autumnlit

For years the mind-reading Judges and the operatic Children of the Requiem have been the purveyors of justice and keepers of the peace from their Sanctum. Now, after the suspicious deaths of a government official and a Judge, something has gone terribly awry. Alexander Warden, unlikely hero and son of the Sanctum official, has been sentenced to die for the murder of the Judge. His failed execution begins his tumble down the rabbit hole into a world of wonder and peril. With his old schoolmate Jack, the beautiful and mysterious Alice, and a few other new companions, Alex must uncover the mystery of his father's death and convince the Judges

Recipe for Writing a Novel Serves: 1. If you’re J K Rowling, billions. Ingredients - 1 Tin standard cat food - 1 Laptop/Computer - 250g cat biscuits - Paper - 5 Pens, various colours. - 1 stuffed cat toy with bell - 1 pouch slightly fussier cat food - 1 sachet gourmet cat food - 1 bottle of wine, red or white - 1 Wine glass (Large) - 1 300g Tin of tuna Cooking time: 2-5 years Preparation (Preparation time approximately 10-60 minutes depending on condition of desk and computer speed) 1. Clear space on desk. If you do not have respective space for junk, throw on floor. Place paper and pens in clear space. 2. Turn

I remember lying in my hospital bed at the physical rehabilitation facility, far too many years ago,  staring at a picture of a little girl. Someone had brought it in for me, though I didn't remember who or why. In the picture she was wearing shorts, and leaning to feed bread to the ducks gathered around her. I stared at the little girl's legs and cried. She was beautiful. "I broke you," I whispered to her. "I'm so sorry I broke you. I never meant to. Please, forgive me." And she did, of course. But I'm not sure if that made it better or worse. There was a poet staying in the room next to me. He was a brain trauma patient, unlike me. For so

Once upon a time, a young woman was so in love with books that she decided she wanted to become a writer so she, too, could create loveable stories. She read everything she could about writing. Then, one day, she found herself in a book store where she bumped into an old man among the shelves. Turning to apologize, she discovered it was a venerable, much-loved author. As soon as she could find her voice to speak, she said, "Oh, sir! I know you are very busy, and so I would just like to ask you one small question: what is the best piece of advice you have for a beginning writer?" The old man smiled and said, "Certainly, young lady. In fact,

I had a stalker. I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine. I called him Charlie. He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way. He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He

The house is dilapidated: the roof is bent sideways, a few of the windows are busted out, and several of the boards that had made up the structure are now broken and jutting in every direction.  It's a pitiful image, but it'll have to do for shelter.  Nightfall is fast approaching and the father and his sons need a place to stay.  Here is as good as anywhere. They wrench themselves through the slanted front door.  The inside is just as unwelcoming as the out.  Everything is grimy and sad.  The remnants of what was once a home look betrayed and hopeless. The oldest son, Isaac, wanders into a nearby bedroom and finds a fallen-over bookshelf.

Dear Jesus Christ, I went to bed at 3:16 last night and started thinking about John—John who pissed away every paycheck he ever made and only fucked virgins, John who beat up a woman's husband and spent a Christmas in jail, John who shot himself on the front porch of his mother's house. I don't think anyone shed a tear except her. I heard she shed many tears as she cleaned up the mess. I thought about when I first met him. It was at church. He and I were both eight. He sat next to me and we stared at that stained glass image of you in your white robe with your outstretched, loving arms, and he leaned into me and asked, "Do you bel