A Matter of Time... (a short story)

I have always tried to be a good person.

I'm the one in the car in front of you who keeps letting people in, and who slows down for pedestrians to cross. I'm the one that may not have change for the homeless guy on the corner, but will offer him my sandwiches, or get him a cup of tea. I'm the one who randomly pays for the car behind me on the toll.

I hold open doors for people. I always remember to say please and thank you. And I never jump a queue.

I am polite and trustworthy.

Well, trustworthy to  point....

You see, I was brought up by two grounded human beings who knew wrong from right. They taught me patience. They taught me how to look at both sides of an argument and draw my own conclusions. They explained how opinions are individual and subjective. How society can influence the sheep to react, regardless of the consequences, and that research and understanding will arm you with all of facts and point out where the sheep are going wrong. They taught me that the pen is mightier than the sword.

I was a very intelligent child. But unlike many others of high intelligence who rebel through their teenage years, I excelled. I studied hard, I socialised as much as my friends, I had long term relationships.

But I never truly loved. There was no one who 'took my breath away', or broke my heart. I found it easy to play the game, though. To show the affection that my partners craved. To say those three words with feeling and intention. Like holding open a door for a stranger, saying 'I love you' made people feel special.

Love is neither here or there. It is unimportant. You can trust me, but I will never trust you. You can love me, but I will never love you back. You can give me your world, and I will take it.

My parents knew there was something missing from me when I was seventeen. The family dog died. Rufus was a harmless Scottie Dog who had been with us since my fourth birthday. My parents were devastated with his sudden demise. I shrugged, and suggested we get a replacement. My father shouted at me, my mother called me heartless. But I had been raised as a good person, and my suggestion was made only with their feelings in mind. They would miss his company. My father would miss taking him for a walk. My mother would miss his lap cuddles in the evening. I did not, and still do not, understand their need for a 'mourning period'. Surely if you lose something, it should be replaced?

I take great pride in my appearance. I have seen how the well dressed get further in life. Being stylish will open many doors for you, both socially and professionally. So I have my hair cut once every two weeks by the same barber. I have manicures once a month at the same beauty salon. My suits are Saville Row, my ties Burberry. Barker shoes adorn my feet. I have never been to a discount retailer, and I never plan to. Quality will never be overshadowed by price.

I passed the Bar at twenty six. Criminal law really was the best profession for someone like me. It is best to be factual and not emotionally compromised when defending a murderer. I make more money than I can spend, and have fought the case for many unscrupulous people who are never afraid to tell me that they dislike me enormously. But they trust me. And they are honest to me. And I like that. I will find the loop hole that will exonerate them, but I insist that they tell me the truth. If I think they are lying to me, I will not help them.

It's the stories. I want to know how they killed them. I want to know what they did with the bodies. I want to know why they did it. And when I get home at the end of the day, I sit naked in an old Chesterfield armchair, with a glass of Jameson's in my right hand. I close my eyes, and I imagine that it was me who took the knife to Mrs Howard's neck, held it against her skin, and gently increased the pressure until I felt the skin give, and the knife sink in. I imagine the blood, first a small dot of red, prominent against her alabaster skin, and then more, until it flows gently from her neck, along the shaft of the knife, and eventually over my own skin. I feel it's warmth, and it soothes me. And when I pull the blade free, the blood flows stronger, the heart pumping it out of the body as if it no longer has need for it. I imagine her expression of horror and fear. The realisation that her life will end before she can finish everything that she had planned to do.

Sometimes, in my fantasies, they plead for their lives. They beg me. Try to bribe me. But I relentless. Just like the murderers that I defend.

They are like me. Which is perhaps why they dislike me so much.  They see in me the darkest parts of themselves. That darkest part that enjoys the kill. The part that dreams up new ways of killing. The part that societies 'sheep' abhor.

My obsession is growing. It has done so for many years. Now, I sit and imagine what it would be like to take the life of people I know. Of people who have wronged me. The traffic warden who tickets my car. The client who does not pay his bills on time. The bank manager who thinks he is better than me. These are the stuff of fantasies. And I know that soon, I will cross the line and commit the crimes that I work so diligently to defend.

It will happen.
It is a matter of time.
I am coming.

Being Grey marketing shots....

For those of you following my Facebook page, Twitter account, Instagram account or Google+, you may have seen a few of these.... For those who don't, what do you think??!!

THE JOB - a short story

 "Life isn't like it is in the movies, is it?" she asked as she lit a cigarette with shaking hands. The tears had dried tram lines through her make-up, but she didn't care. Panda eyes were like war wounds to her. She been there, done it, and cried to prove it. She flicked her cigarette even though there wasn't enough ash to flick.

I shook my head.

"Do you think that they know?" She took another long drag. "Do you think they know? How hard it's been? How hard it is for us?"

"I doubt it," I answered. She was referring to our employers. And I knew what heartless bastards were.

She nodded, the ash finally falling to the floor at her side. "I shouldn't have listened to him."

Him was the job. The contact they had given her. "No, you shouldn't have."

"I'm weak." She hadn't heard me. "I should pay more attention to my head and less to my heart. My head is never wrong. I knew what he said was crazy, but I believed him."

"Yes, you did."

"You think I was wrong?"

Her eyes pleaded with me to say no. To tell her that what she had done was the right thing to do. But I couldn't. I couldn't agree. But I also couldn't see her cry more. "I think you did what felt was right at the time."

She nodded nervously. Tears filled her eyes again, but they didn't fall. I could see the vein in her right temple throb, but her skin was as white as a sheet.

"You thought it was right," I repeated.

Then she asked the question that I knew she'd wanted to ask me all night. "What do I do with the body?"

I sipped on my whiskey. "Where is it now?"

"Still in my apartment." Her eyes darted about the room, but I knew no-one else was listening.

"You can't leave it there."

She gave me a proper 'duh' expression and shrugged, "Hell no!"

"Was there a lot of blood?"

"About two pints." Her training had kicked in. It was a common mistake to think that the human body held tens of pints of blood. It averaged at seven. Try pouring half a pint of water on the floor; it looks like a lot more than just half a pint. Two pints, however, meant that she'd caught an artery. That was messy.

"What flooring do you have?"

"It's a new build. Wood flooring but concrete under it."

That was going to be a problem. The wood would need replacing, but concrete is porous. The evidence would be there forever.

"No plastic sheeting?"

She shook her head.

I sighed.

"I know! I fucked up."

There was no point in panicking about it. "And you left it?"

She nodded, but her nerves made her whole body shake. "I wrapped it up in the rug. I didn't have anything else to hand."

"Okay. Then there's a chance the blood hasn't soaked through." It was a very slim chance.

"Will you help me?"

I thought about it. I didn't like it. Not one bit. Helping her would make me an accessory. If I helped, I'd have to be extremely clever about it.

"Please?"

But how the hell could I say no? She was on the edge, about to fall in to God knows what kind of emotional psychological nightmare. And I cared for this one. She was still wet behind the ears, but she had potential. She had to know that even though we worked alone, we were still on the same side. We were still part of a team. And she wasn't quite ready for the fall out. She needed the backup, the same way that I had on my first kill.

I nodded. I'd help.

She physically relaxed. But her hand was still shaking as she stubbed the cigarette out.

"You need to tell me exactly what happened."

He'd told her that he loved her. He'd told her that the only thing stopping him from being with her was his wife. He'd suggested, on more than one occasion, that had it not been for his wife, they'd be together. She believed him. She said she knew what it was like to be in love, and he was most definitely in love.

I'd heard that story so many times before that I knew she actually believed it. I also knew how nasty perception could be. Very misleading.

The next time, she'd take the sob story with a pinch of salt. Eventually, she'd be completely numb to it. But that stage took time. She wasn't quite there yet.

He'd told her that he'd dreamt of his wife dying. That if that happened, they could be together. He'd said it wasn't about the money. But even she knew what liars men can be when it comes to money. At the end of the day, he'd come to her to kill his wife. He'd just been like so many others. He'd thought that a sob story would make it easier. Maybe for himself, but it didn't really matter to us. And she knew that. She understood it.

Like I said, she had potential. She'd learnt from the school of hard knocks.

Logistics were always tricky though. To dispose of a body, you needed to know and understand the logistics. Height; weight; clothing; distinguishing body marks. Would a shallow grave do? Or a lead weight so it sinks to the bottom where the fish were hungry? Or would I need tools? Something to chop it up with, or acid to wash it away?

As I've already explained, her training had kicked in. She knew it all. Even down to the dental work. She knew what would need destroying and what wouldn't. She knew bank account details, where the passport was. We could book a flight somewhere and make it look like a runner. We had those kind of tools at our disposal. That was the team. That's how we worked.

A phone call had got the target into her flat. That was all it had taken. That and a promise to spill the beans. Knowledge can be persuasive.

Her flat was great. I was actually surprised when I entered it. I'd expected her to be messier. But it was modern, with white walls and splashes of abstract colour enough for you to think you'd walked into a gallery. Of course, blood was a bitch to cover on white walls, but not impossible. Luckily, the kitchen - the murder sight - was large. And the body was on the floor in the middle. There was a bit of blood splatter on the laminated white gloss doors, but a bit of bleach would clear that up.

We rolled the body, inside the rug, on to a large plastic sheet. The gaffer tape secured it tightly. The blood was dry and rigor mortis had kicked in. That's a good time to move a body as the blood has dried up and the body is rigid - that makes it easier to 'roll'. When it gets past that, and purification kicks in is when it gets really messy. The bowls and bladder loosen and the smell is nasty.

We'd bought replacement floor boards, and after getting the body into the boot of my car, I set about ripping up the blood stained ones. I had UV lights with me so I didn't miss any. It had gone through to the concrete below, but we scrubbed it with bleach as best we could before laying new underlay and replacing the boards. When we were finished, it was as if the murder had never happened.

She poured me a whiskey while she smoked a cigarette. She'd stopped shaking. Support from a friend can do amazing things to the nerves. She felt in control now. It had made a remarkable difference in her demeanour.

"What now?" she asked.

"I'll get rid of it." I already had the concrete block ready on the bridge that I was planning to throw the body over. I'd have to stop off first and remove the jaw. There was also need to remove the left arm where a very personal tattoo was situated. But I had my garage to do that in. The grinder was sharp enough to destroy a jaw and an arm.

She nodded. "Thank you."

But I had to know. "Can I ask you one thing?"

She nodded again.

"Why did you kill him? He hired you to kill his wife."

She smiled for the first time in the two days we'd been sorting this out. There was glint of something quite evil in that smile. "Because the wife paid me more."

Whispers - new collection of short stories available to buy now!

I have finally (as promised) collated a collection of my short stories in to a book. Whispers sees all of the stories that you have inspired me to write (with your photos), along with some that you may not have read.

Whispers is available now for Kindle through Amazon, and will shortly be available in paperback too.

WHISPERS

In the dark places of the mind, monsters lie...

From the ghosts of Conaught Hall, the man at the Beach House, to the confusion of Terry, these are stories of mystery, wonder and warmth.

Here, Kari Milburn brings them to life in tales that will leave you wanting more...

Time Flies When...

... you're having fun? ...when you're busy? ...when the clock is faulty?

I have been absent for the last couple of months, so I shall endeavour to explain why...

Work.

That's about it, really. I started my new job and have to say, I am absolutely loving it! Of course, it means that I have less time to spend doing other things that I love, like writing. But I've been pretty busy in that department too.

I wrote 7souls about ten years ago, and it is currently open on the PC going through the torturous ordeal of being rewritten! It's a story about a woman who has precognitive dreams, and how they affect her life and the people closest to her. Reading it again after such a long period of time, I'm happy to report that the tale is a great one. I've laughed and cried, and if I can evoke that sort of emotion when I know the story so well, I hope it will do the same for you. And keep an eye out for a small competition that I shall be holding regarding this tale... details to follow soon.

For Beings fans, Gina and I have begun the second book! Being Damned will see Alice and her friends continue their training with the threat of darkness growing around them. If you've not read the first book, Being Grey, it's available to order for Kindle and now also in paperback from Amazon!

Click on the picture to order your copy now

And I shall advertise my New Years resolution on here right now....

One new short story on to this Blog every month. You know the process - post your pictures to my facebook page and I'll pick one every month to write a tale around!

Kari Milburn - facebook author page

That's all for now, folks!

Mr Cartwheel

Last night, I caught him again. The Monster Cartwheeling Spider that has plagued my living room... the last time, I released him in to the alley only to discover that he found his way back in.

This thing was the size of a tangerine, with legs longer than Daryl Hannahs. I had to use a pint glass to catch him the first time, as I feared anything else would not suffice. The width of a standard glass would have made him legless... Mr Cartwheel was a pint kinda guy, for sure.

Last night, he just sat there, looking at me. "Honey! I'm home!" So I grabed a glass (slightly narrower rim, but he wasn't moving, he was daring me to catch him again). Glass on top, Sky letter underneath. Got him.

And I sat there, watching him watch me from his glass prison, his legs pushing at the clear walls, fighting for his freedom...

I've no fear of squatting a mosquito, hoovering up small spiders, laying ant powder... but when things get a little bigger, something clicks inside that says, "wait! This one has a conscience,  a life!" I wouldn't purposefully kill a baby rabbit - though they do pop when being driven over. And Mr Cartwheel was BIG.

I could almost see the expression on his face. And that's what steeled my nerves. It wasn't a baby rabbit with a twitchy nose, it wasn't cute and innocent. It was EVIL. Pincers jabbing at the glass, long legs reaching the top of his prison (the bottom of the glass) as he tried in vain to push himself free. He was Jack Torrence, and if I didn't do something final with him, he'd come back and bounce tennis balls against the wall to annoy me.

Or he might even come back with an axe.

I had to act, but I also had to be sure. WD40 is an insect killer, but the thought of lifting one end of the glass to spray him didn't sit good with me. Even with the little red staw, I was sure that the tiniest crack in his prison would be enough for him to get his legs under, lift the glass and attack.

I could flush him down the loo, but what if he climbed back out? Squishing him underfoot was an option, but his armour plated body would probably feel like stepping on a stone.

I returned to the toilet idea, but took a break for a smoke while I hatched my plan. All the time, Mr Cartwheel watched me, dared me to defeat him.

WD40 around toilet bowl so he couldn't climb back out... flush... bleach... rinse and repeat.

Plan sorted, I had confidence. I could win this war. I WOULD win this war.

Bowl sprayed with insect killing lubricant, I went back to retrieve him, half expecting him to have vanished, to see a tipped up glass and a note on the Sky envelope saying, "Ha! Nice try, Missus! I'll see you tonight while you're sleeping!" But he was there, defiantly sitting front and centre, pincers still but primed.

I carried him gingerly, knowing any sudden movement could scupper the plan. I held him over the toilet bowl, showed him my plan, and I sware his expression was of cocky confidence. As if meer water would be his end?!

A quick jerk of the glass and in he fell, landing with a small splash. He opened up his legs, touching either side of the bowl, relaxing on his back, pincers slowly opening and closing. It was now or never. I pushed down on the lever, and Niagra Falls opened up above him, driving him down the U bend and away. The saftey lid on the bleach had me panic. I should have known to open it in advance. And I sware there was a leg clinging on, long enough for Mr Cartwheel to pull himself back, climb back out... Fear had me in its throws, but then the lid came free, and half a bottle of thick bleach slid down after him. The leg lost its grip, and I flushed again.

Rinse and repeat.
Rinse and repeat....

Cleaning House

I am a murderer. I have killed twenty three people over the last thirty three years. I have no pattern. No design. No type.

To do the right thing is hard. Really hard.

What if doing the wrong thing feels right? How does it work when doing wrong is the right thing to do? When my work helps others, comforts them, saves them? How is it wrong then?

It all started when I killed my father. I pushed him over the bannister in the house and he died when he hit the stairs. His neck, left hip and the thumb on his left hand were shattered when he came in to contact with the old solid wood. He had just stabbed my mother twice in the stomach and I knew he'd come after me next. So I pushed him. He didn't know how to fall.

I was nine.

At twenty two, I was on the freeway when I heard the DJ on the radio station talking about a car full of bank robbers being chased on my road. They were behind me and coming up fast. They'd shot dead three people in the bank that they'd just raided. So when I saw their car in my rear view, I reacted. I swerved into them, made hard contact and their car spun uncontrollably until it flipped. Two of the four died at the scene, one more in hospital three hours later, and the last in the electric chair 16 years later.

Then there was the known paedophile who I caught attacking a child in the bushes in my local park. I heard the kid's scream and just reacted. I punched him hard, and when he hit the ground, his head hit a rock. It was lights out for him.

After the sixth, I realised that I'd caused the death of all of these criminals, and had gotten away with each murder. Even the local paper heralded me as some sort of freaky hero. 'The guy to be around when you're getting mugged' they said.

Maybe that's when I believed I was invincible. The law hadn't touched me. Well, they had, but only to shake my hand and give me a pat on the back. They loved me.

Now I hunt for them. The murderers, rapists, child molesters, bank robbers, thieves... I've clocked up thirty three in total. Nine that the authorities know about. I've learnt that they don't spend the time investigating the death of a drug pusher, they have bigger fish to fry. Maybe I should make myself a super hero costume. Purple always suited me. My mother always said that it made my blue eyes sparkle.

I have a taste for it now. And the low life of the world don't attract interest. If I had murdered the Governor's daughter, I'd be on the FBI's most wanted list. Instead, I'm cleaning house. Clearing out the cockroaches. Making good of what is bad.

To do the right thing is hard. Really hard.

Twitch

"This is gooooooood!" she said softly. The sand beneath her fingers was warm and soft to the touch. She'd been doing sand angels in the moonlight, staring up to the skies above her. She didnt know what all of the constellations were called, but she had an app for it.

The dog sat beside her asked, "What do they call you?"

"My name is Diane, but they call me Twitch. When I was a baby, I used to do this funny jerky thing with my hand when I was feeding. So the name stuck."

"Twitch," the dog repeated. "It suits you."

"Have you ever seen a space ship?" she asked.

The dog raised an eyebrow, "No." Though he figured stranger things had happened. After all, he'd found a human that could speak to him.

"Do you have a home?" she asked.

"No," the dog replied.

"Where's your bed then?"

"I have a habit of falling out of beds, so I sleep on the floor now."

She giggled, "That's just silly!"

"I'm a dog. Bite me."

She laughed harder at that. "You should try a hammock. Everyone falls out of a hammock!"

Ok. He may have found a human who understood him, but Twitch wasn't the brightest of kids. "Do you go to school?"

"No. I ran away from home to join the circus. I always wanted to be a monkey and hug bananas all day."

Not the brightest? Hmm... bit of an understatement there. "Monkey's eat bananas, they don't hug them."

She frowned. "Can I hug them first?"

"Only the ones that hug you back."

"Okay!"

Sweet Jesus!

The sun had set about an hour ago, and the dog had been sat next to her the whole time. The conversation had been like just this, and he was starting to lose his patience. Where were her parents?

"Do you think they have circuses in space?"

"If they do, you'll fit right in."

"I can climb trees too," she said, "so long as the bottom branches are close to the ground."

"Do you like climbing trees?" Ah! He regretted that as soon as he'd said it!

"Of course I do! I want to be a monkey!"

The moon was rising, and it was full. Its beauty left them both speechless for a while. It glimmered off the sea like molten silver, disturbed only by the gentle lapping of waves.

"If I stayed here forever, will you stay with me?" she asked.

The dog sighed. He could think of worse places to be. Perhaps if that happened, he could educate her more. Talking to her like this forever would frustrate him.

They came an hour later, escorted by a police car. They'd been looking for her for three hours. The dog took his leave when he saw the mother, in tears of joy, sweep her daughter into her arms, thanking the policeman over and over again.

Had he stayed, the cops would have called the dog catchers out. He knew what happened to old dogs that were caught by dog catchers. And he was old. Older than the moon.

"I met my best friend in the whole world tonight," the little girl was saying as they herded her towards the car. "I knew he was my best friend the moment I met him!"

The dog made his way down the beach, away from the flashing lights, to look for the next stray human to save. And he did so smiling.

The Running Man

It had been one of those days. Anything that could have gone wrong, had gone wrong. The toast burnt; no toilet paper in the bathroom (why hadn't she replaced it?); missing sock (no doubt, gone to washing machine/dryer heaven). Even the washer fluid in the car had run out.

She caught every light on the way to work, and was already running late. The boss was supposed to be on holiday, but stood tapping his watch as she ran to her desk, mouthing her apologies to him.

Flustered, the day got worse as everyone in the office seemed to have questions for her, and by the time 5 o'clock came, she was ready to murder someone!

He was always there though. In the back of her mind. His smooth ways and his powerful movements. The Running Man was everything to her. He was her escape. He was the one who made those long evenings exciting. Who brought a smile to her face. He was the life and soul of the party. People laughed at his humour and others wished they were just a fraction as cool.

When he showed up, he took over everything. Her mind, her body, her soul.

Terry

As she bent over to pick up her jumper, the old man on the bench said, "Look! There are two moons out tonight!" She'd looked up to the sky before she realised what the cheeky bugger meant. Tutting at him loudly, she waddled off down the street, mumbling to herself.

Terry chuckled. He knew she'd go home and have a laugh with her husband and two sons over it. He knew she was the type who loved a bit of banter.

He knew everything about everyone. He knew that the young girl standing at the bus stop checking her phone every five seconds was waiting for that call or text or message. She'd had a row with her boyfriend and was waiting for him to call her. He also knew he wouldn't,  and that by the time she got off the bus at her destination,  she'd have called him. Terry also knew he wasn't worth it.

He knew that the gardener weeding the pansies in his garden was about to win the lottery. He also knew that the resulting increase of cash flow would see his whole family fight and fall apart. You had to be careful of what you wished for these days.

He knew that that the young woman locking the doors on her flower shop was two weeks pregnant. She didn't know yet.

He knew that the driver of the flash audi was going to die on the M1 at 7:21 the following morning. Car pile ups were a nasty business.

What Terry didn't know, however,  was who or where he was, why he was there, or where he had been. He just knew that he was. And that was always enough for him. He didn't feel hungry, but couldn't remember ever eating. He wasn't thirsty, but didn't know the last time he drank. He didn't know where he lived or slept, but wasn't sleepy so didn't really care.

He just knew that he was.

Animals had a habit of gravitating toward him. At his feet sat 2 stray dogs and three cats. The cats all had different owners, and their names were Shelley, Ozzy and Munch. The dogs lived around the town somewhere, and he knew they'd be picked up and re homed soon. The bitch was going to live with the Jacob family in Hustletoon Road. The male was going to end up on a farm. Both would be loved and cared for. Terry smiled as he stroked their heads. All was good.

A man in a suit came to sit next to him. He looked like a man in despair. He didn't acknowledge Terry. He just sat and held his head in his hands as he wept.

Terry watched him for a moment, then knew his story. It had been the best year for the young father. His beautiful wife was six months pregnant with their second, he'd had two job promotions, their bid on the new house had been accepted and his brother had been given the all clear after years of cancer treatment. Up until 26minutes ago, he'd been the happiest he'd ever been in his life.

Then he'd recieved the phone call. His father had passed away. He had adored him. They had been the best of friends for his whole life. His father always had a way of cheering him up when things were down. They'd had this secret way of making each other laugh, even through tears.

Terry could see it now. The father would tilt the boys head up and say, "Chin up lad, it's not all bad!" Then he would play-punch the side of the boys chin gently, "I could be Sugar Ray, and that punch could hurt!"

Sugar Ray was dead, and so was this mans father. But the love would never die. Terry knew this. Terry knew that he would do exactly the same to the unborn son that his wife now carried. Terry knew that though people don't last forever, their legacies did. Small things they said or did. Generations would carry it forward. That was just the way things were.

He got up from the bench, and stood before the weeping man. "Chin up, lad," he said, and the man raised his face in wonder to the ghost that stood before him. Terry gently play-punched him, and even as his hand glided though the mans chin like it was air,  he still said, "I could be Sugar Ray!"

"And that punch could hurt," the man finished, the tears in his eyes blinding him from the magic before him.

Terry wandered off, knowing that his job on that bench was complete. He did not know what or who he was, he just knew that he was.

Being Damned

It's been a while...

Being Grey was first published on Kindle in 2010, with the promise of the follow up books hanging over my head like an awkward post it note. "Don't forget!"

The first book will soon be available in paperback and on iBooks, and I will update you all on the release date when I have it. This will be edition 2, but the story remains unchanged.

Being Damned has been a work in progress for about a year now, and Gina and I have toyed with so many ideas! We have now, however, finalised those ideas and today, we finished chapter one!

What do you think will happen to Alice and the Pure Seers? Ian left her destroyed and confused at the end of the last book... How will the tale unfold?

If you haven't read Being Grey, pop over to Amazon to read it now!

Being Damned has its drawbacks, but it is definitely a lot more fun...

Summer (a short story)

It was so hot, even the scorpions were scurrying for cover.  The baked earth cracked under the heat and shimmered in the distance.

There was no comfort offered from clouds. The sky was as clear as glass.

He stood on his perch, surveying the ground around him. A single weed fought for sustenance, but it was loosing its battle and curling up as it withered and died. This was not a good summer.

The autumn had brought rain, so heavy at times that the earth could no longer soak it up. Rivers of red ran over the field, poured into the road and disappeared down storm drains. And when the winter had come, it had brought snow and ice that solidified the ground and hidden it in a blanket of white.

Spring was more forgiving. The farmers had talked of a good harvest, and the gentle sun thawed the earth and gave life to seeds. Acres of corn spread out before him, and his job had been hard with the wildlife that was attracted.

When the April showers stopped, things changed. Day by day, the temperature rose and the crops began to die. They had already drawn from the earth what little moisture it held, and when the water had gone, so had their future.

Now there was just baked earth left. For sixty days, the heat had held fast. The farmer was heard saying that the worst draught in history had only be forty two days. He hadn't been able to protect his crop.

The scarcrow looked down to his ground, the sweltering heat had baked his rags to a crisp around his straw body. He creaked when he moved. He longed for the rain as much as the earth did. It would wash away his stiffness and soak him through. His straw would once again expand and his breathing would be easy again. The sun was killing the ground just as it was killing him.

Twelve days later, when the rain finally arrived, it came with such force that the scarcrow was ripped from his porch. Being laid out on the floor, his body soaked up the water, but there was no longer any life in him to revive. As the torents of water streamed over the hard baked ground, slipping through the cracks to the softer earth deep below, life was beginning again. The earth would come back.

But for him, there was nothing. His time was over, and he had returned to the ground from where he came.

Review of Ronseal Grout Cleaner

Overview: Use Cilit Bang and grout whitener unless you have Mr T or Superman around for lunch....

This stuff does do 'exactly as it says on the tin', but fails to warn you that you need arm muscles like Mr T and rubber gloves which are suitable for handling nuclear waste...

The issues:
1. The applicator is utterly unsuitable. The product has the consistency of runny snot, and therefore the arm of a small child would be more suitable to apply it to the grout. Instead, you have to squeeze it through the tube that has hard bristles on the end. This means that it is far more likely to run up your arm than down the wall.
2. The bristles on the brush are very hard (you'll find out why in a moment). It is also quite a wide brush. In my humble experience, lines of grout are never more than an inch thick... so during application, more of the product goes on the tiles than on the grout.
3. It smells like the inside of a hairdressers during pensioners day. Blue rinse and peroxide ahoy!!! I advise windows open, peg for nose and an oxygen mask.
4. Once runny snot is applied to wall, leave for 5 minutes,  then use the brush to scrub the grout. This, by no means, is an easy feat. This is where Mr T needs to come knocking on the door. The difficulty also lies in the brush being attached to the tube. As you scrub, more runny snot comes out. In the end, I removed the brush to use it seperately.
6. The hard bristles remind me of the wire floor srubbing brushes than my nan used to use on the concrete door step. In fact, one of those brushes would have been ideal to use!

So, after the trial and tribulations above, what are the results?
Not bad! When scrubbing, you can see the muck bribbling away, and when washed away, the tiles are gleaming! But in todays world of quick and easy products, this scores a zero for speed and easiness! It did clean the grout though.
Would I use it again?
No. I'd Cilit Bang the tiles, then buy grout whitener as it is easier, quicker and actually gives a much better result...

Ronseal, this product has a lot of potential, but really needs to be redesigned for an easier application. A seperate applicator and brush (or wire Brillo style sponge?) would make it much more user friendly!

Mr T and childs arms will no longer be needed, thank you!

Where To Draw The Line update...

Hi all!

Just wanted to update you on the latest about my new book (is it still new when it's only a month old?!). Today I had the joyful experience of making it available on Lulu.

Any self published indie authors out there will know that it's not the simplest thing in the world to do! But my IT experiences improve every day... Today I learnt how to apply a TOC to my book on Word in order for Lulu to accept it. No easy task, but at least I now understand that TOC stands for table of contents!

With luck, you'll soon be able to purchase the story on your iPad or Nook too.

I also reworked the cover art for the book. I'm hoping this will lure the reader in to tale by representing the crime feel, and the tensions that William Hunter goes through.

I've had some great feedback so far! A huge thanks to those who have left comments!

Click here to purchase!

5.0 out of 5 stars
couldn't put this book down 24 May 2013


By Sarah jane whitfieldFormat:Paperback
this book is brilliant, an easy read but a complete page turner, couldn't put it down, dont normally read this type of genre book, I thoroughly enjoyed it and can't wait for a follow up book!


5.0 out of 5 starstruly a brilliant book 18 May 2013By Will slowFormat:Kindle Edition

This was a great book right from the beginning and I was not able to put it down till I had read it a really good story

4.0 out of 5 stars
Emotive and haunting! 16 May 2013
By Gary LinesFormat:Kindle Edition
A superbly written novel, with the kind of protagonist that we can all relate to. A page-turner to the very end; its gritty, first-person narrative carries the reader along as the hero, William, battles with his conscience. Very enjoyable and well worth the purchase.

KARI MILBURN AUTHOR INTERVIEW - Questions asked by EARL CHESSHER

You're a writer. Why?

My father asked me when I was nine what I wanted to do when I grew up. I told him, “Tell stories!” He said, “Then you’ll be a writer.” I have always had a weird imagination, and writing is a way to express that and hopefully make someone smile, cry or frown – any reaction at all is a welcome one.

What three writers have most influenced you as a writer?

Stephen King, Jeffery Archer and Dean Koontz. These three men are amazing story tellers, and there is no agenda other than to share a moment of time inside their heads.

What is your preferred genre? Is that your ONLY genre?

I love to read crime, thrillers, fantasy and horror. I love to write anything that is slightly weird! It is easier for me to say what I don’t write, which is romance. And the only reason for this is that my characters tend to take on a life of their own which usually involves more action than foreplay!

WHO, in your personal life, has most influenced you to write, or made you WANT to write? Why?

My father. He used to love to read my stories, and try to put his own stamp on them! He was a Captain in the merchant navy, and the stories of his life inspired me to write my first novel, Millennium. It never got published and would need a serious re-write now due to it being 2013!! But writing it with his knowledge to aid my research was an inspiration and I miss him dearly now.

Commercial success: Do you care? Why?

Of course I would love commercial success! If I made a decent penny out of this, I could do it full time and can’t imagine a happier place for me to be. In the meantime, however, feedback and reviews are what motivate me.

Literary success: Same questions.

I write ‘quick reads’, and doubt that the literary success will come with the commercial success! Do I want The Times to review it and give it 5 stars? Hell yes! If it comes, I’ll lap it up!

You hate the _________ genre because ...

Least liked is Romance, but that’s probably because I love it and can’t write it!!

The Janitor - a short story by Fiona-Jane Brown

"Ok, ok, you lot, yes, I know you're all deities, but please, keep it orderly, the Big Man doesn't allow me to open the doors before midnight!" the Janitor orders the large crowd which has gathered. Same thing, every year, they've no patience, by Zeus I wish they would take their time! he mutters, looking at his large pocket watch and comparing it with the clock on the wall. The hands on both crept inexorably toward twelve.

The Furies were plotting, muttering, the Janitor swore he could see them pulling the wings off a dead bat. Artemis was stretching her bow back and forth. "Ere, young lady, don't you be putting arrows in that! You'll take someone's eye out!" he warned loudly.

Just then, he saw a familiar face - he had heard the drunken singing for a while now. "Oh now, Dionysus, you've started already, eh? No orgies in the queue, mind, you can do that on the other side!" he called, teasingly, the half-divine rebel-rouser grinning at him from behind a golden mask. One of the Nymphs shrieked and there was the sound of a loud slap as she walloped her groper across the face. There was silence for a bit.

Everyone could see the hands on the large clock reach the zero hour, and a chant of "six, five, four, three..." rippled through the crowd, as the Janitor fumbled for his keys. He knew what they were like. By the first strike, he had the large golden key in the lock. By the twelfth, he had his hands gripped around the door knobs. "Oi! Silence! I'm not opening up until you're all in an orderly line! It wouldn't be the first time I've been knocked down in the rush!" There was a generally shuffling and muttering as the crowd arranged themselves in a line. Satisfied, he turned the knobs and flung open the vast ebony doors. He managed to step back just in time as they all dashed forward, out into the new year, the new day, to carry on the business of the ages.

It took a full ten minutes for them all to leave. Olympus would be quiet for a bit. The Janitor sighed and closed the doors, but not before he could hear the sound of danity running feet and a feminine voice shriek, "No, please, don't close them, I must get through!"

He didn't quite recognise the girl, who wasn't quite wearing a sea-blue robe as she ran towards him. River nymphs! They're always in trouble! He thought. "You're a bit late, little lady, it's gone quarter past, I've got to close up or the Big Man will have my guts for garters!"

"Oh please, let me through, this is so embarrassing, I am Syrinx, a disciple of Artemis. She told me to be here on time, but that's just it, I've... well, I've got a problem... with a man... er a goat... oh, please, help me, he's just a pest!" she cried.

"Pan! He's a wicked boy, worse than Dionysus. Just a sex-maniac. He's after you as well, is he? Oh dear, oh dear, will he never learn?"

"Yes, he's terrible, he doesn't seem to understand my vow of chastity! He's horrible, he ... he smells, he's no better than an animal!"

"Well, he is half-goat! Oh look, on you go, if I see him, I won't breathe a word, ok? Now, on you go, catch up with your goddess, she'll be worried for you!"

"Thank you, thank you, dear friend, may Zeus bless you!" she trilled and ran through the doors.
The Janitor closed them.

Five minutes later he heard it... you couldn't really miss the coming of the chief of Gods, Zeus had a heavy footfall. The Janitor was not unduly worried, surely his boss wouldn't mind letting a latecomer through, especially when she was being pursued by that oik!

"JANUS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING INTERFERING??" Zeus bawled, even before he was within sight.

"Eh? What d'you mean, boss? I did as I always do, opened the door at midnight and let them through!" the Janitor replied.

"You let Syrinx through the doors after they should have been closed! You know the rules, Janus, those that wish to begin the new year on earth must go through the door at the stroke of twelve!"

"Aw, come on, boss, the poor kid's being pestered by Pan, he's a randy sod, won't leave her alone!"

"I'll have you know, Pan is one of my many sons, if he wants a girl, he should not be frustrated by a mere doorkeeper!"

"Ah. But you know, surely you know? And anyway, she just rushed past me, I can't do everything, I'd need two heads to watch both ways!"

Zeus suddenly smiled. "Come hither, Janus, you may have just come up with the best solution ever!" He grabbed the Janitor by the ears and pulled.

"ARGH!!!" the roar of pain and shock was heard all over Mount Olympus and down on earth...

Janus - the doorkeeper of the gods, still stands at the door of the year, having given his name to the first month, but all know him as the twin-headed janitor who can see the past and the future.

Fiona-Jane Brown in an author. You can read her blog here.

Mirror, Mirror - a short story by Megan Loughlin

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall...

Arabella hates mirrors. She hates their cold surfaces and their impersonal stares. She hates the belief that breaking one brings seven years bad luck. She hates the way they seem to be everywhere she looks.

But most of all, she hates them because of what she sees reflected.

Once, she was beautiful. Men flocked to her and women envied her. She was the Face that graced a thousand billboards. She relished in the worship and the adulation. She relished in her body and her face. She dressed herself in the latest fashions and kept herself young and beautiful through an endless string of surgeries. She used and discarded people like Kleenex, never caring about anything except her looks. Those above all she cared about.

She had no friends, only hangers on and lackeys that she used to advance her way further up the rung of success. She clawed her way to the top, never caring about those she stepped on to get there. To her, there was only one thing that mattered-Arabella.

But such an attitude cannot go unpunished forever, and Arabella found this out.

Even now, she has trouble remembering everything. There's a party, then all of a sudden there's smoke, and then an intense and horrible heat blasts her face, blinding her. After that, she recalls snippets of words, phantom-like conversations.

“...Almost completely burnt away...”

“We'll try to save as much of her face as we can...”

“She'll never look the same...”

“...Blind in one eye...”

She opens her eyes to darkness, and a professional voice - a doctor's, she thinks - is telling her that she had a narrow escape. “However, you did sustain some serious injuries.”

“How serious?!” Her voice is raspy, and she trembles. The doctor hesitates.

“Miss Wilkins, you need to get some rest. We can discuss this more lucidly in the morning.”

“I want a mirror.”

“Miss Wilkins...”

“BRING ME A FUCKING MIRROR!”

The doctor sighs in resignation. “There's one on the wall behind you.”

Arabella turns, and for a moment she thinks that an elaborate joke is being played on her. Surely the maimed and disfigured monster she sees isn't her! Why, she doesn't have those hideous scars! Both her eyes are a brilliant blue, not this faded grey color, and her hair is a long, luxurious black, not short and stubbly. Her lips are full and plump, not cracked and pitted like a dried up riverbed.

But then reality hits her. That is her. That-creature, that monster from the pits of Hell is her. Her hands come up, digging into her cheeks as her eyes go wide in horror, and she screams, and screams, and screams, at the realization that her life is over, that her looks, her perfect looks, are gone.

The screaming dissolves into insane laughter, and Arabella grabs the bedside lamp and throws it at the mirror, shattering it into a million pieces.

'Now', she thinks, 'I am beautiful again. I will always be beautiful.'

Always.

Forever.

Who's the fairest of them all? 


Note: Megan Loughlin is an author who lives in Florida. View her book Wolf's Bane on Amazon

Waiting Room

I'm in the waiting room for them to call my name. I have to see an Angel. Just a little ironic seeing that I had spent my whole life as a receptionist in a doctors office.

It's exactly the same as the waiting room in any doctors or dentists you may have ever been in.  Scuffed paint on the walls and the skirting boards, old well worn furniture, broken toys piled high in the toy box. There aren't any out of date magazines though. Instead, there are lots of leaflets.

How To Cope With Change
Welcoming God Into Your Life
Finding Employment
Build Your Perfect Home
Relationship Counciling

This is not what I expected at all.

When alive, I was an atheist. I didn't believe there was anything after death. My parents had been Catholics, so I had the full Catholic burial. I'm still not sure if that was the right way to go. The cremated bodies are gone for good. Maybe that would have been a better choice. So far, all I've done is sit in this room. I don't know what is beyond the frosted windows. They haven't told me. Is this another life to live all over? Do I have to spend another forty years behind another reception desk? I hope not!

The cremated ones don't come here. It seems that the body really does get reborn. We need it after all.

This waiting room is a doctors of sort. I'm not ill though. Just missing a few vital organs. They're fitting me with some new parts. Being a Donor cost me my lungs and liver.

Apparently,  I need them...

Dealing With Criticism

When I started writing, I was like a stubborn child stamping my feet if someone even dared to critique! I suffered from mild dyslexia when I was small (but was tub, matter was rattem, etc), and I guess the hate for being critiqued stemmed from constantly being corrected. When I grew into my teens, my spelling thankfully improved, my brain now able to put things in to the correct order. That didn't make my loathing for critics go away though!

Age hasn't mellowed me. What's changed now is the knowledge that I am not perfect and that even the cleverest and most highly thought of people in the world are where they are for surrounding themselves with experts.

Before you all gasp with horror, I am NOT admitting that critics are experts. In fact, they are far from it! Whether you like something or not is subjective. We are all different and all like different things. But if someone can tell me that I've not been logical, or can point out continuity errors in my stories, I will listen.
Everyone of us hears. We don't all listen. I recommend the art of listening in all aspects of life. What you hear is nothing compared to what you listen to. The critics may be harsh, but if what they are saying is true, act on it.

If someone says that the story is rubbish, that is SUBJECTIVE. The next person might love it! If they say it needs proof reading for errors, however, they are being OBJECTIVE and might be right. So proof your work again.

A 2star review for Being Grey on Amazon said "Humorous at times and mildly interesting but needs spelling and punctuation proofreading. I would read the next book in the trilogy." How bad could it have been if the reader wants to read the next book? They enjoyed it!

Subjectively, they want to carry on with the tale. PERFECT!
Objectively, they pointed out the errors that did need amending (which has since been done, thank you!).

You have to grow a thick skin, but also read between the lines. You never know where help might come from!

My Experience with Createspace

OK people... Tonight I decided to put my new book through the process of Createspace, so that all of those that asked can order a paperback version of it!
I want to share my experience with it if I may...

• Not too difficult to navigate and pretty simple to follow the instructions
• You can upload a basic word doc which makes life easier, but make sure you shrink your tabs - the standard on Word is waaaaay to large for the books and looks daft! (Think it's standard set 1.5cm - I changed mine to 0.6cm)
• I actually ended up editing the layout of the book a few times (maybe a bit more than a few...) before I saw the link to download a template! This is an EXTREMELY handy tool - download it and use it! The difference in the finished product is quite remarkable!
• You get to preview the inside pages of your book once uploaded - if you try that without using the template, you'll see exactly what I meant above!!
• The design page for the cover was not bad either, but would have been nice to be able to change the size and styles of fonts without using their styles only. There are a handful of templates for you to choose from, and bare in mind that you CAN change the colours, style and pictures... Adding my own picture and changing the colour of the background made a massive difference, so pick the 'layout' that you want, not the colours, etc. 
• They do need your IBAN and SWIFT numbers for your royalty payments, so have them to hand or you'll have to spend 30 minutes on the phone to your bank going through endless lists of pre-recorded menus before speaking to someone. Who in my case only wanted to talk to me about my current overdraft facility...
• At the end, they ask you to pay $25 for extended sales - I've not picked this as it meant that my royalties went down like a lead balloon! I wanted to try and keep the price of my book the lowest I could, but still make a small profit. This might be worth having a more detailed look at though.
• For a first timer, I got it all done in about 3 and a half hours. I'm pretty sure the next time I use it, it'll be quicker and smoother. I am pretty IT savvy though, so if you struggle, it may take you longer. I spent most time playing with the formats, so where I said above to download the templates, do it! It would have saved me a couple of hours, I'm sure!!
• And at the end of the ordeal, you get to download your eBook version and the cover picture. The picture is handy for your marketing activites... and here's mine!

So go ahead and have a go!! If you're like me and have only sold as ebook before, there's certainly no harm in trying...

See you on the best sellers list soon!!!

Where To Draw The Line - update

I have now uploaded the new book on to Amazon, so it should be live within 24hrs! The cover needed a lot of work, but this is what I finished on...

At what point do you choose to step over the line between what is right and wrong? How much will it take for you to break the law to uphold the law? When William helped Zoe into the back of his taxi, little did he know that it would change his life forever.

A murderer is on the loose, and Zoe tells William who it is. But the murderer also knows that William is after him. He battles his conscience, the law and a murderer, but does William know where to draw the line?

The Hunted... (a short story inspired by Kristen Slice's photo)

Jake casually rested the shotgun against his shoulder. His back pack was starting to weigh heavy on his back, but they had the scent, and had been tracking it forty miles over three days. Bogart was as impatient as always, tongue hanging out, panting, tail wagging. They were getting closer, and stopping now would lose them valuable time.

The sun was slowly lowering in the sky now. A few hours past midday. A few more hours, and they would have to find a place to camp. Jake was hungry, and no doubt the dog was famished too. But they were hunters, who worked well off each other and knew each others limitations. The dog had stopped before, not because he needed to, but because he had seen that Jake needed to. He had done the same for the dog. Jake and Bogart were a team.

The brush was thick and noisy underfoot. The hunted must have known that they were tracking it. This was no ordinary bear. He was intelligent. Clever. And evil. He had attacked 2 people in the town, and the local radio station had nick named him Yogi, "as he is not your average bear". It was a stupid radio show with a stupid DJ who'd come up with a stupid name. Yes, he was not average. He was intelligent. Clever. Careful. Calculating. He'd been shot twice by the rangers and survived. They should have named him Hannibal. And he was still out there.

Jake and Bogart planned to bring him down.

The dog stopped. Tongue in, tail still. Nose pointing due north.

Jake slowly slipped his back pack off and dropped it silently to the forest floor. He brought the shotgun around and silently made his way to the dog. They were at the edge of small clearing and there, stood in the sun shine about twenty feet away, was the bear. And it was staring straight at them, it's fur raised, head low. It knew they were there. It knew they were coming. The hunt was over.

Jake raised the gun to take aim just as the bear started to charge. Bogart knew not to run in to the line of fire, so started to bark ferociously at Jake's side. The bear took no notice.

The crack of the gunshot echoed through out the forest, followed by another straight after. The dog's barking followed and the birds in the trees took flight. And then silence.

The bear was never seen again. It never came back in to town, or seen at camp sites or on the trail. And neither was Jake or Bogart. It's said that in the pitch of night, you can hear the gun shots and the dogs bark. Hunters and hunted reliving their final confrontation. Or perhaps they are still hunting, roaming the forests looking for each other, never quite finishing what they had started...

Wall (a short story inspired by Li Alonso's photo)

This isn't just any old wall. It is a barrier, secluding us from them. Separating families, friends, communities. It had been built to protect us. It has been a long time that we have needed protecting. 

I come here often. I like to feel the concrete on my back and remember how it used to be before the soldiers had built it. Long before they had needed to build it.

There are times when we forget about what is on the other side. When we wonder what all of the bother is about. Social media will create a mob, who try to break down the wall, shouting their slogans about equality for all and their human rights. Occasionally, one of them scales the wall.

And drops over the other side.

Of course, the military have cameras over there. Every now and then, they 'leak' a few minutes of footage on to YouTube to remind us of the things that live there. The things that they caught. The things that escaped.

Over there, they cut the power, blocked all cell towers and internet traffic, and left the few that stayed there to fend for themselves. They were given the option to evacuate. They said no. 

It's estimated that over two thousand stayed. Twelve months after the wall closed, they stopped dropping supplies. The creatures had brought down one of the choppers by throwing a car at it, so they deemed it too dangerous to continue. 

People are afraid of what they don't know. They fear the creatures because we've not been told anything about them. I have seen one. It was an alien. Fallen to earth in a ship that was broken. Captured, tortured, experimented on. It escaped, with it's fellow aliens, and killed over 300 military personal in the process. Bullets didn't stop them. Once free, nothing could. 

We are waiting for them to die now. But I can't help feeling sorry for them. If that was me, on an alien planet, I too would have killed everyone who had hurt me and imprisoned me. I too would have escaped. They're trapped in there, like animals in a zoo. There is no technology in there to help them, just 26 square miles of forest and farming villages. 

I come here because I love the feel of the concrete on my back. And because sometimes, just sometimes, I can hear them.

Li's photo was taken at the Berlin Wall. I tried to think of a situation where segregating people like that would happen now, and sadly came up with far too many current situations and places... I decided it would be best to treat this as sci-fi instead!