First Aid Kit Girl out now

Girl meets razorblade meets boy…

We have some super exciting news! We are proud to announce that The Green Press has published it’s latest novel, First Aid Kit Girl by first-time author, Lynsey Rose. You can buy it here, and it will be on Amazon very shortly.
The book is a black comedy, a story about oppression, hope and self-harm. Read Lynsey’s Next big thing interview to find out more about what the novel is about. You can also like First Aid Kit Girl on Facebook.

Keep your eye on Lynsey’s blogs Extol and Exitainment for more information.

You can also follow Lynsey on Twitter or find out more about her here.

Share Button

Author Mary Bracht releases novel

Willesden Green Writers Group attendee Mary Bracht has released a new novel, The Tarot Killer, now available on Amazon.

Find out more about her book here… http://www.eternalpress.biz/book.php?isbn=9781615727827

Share Button

Mr Achampong is back…

Here’s an extract from writer Jeff Achampong’s latest novel…

€˜What do you mean I need a pass?€™ Kwik was right in the face of the doorman who stood patrolling the VIP area. €˜Were on the list!€™ The doorman took a step back and wiped the spray from Kwik’s tirade from his forehead €“ and iPad screen. He cleared his throat. €˜I€™m sorry, sir, you are not on the list because there is no list. You need a pass to access the VIP room, so would you mind stepping aside? You€™re blocking the entrance.€™
€˜Yeah, blood, come out the fucking way.€™ All five of Kwik€™s group turned to see a crowd of eight or nine guys €“ none of them looking like they were going to make it past the dress code check at the entrance.
Kwik turned to Darron and then back to the group noticing that they all had bottles in hand. €˜Man, what€™s your problem, shut the fuck up and wait your turn. Don€™t you see I€™m chatting here?€™ Jasmine and Sharon €“ realising that this had the potential to go bad at any moment €“ quickly unravelled themselves from Darron and Kwik, backing away.
€˜The problem€™s yours, bruv, not mine.€™ One of them, who was holding a champagne bottle, pushed through to the front and went nose-to-nose with Kwik. Darron who had seen this exact scenario play out many times before where Kwik was involved, was about to push the guy back, but iwas taken by surprise as his friend Bram pushed him to the side and muscled his way between the two; careful to make sure he did not spill his drink on either. €˜Chill out man, this ain’t worth it.€™
By this time, the Beastman from the main door appeared from inside the restricted area. He didn€™t need utter a word; the smile, along with his utterly impressive but surely steroid-created physique, was enough for all parties to know that Bram was probably right. Champagne-bottle man stepped back a pace from Kwik, took a swig from his bottle and looked over the two girls. €˜Any of you gals wanna come in VIP? Come party with us. Fuck these losers.€™ The doorman lifted the barrier and they bundled past Kwik, Bram and Darron and went inside. At least two of them made sure they stepped on Kwik€™s shoes on the way past, and Bram noted that none of them showed any sort of pass. Sharon and Jasmine looked at each other and then followed them through the barrier before Beastman slammed it shut.
The three of the group left delicately made their way up to the rooftop terrace which was inhabited by a dozen or so smokers, as well as a few couples chatting. They found a table and Kwik lit up a Marlboro.
Bram was first to speak, €˜Well, that when less than well€™.
Kwik took a drag on his cigarette. €˜Shut up Bram, I don€™t need your analysis right now.€™

Share Button

It's a hit

Evening peeps! Tonight we’ve got a short story from author Antony Wootten.

Sit back, relax and enjoy…

________________________________________________________

Hitman

I pressed the accelerator and felt the Volvo surge forwards, the windscreen wipers slashing their way through sheets of rain like a Machete through dense undergrowth. I realised I was sweating. This was insane! I never lost my head like this, not when I was in the forces and not in my… more recent work. I had to get a fucking grip. The narrow road curved beneath a crag and I felt the car twitch as the tyres skittered slightly on the wet tarmac. I glanced at the clock as the car straightened, and I opened up the power again, pressing forwards towards the town. I had less than eight minutes.
On the passenger seat, the knife lay, still wrapped in the blood-soaked cloth. In the darkness, I couldn€™t even tell whether or not it had stained the seat, but, seeing a straight stretch of road before me, I grabbed the bundle and stuffed it into the glove compartment. I€™d have to clear up any mess later on. There was no time right now. Close-up hits always took it out of me; it was much simpler to kill from a distance, with a gun. But my last hit, just ten minutes ago, had become unexpectedly complicated. I€™d had to get right up close, and open his throat. I hadn€™t had chance to prepare for the mess. Normally, I€™d have had a fresh set of clothes in the car, but not today. That was clumsy, especially given where I had to go next. If there was blood on my clothes, it would give me away.
I had just four minutes now, and my heart was actually thundering. I had to clear my head or I€™d mess the whole thing up. There was so much riding on it; I€™d already let the boss down more than once recently. I had to get this one right.
Around me now, the town streaked by. A red light; I ran it. A horn; I gave them the finger and threw the car round a corner. A lorry; I hit the brake hard, bracing my back against the seat as the ABS kicked in and I guided the car between lorry and bus… Several more frantic manoeuvres as I hurtled deeper into the town€™s sprawl. At last, the tower block loomed before me, and I brought the car to a halt.
I almost dropped the key as I switched off the ignition and and flung open the door. I had to compose myself. This was ridiculous! I was practically panicking. Glancing at the clock one last time, I saw I had only moments left. The deadline was rushing at me, so I grabbed the package from the back seat, and the crow bar, and hurried towards the tall building, the package tucked under my jacket to keep it out of the rain. I knew I couldn€™t use the front door; he€™d be arriving any moment and I€™d blow the whole thing if I was spotted now. So I scaled the wire fence and hurried round the side of the tower block. I found the door to the fire exit, and glanced back around the corner just in time to see a black hatchback pull into the car park. I knew that must be him. With a few frantic jerks on the crowbar, I forced open the fire exit and hurried inside. I flung the crowbar into the dark space beneath the stairs and I could still hear the ringing of metal on concrete when I reached the second floor. I paused for breath, remembering a time when I€™d have climbed a tower block stairwell without breaking a sweat. Thank God I was only heading for the fourth floor.
When at last I arrived, I was gasping for air, but I didn€™t have time to recover. I eased open the blank fire-door and peered into the space beyond, where the two heavily graffitied lift doors stood side by side. I heard the soft chime which told me one lift was arriving, and without any further hesitation, I slipped through the door and round the corner. Behind me, the lift wheezed open, and voices spilled out. I ran the length of the corridor, fumbling in my pocket for the key the boss had given me yesterday along with the words, €œLet me down again and I€™ll fucking kill you.€ I managed to slip it in the lock, glancing behind me at the corner I€™d just come round. The corridor was still empty, but would only be for another second or two.
I suddenly remembered to give the four-beat knock, just in case; then, I pushed the door open and slipped into the darkness of the flat, clicking it shut behind me.
€œIt€™s me,€ I hissed into the darkness. €œStay down.€
€œBloody €˜ell, Mike,€ came a voice. I couldn€™t see him but I knew it was Tim, my oldest friend. We€™d served in the Middle East together, seen plenty of action there. €œCuttin€™ it a bit fine aren€™t you? We saw €˜em pull up!€
€œShut up,€ I said. €œThey€™re right behind me.€
I made straight for the pale glow of the kitchen area, slamming my shin into the unseen corner of a coffee table and sending something flying.
I limped round the end of the counter which partially divided the lounge from the kitchen, and dropped to the floor, desperately trying to control my breathing. There was someone else nearby, but I couldn€™t see who. I heard a few quiet voices and a snigger. I shushed them crossly.
I heard the door open. I removed the package from inside my jacket and put it on the floor beside me. The light came on and I heard his voice, his high, rippling giggle.
And this was the moment I€™d come for. It seemed to happen so slowly: I stood, revealing my presence, and gazed at my little boy. He was looking down at the photos I€™d knocked off the coffee table, but his mother€™s hard, brown eyes were pointing straight at me. And then the room was full of people, appearing from behind the sofa, from the curtains, the bathroom, the kitchen.
€œSurprise!€ They cacophonied.
David was stunned into silence for a moment, then his gorgeous smile sprang into life as his aunts, uncles, cousins and friends laughed and clapped and all spoke at once.
And he saw me.
€œDad!€ I laughed and moved towards him with my arms wide, and everyone seemed to part for us. He threw himself into my embrace and I whirled him round with delighted enthusiasm. I kissed him and cried out, €œHappy birthday, son!€ I sat him on the counter top and handed him his present. I hadn€™t even had time to get wrapping paper for it; it was still in the packaging it had arrived in. €œHere you go,€ I said. €œSorry I haven€™t wrapped it.€ He smiled and tore into it. I looked past him at his mother. She was standing there, arms folded, giving me that €˜I hate you€™ look, and now the room was full of excited people who didn€™t quite know whether or not it was alright to speak.
€œHello, Boss,€ I said. I’d always called her that, even back when things were good between us.
€œDon€™t call me that, Mike,€ she warned.
David pulled his new football top from the wrapping paper. €Thanks, Dad,€ he said.
€œThat€™s alright, son,€ I grinned. €œTell you what,€ I said, as I took off my jacket and loosened my tie, €œwork€™s been going pretty well recently.€ That was as much for his mother€™s ears as his. And, if I€™m to be honest, everyone else€™s too. €œI€™ll take you shopping tomorrow, maybe get you that bike you wanted.€ Behind David, the boss sighed and shook her head. Nothing was ever good enough for her.
€œDad,€ David said, but I was busy out glaring the boss, and enjoying the spell we had cast over the rest of the people in the room. €œDad,€ David said again, but I had just noticed the way Tim had moved across next to her, and she€™d given him that warm, welcoming look she used to give me, and everyone seemed to be staring at me. €œDad.€
€œWhat?€ I said, instantly regretting the note of anger in my voice, but everyone was staring at me and I was starting to feel paranoid, defensive.
€œWhy€™s your shirt got that red hand print on it?€]]

Share Button

Peter Webb shortlisted for the 2009 Earlyworks Competition

Peter Webb, Willesden Green Writer and author of Ice Bears and Kotick, was shortlisted for his new story “White Snow like Santa Marta”, which will be printed in the Earlyworks Press 2009 anthology. More info on Earlyworks and the competition here.

Congratulations, Peter!

Share Button