Chris Sykes's Blog: some bits and bobs

I like adverbs.

There, I said it.

I am well aware that most writers cut adverbs out of their writing, and rightly so. Most of the time adverbs are useless, adding nothing to the feel of the story. However, there are times when adverbs can add a great deal to a story, and the overall feel of it. I’m not talking about one of your romance novels or one of your crime dramas. No, they follow a solid structure and have a rigid set of rules. I don’t write like that.

What are rules really, if they cannot be broken every now and again? I’m not talking about all out anarchy, or stupidity, like building a bonfire out of grammar, or building a house with adverbs. That quite simply would not work. I’m talking about understanding the rules, studying them so you know why they are there and then ignoring them because you know better.

I used a lot of adverbs in The Most Ferocious of Creatures for a reason. The reason being was to create a special feeling for the reader - a feeling of silliness, fun and freedom, which is often missing in today’s mad world. My characters, especially Mrs Lambsbottom, take the reader deeper into the silliness, enhancing the overall feel of the book.

Another rule I so brutally and blatantly broke in The Most Ferocious of Creatures, was to add bits of information into the story that do nothing to move the story on.

“Oh no! Why would he do that?”

You may think that the reader is then wasting all of that time reading about this and about that, when it does absolutely nothing for them.

But you’re wrong.

So mightily and insanely wrong.

In a similar way, Time Travelling Dino’s contains back stories of characters that are insignificant to the main plot. Although this may slow the story down a little, its purpose is to show that no one is insignificant. Everyone has their own part to play, even the bad guys. I also like to fool my reader and keep them on their toes but we’ll keep that just between the two of us, if you don’t mind.

All in all, the side information offers a lot for the reader, especially a young reader. In general: it offers a new perspective on things, it helps build creativity and it encourages the reader to see what is not just in front of them, but what is behind that as well. It offers so much in fact, I quite frankly don’t have the time to write about it in detail.

But let me try and explain a little:

Before I started writing any of my books, I decided that I wanted the words to drive the story. Now, that may sound silly. Of course words drive stories. Words are the taxi drivers, the limo drivers, the pilots, the captains, and so on, of stories. As such, they lead the reader from one exciting adventure onto the next. But if the words are the drivers, then the plot must be the vehicle.

What I tried to do was to every now and again take away the vehicle. Obviously there is still a journey (and a good one at that) but we don’t always need to be travelling in vehicles. I mean, just think about global warming and all that money you could save. You may not travel as far as you would like but you will stop and enjoy the little things in life. And you will realise that those little things are not as little as you first thought. They are what make you happy. They are what fill the world with joy. And they are everywhere.

Without a vehicle, you may think that the drivers would be out of work - unemployed and living on the barren pages of a book, not a life I would wish upon anyone.

BUT NO, wait a minute...

...those drivers are uniting, not in a union to fight that horrible author, their boss, but in a formation. Weaving together, they’re singing songs of beauty and wonder. Casting spells left, right and centre, the once-upon-a-time-drivers make you feel like you are alive. You are alive, of course, but you had forgotten about that for so long you were scared to stop, at least I was.

Well, now you have, you’ve stopped.

And now you realise that this stopping business might not actually be going anywhere.

That’s because it isn’t. We don’t always have to be going somewhere.

But then, as the words begin to slow, and the beauty and the wonderment begin to fizzle, the dancers don their caps.

“Where to?” They ask in unison.

And you want to tell them of a place that made you feel a certain way. But the name of that place has wandered from your mind. You can describe the feeling it gave you but not where it is.

“Sorry, I dunno that place, love.” The drivers speak in one voice.

“Just take me anywhere,” the comforting words leave your mouth.

And they do.

The Most Ferocious of Creatures

So enraged at being soaked in milk, the mouse ran right up to Mrs Lambsbottom and yanked with all his might at the hem of her nightie.

“Excuse me, how long have we lived together and how nicely have I treated you over the years? I never once disturbed your breakfast.” The mouse said, not fully comprehending Mrs Lambsbottom’s aural difficulties.

“A MOUSE!” Mrs Lambsbottom thought she shrieked, when she eventually noticed the furry little fiend yanking on her nightie. Launching herself onto the kitchen table she was extremely relieved to find that it was a little on the small side and not, as per her normal taste, ridiculously large.

Milk soaked mice are the most ferocious of creatures and this one was no different. His beady eyes shone red, which was an allergic reaction to being soaked with milk. The same milk frothed and foamed at his mouth. When he squeaked, and he squeaked incessantly, spittle, mixed with the frothing milk flew from his little mouse mouth in a white spray, misting in front of his face.

“On the table?” He squeaked. “You think you can escape me by jumping onto a table?” He asked, not really expecting an answer.

Although he did not have any climbing rope with him and he’d left his helmet in his bedroom, he began to ascend one of the legs of the table. The table may have been a little on the small side but it was monstrously large and excitingly dangerous for a little mouse. So furious was he at being drenched in milk he paid no heed to his own safety.

“Milk of all liquids,” he continued to moan to himself as he scurried along, “couldn’t it have been orange juice?” Mice are not necessarily known for liking orange juice but this one did.

Mrs Lambsbottom was quick on her long and pointy feet when her eyes captured the image of the red-eyed, crazed and foaming at the mouth mouse charging ferociously up the table leg straight towards her. For an awfully tall and wickedly wide person she was ever so nimble. She leapt from the table and landed on the shockingly hard floor with all the grace a one legged fish might have, if such an animal ever existed. She may have been ever so nimble but she was blatantly far from graceful.

Before disappearing up the stairs to hopeful safety, she glanced around. The mouse stood on his hind legs on top of the kitchen table beating his chest like a gorilla. “Uuurrrggh,” she shivered, turned away and sprinted uncomfortably up the stairs.

At the top and out of breath, she slammed her bedroom door and tiptoed into the bathroom opposite. This was to trick the mouse into thinking that she was in her bedroom, when in fact she was cowering in the bathroom on the other side of the landing.

What she did not realise was that milk soaked mice can smell fear. Mrs Lambsbottom was truly terrified and rapidly radiated fear. If she had known that, she may have taken the time to shower, she was in the bathroom after all. Instead, she waited. The smell of fear continued to seep out of her and drift downstairs, towards the open nostrils of the enraged, milk soaked mouse.

The rest can be found here:
The Most Ferocious of Creatures

Available in print and as an ebook. I recommend the print version.

Morning Zombiefication

... a mouse.

Adults of a certain age can suffer from Morning Zombiefication, which means that their brains take a lot longer to wake up than their bodies do. When you see an adult, of a certain age, awake in the morning they may not be fully coherent and may be moving in a fashion akin to a zombie. Signs to watch out for include: yawning, eyes half closed, the smell of coffee, messy hair, not being dressed in a fashionable manner, gazing woefully into space, smelly breath, smelly feet, smelly arms, smelly hands, smelly legs, smelly hair. Adults generally smell a trifle iffy when they suffer from Morning Zombiefication. A sponge cake closely stalking them is also a good sign to watch out for.

The most embarrassing symptom of all (and it even gets its own paragraph) is dribbling. A line of saliva forms at the corner of an adults mouth and gradually drip, drip, drips down until it is about to fall from their chin, when an arm automatically shoots up and wipes the evidence away. One must be extra vigilant in the morning to spot an adult dribbling. All sufferers do it and all sufferers deny being sufferers at all.

Mrs Lambsbottom was no different, which meant that whilst dribbling and gazing woefully into space, she threw a mouse into her terribly large pan on her preposterously large cooker, instead of a handful of oats.

The poor mouse stood aghast. He wanted his breakfast too and most definitely did not want to be in a terribly large pan. He did not know that he was also on a preposterously large cooker but if he had known, he most definitely did not want to be on one.

Before he could utter a word of annoyance he was doused with a splash of milk. To make porridge, milk is essential, mice are optional. In fact, mice do not go well with milk at all and so mice are no good with porridge. They become strangely erratic and somewhat angry if milk is poured on them and this mouse was no different.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” shouted the mouse, rather angrily. “You can’t throw a mouse into a pan and pour milk on him. It’s not on, it’s just not on.”

Mrs Lambsbottom could not hear the mouse because she was deaf. Even if she was not deaf she would not have been able to understand him because they did not speak the same language. She may have been able to understand the general gist of some of what he was saying because an angry mouse sounds a great deal like an angry Mrs Lambsbottom. But, she was deaf and so, could not.

What she would have heard, had she not been deaf of course, would have been a series of irritated little squeaks followed by an irate loud bang. The mouse had launched himself against the side of the terribly large pan; which tippled and toppled and eventually fell from the preposterously large cooker, after spinning around twice for good measure. The irate loud bang was thus created when the mouse, in the pan, met with the shockingly hard floor.

How to Bake a Cake

Mrs Lambsbottom was approximately 1.236 and a quarter miles away from being an ordinary 87 year old lady. Although she burped - from her bottom as well as her mouth - like everyone else, she was a trifle crazy. In fact, she was a cold, curdled, custard cream crazy but that is a trifle harder to say.

Her face closely resembled that of a grandma. Granted, she occasionally wore an expression similar to that of a person who has been slapped in the face with a freshly caught trout but she smiled an awful lot. Although, I am afraid to say, she does not have much time for smiling in this story.

Mrs Lambsbottom wore her hair, which curled and danced in the slightest of breezes, high on her head. She paid someone £68 every two weeks to dress her hair with overly large rollers and in a peculiar blue rinse. If you wanted to be mean (which I would strongly advise against) you might say that she paid 10 pence for every single strand of hair. What she had may have been waning but to her it looked terribly terrific and that was what mattered.

She woke up at the same insane time every single day, even on a weekend. Five o’clock is not a time one needs to be awake for, unless of course, you happen to be baking cakes.

Cakes are terrifically temperamental things and will only allow themselves to be baked at that time in the morning because the air is wonderfully still and quiet. Ask any baker, they always start their day at the same ridiculous time too and spend the early hours coaxing the cakes to rise with the sun.

Although it is not actually a proven fact, cakes do not like much in this world; they are somewhat loathing in character. They appear at first sweet and innocent but if you took the time to really get to know one, you would know what I mean. They detest baths and showers, they hate the rain and puddles, and when it comes to rivers and lakes, well, it is best not to mention them.

If by chance you were to take a cake into the bath (some people have been known to) the cake would panic and jump straight out of your hands in a frantic bid for dry freedom. And, because cakes are not particularly great at jumping, they would - more often than not - drop directly into the water that they had desperately tried to avoid and become spoilt.

The exception to the rule, for there always is an exception to any rule, is a sponge cake. All sponge cakes love baths and showers, they love the rain and puddles, and when it comes to rivers and lakes, well, they love them too.

It has been widely reported, amongst certain people, that sponge cakes will follow a smelly person for hours in the hope that they will be bathing in the not too distant future. Those said sponge cakes will dive directly into the water with you, soaking it all up. (I say ‘you’ here and I do not mean you personally but ‘you’ as in bathers as a whole. You - the reader - are not necessarily a smelly person. I cannot smell you through this book so I do not know. It is not a magical book but from the look of you, that is probably a good thing.)

It is best not to take any cake into the bath. It is much preferred that cakes are to be eaten with vigour and gusto, in mainly dry surroundings. The odd dollop of cream never hurt anyone intentionally and is quite tasty with cakes.

Mrs Lambsbottom had never baked a cake in her life. She thought that she lived alone and did not care much for supposedly sweet and innocent confectioneries.

She began her day, that fateful day which changed her life, as she began any other. After waking up in her strangely small bed, in her awfully tall and wickedly wide house, she slid her long and pointy feet into her long and pointy slippers. Whilst walking down her many, many stairs she stretched and yawned on the 72nd, as she always did, and entered her fearsomely large kitchen. Readying her terribly large pan on her preposterously large cooker, she opened her cupboard to take a handful of oats, with which she would make porridge.

Tremendously tasty cakes can only be baked after eating a substantial breakfast. Although cakes do not particularly like porridge they prefer it to eggs, which is unfortunate for cakes because you cannot bake a cake without breaking a few free-range eggs. Tremendously tasty cakes need the free-range eggs smashed right into the mixture, shells and all. You cannot give a cake everything that it wants otherwise it will become sluggish and lazy.

Instead of taking a handful of oats, Mrs Lambsbottom had hold of something completely different. It was shortly after five o’clock in the morning and Mrs Lambsbottom had not noticed that she was not holding a handful of oats at all. Her long and chubby fingers had hold of...

The Most Ferocious of Creatures

10

“I never thought it, I never once thought it. Me, Tim, a simple, wholesome, always doing the right-ish thing triceratops, in prison.” Tim paced around the small cell. “I can’t believe it. What have I ever done to those... those bugs?”

“To start with, Tim, you destroyed a few of their homes and then you rampaged through their city and killed a few of their people.” In the darkest corner of the cell Larry sat upright with his long tail curled around his feet. He looked like a large, bald cat, with an extremely long neck.

“People? Those things are not people.” Tim spat the words out. “Plus, they kidnapped me and beat me up. What did they expect?”

“I am sorry Tim but these bugs are our leaders and we must obey them, unless you want to get beaten again. I was mad to have done what I did and I won’t do it again.”

“You what? You won’t stop them? You want to be a slave to these... these creatures?”

“It is not that I want to be a slave and won’t stop them, it is that I am and that I cannot. I brought this on both of us. If I had just let you suffer then we would not be here. You would have learnt the ropes and settled down. We could have been left alone.”

“Left alone? Left alone? They won’t leave us alone. They kidnapped me. I was alone before they kidnapped me.” The red mist could even find its way into the prison cell, it seemed.

“Tim,” Larry said sternly, with his long neck bent forwards. He hoped the closeness would help Tim understand what he wanted to say. “We are but dinosaurs. What can we do? If they want us to be slaves, then we are slaves.”

“Yes, Larry, we are dinosaurs. They are bugs. It is not normal, don’t you see?” Even with Larry speaking so closely to him, he did not understand. How could he? He was from a different time, from a different world.

“Tim, I do not know where you have been but the bugs rule this world and we do not. You need to learn your place here otherwise they will hurt you. We must all get along.”

“That is rubbish, absolute rubbish. Never in my whole life have I heard so much rubbish,” Tim paused for a short breath. “You, my friend, should know that we are not slaves. We do not work for... for other creatures, let alone bugs. Argh, it is all that time machine’s fault. This is not where I wanted to go.”

“I cannot help you until you understand.” Larry curled his neck around his body and rested his chin on his back.

“I understand quite clearly. I fully comprehend the situation. You, on the other hand, do not.” Tim turned his back on Larry and stared at the bars of the prison cell. “These dumb bars,” he said rattling them with his horns, “they think they can hold me?” The bars were much stronger than the ones on the cage but Tim did not yet know that. The prison had been specially designed to hold troublesome dinosaurs.

It was not long until Larry heard the pitter-patter of an insect approaching. A dinosaur cannot usually hear an insect’s footsteps, not because insects make no sound but because dinosaurs were like certain old people that we all know and small things needed to make a lot of noise to be heard. The insect that Larry could hear, however, was not small. “Shut up Tim, they’re coming.” Larry’s eyes were wide with fear.

“Oh, they’re coming are they? They want more, do they?”

“Shut up. This is not the time to be picking fights. These bugs are dangerous.” Larry pleaded in a forced whisper.

“AT-TENNNN-TION.” A guard barged through the door expecting the dinosaurs to stand to attention. Larry promptly obliged but Tim was busy trying to push his enormous head through a small gap between the bars.

“I said, AT-TENNNN-TION, dino.” The prison guard yelled and hit Tim in the face with his truncheon.

“Ow, there was no need for that, bug.” Tim stepped backwards out of reach.

“Excuse me sir,” Larry interrupted, “but my friend is a little dozy today. He, er... is not himself.”

“Not myself? How, pray tell, am I supposed to be myself in here?” Tim said. His voice took on the pitch of a tightrope walking dog, competing in a screaming contest with rival howlers all the way across town, whilst wearing a bowtie that had been tied to tightly.

“I cannot help you Tim,” Larry whispered.

“Oh, well then, I guess I’m on my own then,” Tim whispered back with hatred. He did not like this Larry. “I don’t have Larry’s help. I’ve got to do this all by myself. The enormous dinosaur that could crush these bugs in seconds is scared,” Tim mocked.

The guard watched the two bickering, he was becoming quite annoyed and showed his annoyance by lashing out with his truncheon but he had not realised that Tim was out of reach.

“Please Tim, stop. He is getting annoyed with you,” Larry urged, “please, I cannot bear it.”

The prison guard was somewhat different to his fellow bug buddies above ground. He had a large, solid shell, an exoskeleton and his legs had jagged spikes for climbing and digging, and whatever else he fancied doing with them. That was not what made him stand out. The distinctive way he had of dealing with certain events is what made him very special. When he was scared, angry, or annoyed, like he was then, he had a not very delicate way of expressing his feelings. In a confined space, much like a prison cell, he could be the worst insect of them all to annoy. He was a stinkbug.

“Woooooow, dear me. That is bad,” Tim retched.

The guard sniggered.

“I told you,” Larry gagged.

Tim fell on his side and turned a pale green colour. Larry held his head as far away from the guard as possible, whilst Tim pawed desperately at his own nose but nothing they did could remove the stink from their nostrils. It was everywhere. Both dinosaurs squirmed around uncomfortably until the smell dispersed of its own accord.

“That stink came from you?” Tim asked incredulously.

“I told you Tim, please don’t annoy him.” Larry gulped deep breaths of cleaner air.

“Yes, that came from me and there is more of it too. So stand to attention and start obeying orders.” The guard winked at Larry, not in a friendly way but in an evil, knowing way.

Larry looked at the ground but remained in an upright and formal position. “Please Tim,” he urged through the side of his mouth.

“I don’t believe you,” Tim said to the guard. “I think it was Larry. He’s always making similar smells.”

“I do not.” Larry reddened around his cheeks.

“It was me,” the guard eagerly pointed out and lashed out at Tim with his truncheon. He had clearly forgotten that Tim was out of reach.

“I really don’t think a bug could make such a stink,” Tim continued.

“Shut it, Tim,” Larry shouted, “I can’t bear it if he does it again.”

But it was too late. The guard lifted one leg slightly off the ground and closed his eyes. When he lowered his leg again, his grin was as wide as his head. The stench drifted warmly through the confined prison cell. It floated up Larry’s nostrils and polluted his mind. His eyes watered and his head felt much lighter than it should have. The smell was horrendous, much more potent than before. It smelt like rancid, rotten eggs cooked in canned cabbage after being basted with sardine oil and bashed with a banana. The bug looked smug.

Although Larry’s head felt lighter to him, it must have been heavier because he could no longer keep it from hitting the floor. The rest of him quickly followed suit. Tim rolled his eyes. After spending years walking behind Larry, Tim was used to such stinks. Larry expelled gasses from his rear more frequently than he would ever like to admit. Because his head was so far away from his rear, Larry never noticed the smells that he created and so, he had never quite had the chance to become immune to them, unlike Tim.

“Ha,” Tim faced the bug.

“Enough,” the guard shouted and again lashed out at Tim and again he had forgotten that Tim was out of reach. Tim stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry. The guard whacked the bars of the cell, he was furious.

Smells worse than anything ever smelt before polluted the dying air. A thick, dirty green cloud filled the cell. It singed the back of Tim’s throat and burnt in his lungs. The taste buds on his tongue wanted to commit suicide but because they were only taste buds, they did not have the option. They sat, helpless on his tongue. Grateful, only when Tim closed his mouth but any gratitude they had was short lived, because the smell drifted into his nostrils and entered his mouth from the back of his throat. Tim felt ill but shrugged his shoulders at the guard as if it was nothing to him.

The guard was enraged, he had never been shown such disrespect before. He was the guard and he was supposed to punish the dinosaur but the dinosaur was not being punished. He rather seemed to be enjoying himself. The guard grabbed for his keys and opened the cell door. Lunging at Tim with his truncheon, he bashed him on the head, once, twice, thrice. Again and again he raised his truncheon and brought it down, harder and harder on Tim’s head.

What the guard did not realise was that Tim’s head was magnificently hard. It was solid. His puny, little arm and truncheon did nothing to hurt Tim. It was more irritating than anything else. Tim gave the guard a cute little wink and used that mighty, crested head of his to knock the guard flying into the bars of the cell. Expelling his final stink, the guard crumpled to the floor.

“Larry,” Tim yelled, “Larry, we have to go now.” He slapped Larry’s face but Larry did not react. “Larry,” Tim slapped him again but again Larry did not react. “Come on, you old wimp. This is our chance, we need to go now.” Tim slapped him again and again and again. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

“Stop,” Larry said in-between slaps, “stop hitting me.” He raised his head out of Tim’s reach but straight into the thick cloud of putrid gas. His head whirled around in a large circle and fell, crashing down to the floor.

“Always the hard way with you, Larry. Always the hard way.” Tim slapped him one last time and used all his strength to push him out of the cell.

The only way he was going to save Larry was if Larry could breathe regular air again, which Tim hoped, was just through the door at the end of the room. Tim buried his head under Larry’s legs and used the leverage to push Larry forwards. One of Tim’s horns prodded Larry in the stomach. It did not hurt him but the force on his stomach set off an internal reaction, which resulted in a rather loud and unpleasant expulsion of gas. “See, Larry? You’re always doing it,” Tim said, holding his breath.

Tim knew Larry would probably complain when he woke up and he would say that they should not have escaped but freedom was theirs for the taking, if they acted quickly. That same freedom would hopefully jolt Larry back to reality and help him realise that they were not slaves at all. They were free beasts, as it clearly stated in their constitution. Tim wished that he had a copy of it so he could show it to Larry and those bugs and that’d be the end of that but he didn’t. He had never even seen a copy but he was sure it existed.

So long as he could get Larry out of the cell he stood a chance. There was no point dwelling on the fact that the time machine was broken and only one person could ever fly it. Those problems would have to disappear for a while because it took Tim all his effort just to move the very large problem lying at his feet.

Time Travelling Dino's: The Pilot

James And The Forest Thieves

James was not the cleverest of creatures.
His doleful expression and his sleepy, yet handsome features
often gave the impression that his head was filled with air,
that not very much went on up there.

His attention was short lived and somewhat fleeting
unless he was hanging around, sleeping, or eating.

James was a sloth and was gentle at heart
unless he was hungry, then he’d tear plants apart.

He did not know much about maths and the sciences
and he had no need for our modern appliances,
although he did own a rather large T.V.
which he had carved himself, from the trunk of his tree.

One morning James awoke from a pleasant dream
and went to take a drink from his local stream.

But to his surprise and to his amazement
he found no stream
but a road
lined with a pavement.

There were people: some thin, some round, some overly tall,
some squashed, some stretched, and a few very small.

James watched from the safety of his tree,
he found them much more amusing than T.V.

They had an unusually strange way of walking
and the noise they made resembled squawking.

The taller ones kept themselves as busy as bees
and the smaller ones ran around with dirty knees.

“Don’t worry James, they won’t be here long.
Although they are loud, they're not very strong.”

“Who goes there?” James asked a little frightened.
His fur stood on end as his senses heightened.

“Don’t be scared, sloth. I’m not after you,
although, you would make a lovely sloth stew.”
Jagar the jaguar poked his head through the leaves,
“I’m on the prowl for those little forest thieves.”

“I’m sure sloth stew is not that nice.” James said.
“Oh, but it is,” Jagar replied. “It’s lovely with bread.”
“OUT!” James shouted. “Get out you monstrous boar!”
Jagar climbed down, dropping to the forest floor.

James yawned. He was ready for a snooze.
And when sleep called, he could never refuse.

As James drifted off into a very regular nap
Jagar stalked through the forest laying out his trap.

A ball bounced by near the trees
and a small person with dirty knees
ran and tripped and ran some more
but the ball had been stopped by a big, spotted paw.

“Come on,” Jagar urged, “come closer little thief.
My promise to you is: I will keep this brief.”

The boy came nearer and nearer still.
Jagar the jaguar waited
and waited until...

Above the ground James dreamt of trees and their leaves,
he dreamt of jaguars and little forest thieves.

“NOOOO!!!” James awoke with such a fright
he let go of his branch and fell from a height.

The boy neared the ball and Jagar too.

James fell and fell and continued through.

As branch by branch passed him by
James wished he’d somehow learnt to fly.

“Meeeowww!” Jagar screamed rushing out of the trees
and the small person with dirty knees

laughed with joy at the hilarious sight
of a sloth riding a jaguar in the bright sun light.

TTDs is here in print and it looks amazing.

Be the first to own a copy by visiting

www.createspace.com/5507152

It has taken me a while but I have finally approved the proof copy of The Most Ferocious of Creatures. It is available right now to buy online, following this link: https://www.createspace.com/5410423

And will, in the next 3-5 days, be available to buy on Amazon websites. Within 6-8 weeks TMFoC will be available through other online stores as well. It is my aim to see the book in bookstores.

I am running a Giveaway through Goodreads to celebrate the release of TMFoC. 4 copies are on offer. The Giveaway should start in a couple of days, pending Goodreads’ approval, and will continue until 31st May.

Good luck to all those who enter.

The Most Ferocious of Creatures is free to download http://amzn.to/1rH2oLs until 26/01/2015. Or, for the Americans 01/26/2015.

What if time travel has already been invented, but the technology for travelling through time is lost somewhere in the past – way, way back in the past? What then? What would a dinosaur really need with a time machine, anyway?

Have those questions kept you awake at night? Have you often twiddled your thumbs and mused similar musings?

Lovers of free and wonderful ebooks need no longer suffer those long and lonely nights. Time Travelling Dinos: The Pilot is here. Well, not here but here: www.amazon.com/Time-Travelling-Dinos-...

And... it is FREE from 5th December – 9th December. Download your copy as soon as you can otherwise you may forget about it and regret your poor memory for the rest of your life, or at least until you forget about that too.