Man with Book


Writer, Author, Poet & Gamebook Designer

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March 2016

(An Extract from Chapter 1)
The unforgiving night closed in rain had begun to fall like angry teas of the almighty. The wet harsh cold air stung my face and burnt my lungs. Dim and broken street lights bathed the maze of seedy back alleys in a ghostly light. The dim light bouncing off upturned garbage cans, and the eyes of a stray cat looking toward the commotion. A washed out drunk took a second to look away from his bottle for a second, to look on at the chance of spare change, but instead went back to drowning his sorrows. I stopped to catch my breath. The grim silence was deafened by heavy breathing and my pounding heart. Taxis and trams passing in the distance permeated the stillness. Footsteps approached, urging me on; fear pushed my aching legs, despite the pain shooting through them.
Turning a corner, I clambered over upturned dustbins and an old, damp fence scraping my face on a rusty nail. Arriving on a broad street with little place to hunker down and lie low, I had no choice but to push my legs harder. They gave way after a hundred yards or so and I tripped, falling to my knees and sliding on the wet cobbles


“People say, ‘What advice do you have for people who want to be writers?’ I say, they don’t really need advice, they know they want to be writers, and they’re gonna do it. Those people who know that they really want to do this and are cut out for it, they know it.”

 R.L. Stine