One from Shelter 15

Everyone said those from shelter 15 were the best. I’d worked hard, got my promotions and saved every single penny from working as many extra shifts as I could. I knew I deserved the best, so only one from Shelter 15 would be good enough for me.

A lot of those on my shift, first when I was just another worker, and then as I rose up the supervisor ranks said I was a fool waiting so long. Others though, those who knew, said I was doing the right thing and one from Shelter 15 would be ideal for me.

Then I heard market day had been put back for a month. Even when I had the money and I could afford – finally – one from Shelter 15, it seemed the fates conspired against me.

I thought maybe those who prayed to the old gods were right and maybe I should learn how to pray too. But they didn’t seem to have better, or worse luck, than those of us who never prayed. Anyway, I’m not sure if their god would approve me praying for one from Shelter 15. From what I can see that god doesn’t approve of much and wouldn’t approve of anyone trying to buy some happiness.

Anyway, eventually the storms cleared and the word came down from the administrators that the Shelters had all agreed the next market day.

So, a week before the market day, I withdrew all my money from the bank, to smiles all around and people wishing me luck, I set off for the market green.

It took a few days for me to get there across the Nowheres.

It still amazed me to see all the stalls from all the shelters spread out across the valley under the bright purple sky.

Once in the market itself, I took a deep breath, took a tight grip on my money belt and strode straight over to Shelter 15’s stall.

‘Yes?’ the stallholder said, smiling because he knew why I was there.

‘I’d like to buy a wife please.’ I dropped my moneybag onto the table.

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[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Entrance to the Lair

He prepared himself and took a firm grip on his lance, ignoring the smirk from the peasant. ‘Are you sure this is it?’

The peasant nodded. ‘In here… definitely.’

Sir Gawain studied the cave entrance. ‘It’s a bit small.’

‘Are you worried your lance is too big to fit in the hole?’ The peasant smiled helpfully.

The squire snorted and doubled over.

‘Squire!’

‘Sorry, sire… I… er… sneezed.’

‘You’ll do more than sneeze when you get in there.’ The peasant seemed to relish the prospect. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Aren’t you coming?’ Sir Gawain fiddled with his visor.

‘No… I’ve got…..’ The peasant looked around the mist-shrouded landscape, what they could see of it. ‘It’s harvest time.’

‘What, this time of year?’ Sir Gawain knew little of farming. In fact the only thing he knew about agriculture was not to fight a battle in a field recently vacated by livestock… it was a bugger to get those sort off stains off armour. The latter thought made him wonder just how fearsome a dragon could be. He didn’t want to be trapped in a suit of armour with those sorts of smells on the inside.

‘Shall we go, then Sire?’ The squire helpfully stepped to one side holding her flaming torch up just inside the cave entrance.

‘Peasant. I order you to go first!’

‘Fuck off… I’ve got a harv….’

Sir Gawain swapped the lance to his other hand and drew his sword.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ the peasant said, grabbed the flaming torch from the squire and stopped into the cave. ‘Come on then.’

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[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Land of Tears

It was not raining… for once. We came out into a dry morning. The clouds hung low in the sky, heavy and foreboding. But the rain had stopped.

Maybe we would manage to get back to our beds this time without getting soaked. Everything was wet; everything that wasn’t wet was damp. That which was no longer wet or damp had rotted away.

I smiled – for a moment – as I remembered Jed saying something about the rain in this country. Then I remembered Jed was no longer with us, and then I remembered how he’d died and I stopped smiling.

The woman saw my smile disappear and she ducked down under my arm. She gathered some wood and kindling out of the box we used to keep the wood dry. She was still struggling into her clothes – such that they were – as she hurried to light the fire.

For a moment, I wished I knew her language so I could ask her name. I’d heard her crying in the night, last night, as she lay with her back to me, her naked skin damp against mine. I’d thought about asking why she cried, then remembered she could not tell me even if she knew what I asked. Then I remembered about the cold, the constant rain and how Jed died. I knew I’d probably die the same way too before too long.

Then I’d wondered why I hadn’t asked myself why I wasn’t crying too.

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[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Hollywood's Current Leading Star

Slingback Chaingun is probably still Hollywood's most famous leading slab of acting muscle, despite rapidly approaching his 85th birthday, or as his publicist insists, nearing 45. Still with a full head of jet black hair, the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime crossed with a mountain gorilla. He is also – allegedly – well-endowed enough to make a stallion feel inadequate, Chaingun is rapidly approaching his 65th year in the movie industry.

Some say he is typecast as the misunderstood rebel on the side of truth and justice with a massive gun. Other critics, however, see this more as an in-depth study of the modern world. An examination of the crisis of masculinity that forces men to take on overwhelming odds armed only with a miscellany of high-powered weaponry.

Many feminist critics, though, dismiss Chaingun and his whole oeuvre as conforming to outdated stereotypes of masculinity. In particular the role of the male in society as warrior with the innate male understanding of which end of the gun the bullets come out of.

However, in the real world, away from academia, Chaingun remains a star in the only way that matters. His last twenty-seven films have all been massive box-office successes, especially the last 14 films in the phenomenon that is Shooty Kill-Death Mayhem (parts V-IXX). 

Here Chaingun plays the rogue Green Beret Steve Massacre in his seemingly never-ending quest to take on every failed state, dictatorship, terrorist organisation and jungle location. All in a solo attempt to rescue brave American captives from torture, abuse, un-American involvements and certain death. Each in a multitude of cinematically-gruesome ways as the scriptwriters can imagine. All while the US government does all it can to disown, discredit and abandon Steve Massacre to his fate. 

At least right up to the last act, where they discover he is winning. They then send a helicopter to take the captives back home to a hero's welcome and a massive boost in the polls for the incumbent president. Meanwhile Massacre is left behind in the jungle to await the discovery of yet more innocent Americans in peril.

All of which goes to show why even at the great old age of 85… 45, Slingback Chaingun is still at the top of his game, and long may that continue.

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[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Joker

Well. It is a funny way to make a living, especially when it turns from a lark to a job, then a living and then a career.

The first time I was a little bit drunk. I did it for a bet. It was an open-mic night at a local club.

The girl… Helen was her name… maybe. She said ‘I dare you.’

I wanted to impress her, get into her knickers… or, more accurately get her out of them. So I dared.

I was a hit.

They invited me back… several times.

Somewhere along the way, I lost Helen. But there were others, some who didn’t even wear knickers, at least by the time they’d come back to my hotel room as I toured up and down the country.

I won contests. I played bigger clubs. Got on TV panel shows and made a dick of myself. I got into the theatres and, over time, became the headline act.

Then, as mysteriously as it happened, it started to unhappen.

I was no longer on TV, no longer in the theatres.

So, here I was, with Suzie, my manger, crawling around the back streets of some northern town, looking for their local comedy club.

‘Is that it?’ Suzie peered through the rain-smeared windscreen. The windscreen wipers in my knackered old Rover only worked on intermittent, so I had to wait for them to crawl across the screen.

‘Looks like it,’ I said.

A few minutes later, we’ found somewhere to park the car, and ran through the rain, getting soaked to the skin.

Suzie pulled the door open.

Inside, music played, the lights were on and my name was on a poster on the wall, but we were the only ones in there.

‘Bloody hell, it’s the Marie Celeste,’ I said.

Then I turned to see Suzie, mouth open in a wordless silent scream, pointing at the bloodstain that spread across the dance floor.

I wanted to turn and run, but I didn’t because I could hear something breathing, breathing heavily, behind me.

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[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Supermarket Eroticism

Only then could we see just why she needed the tin of pilchards. Notwithstanding – of course – all the usual reasons a lady of her... inclinations engages in such a blatant – and full-frontal – display of full-on shopping.

Of course, in a society that doesn't like sex, but loves porn, such a display of uninhibited purchasing of domestic staples is bound to bring on a certain sexually-charged frisson. Especially if the young lady in question is more than averagely attractive and has a massive pair of shopping lists.

Of course, there are many who will take only one list on their shop. But such - known as 'vanilla' or 'ordinary' shoppers - to full-on supermarket fetishists, know little of the illicit sexual thrill having an extra shopping list can add to the experience. After all, at the top of most people's shopping sex wish-list is a desire to experiment with threesomes. For many people, that means the standard, 'buy two get one free' offers. For others, though, it can be more inventive. Right up to and including setting off down the aisles with two shopping trolleys. Of course, the dexterity, let alone the desire, needed to control two wayward and independently-minded shopping trolleys is of course not all that usual in our repressed society. We cannot deny it exists, at least, judging by the number of specialist websites displaying shopping women – and sometimes even men – in erotic poses with two – or even sometimes more – shopping trolleys.

Of course, the usual self-appointed moral guardians and religious leaders have condemned erotic shopping and all it entails. But we have to ask ourselves how many of them have ever felt the sudden overwhelming need to go out and buy a can of pilchards?

I know I have.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

It was Nowhere

There was nothing there. At first it was just wasteland stretching as far as I could see. Stubby trees, brambles, weeds and grass, little more and all overgrown. There was something familiar about it though, even though I couldn’t place it. As I walked on, looking for anything that would tell me where I was, I realised it reminded me of the waste ground around where I’d grown up. Back then, there were many places where demolished houses and factories had been, with the site just left to grow wild. Great places if you were a kid back in those days when you were just let out in the morning to roam and explore.

This, though, looked bigger than those places, as though a whole area, the whole area, as far as I could see had gone wild. Then, looking around up on a small rise I had the feeling I was home.

There were none of the houses, shops, factories and all that. No roads, street lights and pavements. But looking around I realised that this was where I lived. There was something there, the place behind the buildings under the roads and pavements. It was where I lived, but everything human removed from it. 

Half-closing my eyes I could imagine all the human habitation given a place and a name. Eyes half-closed, I could see it all how it was only yesterday, back when everything was normal. Not like it was now, when I’d woken up and found myself here, either long before humans came to inhabit this place… or long after they’d all died and gone.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

No Stranger

We spent our last night together in that chamber above the main room of the inn. Downstairs we could hear all the others drinking, singing, carousing and having a good time. Up here, though, in a room lit only by a few small candles and the fire in the stone fireplace, we knew we only had these few hours together. Jenny knew that come the dawn I would be gone.

So we kissed and held each other. Neither of us wanted to say anything that would break the spell of our last hours. She held me close afterwards, lying on my chest, her hand wrapped around me and her leg thrown over mine, almost as though she was trying to hold me there. I could feel the flutter of her eyelashes against my chest as she tried to stay awake, even though both of us knew we needed the sleep; sleep that would not come for either of us.

But, eventually, in the end, we both must have fallen asleep at some point, because I did not see Jenny again for around 200 years.

I woke up again lost deep in some woods, not knowing where I was or when it was. Time had slipped by, that was all I knew. Eventually, using those tricks we all have to learn if we are to survive in this kind of life I managed to find some clothes I found I was back in the old country too, for once. But I still had no idea when it was. From the look of the clothes, I guessed sometime around the 17th century.

I walked out of the trees in the thick wood into a clearing. There was a merchant’s caravan there, stopped to camp for the night as the summer evening slowly turned into a warm summer night.

I walked up to the first camp fire. It had a pot of stew simmering over it and the smell of cooking meat and vegetables drifting towards me on the evening breeze.

‘Could you spare some food for a stranger,’ I asked the figure bent over the pot.

Jenny looked up at me and smiled. ‘You are no stranger,’ she said.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Mystery of the Stick

‘Well?’

‘I….’

She put the object down on the desk between us.

I stared. I’d wondered what had happened to it. ‘What’s that?’

‘You know what that is.’ She folded her arms, standing up straighter behind her desk. She was still shorter than me, despite the heels and the power dressing.

I could see she took my tallness personally. ‘No, is it some sort of stick?’

‘No.’

‘It looks like a stick to me. Where did you get it?’

‘It was found….’

‘What, by the stick-finder general?’ I almost laughed at my own joke.

‘This is not funny.’

‘Well, as humorous sticks go, I can see it lacks a certain risible quality.’

‘We don’t like smart-arses here,’ she said it with conviction.

I reached out as casually as I could and poked my wand with my forefinger, trying not to react at the now-familiar surge of power. I could pick it up, one quick gesture and Maureen would be a newt…. I was so tempted. ‘It’s just a stick. So, what?’

‘It is a magician’s wand.’

I turned my shock into mocking laughter. I studied Maureen as carefully as I could while pretending scorn. ‘Does Paul Daniels know? If he’s lost it, there could be a reward.’

‘It is yours.’

‘What would I want with a stick, especially some conjurer’s toy?’

‘It was found in your desk.’

‘I… what?’

‘Hidden.’

‘Who’s been searching my desk, you have no right…!’

‘It is not your desk. It belongs to MalTech. We can search our property if we want, when we want.’

‘I didn’t put it there, it is not mine.’

‘Then you won’t mind if we dispose of it then?’

I shook my head as the rest of my body began to tremble. Molcur was right; the wand did now feel like part of me, a very intimate part of me.

‘Come on, then.’ Maureen snatched up my wand from her desk. I saw the look of distaste on her face as the magic reacted to her hostility.

‘Where are we going?’ I followed her to her office door.

‘To the incinerator.’

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

I Hold in My Hand a Piece of Paper

This is, of course, the question we all must ask of ourselves as we stand here on the cusp of the brink of the edge of a new world. Or, at least it would be, if we hadn't – temporarily – mislaid the piece of paper with that question written on it.

However, I do have a few other pieces of paper I've gathered over the last few... well, looking at some of them: many, many... er... years.

So, ladies and gentlemen of the world's press gathered here to bear witness to these momentous events on the world's stage. You will no doubt be aware of how hard all the world's leaders, politicians, statesmen and stateswomen gathered at this summit have worked to bring about this... this.... Well, whatever it is we have done at this moment of crisis in the world's history.

Ah!

So, if you are as hungry as I am, and don't quite trust the banquets put on by our generous hosts, I have here on this historic piece of paper in my hand the phone number of an excellent takeaway. They do deliver, but only in a five mile radius of central West Bromwich. So I think we can put that particular piece of paper to one side and move on to announce that....

Ah, if you are looking for a good time then Lusty Trudy of Glamorga... er, probably not. If my wife is watching this press conference, as I'm sure everyone in the world is, then can I make absolutely clear that piece of paper was not mine. It was, in fact, handed to me by a member of the Danish delegation.

Right, moving on.... Ladies and gentlemen of the press, do any of you need a taxi in Glasgow?

No?

Right.

Can I just say that the government of Great Britain will stand resolute and firm in its commitments. I pledge to you all here and now, that we will – in the fullness of time get half a pound of carrots, a small wholemeal loaf, a box of tea bags and a tin of chicken or fish flavoured cat food. At least, as soon as time and resources allow.

Ladies and gentlemen of the world's press, I thank you for your time.

There will be no questions.

Thank you and good night.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

A Cure for Politics?

Pilchard Defenestration is, of course, the UK's current most popular anti-politician. As we all know the rest of the population has grown increasingly disenchanted with both politics and the politicians who inflict it all on us. Consequently, there has been increasing interest in such election candidates as Defenestration. They are the candidates who oppose all the current political parties and their cynical electioneering. All of them hold out a promise to voters that they will – somehow – be different.

Although, as most people not infected with the political virusknow, anyone who takes even an anti-politics stance can become infected with politics. Especially if they get too close to anyone carrying the virus.

Although many people are immune to politics, it is always possible for them to catch a new strain. Particularity, if they have not – over the years – learnt to inoculate themselves against infection. Hence the sudden popularity of the Liberal Democrats during the 'I agree with Nick' TV debates a few years ago. Many people who had regarded themselves as immune to politics found themselves – often against their will and better judgement – feeling a need to vote Lib Dem after those broadcasts. Despite them having a contempt for the other two parties they thought would grant immunity to the political disease.

Of course the same happened when, recently, the UKIP and Liberal Democrat leaders attempted a debate. Many formerly immune to politics suddenly, in the days afterwards, found themselves considering voting UKIP.

Although, it must be said that, for most people, a dose of politics, although possibly worrying for friends and family of the infected person, soon passes. It goes, leaving nothing but a headful of meaningless statistics that prove nothing and a small scar on the memory.

It therefore remains to see if Pilchard Defenestration and his anti-politics stance are really all he claims. Is he a cure for politics or a carrier of another mutation of the political virus? The same virus that has infected many people who previously thought themselves immune to the banal inanities of politics and the political process.

Doctors specialising in the disease of politics say it is too early to tell if Pilchard Defenestration and his followers are really carriers of some new political virus. Or if they are – as they claim – the cure that mankind has been longing for ever since Aristotle was one of the first to warn the word about the disease he called politics.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Not About Her

This is not about that day. It isn’t about her either. It has nothing to do with that morning when I woke up next to her and thought about all the days we’d spent together and all the nights.

These days I hardly ever think of the way I crept out of the bed while she still slept and gathered my belongings together in the curtained gloom of an early morning. This has nothing to do with how the seasons were changing and the summer was beginning its long slow fall into autumn. I can remember the way I shivered as I gathered my belongings from around her room, not trying to look at her as she slept.

I knew I had to go and I knew if I turned to watch her sleeping that, within moments, I would be undressing to get back in bed beside her again.

All through that morning as the dawn became the day, I did not think of her and how good it would to be back in the bed beside her. I did not want to take her in my arms as she surfaced out of sleep and….

I left the house and did not look back. I know better than to look back. I know better than to think about her and those days we had together. I do not think about those times, not ever.

Most of all, though, I never think about Natalie, nor how stupid I was for leaving her behind... and I never think of her name.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Selling of Tales

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a story.’ The artisan stood back, admiring his own work.

‘What does it do?’

The artisan glanced up, thinking it was maybe the inbreeding, but – still – as his old dad always said, the customer is always right. ‘It is a series of events, written down.’

‘Oh.’ The (potential) customer leant closer, looking at the squiggles on the parchment. He’d had several expensive tutors, some of whom had strongly suggested he learn what these black squiggles represented. But he, (now, Duke) Farantzy, didn’t see the point. ‘Oh,’ he repeated. ‘What events?’

‘Well, this one is about a heroic knight,’ the artisan glanced at the (potential) customer’s dress and regalia. ‘A Duke....’

‘A Duke?’

‘Yes, a Duke.’ The artisan took a breath, he could always rewrite it before delivery, shove in a couple of references to dukes. ‘He journeys to save a princess from a dragon.’

‘Ooh, a princess, eh?’

‘Yes, a beautiful princess.’

‘How beautiful?’ The Duke made a gesture suggesting he was weighing a pair of grapefruit in his hands.

‘Oh, very beautiful.’ The artisan made a similar gesture suggesting he was weighing a pair of melons… watermelons. How he suffered for his art.

‘But… a dragon?’

‘Yes, a very brave… fearless Duke.’

‘And I… er… he kills the dragon?’

‘Well…. I wouldn’t want to give the end away.’

‘Oh?’ The Duke scratched his beard. ‘Then why have you written it all down?’

‘I… er…. To entertain… in the reading of it.’

It was the first time the Duke had ever heard the words ‘entertain’ and ‘read’ in the same sentence, at least one without any negative connotations.

‘The joy is in the reading, the unfolding of the tale.’

‘It is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, how strange. Couldn’t you just tell me if he gets off with the princess?’

‘No.’

‘No?’ Nowas not a word the Duke was used to hearing. His hand reached towards the pommel of his sword.

‘No,’ the artisan repeated hastily. ‘The joy of the tale is in the telling.’

‘What?’

The artisan sighed. This was turning into a long sale. ‘You share the tale with the characters in it, as it goes along; share their adventures, their trials, their mista… their misfortunes and triumphs. So by the time he gets to fight the dragon to rescue the princess you feel as though you are there with him. You share his every stroke of the sword, every thrust of the lance is yours as though you yourself are fighting the dragon.’

‘Eeek!’ The Duke blushed. ‘I mean, poor bloody dragon….’ He gripped the pommel tight. ‘Wouldn’t stand a chance, know what I mean?’

The artisan nodded. ‘Of course, sire.’

‘So why don’t you just tell me what happens in the end, save me the bother of having it read to… of me reading it?’

‘Like I said, sire, the joy is being in the tale yourself.’

‘Right.’

‘So, sire,’ shall I wrap it, have it delivered to your house?’

The Duke thought for a moment. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I’ll just wait for the DVD.’ He turned and left the shop.

The artisan watching the Duke stride away as he used several words, under his breath, he’d never used in any of his stories... yet.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Looking for Her

She was small, dark-haired and her eyes were in constant movement, watching everything and everyone around us. Her skin was a dark-brown, like finely polished wood. Later, when she undressed for me, I saw she had no tan lines. She’d never hidden any part of her body from the sun.

She led me away from the crowd, out beyond the edges of the town, out past the fields and back towards the woods.

‘I don’t want to be in the town,’ she said. An explanation that hid more than it revealed. As we walked away, she kept glancing back over her shoulder, watching for something. It was not until we left the last of the buildings and fields behind, and were inside the wood, that she relaxed.

‘Is someone looking for you?’ I asked.

She just laughed and looked back over her shoulder once more. She turned to face me. ‘Everybody is looking for me. You were looking for me.’

‘I found you.’

‘Did you?’ She laughed again and led me to a place at the side of the road. There was a break in the undergrowth. I would not have given it a second glance if I’d been riding through the woods. Beyond the road, behind the undergrowth there was a hidden path.

She tuned a few strides along the path and I saw a knife glint in the sunlight that found its way through the high trees. ‘This path is a secret.’

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the knife. ‘I know about secrets,’ I said. ‘I have too many of my own.’

She stared at me for a while and then put away her knife. She stepped towards me. I could smell something earthy, something wild about her as strong as the smell of wood smoke in her tangled hair. She grinned at me. ‘Come on then. Come with me and tell me all you secrets and I will show you mine.’

So I did… and later she did too.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Swordsman

‘So,’ she said.

‘Hmm,’ he said.

‘Is that it?’

‘Er… it must be the weather. It has been a bit cold.’

‘What has that got to do with it?’

He looked down at his sword. ‘It is a well-known fact that metal shrinks in cold weather.’

‘Really?’

He didn’t like the way she was looking at him. He shifted his feet and put his sword away. ‘I’ll be getting a bigger one soon,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes?’ She leant back against the low stone wall behind her, half-sitting on it and raised her leg to push herself onto the top of the wall. She sat on the wall with one foot resting up on it, her hands over her knee and her chin resting on the backs of her hands. ‘Do you wish you had a bigger one?’

‘Well,’ he could feel the heat in his neck spreading upwards. She was not looking at the size of his scabbard. He stopped himself turning away from her, or clasping his hands over his groin. ‘I have no complaints.’

‘But you do want a bigger one… need a bigger one?’

‘I….’ He looked around for some way out of this.

She laughed. ‘You’re new to the city aren’t you?’

‘Y… yes…. Is it that obvious?’

‘I’m afraid it is.’ She smiled, warmly this time and shifted her position, signalling for him to sit on the wall beside her.

He sat.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Just some village… days away.’

‘Oh, what was it called?’

‘What?’

‘Your village… what is its name?’

‘I don’t know… it was just home… the village. None of us ever thought of giving it a name.’ He sighed. ‘It was the only place I knew. I was happy there.’

‘So why did you leave?’

‘The foreigners… the invaders…. They came one day… and… well… the village is no longer there.’

She looked at him. ‘Come on,’ she said.

‘Where?’

‘I have a home… not much of one, but I’ll take you there.’

‘Why?’

She looked at him, head cocked to one side. ‘Let’s just say every sword needs a scabbard, shall we?’

Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

New Kindle Novel Out Now: Juggling Balls

Juggling Balls available here(UK) or here(US)

Special Low Launch Price: £0.77/$0.99

Martin Laws hates mysteries. 

So why has someone sent him a bag of juggling balls? 

Why has he no memory of buying a new computer?

Why has that new computer decided Martin needs to go shopping?

Why does a hairstylist he's never met before keep saluting him?

Most of all, why are so many Elvis impersonators trying to kill him?

Juggling Balls - a science fiction comedy featuring time travel, mind control implants and a future religion that claims an Elvis Presley clone as its saviour. 

Oh, and an interplanetary terraced house.

Juggling Balls available here(UK) or here(US)

Special Low Launch Price: £0.77/$0.99

[Other Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Britain's Best-Known Solo Yachtswoman

Topsail Spinnaker is these days probably Britain's best-known solo yachtswoman. Only last year she completed spectacular solo journey where she sailed all the way across one of Birmingham's widest canals. A journey that took almost an hour. Now she is all set to – sometime in the next few years - attempt the task of sailing along a canal lengthways, possibly for several hundred yards.

Of course, Spinnaker began her solo sailing career mainly because those who had seen her sailing abilities always had something else to do on the days she asked them to go out sailing with her. Not only that, her local coastguard and the local RNLI crew both banned her from any attempt at sailing out to sea. This did prevent her attempt to sail solo from Tenby to Caldey Islandin what would've been a world's first for someone with as little sailing ability as Spinnaker. As her own proud mother once said, referring to Spinnaker's childhood exploits, Spinnaker 'couldn't even sail a boat in her bath without it sinking'.

It was only after the teenage Spinnaker first took driving lessons and ended up parking her instructor's car in the Irish sea that it was suggested that Spinnaker could have a natural seafaring aptitude.

Although, as some have pointed out Spinnaker does have a rare talent amongst solo yachtswomen of having an innate sense of direction when sailing. The only drawback being that direction is usually downwards.

Consequently, Spinnaker's sponsors and backers – mainly deep-sea salvage companies and wetsuit manufacturers – decided that perhaps Spinnaker's true gift lay in inland sailing. An area not usually associated with solo yachting and thus one – they felt – she could make her own. It would, they felt, also keep the rescue helicopters in base long enough for a much needed refit after her last seventeen attempts to get a yacht out of Tenby harbour without it disappearing under her.

Still, though after her circumnavigation of the UK's canal system next year there is talk of Spinnaker's name appearing in the New Year's Honours List. Mainly in recognition of her services to the maritime salvage industry. That is, of course, if she can manage to reach Buckingham Palace after crossing the Thames in London without drowning.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]