Posts Tagged ‘novels’

Helena to Hangram meme.jpg

Inmate 415. Name, Campbell. First name, Tracey,” announced the large burly officer with a pride that might have suggested he had apprehended her himself.

The professor looked over the thick, black rim of his spectacles. “Tell me a little about her. In your own words,” he requested as he poised a pen over paper preparing to take notes.

The burly officer knew this particular prisoner well. He had studied her as part of his training.

She’s been in the Monte Fort prison for ten years now. Several of her anatomy classmates had went missing. Her student card was found at the scene of one of the crimes. When she was apprehended she admitted to five more murders. It seems she felt she could improve her chances of getting a better grade in class if she were to take out those who above her.

The professor had been writing vigorously. He stopped for a moment and looked up.

In your experience of speaking with her, does she show any remorse?” he directed this question at the burly officer’s partner.

The petite, blonde haired, female officer offered a quick glance at her partner before answering the professor.

It’s difficult to tell,” she said. “Miss Campbell can be very charming. She has made no secret of what she is capable of. She said that all she ever wanted was to become a doctor. Since there is no chance of that ever happening now she has turned her attention to writing which was another passion. She is taking her frustrations out in fiction now. I’ve read some of her notes. She’s actually quite good…” The blonde officer’s words trailed off at the end when she felt the stern gaze of her partner burn on the side of her face.

From what I have read of her it seems to be a clear case of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I can’t confirm this until I have examined her myself.”

The officers looked at each other. They shared a similarly nervous expression.

She is up for parole in a few days time. We were hoping you could give us your opinion as to whether or not it is safe to let her go.

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So this is the week! It’s finally here!

I am so excited for Thursday and the release of My Silly Little Confessions.

With every book I finish it reminds of everyone who ever said, ‘You shouldn’t write’ ‘You could never become an author’. It is a relentless pursuit but a dream that is most definitely worth pursuing. It’s been over three years now since my first book was published and it has been the most incredible three years of my life.

I would like to say to all of my fellow authors out there who are still at the aspiring stage – GO FOR IT! Like a lot of careers in the media/arts it isn’t an easy one to get started in and it isn’t any easier to maintain but only you can decide on your limits. Your story deserves to be told just as much any other and I for one love to see the new and exciting plots heading my way from other readers.

No one can predict what the career will hold but that is the beauty of it. It is different for everyone. It is a way of life. It is in your blood. Shout your story from the rooftops because nothing could be sadder than a story that was never told.

Speaking of which, this particular new book of mine is available to pre order on kindle and paperbacks will be on the shelves on or shortly after the 12th. They are available via amazon, barnes and noble book stores, selected independent book stores and via vivikawidow.com.

I would also like to offer a gentle reminder that proceeds from My Silly Little Confessions will support the Ragdolls UK foundation who aid children and young adults suffering from genetic disorders. For more information on the projects visit ragdollscharity.com

Finally, a huge thank you to writers who have encouraged me, readers who have chosen me and social media friends from all round the world who inspire me on a daily basis.

Click HERE to pre order your kindle download! Available 12th January 2017

mslc-blurb-announcement

Beloved by his people, King Roman of Navaria was a benevolent and kind ruler. He treated his people fairly. His council warned him that he should take a wife. They told him that the crown was a heavy burden and required a queen to carry. Navaria rejoiced when he married Francesca from the little known village of Vorelia. Three children were borne – James (the eldest and first in line for the throne), Edward (the middle child) and the little Princess Charlotte.

It seemed bliss for the ruling family until Francesca fled one day, her beaten body found at the bottom of the steep slope in the Rugintov Mountains. Roman had lost his true love and he quickly lost his mind. He married Francesca’s maid servant, ordered the death of his favourite nephew Charles and turned the others away as his kingdom fell to ruin. He descended from the powerful and noble man to an empty vessel.

Some claimed the grief had broken an already fragile mind. There were also whispers of a curse placed upon the king. Some even said it was the same curse that caused Francesca to flee and that caused Annabelle to disappear from view, leaving Castle Kroestov in the hands of a heartless Lord Vasinov.

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He was running again. It felt like for days he had been constantly on the move. It wasn’t the first time he had tried to escape his horrid home life but this time was different. This time he would run farther and faster than he had ever gone before. He would not go back.

He finally slowed down when he reached the edge of the town of Filton. He had run away in such a hurry he had failed to bring food, provisions or even warm clothing with him. He walked along the main street as casually as he could but he was still drawing derisive stares from the locals. He was a scruffy little boy, lost and alone, cold and hungry. The town of Filton had little sympathy to spare. Its residents were wealthy and with that wealth brought a certain detachment from humanity. Their concerns were too wrapped up in holding on to their station in society that there was very little care to spare for others.

He stood outside of a bakery, too nervous to enter into the warmth. People passed to and fro. Some would leave the bakery, carrying with them the scent of warm pastry of sweet cakes. The rushed past the boy as quickly as they could. Nannies pulled children away for fear they may catch the boy’s wretched luck.

It was a busy Saturday morning. The owner of the bakery had glanced out his large window at the boy who was spoiling his view of the beautiful apartment complex across the street. He didn’t invite the boy in nor did he chase him away. After having stood for so long his legs began to weaken, he slid down the building and sat on the ground. It was wet from the earlier rain fall but he didn’t care. He had nowhere to go and he would not return to that place.

Finally an older woman stopped.

You there?” she barked. “What are you doing sat there? You will catch a death of cold,” she barked.

She was in her later years. Her hair was grey but still holding on to the warm, honey tones of her youth. Her face was pretty, with finely carved features. She wore a fur coat that not many would dare to sport. She examined the boy closely. The plain white t shirt he wore was filthy and soaked through. Across the chest was a spatter of blood. His curly brown hair was matted and uncared for. His pale face was awash with the marks of the tears he had shed. He looked around seven years old. His skinny frame was malnourished.

Are you lost?” the old woman asked. The boy shook his head. “Where are your parents? What is your name?”

The little boy’s voice croaked as though he hadn’t spoken in some time. His throat was dry and painful. His entire body ached.

Vincent,” he said. “My name is Vincent. Please don’t make me go back to that place.”

The old woman reached her hand out. He took it and she helped him back onto his feet. He stumbled and walked with a slight limp in the right leg.

I’m Miss Spencer,” she introduced herself. “You can call me Agnes.”

Vincent managed a smile. She took him into the bakery by the hand and bought him all the sweet delights he could manage. Agnes was obviously a woman of great respect in the town. The staff of the bakery treated her as though it was the arrival of a queen.

Bring the boy some warm water to drink,” she ordered.

The baker who had been decidedly indifferent towards Vincent was now giving him all the care and attention he could.

Shame on you, Derek, keeping the boy sat outside like that,” Agnes continued to scold.

With a full stomach and quenched thirst, Agnes bought Vincent a warm coat and some clothing. She noticed that he winced as he tried to pull the coat on as though he had been beaten badly.

We have to find your parents,” she reminded him.

Vincent glanced up at her. His eyes were wide and frightened. “Please don’t make me go back there,” he cried. “They will kill me.”

Agnes couldn’t dismiss this as childish imagination gone wild. The boy did look like he was in genuine distress.

Well, you can’t live with me,” she stated. “I’m far too old to take care of a child.” Vincent pulled the new coat closer round his shivering body. “Come with me and I’ll call the police.”

Vincent shrieked. “You can’t! They’ll just make things worse.”

Agnes eyed him suspiciously. “You’re a strange boy, Vincent. Whatever will become of you?”

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Check out Vivika Widow’s Maestro to read about what did become of Vincent.

It’s been a very exciting project to work on so far.

Still early days in the creative process but I’m pleased to see it coming together.

The plot follows on from ‘Confessions of an Anatomist’ which featured in ‘Myths and Tales’ volume 1 but it is a book of its own.

My Silly Little Confessions is a full novel which will be available in January. It promises to offer a tone never seen before in any of my books. Grittier than Maestro and more real than Red Snow this novel promises black comedy, thrilling plots and a whole lot of murderous intent…

Can’t wait until January? Check out ‘Confessions of an Anatomist’ in Myths and Tales Volume 1 HERE

mslc blurb announcement

As always Ernest was late for dinner. Elizabeth was alone with George. She could understand why some women had the call of the maternal instinct. Some of her closest friends would turn up to afternoon tea with an entire brood of babies whining for their attention – refusing to hand them to a nanny for such little inconveniences as face wiping or showing affection. She resented having been left alone with a child that didn’t belong to her.

You’ll feel different when it’s your own child,” her mother friends told her, but as she sat across the long dining table form George, with his fair, angelic face and his large saucer eyes she couldn’t see it. He was prettier than most little boys. Before her untimely demise, his mother, Alice had been so proud of her baby boy. George was the constant champion for his mother’s attention. Her devotion was unwavering towards him. He was too young yet to fully grasp why such a void would be left in his life but he did understand that his mother had been replaced by a virtual stranger who didn’t share his mother’s enthusiasm for everything he said and did.

They ate their meal in silence. Initially, Elizabeth had tried engaging the little boy in conversation but gave up when George wasn’t particularly receptive. They solid ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway thundered through their silence.

After a while Elizabeth noticed that George wasn’t eating any of this vegetables. He was using his fork to move what remained of them around his plate.

Aren’t you going to eat your vegetables?” she asked.

Without looking up George answered, “I don’t want them.”

Elizabeth tried a smile. “They are good for you…”

George slammed his fork down. “I don’t want them!”

Elizabeth’s fingers began to twitch. “Calm down. You don’t have to eat them.”

George threw his seat back. His boyish round face contorted in a sneer. His neatly combed hair began to furrow with his frustration. “I hate you!” he screamed at his aunt.

Elizabeth lifted the glass of white wine she was having with her meal in one hand and waved the child off with the other. “I hate you too you ungrateful little brat,” she snarled with venom.

You are a murderer,” said the boy.

Elizabeth frowned. “Don’t be so stupid.”

George snarled, “Little Suzie Winkle is dead because of you.”

Elizabeth dropped her glass in such a rush some of the wine spilled onto the table. “Where did you hear that?” she asked, more frightened than angry. George’s face flushed crimson. He pursed his young lips. His innocent eyes overshadowed with an almost adult vexation. “You are excused,” Elizabeth barked. “Get out. You can be assured your father will hear about this.”

George knocked his seat over. It crashed to the floor. “Well I’ll tell dad you are a murderer!”

Get out!” Elizabeth said again but this time in a full throated scream. George stormed out. When she was alone Elizabeth reached her hand out in front of her to see how badly she was shaking.

The day that little Suzie Winkle perished, Elizabeth and her friends told a very colourful version of events to the authorities. It was declared an accident. Elizabeth and her friends knew the truth. Their guilt would never be alleviated. They chose never to speak of it.

The name being spoken out look shook Elizabeth to her core. There was no way that George could have known about it. She was just a girl when it happened. She hadn’t even told her brother.

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