A Little light reading for the kids this one (both big and small), by yours truly.

My first foray into self publishing was seven years ago now and I've learnt a lot since then so I thought a little time spent revising wouldn't go amiss and to top it off (pardon the pun) I've added a little extra.

So Tom's early morning visit to the park in the title piece has had a rewrite and I've added The Drop (which is a piece of flash fiction that was published a couple of years ago in Graffiti magazine). I hope you enjoy them both.

The link below will take you to the book if you wish to make a purchase and have the Kindle app (this can be downloaded onto any tablet or smartphone) or you can click on the image of The Mystery of Emile Rowan to your right, and then on my author name to see all of my available works.

As this one's for kids and Children in Need is nearly upon us, I will gladly add any purchase monies for this to my donation on the night, so even if you've read it before, grab yourselves the revised copy and treat yourselves.

Enjoy.

(Oh, and please leave a review and star rating. Thanks)

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/Over-Top-Can-conquer-fears-ebook/dp/B00DLWTBPY/ref=sr_1_3?dchild=1&keywords=michael+j+richardson&qid=1603369720&sr=8-3 

The Sprout that Ruined Christmas. A festive yarn by yours truly.

The Sprout that Ruined Christmas

T’was a single sprout that sealed her fate,

As she walked down the hall, bird on a plate.

That poor little sprout, it did do its best,

Hiding in the room packed full of guests.

But knocked by the door it rolled in her path,

Stopping before her two feet from the hearth.

 And oh how she yelled, as she took a tumble,

A silence then fell, no murmur, no mumble.

For never a bird had finer been roasted,

No grander a feast ever been hosted.

And the bird it did fly! It arced overhead,

Whilst host and her guests looked on in dread.

For heading for Vicar it seemed to be,

This basted bird this, gigantic Turkey.

And hit him it did with an almighty thwack,

Clean off his chair, flat on his back.

So dinner was ruined the Vicar was hurt,

But all was not lost, there was always dessert.

Goodwood Festival of Speed. (The Hill Climb), by yours truly.

Muffled voices, straps pulled tight - too tight – sweat soaking, everything.

Clammy! I’m clammy and need to pee, but –

HOLY SHIT, THE NOISE!

An all-encompassing cacophony rents the air, thunderous, metallic. It settles, and in spite of it reaching in and plucking at my every sinew there’s rhythm, then . . .

BANG!

Bang, bang, bang and I’m rushing, thrusting forth at unfathomable speed.

My boobs hurt, bladder’s squeezed, lungs struggling for air, hot acrid oily air, like sucking on a greasy spoon, and as my body vibrates, fizzes with the energy, the world outside blurs.

We turn, this way and that, g-force stretching muscle twisting bone, but I stay fixed, strapped in.

I giggle; rational thought unavailable.

Time passes, 30, 40, 50, 55.63 seconds, and then, it subsides, the push, the squeeze, and the hollow sound of those twelve cylinders, coasting now, is almost calming.

We stop but my body doesn’t.

Air, fresh and inviting, floods in, replacing the scorch of rubber and hands, helpful hands, assist. I stagger as I exit, dizzy, but I’m laughing.

Have we the record?

Do I care?

No.

The Drop. (A short story by yours truly, about . . . well, I'll let you decide).

In light of all the rain we've had recently, I thought I'd be bold and share another of my short stories with you fine folk.

I hope you enjoy, and that Spring, springs shortly.

The Drop

The party of precipitation was over, and we were heading for the front.

We’d had a lot of fun in training and the party was our last hurrah. It was something every newbie had to attend before their first drop, and every newbie had to do at least one drop.

I see some familiar faces in the cloud, mostly the guys I’d been training with; I even see Bobbie and I like her. She has a nice curve, if you know what I mean?

I thought all the pep talks were over, but before we begin our descent, Big Walt shuffles up.

Now Big Walt is a legend. A complete, you name he’s done it legends. This guy’s been down the longest darkest scariest rivers in the world, over the tallest, fastest waterfalls; conquered Everest and survived the Atacama.

The moment Big Walt opens up, you shut up. You do this out of respect and because you want to hear what he’s going to say.

“Okay newbies.” Silence! No-one can hush a crowd like Old Walt. “Keep it tight out there and let’s not have any collisions, you know what happens if we collide.”

An image of the Doc showing us the aftermath of a collision in training makes me feel all woozy, but I hold it together. Then I realise what Big Walt has done. He’s taken everyone’s mind off of the drop, and suddenly it’s our turn.

“Take it easy guys,” he says as we reach detachment point. “And try to avoid the concrete; you’ll get back a lot quicker if you stick to the soft stuff.”

“OH . . . MY . . .”

The rush, the sense of freedom, the shear thrill of it all, is indescribable.

It takes a second before I clear the cloud, so I guess it’s about two thousand feet to Earth, but what a rush. No wonder this is addictive.

Big Walt flies past in a flash. I don’t know how he does it, there’s so much more to him than me. He changes shape and squeezes through gaps I’d never fit through, but that’s why he’s a legend I suppose.

There’s no way I can keep pace, so I ease up, and as I do, I see Bobbie again.

“Ninety seconds we’ll never forget,” she shouts, and I don’t disagree.

As the ground comes up to meet us, we spot two brightly coloured mackintoshes to our right, so we aim for them.

To most of the world I am nothing but a nuisance, something to shelter from, but for the two young kids stomping in the puddles that Bobbie and I are about to replenish, I’m nothing but fun.

I land with a splash, and the last thing I hear, as Bobbie and I join millions of our comrades in the waterlogged earth, is a giggle, and I can’t wait to get back up there.

The Kiss. (A short story with bite, by yours truly)

It's been a long time since I shared any of my own work on here, which was half the reason for starting this blog in the first place, so for this post I thought I'd share a piece of flash fiction that I wrote last year, which was published in Graffiti magazine.

Enjoy.

The Kiss

Fever gripped me.

I had all the symptoms. Vomiting, which I put down to the drink - Shellie, Beth and I had been clubbing the night I fell ill - I had the sweats: I got so hot one night that my step-mother phoned the doctor, I got so cold the next that I couldn’t move for all the duvets blankets and clothes piled upon me. Then, there was the pain. It had started as a dull ache but got progressively worse.
My temperature rose from a rather unassuming 100.3 to a hyperpyrexian 103.4. I was delirious, I didn’t know what day it was, who my friends were.

My mother bathed me with a flannel and a bowl of cool water, but it didn’t work, so she placed me in a cold bath, but still the fever raged.

Then, on the fifth day, everything changed.

I woke with a hunger beyond any comprehension, in more pain than I could bear. I tried to eat, I wanted to eat, but everything felt coarse, alien in my mouth. Danny, my darling brother, he even bought me my favourite cake, but I didn’t want it. All I wanted was for the pain to stop.

I pushed Danny away; I pushed him with strength untold, and when I did the truth began to unravel.

An image appeared before me, the image of a face. I was lost, trapped in its beauty – just as I had been in the club that night - and I remembered now. The touch of those lips as they pressed upon mine, the cool of a tongue as we’d started to kiss, that faint metallic taste in my mouth, and with that recollection everything fell into place.

I looked at my brother all crumpled on the floor. He’d cut his hand on the shattered plate, his blood flowed freely and the smell was intoxicating. I was completely overwhelmed, there was nothing I could do to resist; the temptation was just too great. All I wanted, needed, to satisfy the hunger, to nullify the pain, was right in front of me.

In the blink of an eye I was sucking his fingers, feasting on his life, gorging on that rich delicious nectar. A second later and I had a hold of his head, tipping it back, exposing his neck, and as much as he wanted to struggle, he couldn’t; he was powerless, lost in my beauty.

The fear and wonder on his innocent face, his last gasp for breath, the smell and taste of his warm blood on my tongue, were all so enticing.

As my cold lips caressed his neck, I heard the pounding of his heart fill the room like a drum, and then, as a shudder of dread rippled through him, I sank my teeth into his exposed flesh, and we kissed!

Heart of Herts, book review. (Hertford Writers' Circle)

I have to admit, I read very little non-fiction, but a couple of my favourites in this collection fell into that category, which is what reading is all about I think: discovering something new.

From medieval Hertford, to time travelling spaceships, fiction to non; from teen romance, through a Saxon invasion, to the end of the world, this collection of short stories has the lot.

Where would we be, I wonder, without a place to scatter loved ones ashes, Charlotte Holmes excavating bones and a squeaky hospital door?

This volume contains works from eighteen different writers, with styles so eclectic, that you'll never be lost for something new. We have the plague, we have ghosts, we have historic and science fiction, there is death, (obviously) but there is life too, and love, lots and lots of love.

With such strong writing, vivid pictures of ancient lands and ghostly schools are conjured with aplomb, and one’s imagination runs wild; wild like the Meads that separate Hertford from Ware, wild like the storms that surge across open fields, wild like the Pageant fever that gripped Hertford in 1914.

To single out any particular author or story for merit here, would be wrong for two reasons: one, because I enjoyed them all in different ways - some were historic, factual, some were not, some were humorous, whilst others were sad, and having made Hertford my home for the last decade or so, I have had the honour of meeting some of these authors, which brings me to the second reason for keeping my opinions to myself: I'm too gutless to praise one of them over the others!

Oh, sod it, we're all adults here. This is, Mad Mike’s Writing Blog after all. Since when have I shied away from an opinion?

Ken Boyter: if you'd like to stand and receive your prize. Your depiction of what must have been a very difficult time in your life, honours those involved beautifully, and as I said at the beginning, non-fiction isn't something I dabble in much, but now, thanks to you, my eyes have been opened.

If anyone reading this post would like a copy of this collection, please message me or, head to: http://www.hertfordwriterscircle.org/anthologies.html, where you can contact the Hertford Writers' Circle for a copy.

Enjoy.

The Curious case of Benjamin Button, book review. (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

Yes, very curious indeed. 

A few years ago I read the Great Gatsby by the same author and really liked it, but this collection of short stories is quite something else. 

Firstly, Benjamin Button is only a dozen or so pages, so a really short story then; quirky though. 

Some of the other stories here are better, my favourite being, O Russet Witch, which has a certain charm about it that captures the mood of an affluent 1920's America. Coming in a close second is the equally delightful, but somewhat brutish, May Day, which centres on a mob running through the city, and is the longest story here. 

Some of the others were a bit boring, but that's the beauty of short stories I suppose, the good ones stick with you, the others can be quickly forgotten, and you don't end up kicking yourself for wasting too much time. 

This is the third selection of short stories I've read this year, diversifying from my usual novels, and it's been a breath of fresh air; something I would heartily recommend you try, especially as we all seem to lead such busy lives these days and have so little time to do the things we really love, (like having the time to escape into the depth of a great book every day).

So, grab a collection that suits you, whether it be a classic like this, something contemporary, like Mark Haddon's The Pier Falls, (Blog review on 30th August), or something dark like Stephen King's, Full Dark, No Stars, and dig in; you won't regret it. 

This collection gets a 'reasonably entertaining' three stars. 

The Pier Falls, book review. (Mark Haddon)

Like a lot of you bibliophiles out there, I first heard of Mark Haddon when he wrote his hugely acclaimed Dog in the Night time novel, and very good it is too. He's subsequently written two more novels and now this, his first collection of short stories. 
This book was a present from a woman at work and I'm glad she bought it for me, because I rarely read short stories (even though I write them!), so it might have passed me by if I'd been left to my own devises. 
I read this book in no particular order, which was probably the wrong thing to do, (I imagine the author and publisher spent many an hour deliberating over what should go where), but so be it.  
The Pier Falls is the first story in the book and it is excellent. It has a great sense of prose, and puts the reader right there, in the middle of a collapsing pier. It is also quite horrific in the way a disaster like that would be, so a good start.
The Gun, this is about two teenagers who take a gun from one of their brother's bedrooms, and fire it in the local wood, was interesting, but that's about it.
There's an expedition to the Amazon, which I quite liked, a story about a seriously obese man, which was okay, a failed expedition to Mars, which was one of the high points in the book, being almost as good as the title story, but then it falls a bit flat.
The one that really got my goat was the weirdly titled, 'Wodwo'.
This and the rather lacklustre 'Breathe' were the low points in the book, the point where I began to wonder, what the hell! I wondered (and still do) whether Wodwo was supposed to be supernatural, or real? Did it have a hidden meaning? (because if it did, I didn't get it). I'm still at a complete loss as to how a man can be shot at point blank range with a shotgun, get up and come back the following year!!!! It was just soooooo strange. (To add insult to injury, it was also the longest story in the book). Arrrgggg!!!
Without Wodwo, Breathe and Bunny, I would have offered this book four stars, but with Wodwo sitting there, right in the middle of the book, spoiling it all (in my opinion), it only gets three. 
Stupidly, I don't read as many short stories as I should, so credit to Mark Haddon and his team for getting these out there. 
I await his next novel with much anticipation.