7souls

Available to order in kindle and paperback from Amazon now!

7souls Update

My labour of love has taken many years, but at 2:30 yesterday morning, I woke up with a clear view of where my last couple of chapters should go, and I've been writing solidly since! It's now finished, and I am excited about the result.

It'll be sent out to a few Beta readers now, who will give me their thoughts and ideas (or, ideally, say it's ready to go to print).

Now comes the fun part of designing the cover...
Here's one idea. Does this make you want to open it up?


Update:
I wrote the above in February of 2016. I's now almost February of 2017.
So what have I been doing?

Editing. Editing. And then, for something different, editing.

The problem with writing a manuscript doesn't end with the final full stop. In fact, when you get to that point, you're about a third of the way done.

I took a few months away from writing all together and indulged my passion for story telling by reading others work. I devoured all seven books of the Clifton Chronicles in three weeks (Jeffrey Archer is a master at character development, in my opinion!). I watched movies, read blogs and generally did my best to not think about my book, until I picked it up again at the start of this month.

And it reads well! It's a page turner. A quick read. Nothing too heavy to bog you down in the narrative.

I'm going to send it to a few well chosen Beta readers for their honest opinions, and work on that cover design, and will keep you posted for the release date.

Soon, though. It will be soon!

A William Hunter short tale...

"Seeing that you can't wait to see the back of her, I thought you'd help her with the fare. Eight pound should cover it."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" the man shouted, "I ain't giving a penny to that bitch!"

I took a deep breath to calm my temper. "I'm William Hunter, the taxi driver that you called to collect her, only she doesn't have any cash. I thought I'd ask you as you're so keen to see the back of her."

"Fuck you."

Sandra had radioed me with the details of the pick up. I was on the other side of town, but she knew this was a job for me. "Just get there, and quickly," she'd said, "I'm pretty sure I heard him hit her. And be careful!"

When I'd pulled up outside, there was one hell of a ruckus going on. I could hear him shouting from the street, and I could hear her crying. Domestics aren't my thing, but a person in trouble is. I'm not the kind of guy that can ignore things like that. I can't let things lie. Bad people have to answer for the shit they put others through. Sometimes, there's a fine line between doing what's right and what's legal, but I have some practice in knowing where that line is.

And as I stared at him, the temptation to go over that line was almost too much. "The price just went up to ten pounds."

The man stood from his chair, beer bottle in hand, expanded gut hanging over the top of his jeans. He was a big man; maybe over fifteen stone. There was a coffee table between us; it would stall him if he made a move.

He waved the bottle in my face. "Get outta my house."

I remained calm. I'd already seen the golf clubs by the door, and wasn't afraid to use one if necessary. "I'll leave, but the cost just went up to fifteen."

It was like waving a red flag at a bull. The man snorted with rage. "That bitch won't get a single penny from me, including your bloody fare!"

"Twenty."

He launched the bottle in my direction, but the alcohol he'd already consumed made his actions sluggish. I didn't need to duck. The bottle smashed against a picture on the wall, which fell to the floor and smashed. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Twenty five. And the price will keep going up until you pay."


*****

I walked out of the house ten minutes later, and closed the door softly, then made my way down the path. I closed the gate behind me, and climbed in to the drivers seat.

She was still sobbing, and the tissues I'd given her were now damp, and strewn across the back seats. In the minutes I'd been otherwise occupied, her cheek had swollen and was turning a nice purple colour.

"He won't bother you again." I said. I counted out the cash in my hand, surprised that there was over four hundred there. I took a five pound note, and passed the rest back to her. She took it with a shaking hand.

Looking at the cash, she asked, "Where did this come from? We never had cash like this in the house."

"With a little persuasion, he told me where he hid it. It was in a fake flower pot in the downstairs toilet. The one that was on the shelf above the loo."

She smiled for the first time. "I always hated that thing. He said it was his mum's and wanted to keep it."

"And now we know why." I faced forward and turned the engine on. "Where do you want me to take you?"

She thought about it for a while, then said, "The Regency. I deserve one good night's sleep, right?"

I nodded, and pulled away from the curb. She'd get a lot of good nights sleep in her future. She just didn't know that yet.

Available to buy on Amazon now...

Where To draw The Line
introducing William Hunter.

At what point would you choose to step over the line between what is right and wrong? How much would it take for you to break the law to uphold the law? "I found Zoe crying in the street, soaked to the bone and covered with blood. She asked me to take her to the hospital. She later died and the man she named got away with it. He knew I was on to him. The police had no evidence, so I had to find it myself. What I uncovered was not just one murder, but a string of them. And he was still playing..." William battles his conscience, the law and a murderer in this spine-tingling crime novel you won't want to put down. But will he know Where To Draw The Line?

Being Grey

Alice and her four friends are average kids growing up. Movies, shopping, picnics, more shopping and falling in love. They also have a very special role to play; they are 'Gifted' and can sense the very Being of a person. They can sense if on the inside someone is pure or damned. Whilst trying to make the world a better place, who knows who you'll meet? After all, there is no accounting for who you fall in love with...






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...







Stirring Up Magic

Alex and Ben are thrust into a medieval world which is strangely familiar to them. Without everything they take for granted in this life, they set out to save a fantasy world from the threat of evil. Their coming brings back magic into a world that has been without it for 500 years, and with their arrival, so also come the Unicorn, the Cyclops, and even witchcraft. Alaya is troubled by a dream so vivid and shocking, but The Lady Grace, a learned scholar, suspects that the girls dream is in fact Foresight, a magical gift, reborn in the mind of a 19 year old maid. Alaya has seen the war that will one day fall upon their lands. Knowing what may follow, they set out in search of the children destined to change their world, and now that the wheels of the Prophecy are in motion, they can only do one thing. They must find the boys who, as young men, will win the coming war for them.

George & Winter

George was freezing. He huddled under the scant shelter of a lean-to, his arms wrapped uselessly around him, shivering away, and he was completely miserable. He watched the snow drift to the ground, relentless in its pursuit of burying the city. It was doing well. Fourteen centimetres had fallen in the last hour and a half, and the usual dirt and grime was now wiped clean by a white that was blinding. 

Half an hour earlier, a man rushed past him and shouted something about 'getting indoors' and 'staying warm'. George had simply huffed at him. The guy had no idea what wonder can come from days like this. You just had to be patient and wait for it.

George was an optimist. Albeit, a miserable one at the moment. But though his body was crying out for warmth and a hot chocolate, his heart was loving every moment of this. When else do you get to witness the slate wiped clean, even if it did only last for the length of the storm? Nature had blasted its way into the city to bury the rush hour traffic, to close the doors on commercialism and capitalism, and to hush the noise. For it was quiet. So very quiet.

There's a stillness that falls with snow. The winds may whip the snowflakes around in flurries, but the quiet will always bring a stillness with it. Like the gap between two heartbeats. It's a pause. And George was here for the pause, for he knew that it's in times like this, that magic happens.

He'd been watching his breath puff out before him, watching the snow drift closer and closer to his feet, watching the wind whip flurries around and over cars and up against buildings. It had become almost hypnotic to him, and as he relaxed, dropped his shoulders, a warmth flooded through him. 

That's when the wind stopped. The snow didn't stop, but it did fall straight. No more flurries or gusts. The quiet surrounded him, and he knew she was coming.

She glided over the snow toward him so she didn't leave a single foot print. Her pure white cloak billowed behind her, as if touched by a wind that George couldn't feel. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her long white hair plaited in to a single braid that whipped about behind her. She had no age. She looked as young as a child but with a wisdom that showed her centuries.

"Hello," she whispered. She was still twenty feet from him, but he heard her clearly. "You've been waiting for me; I think?"

George nodded.

"I am Winter," she said, "and I am death."

Smiling, George stepped toward her. "I've met you before. Many times. I wait for you every year."

She raised a pale eyebrow inquisitively.

"You always tell me then that you are death. But I don't believe you. I have never believed you."

She laughed, and it was the sound of scraping ice, like taking something out of a too-cold freezer. It sent shivers down his spine.

"I am Winter," she repeated, "and I take life."

George shook his head. "Everyone here thinks that you do, but that's not how it works, is it?"

She had a short memory. Every year was like this. And she never remembered him.

"You are not death." George said now, as he faced the coldness that he had waited for. "You are not death. You are a carnival. A travelling carnival."

Winter didn't like that at all. a wind howled from nowhere, whipping the snow up from the ground and her cloak up around her. "Who are you to insult me?" she cried.

"I will always beat your ass back to where you came from." George stepped forward in to the snow, toward her, head held high and back straight. "I lay the seeds for summer. I give warmth back to the ground and melt your snow and ice into waters that feed the bulbs and bud the branches." His words were like knives to her, and for every word he spat at her, she took a tiny step backwards. "You are a travelling carnival," he continued, "and your time is limited. Pack your bags, Winter. The days are already getting longer."

Pushed back against a wall, Winter looked physically shaken by the ordeal. "Who are you?" she cried in fear.

George smiled as he stopped barely two inches from her face. "I am Spring."

            

My notebook

I have started using a small notebook (though I need to buy a smaller one that will fit in my back pocket), in which I plan to record my observations.

In layman's terms, I have to jot down the daft and weird stuff that people do, so I stop forgetting them.
I'll also be making stuff up about people in it. I shall explain...

I took my mum to an Italian restaurant this week, and decided to create a character sketch based on our lovely waiter. I know nothing of him, can't remember his name, and certainly didn't ask him about his life.
Today, three days after being there, he is now as follows:

His parents coddled and loved their child to the point of distraction, and as a result, our 19 year old hero still lives at home where his mother starches his shirts and makes his bed.
He is the grandson of a height challenged old woman, who lives in Rome and cleans at the Hilton Hotel.
His elder sister married a millionaire banker in Paris and has virtually abandoned her family because they embarrass her so much (it may have had something to do with her father crying in to his wine while trying to make a speech at her wedding. He basically threatened her husband with death should anything bad ever befall his beautiful daughter).
Our hero is single (because of the parents, no doubt) but has a good crowd of friends (male and female) who love him to pieces. Not enough to date him though.
He's good looking, lean (goes to the gym 3 nights a week), kind, thoughtful... everything that should land him the girl of his dreams. But alas, they all love him like a brother.

Now, what situation should I put him in that'll make for a good story?!

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.