://gmtauk.blogspot.co.uk/

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Introducing Kate Tenbeth

I think I can safely say I’ve had a varied sort of life so far! As soon as I finished school I moved to London and my first job was working in the library of the House of Lords. Although that was a great experience, a friend persuaded me to apply to the BBC and I was offered a job on Radio 4 news & current affairs. I found myself in an environment that I absolutely loved – it was fast paced, exciting and I met many interesting people.

When I left the BBC I worked for The Economist Newspaper for a little while but then decided I’d had enough of London and that I needed a little sunshine so I spent some time travelling and ended up in Grenada, West Indies before coming home and settling in Essex. I decided to work closer to home in order to spend as much time with my son as possible. So I settled down and became an administrator and worked for various local organizations including the local council. As my son became older, however, I found myself going back to my roots and writing more.

I won a writing competition with The Literary Consultancy and they kindly put me forward for an Arts Council Award which gave me the opportunity to be mentored for a year. In January 2011 I helped to set up a writers’ group and one of our first guest authors was a young indie writer, Penelope Fletcher. As she spoke about selfpublishing I remember thinking that I could do that so I went back home, dug out some stories I’d written for my son and started the process of learning how to be an indie author. I’ve loved every single second and learnt an incredible amount!

I’ve now published 3 books in the Burly & Grum Tales, plus one short story, and recently published another book called ‘Unlucky Dip’ which is for the YA market. Nowadays I work in administration by day and write by night!

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GMTA Publishing UK Website Blog Twitter Facebook ~*~ Published works to date (Burly & Grum Tales): Burly & Grum Beyond The Forest - Published May 7th 2011 Burly & Grum and The Secret City - Published July 22nd 2011 Burly & Grum and The Birthday Surprise - Published May 20th 2012 by CreateSpace Published works to date (by GMTA): Unlucky Dip - Published October 8th 2012 by Great Minds Think Aloud ~*~ Kate Tenbeth is also available for Interviews, Guest Posts and Features.

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Unlucky Dip (Kate Tenbeth)

There are always high stakes to play for in the world of gambling, but it’s a world 15 year-old Holly Maddon knows nothing about until her step-mother tries to kill her.

The race is on as she tries to discover what her step-mother is up to and whether her father was murdered. She comes up against gangsters, multi-million pound land deals, treachery and deceit, she’s kidnapped, shot at and loses just about everything she loves – it’s a rollercoaster of a ride and Holly's intent on turning the tables.

Amazon Amazon UK Barnes & Noble Kindle Edition 194 pages

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Unlucky Dip - Chapter 1: FRIDAY, 16 DECEMBER: 9.32pm One minute Holly was leaning against the rails of the riverboat, The London Pride, looking at Christmas lights strung out like sparkling jewels along Henley bridge and the next her step-mother, Sylvia, had grabbed her firmly by the ankles and, with surprising strength, had flipped her neatly over the side. Holly’s arms and legs tumbled wildly as she hurtled through the damp night air. Her strappy dance shoes flew in different directions and her mobile yet another. She didn’t scream, she was too surprised, and she smacked onto the surface of the black water without any semblance of grace whatsoever. It was not something she could possibly have foreseen. It was a raw, overcast evening and up until the whole being flipped into the Thames incident, she’d been celebrating her 15th birthday.

As she hit the concrete-like surface of the river the wind was completely knocked out of her and the shock of the ice cold water emptied any remaining air from her lungs. She sank like a stone, her long black hair billowing up around her, but after a few long seconds, her instinct for survival kicked in and she whirled her arms and legs to stop her descent and fought back, frantically clawing her way upwards. As she burst through the surface retching and gasping for lungfuls of bitterly cold air Holly could just make out the boat tootling happily away from her.

Its brightly coloured lights blazed against the night sky, and she could clearly hear the dance music blaring and screams of laughter.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying her party. Jolly good.

A wave from the wake of the boat slapped her face bringing her back to reality.

She pushed her sodden hair back from her face and trod water trying desperately not to panic; she looked for all the world like a surprised seal bobbing up and down on the surface of the river. Holly shuddered violently with cold and spat out a mouthful of foul tasting black water. Memories of a school project she'd done on the Thames a couple of years ago flashed like snapshots through her mind; she knew that if the cold didn’t get her then there was a good chance the fierce undertow and currents would. The survival rate of being chucked in the Thames wasn’t good – there was a lot of history down there that was certainly never going to see the light of day again.

Gulping in shorter breaths now, lips already blue with cold and teeth chattering wildly out of control, she tried to gauge the distance to the bank; it was a lot further than the usual couple of lazy lengths she swam in a heated pool. The sparkling Christmas lights she’d been looking at just before she’d been heaved over the side twinkled encouragingly at her. Damn, Sylvia must have pushed her in at the quietest stretch of water possible but maybe someone walking along the river bank had seen what had happened? Maybe help was on its way right now? She tried to shout for help but all that came out was a gurgle as a passing wave slapped her again and icy air sliced her face, and she knew she’d better get going. Hot tears warmed her frozen skin and her slight body shivered; she couldn’t control her chattering teeth nor her tears and she sobbed and shook as she set off unsteadily for the bank.

Sylvia’s heart was beating wildly. She flicked back her hair as she leant over

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GMTA Publishing UK the rails of the boat, desperately scanning the water for signs of Holly. Please, please let her drown without any complications was the exact thought going through her head.

She bit her bottom lip anxiously, damn she couldn’t see properly, the lights from the boat lit up the immediate area around it but the water was churned up and she just couldn’t see clearly past a few yards. She sighed loudly, her beautiful face creased with concern as she considered the situation; the splash was very noisy, surely Holly had been knocked out as she’d hit the surface? If she hadn’t been knocked unconscious then the cold would get her. She’d drown either way. God, it had been so much easier killing her father and at least she’d had a body with no pulse in front of her then.

Sylvia turned around and quickly scanned the empty deck. No evidence had been left behind including Holly’s mobile which had also gone overboard. She frowned, she needed a drink and she’d better get back before people missed her. She hurried back into the warmth of the noisy, heaving party – she had to be seen by as many people as possible before sending out the frantic warning that Holly had gone missing.

A spasm shuddered through Holly's entire body and her stroke faltered, she was tiring quickly and for every stroke she pushed forward the current seemed to whisk her back three; her wet clothes clung to her and started to drag her down and gradually her body slowed; her muscles cramped sharply in pain and then became stiff. The bitter cold was winning the battle and the shore and the beckoning lights seemed to blur and be further away than ever.

Holly was only half conscious now, slipping further under the surface with every wavering stroke. She could hear her father's voice softly whispering to her and she wanted to sink down into the comfort of his arms. When he'd been alive he'd always told her diamond days were just ahead but that was just a dream now. The violent shaking stopped and she seemed to freeze like a statue before sliding quietly beneath the waves.

A strong hand firmly grasped the material of Holly's dress, stopping her descent. The first thing that went through Jon's mind as he hung on to her for grim death was damn, for a little thing she was dead weight. Grabbing the back of her dress had been relatively easy, keeping her head above water was difficult, but hauling her up on to the little inflatable dinghy was practically impossible and he was keenly aware that if he wasn't careful he'd end up in the Thames alongside her.

"Hey!" he yelled and shook her as best he could. "Wake up!"

There was no response. Oh crap. He was stuck. The water idly pushed and pulled the girl's body against the side of the dinghy as he desperately wondered what he was going to do next. But then she moved her head slightly. "Grab my hand!" he shouted and reached his free hand towards her as far as he could; a small arm raised itself shakily above the water and grasped it. He smiled, this was better, he had more control now. He inched back slightly and braced himself, one hand still firmly on the back of her dress the other locked onto her right arm. And then he hauled her in, trying to balance her weight against his so that he didn't fall in himself. It took http://gmtauk.blogspot.co.uk/

GMTA Publishing UK several minutes of strenuous effort but eventually she landed like a fish on the floor of the dinghy and immediately curled up in a tight and very wet ball. Jon took off his jacket and draped it over her, started up the small outboard motor and headed as quickly as he could towards a small jetty.

Holly was unaware of everything that was happening except the extreme cold that seemed to have reached her heart. She'd never be warm again. Tears ran from closed eyes down along ice skin. 'Hold on' she heard her father's voice say and she relaxed, slipping gratefully into oblivion. ~*~

Unlucky Dip - Reviews "I received the book free to read and review from Library Thing. The book’s plot revolves around a fifteen-year old girl who owns valuable land, though she does not realize she owns it or its worth, and the treachery used to get the land away from her so the perpetrators can profit from its sale. It begins with Holly Madden pushed off a boat into the Thames River by her step-mother. Jon, who lives nearby, rescues her, unbeknownst to most, and becomes a faithful companion as she endeavors to figure out what is going on and why people want to kill her. They pass through numerous dangerous but interesting episodes to uncover the truth behind this mystery. Even though both Holly and Jon, and later her friend Georgie, are teenagers, they unravel the clues in the mystery as well as or even better than the local detectives who are on the case looking for the missing Holly. The author manages to keep their sleuthing well within the bounds of that you would expect from teenagers, which makes the story all the more realistic. All the characters are well developed and interesting. The book held my interest almost from the first page. By the time I had reached the ending, I had only one wish--that the story could go on and on. I am glad I have found one more author whose books I will read and enjoy. (5 stars)" KMT01, Library Thing “This book was such a good read that I finished it in one sitting. The other reviewer described the story in good detail, so I won't repeat it. The highlights for me were a fast paced story with good character development and clear, crisp writing. I hope to read more from this author.” yogajan, Library Thing About the Artist: Elizabeth Eisen is a 23 year old freelance illustrator from North London. She graduated from the University of Westminster with a BA Hons in Illustration in 2011 and has since worked on commissions ranging from album artwork to editorial.

Further examples of her work can be found at her website.

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Introducing Mike Evers

I was born in Singapore way back in 1970 and spent my formative years in Wales after my family moved there from Australia in 1976. I’ve since resided in numerous places, including: Sussex, Kent and Poland. After school I did a BA in History at the University of Wales, Swansea; and later, a Masters’ degree in International Conflict Analysis at the University of Kent at Canterbury. This has given me an educational background which I have for the most part managed to avoid capitalizing upon - so far.

I currently live in West Yorkshire with my wife Joanne and son Joseph. I spend a few days a week teaching English in a local college. This is a career I have been doing for 12 years or so and it was in doing a certificate in education in Huddersfield that brought me to the area in 2004.

My interests are fairly varied and include reading pretty much anything. I particularly enjoy reading historical accounts and fiction with a magical angle. My early influences include JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, Roald Dahl, Raymond Feist and David Eddings. My later influences are far too eclectic to mention, but include George Orwell, James Herriot and Michel Foucault. I also enjoy gaming (especially First Person Shooters and RPGs) on PC and PS3.

As an author I usually write Fantasy or Urban Fantasy, quite often with a twist. My first novel - The Chaosifier - mixes fantasy, adventure, humour and philosophy in a modern day setting. For various reasons it is unavailable at the moment, but I plan to re-publish a 2nd edition in the not too distant future. My most recent work, the novella ‘The Spirit Archer’ brings a different angle to one of the most famous characters in English legend. I have aimed these books at teens and young adults in

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GMTA Publishing UK particular – though older readers have told me they’ve enjoyed them greatly too. I enjoy working with GMTA and really love the passion and enthusiasm they bring to the publishing process.

Website Twitter ~*~ Published works to date (Not by GMTA): The Chaosifier - Published April 3rd 2012 Published works to date (by GMTA): Campaign Of The Gods - Published August 8th 2012 by GMTA Publishing The Spirit Archer - Published March 15th 2012 by GMTA Publishing ~*~ Mike Evers is also available for Interviews, Guest Posts and Features.

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GMTA Publishing UK

Campaign Of The Gods (Mike Evers)

When Norse god Týr suspects his friend Thor is cheating in the phenomenal board game ‘Campaign of the Gods’ he takes matters into his own hands and searches out the only being in Asgard who can help solve his problem. But things are not what they seem… And once the forces of Hel are unleashed, only legendary Viking berserker Ivar Ragnarsson and his men can possibly save the day. They just have to work out when in history they are first - and why are the local townspeople so strange?

Create Space Amazon Amazon UK Barnes & Noble Paperback 74 pages ISBN: 1478391901 ISBN13: 9781478391906) Kindle 64 pages ASIN: B008VEL4B6

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Campaign Of The Gods - Chapter 1: All in a Day’s Work Text Box: An entry from PC Walker’s Norse Myths and Legends Companion: Týr: Norse god of battle, single combat, and victory. He possesses a single hand, having sacrificed the other to the dread wolf, Fenrir.

Týr is known for his bravery and wisdom. His name is the origin of the English word ‘Tuesday’.

Týr wobbled out of Bilskirnir Palace and wondered what in Asgard Thor had been putting in his mead. He suspected that this was Thor’s latest ploy to win the game – and it seemed to be working. Thor was a fine god, thought Týr, but if he did have one fault – it was that he really hated to lose. In fact, he would do almost anything to ensure he didn’t – perhaps even cheat.

They had been playing the board game, Campaign of the Gods (Deluxe Edition), for the best part of a week now, and Týr was convinced that there was foul play going on. At first it seemed the dice may have been loaded due to Thor’s uncanny ability to throw sixes continuously. And Týr was sure Thor must have fixed the cards in some way: because there was no other way to explain why his friend always managed to have the best commanders and forces in the game every time they fought for a section on the map. Thor, being a powerful god, may indeed have a few tricks up his sleeve, but it didn’t go all the way in explaining why he was always able to field hordes of magnificent warriors and berserkers, yet Týr always ended up with puny bands of mismatched militia and the like.

On one occasion, they were battling for a sector in the north of Denmark.

Thor threw a six (as usual) and was then able to take first pick from the ‘heroes’ cards.

Inevitably, he picked Ragnar Lodbrook, the legendary scourge of Paris and an accompanying force of elite Viking raiders. Týr, on the other hand, selected a rag-tag group of donkey-riding skirmishers led by a deranged incompetent known as Erik the Insufferable. In short, Týr barely stood a chance and he lost the territory on the board after only a few rolls of the dice.

As Týr staggered away from Thor’s palace he patted the board game that was tucked securely under his arm with his one remaining hand. He was sure his fellow god wouldn’t notice it was missing for a few hours and he would return it to the chest in the Grand Hall before their next game the following afternoon. He just wanted to get it checked over first. He was certain he knew the best person in Asgard to tell him if the game had been tampered with and he would go to her place in the morning. He just had to sleep off the effects of Thor’s potent home-made mead first.

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GMTA Publishing UK

Stuart Gooding – police constable, faithful husband, and soon-to-be father, looked at the cot he had just assembled and wondered why it still looked wrong. He stood up and walked around the freshly decorated nursery, looking at his handiwork from different angles. He flicked through the assembly instructions and scratched his head. Something was definitely wrong, but he couldn’t fathom what it was. To make matters worse - out of the corner of his eye he could make out the face of a cartoon Sauropod on the wallpaper – and even the dinosaur seemed to be mocking his efforts with its goofy grin. Stuart turned to the creature.

“You can take that silly look off your face, right now,” he said, before tilting his head to look at the cot from a different angle. His wife entered the room. “Here’s some coffee, dear,” she said, handing him the steaming mug.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Oh, no one in particular - just the wallpaper,” replied Stuart.

“Ah, I see,” said Anna Gooding, her bemused look advertising the fact that she was used to such behaviour. Anna looked at the cot and walked over to the other side of the nursery to take another look. She started to laugh.

“I don’t believe it!” she blurted.

“What’s that?” asked Stuart, his bruised feelings beginning to show.

“You’ve only gone and put the legs on upside down! Goodness! I wouldn’t have thought that was possible...even by your standards!” Stuart’s poor DIY skills were a thing of family legend. He was still recovering from the incidents with the collapsing fence and the wonky TV wall mount.

“Are you sure?” queried Stuart, clinging on to possible error in his wife’s judgment.

“Yes, I’m completely sure,” said Anna. “Now pass me the instructions and undo those nuts.” Stuart did as instructed. “Talk about daft. I’m surprised the bolts even threaded through - the way you put the legs on. Didn’t you find the nuts a bit tight?”

Stuart’s face began to turn a bit red. “Now you mention it, Hon. It did seem a bit of a funny angle.” he responded.

“And you just forced it?”

Anna leaned back and placing her hand on the small of her back gave out a short sharp grunt. “Ouch, that aches!” she exclaimed. Anna was precisely two hundred and sixty five days into pregnancy and the baby was due any moment.

Everything seemed to be fairly normal, though during a routine visit to the midwife she noticed that the bump had seemed to stop growing as quickly as before. Anna http://gmtauk.blogspot.co.uk/

GMTA Publishing UK was now in the process of going in to hospital for routine monitoring. Things were fine, but anxiety levels were certainly growing.

“Right, that’s enough. Go downstairs and sit down. I’ll have this sorted out in a jiffy and then we’ll go over to the maternity unit to see the midwife.”

Stuart spent 20 minutes turning the cot legs the right way round before having a bite to eat and putting his uniform on. He would take Anna to Digbury Hospital and then bring her back home before starting the evening beat with PC Walker. And while he really enjoyed his job, he really wished he didn’t have to do it today. He wanted to be at Anna’s side, ready to take her to hospital in an instant. But life on the front line of crime in Hopfield was beckoning and he wondered what the evening would bring. The usual petty pilfering, lost cats and domestic disturbances, he reckoned. He just wished his job wasn’t so boring sometimes. Perhaps after the baby was born he would apply for a transfer to the city.

Digbury Police Station was not the most beautiful of buildings. The architects of 1960s Britain were flushed with innovation and harboured notions of a brave, new, modern world. From this blossoming of idealism emerged the building that was the police station - a great square edifice of concrete and glass with a dose of pebble-dashed cladding to add to the generally drab effect. The designers of this particular affront to good taste had long since moved on, artistically and geographically. The police station, however, remained in its spot on the ring road near the centre of town.

PC Gooding parked his car, entered the police station, and walked to the locker room. After changing into his uniform, he packed his civvies carefully away, closed his locker and ambled up the stairs to his desk in one of the offices. As he made his way, he poked his head into the control room and said: “Afternoon, all!” in a deep and rather silly PC Plod voice to the sergeant and civilian contractors manning the radios and equipment. After receiving the customary exasperated shakes of the head in response, Stuart bounded up the remaining steps and glided into his office, picking up a memo in his pigeon hole and whacking PC Walker on the head with it for good measure as he walked passed his colleague.

“Hey, Stu – how’s it going?” asked PC Mark Walker, taking a sip from a Styrofoam cup and placing it on the only available space on his cluttered desk. Stuart took his seat on the table opposite and turned on the power for his desktop computer. “Not bad, Mark. I’m just a bit edgy at the mo. Anna could call any second.

Then it’s all systems go.”

“Aye, Stu. It must be like those Spitfire pilots probably felt as they waited in their huts ready to scramble to meet the Luftwaffe back in 1941. They were like coiled springs, ready to jump into action and face adversity at a moment’s notice.”

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GMTA Publishing UK “Hmm, you could say that, I suppose. I’m not sure I would’ve picked that particular metaphor, but I know what you mean. I think. I’m not sure Anna would appreciate the comparison,” replied Stuart, smiling as he launched his email program and began checking through the messages. He groaned audibly when he saw he had a meeting to go to delivered by the incredibly monotone Inspector Barratt before beginning his beat in Hopfield with PC Walker.

“Ah, you’ve seen the email from Mr. Barratt I take it?”

“Indeed I have. I just hope he doesn’t do a PowerPoint about county crime stats again. If I remember, a few of us slipped into a coma last time, and it took about a gallon of coffee to resuscitate poor Sergeant Richards,” replied Stuart.

“Or what about that talk he made about the correct procedures for dealing with disorderly conduct at the annual flower show?” asked Walker, struggling to stifle his amusement.

“Yeah – we all had to try and keep a straight face, and Blakemore nearly ruined it for all of us. Oh well, we’d best go and make our way over to the meeting room. I think I’m half on my way to cracking up already.”

As suspected, the meeting was not an exciting one, and the police officers endured a presentation about the new government strategy for crime reduction in the face of a recession and the continued need for ‘belt tightening’, as Inspector Barrett kept re-iterating. At just after 3.00pm, PCs Gooding and Walker were in their small ‘panda car’ on their way over to Hopfield.

At the halfway point of their journey they received a call on the car radio calling them to the town’s supermarket to deal with a shoplifting. The apparent perpetrator - a young man in his late teens - had made a break past the cash tills with a joint of beef and a bottle of sun lotion. He had been collared by a semi-professional rugby player who was just entering the store at the time, and had brought the escaping thief down with a crunching tackle. The policemen debated whether to charge the young man, but after speaking with the store manager, they decided to take the shoplifter’s details and let him off with a stern warning – this time. The boy had seemed bruised and contrite enough to deserve a reprieve.

The next call involved going over to an old people’s home to deal with a missing TV set. It was as they were driving over that PC Walker mentioned his meeting a young woman the weekend previously - one that might just be new girlfriend material. Stuart was extremely bemused at this revelation. His colleague was notoriously geeky and had a strange hobby. Well, it was a bit weird in Stuart’s opinion, anyhow. In fact, he had never met anyone else who enjoyed dressing up as a Viking and re-enacting battles at the weekend. To make matters worse, Mark has virtually turned his flat into a shrine to all things hairy and Nordic. All about the place there were DVDs, posters, computer games and books – and they were all to do with Odin, Norse mythology and big men with axes. It was in this context that Walker mentioned the woman.

“So, how did you meet her?” asked Stuart, “don’t tell me – it was in battle, and she bashed you on the head with a club?” http://gmtauk.blogspot.co.uk/

GMTA Publishing UK “Don’t be silly,” replied Mark, “we don’t carry clubs during battles, we’re far more sophisticated than that. No, it was in the festival tent after the battle that I met her. She’s the daughter of our local region’s jarl.”

“Jarl?”

“It’s a type of chieftain, I suppose.”

“Anyway, I got chatting to this...erm young lady...and we seemed to hit it off.

She knows lots about Norse legends and the Viking order of battle. Well, after a few ales we got to sparring.”

“Sparring? What on earth are you talking about?” asked Stuart, his incredulity only just managing to match his mirth. “Are you saying you attacked her?”

“No, of course not – we merely tested each other with swordplay, and somehow ended up...um...”

“Um, what?” enquired Stuart, having to focus on the task of driving in the face of such curious news.

“I ended up kissing her,” said Mark, his tone rising in embarrassment.

“Ha ha - that’s great!” blurted Stuart, “I can’t wait to tell Anna about this.”

Then they parked up outside the old people’s home and went about the business of solving the mystery of the missing TV. The outcome of which provided the highlight of an otherwise fairly routine day of policing.

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The Spirit Archer (Mike Evers)

Some secrets are meant to be shared; and a boy’s encounter with England’s most legendary archer will change his life forever. In 1237, a man journeys to a priory in Yorkshire to seek refuge and treatment for battle wounds. He is betrayed and murdered. His final, dying act is to fire an arrow through a window, asking to be buried where it lands. Nearly eight hundred years later, a schoolboy’s incredible discovery will lead to a friendship that will alter his life forever. And he’ll hear some tales and secrets of England’s most legendary archer of all.

Create Space Amazon Amazon UK Barnes & Noble Kindle 62 pages ASIN: B007L40BH0

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The Spirit Archer: Chapter 1 - The Finest Fish and Chips in Kirkdale Jamie Wilson looked at his school report and tried to change the letters by force of will. It was no good- the symbols glared at him accusingly: English Literature -E History - E Mathematics– C ...

“Jamie’s overall effort is poor and his work is quite often a shambles.” R. Smedley, 6A Class Tutor Well, it could have been worse, he thought: at least he hadn’t got an E in Maths. But he knew it wouldn’t make much difference – he was well into his final year in the sixth form and there was no way he was going to make it to university with these grades. No way. He was going to have to bite the bullet and tell his mother at some point - but he didn’t know when. It was the last thing she needed right now. Attempting to disguise the fact that he’d opened it, Jamie slipped the report back in the envelope and licked the gum to try and seal it. Failing to stick the seal down, he placed the smudged envelope in his bag and prepared to go to the chip shop to work for the evening. It was working all hours at the place that had given him no time to study, he reasoned, as he picked up his bike. And why the hell did you need to know about history anyway?

The Nook Lane chip shop, like many in the local area, was a small and humble business. It had been set up by Mr. Dawson after he had taken early retirement from his job as a policeman. It was open from Monday through to Saturday, catering for a lunch time crowd and a fairly busy dinner (or tea time) market. Many of the locals enjoyed their ‘fish supper’ and would quite often turn up just to gossip and find out about things happening in the town. The proud and fastidious Mr. Dawson kept the place pristine and spotless. It was probably this obsessive behaviour and attention to detail which had led to Mrs. Dawson leaving him for another, less fastidious man.

The incident created a minor scandal in the local area a few years back, and was still often on the tongues of the street’s more compulsive gossip-mongerers. On one of the powder blue walls was a framed certificate with the words: 2009 WINNER OF THE KIRKDALE BEST FISH SUPPER AWARD, which Mr. Dawson constantly brought to people’s attention – even if they’d already read it a hundred times.

Jamie arrived at the chip shop just as Mr. Dawson was unloading potatoes from the back of his van. “Ah, Jamie,” he said, “good to see you arrive on time for once. You can give me a hand with these spuds.”

“Right away, Mr. D,” said Jamie, locking his bike to some railings and putting his bag in the shop. He was soon helping unload the van.

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GMTA Publishing UK “How’s your mother doing, lad?” he asked, genuinely concerned about the life of his employee. Mr. Dawson knew that Jamie’s mother had not been well lately, with an illness that made it very hard for her to do much at all. He had heard it was called Post-Viral something or other, and that the doctors seemed to be scratching their heads about it. To make matters worse, the benefits’ service were refusing to fully accept her situation and were unwilling to give her much support. The long and short of it, was that Jamie’s mum was struggling to pay her bills, and Jamie worked like a Trojan to help her.

“She’s alright, I suppose,” replied Jamie, “She has good days and bad days.”

“Aye, lad,” said Mr. Dawson, nodding in acknowledgement and patting him on the back. “Get scrubbed up and start peeling the spuds. We’ve a busy evening ahead of us.”

After Jamie had peeled the potatoes, he went through the usual routine of preparing the items for the deep fryer. He put three buckets’ worth of potatoes in the chipping machine and began coating the fish using Mr. Dawson’s special batter recipe – ‘The Finest in the County’, no less. Next, came the fish cakes and sausages, which were coated and seasoned for the fryer, and then he took a few of ‘Tadworth’s Exceedingly Tempting Pies’ and placed them in the oven. Looking at the clock, Jamie noted it said 3.50pm so he put the first round of fish, chips and assorted items into the seething hot cooking oil.

At 4.00pm precisely, the shop opened and the first of the regular customers rolled in. It was Mrs. Higgins.

“Hello Jamie,” she said, “how do?”

“I’m fine Mrs. Higgins, and how are you?” responded Jamie.

Mrs. Higgins paused for a moment, as if on the verge of some great revelation, and then gave her answer: “Same as always...same as always,” she said. Jamie smiled. She always did this. Perhaps she would have made a great actress in her day, he thought. She was well into her seventies now.

“And what can I get you?” asked Jamie.

There was another pause - which seemed to last an age. Jamie waited patiently and cocked his head to await the reply. Sometimes Mrs. Higgins’ pauses were so pregnant they seemed to demand separate time zones.

“I’ll have fish and chips for me’self, and chips and a meat pie for Albert,” she finally revealed.

“Ah, the usual,” said Jamie smiling. He took the items from the hot display unit and placed them on grease-proof paper. Next, he placed four scuttles of chips on the paper and wrapped the lot carefully into a warm bundle. He placed it on the counter.

“How much will that be?” asked Mrs. Higgins. http://gmtauk.blogspot.co.uk/

GMTA Publishing UK Jamie knew exactly how much it would be: “Five Pounds, Eighty, please,” he said. The same as it always was. Mrs. Higgins paused, seemingly for an aeon.

Eventually she spoke, and shook her head disapprovingly: “Five Pounds Eighty!” she gasped, “It’s bleedin’ daylight robbery!” After handing Jamie the money, she took the parcel and left the shop. Jamie chuckled to himself – he knew she would be back again the next day and they would go through exactly the same routine.

At 10:15pm Jamie finished cleaning the work surfaces and placed his whites on the hook. It was another day done and Jamie returned home exhausted. Opening his front door, he entered the house and felt the warm centrally-heated air on his face. He was pleased that his mum would be warm, but was concerned about the cost of heating. It was late March and winter was still refusing to release its icy grasp on Yorkshire. After checking his mother was sleeping peacefully, Jamie opened the fridge and started to pick at the remains of a pasta dish in a plastic tub. He then placed the school report envelope on the mantelpiece and switched on the TV – there was a late night comedy show on BBC2. He began watching it - and fell asleep within minutes. * “I’ll expect you’ll all be thinking about your June exams over the holiday,” said Mr. Wynn, the history teacher. It was the last session in the final day at school before the Easter break, and Jamie was doing nothing else except thinking about the final exams. In fact, the worrying was bringing out his spots – a fact which was not going unnoticed by other members of the class. Chas Tupper, sitting directly behind Jamie, lobbed a screwed up piece of paper at the back of his head. “I’ll expect you’ll be thinking about blitzing those zits,” he said, loudly enough for half the class to hear.

Jamie pretended to stretch and raised two fingers behind his back in reply. A burst of laughter filled the classroom. The profane salute had just caught the teacher’s eye.

Mr. Wynn stood up from his chair and nodded towards Jamie: “And you really need to make the most of the holiday, Wilson. You are at the very crossroads of life – and fortune or servitude awaits you. The way I’m seeing it, it’s probably going to be servitude.” The class laughed on cue. Jamie’s face started to glow red with the attention. Luckily Mr. Wynn changed subject: “And the same goes for all of you,” he announced grandly, and with a sweep of his hand continued his speech: “use the time wisely – revise the syllabus and focus on things that really interest you. History needn’t be boring when you find something you like. Last year’s paper had a big emphasis on modern history, so it wouldn’t surprise me if the examiners have some medieval surprises waiting for you this time.

So,carpe diem, my friends,...carpe diem!”

“Carp?” said Tupper, “what’s carp got to do with it?”

“Carpe diem, Tupper – it’s Latin for seize the day – pluck the opportunity while it’s there – not some scaly pond denizen. Your future is becoming clearer to me all the time, young man - and it probably involves fish.” Giggles rippled through the classroom until the buzzer rang, marking the start of the holiday.

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GMTA Publishing UK As he was leaving the classroom, Jamie’s best friend, Andy, punched him on the upper arm. “Hey! Where are you off to?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’re starting work in the chippy already?” Jamie turned to Andy and shrugged, “Needs must, me old china, I gotta put grub on the table,” he said in a mock Cockney accent.

“Was that Australian?” asked Andy, smirking, before adding “Look – we haven’t caught up for ages. Are you free at all this weekend?”

“I should be,” replied Jamie, already heading down the corridor, “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“You’d better had, Cobber!” yelled Andy – his Aussie accent was even worse that Jamie’s Cockney one. * Jamie’s house was near the bottom of Nook Lane, which was on the western edge of Hopfield. The street was typical of its type in this part of Yorkshire, and consisted of a mix of terraced, detached and semi-detached properties. Most of the terraced dwellings dated from Victorian times, when they housed mill and mine workers, and were built of local, high-quality sandstone known as Yorkstone. Time and weathering had darkened much of the brickwork, giving many of the houses a mottled, sandy and black two-tone effect, which was not unappealing to the eye.

Newer, less sturdy, houses occasionally punctuated the street, which ran on an irregular gradient - being fairly steep near the top, and once again near the bottom.

Like most of the town, Nook Lane was built on gentle Pennine slopes and from it you could get a good view of the rolling moorland to the south. Dawson’s chip shop was at the top of the street and it was here that Jamie turned up to do the busy Friday evening shift.

“How do, lad,” said Mr. Dawson as Jamie entered the back of the shop. He was busy examining the delivery from the bakery and scrutinizing one pie in particular.

“There’s more meat on a butcher’s pencil than in this ‘ere pie,” he said, before adding: “I’ll have to ‘ave a word with Mr. Huntley ‘bout it.” Mr. Dawson placed the offending pie in a paper bag and then placed it on the sideboard. Quickly, Jamie put on his white coat and hat and set about his preparation routine. Mr. Dawson fastidiously buffed the glass and metal surfaces on the cooking range and checked through the float on the cash register. Soon enough it was 4:00pm, and Mrs. Higgins walked in through the door, which tinkled to the sound of a bell.

“Afternoon, Jamie,” she said.

“Hello Mrs. Higgins, how are you?”

“Oh, I’m alright, lad, it’s just me back. It keeps playing up.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear it. What can I get you?”

Jamie went through the usual delayed routine with Mrs. Higgins and the evening was as busy as ever on a Friday. It was around 7:20 when Jock Paisley

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GMTA Publishing UK walked in. He looked a bit off colour as if there was something wrong. Spooked was the word that sprang to Jamie’s mind. “’Hey there Jock, are you alright?” asked Mr. Dawson, who was standing in the prep room doorway. Jock looked around, checking furtively for eavesdroppers.

There was noone else in the shop. “I can’t say I am,” he replied.

“Why, what’s up?” enquired Mr. Dawson.

“Well, I was walking Angus in the woods about an hour ago, and I got the fright of my life.” Angus was Jock’s plucky little West Highland Terrier.

“What on earth happened?” asked Mr. Dawson.

“Hmm…it was the strangest thing. I threw a stick for Angus and he disappeared into the undergrowth to fetch it. After a few minutes there was no sign of the wee feller, so I went to look for him.” Jock paused, unsure about continuing.

“And?” “And…and I found Angus sitting by a grave.”

“A grave, eh? Which woods are these then –the wood of the damned?” said Mr. Dawson, beginning to chuckle. Jock didn’t really see the joke.

“It’s over in the woods over behind The Laughing Nun. It’s marked with a great sarcophagus, and even has some great railings around it – a proper burial place with inscriptions on it, and everything. I didn’t get to read them because…er… ” Jock was reluctant to finish the sentence. “’Ere; in’t that Robin Hood said to be buried over there, somewhere? I think you’ve just had an encounter with The Man in Lincoln-Green his very self,” said Mr. Dawson, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Well, whoever is buried there scared the life out of me and wee Angus. The poor dog refuses to come out from under my bed. Ran all the way home he did!”

Jock didn’t order any food and left the shop, grateful of people to tell his story to. The evening continued without event and soon they were locking up for the night.

On the way home Jamie had one strange notion in his mind, and it wouldn’t go away – the legendary outlaw Robin Hood was supposedly buried in some woods behind a pub - and he was just down the road. * Jamie lived in a small terraced house – in what is sometimes known as a two up, two down house, owing to the number of rooms on each level. His mother and father had moved into it shortly before he was born, when his dad was still working for the council as a lorry driver. Six years later, on a freezing December night, Jamie lost his father. It was during a particularly vicious blizzard that his dad had gone out to clear and grit the roads and never came back. The police report said that he had http://gmtauk.blogspot.co.uk/

GMTA Publishing UK swerved to avoid an oncoming car, leaving the road and taking the gritting lorry over a steep embankment. He had died on impact, without a seatbelt.

Jamie woke up and went downstairs. As he trudged blurry-eyed to the kitchen he noticed the envelope with the school report had been taken. He knew that his mother would have woken up early and come down for a piece of toast. He also knew that she would probably be feeling weak and would have gone back to bed again. He boiled the kettle and made two mugs of tea.

He climbed up the staircase and pushed the bedroom door open. As he placed the mug on the table next to his sleeping mum’s bed, he saw the report lying next to her. He knew that she would be disappointed and the thought of it made him feel bad. Quietly, he took the report and envelope and closed the door after him. He would hide the report at the bottom of a drawer somewhere. He wanted to think about pleasant things, not his rubbish school report and the effect it had on his mum.

And then he thought about the strange grave in the woods.

Jamie switched on his old PC and slurped some tea as he waited for it to boot up. Placing the mug on the table, he picked up the mouse and clicked to open the internet. On the home page was a search box and after pausing a moment to think, he typed Robin Hood’s Grave into the box. Instantly some photos of a large monument appeared. Even more surprising was the image of an Ordnance Survey map for the local area, which had the grave marked clearly on it. So, it was official – Robin Hood was buried near the edge of his town! Jamie clicked print and waited for the paper to come out. He decided he was going for a walk in the woods near the ruins of Kirkdale Priory - to visit the grave of Robin Hood, no less.

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