I didn't want to tell

but the words just left

"I'm bisexual."

there was time for a breath

before being told

I'm full of shit

my parents aren't sold

that bisexuality even exists

they live in black and white

where people are only straight or gay

a spectum is not in their sight

and they don't care what I say

my mom cried for someone to arrest me

that I should be in jail for very long

screaming about hoping a woman in prison would rape me

so that I could see how I was wrong

I cried and cried

knees pressed to my chest

regreting stopping the lies

panic making my heart race under my left breast

I tried to cut myself after they left the room

and cried till there was no more tears to shed

weeks pasted and tense fear still seemed to loom

their words still echo in my head

I'm open about my bisexuality

to my accepting friends and peers

but I regret coming out to my family

as what happened I told you here

I'm not saying to hide who you are

just know who you tell

and that you can trust them with your heart

so you don't have to go through hell

some people are lucky

and when they first come out

their experience isn't as rocky

and people have no doubt

this safe and close community

we can all trust eachother

be proud of our sexualities

and love one another

#bisexuality

For what feels like ten years ago,

I fell down a well.

I still can see the circle of sky

from the mouth of the well.

I still can hear others' laughter

when it echoes down the well.

I still can talk to the rare people

who discover me in the hidden well.

The salty water chills me to the bone,

as well as the stone walls of the well.

I've forgotten the feeling of warmth,

because of the cold and lonely well.

I tread the water for as long as I can,

to keep my face surfaced in the well.

Sometimes I try to climb up the walls,

but I slip on the mossy sides of the well.

Other times I grow too tired of trying

and let myself sink deeper into the well.

I find that it's so peaceful and calm,

submerged in the salty water of the well.

I want to sink deeper and stay there forever,

but I resurface each time from the water of the well.

And smile up at the light shining down,

as it was dark and murky in the ocean water of the well.

The years passed by and by,

as I could tell from down in the well.

It was spring when the chirping of newborn birds,

echoed down the walls of the well.

It was summer when I was most found

by wondering kids who discovered me in the well.

It was autumn when I saw flames of color,

with red, yellow, and orange leaves falling in the well.

It was winter when I would beg to die,

unable to leave the frigid, bone-chilling water of the well.

I sometimes try to forget,

that I'm stuck at the bottom of this well.

My mind floating away to escape into a land of fantasy with dreams of freedom,

where I'm not in the water made from my own sorrowful tears which fill the well.

I can imagine the warmth of what love is,

but I can never really feel it, all because of the well.

My brain and heart are split in two,

my brain sees the lines between the stacked stones that build the walls as bars that cage me in this well,

in my heart, I have fallen in love with the way the moss feels against my feet

the soft green velvet walls below the water of the well.

My mind is so broken that I can't decide,

whether I want to be saved or if I should just stay in this well.

I've been down here too long,

I don't know anything but this well.

I can not even imagine

what life is like outside of this well,

outside its cool air and wet walls?

Was I ever not in this well?

Was I ever running free on the earth above?

Were there people I knew before my fall into the well?

Did they even know of my fall?

If so, do they know how I ended up in this well?

Because I can't remember how this happened to me.

Did someone tell me to jump into the well?

Was it a dare? Was I pushed in?

I traverse the forest of memories in my mind as I desperately search for answers about the well.

Sometimes I think I have found an answer,

only to have it slip through my pruney fingers like the leaves that fall into the well.

I'll probably never hunt down the answers

for why I am in this hellish well.

Should I accept this fate of mine?

To be forever trapped in this well.

My fate proving true as the water level drops whenever my tear ducts dry up for days,

Leaving me mindlessly treading the water of the well.

The hole grows smaller and further away

until my tears start to refill the well.

A few months go by and I've come to accept this situation that I'm in,

That I can never leave this well.

It's mossy stone walls are my home.

And I'm always held and rocked to sleep by the calm tear sea of the well.

But something isn't right,

I can't call my home by just "the well".

No, this hole is special, it's something more,

This is my well, and mine alone, no one else will have this well.

I'm finding myself sinking more and more,

losing my motivation to keep my head afloat in my well.

Haven't I been in this well long enough?

I deserve to let my peaceful fantasies become real and leave my well.

How easy it would be,

to just stop treading the water of my well.

To sink deeper than ever before,

and reach the bottom of my well.

To never have to feel myself cry anymore,

submerged and unable to tell new tears from the old that make up the water of my well.

The voices in my mind have kept me company

for the years I've spent in my well.

But even now, they are just telling me to go away,

to give into the ache of my bones and just sink down in my well.

I'm just tired.

Tired of trying to survive in my well.

Of searching for the reason of why I fell.

Of the questions echoing in my mind like my choked sobs off the stone walls of my well.

I'm done with coming up with no answers.

I'm done with the lonely silence of my well.

What am I to the world

outside of my well?

I do nothing to contribute to anything

as I'm just down here in my well.

I'm not helping anyone,

and no one is helping me with getting out of my well.

I have no worth in this world,

how can I have any worth when I'm barely living in my well.

I'm a nobody.

Just a broken, tired body in my well.

No one would care if I gave up.

No one would even know if I just drowned silently in my well.

I give into my exhaustion,

and sink down into the teary ocean of my well.

My lungs burn for air as I stay under,

my body screaming out to surface in my well.

I ignore my lungs pleas and let myself go limp

in the murky water of my well.

The closer I get to drowning,

I start to panic and finally push myself to surface in my well.

Gasping for breath as the fresh gulps of oxygen clear the fog in my brain

from when was half-drowning in my well.

I'm not sure if I'll attempt to escape another way again,

but for now, I'll just remain as I am, treading the tearful ocean of my well.

Lift the veil of your blackness

in the spirituality of deep night.

greet the rosy red hue of sunrise

kissing your skin with passion.

See with your heart the purple

softness and love mingling with red.

Thumb the rough bark of brown tree,

warmth of dead plants, decaying,

earth opening up to burgeoning life.

Stroke green to absorb virgin growth,

imbibing freshness of clean health,

like a minty taste on your tongue.

Brush the blue of cold water, gurgling,

smell its salty brine wafting around you.

Caress blush on your cheeks in red dashes,

heat emanating in color of spicy passion,

flashes of anger and intensity, overwhelming.

Whiff wind-whipped stormy colors of grey

breathing sweet ozone and new breezy air.

Peel the pebbled skin of an orange, taste

sweetness like the tropics, round like

the orange globe of the sunset in sky.

Savor yellow, like a ripened banana

nourishing and sweet, drawn into soul.

Wrap white of purity and cleanliness,

cocooning your body in soft simplicity.

Expand all your senses to see the beauty

light touches of color grazing your skin.

Tango of shame

I am to blame

words carving

life slot starving

magic pluck

no such luck

dipping into soft jar

weary hand from afar

widen the road

madness unload

stomp into ground

solution not found

naked words

hushed birds

molten breath

sudden death

skeletons strung

clotheslines flung

slice the wind

cover sin

tense echoes

lined in rows

no elbow room

certain doom

long reach

I beseech

infinite sky

let words fly

unhinge the strings

free thought rings.

Finder

Don't Like

No Rhymer

Thinking

Poetic Verse

a Curse

She Hopes

to Hold

my Thoughts

At Bay

to Slay

the Singing

Song

That Is

my Pen

Wrong

#B27321

Please check out my live reading of one of my poems, "Mountains and Medication." Those of us with bipolar disorder find every day to be an uphill battle. Help me lead others down the mountain. Together, we can bring new light on a very misunderstood mental illness. I'm posting the link here and in the comments. If I've even needed your support and help sharing, now's the time ...

https://www.facebook.com/jamesmatthew.byers/videos/1762031557145718/

Discord

Some Stories must be Told

& this is one such Tale.

Of grandfather the Wulf

&

The Garden of Eden,

Breeding pen,

That it was.

Bred for what Though,

Slaves to Mine

&

Rape the Earth,

our Mother.

Are we not Her children,

Does not Intellect alone,

Separate us

From our

Brethren

the Beast.

The Titans told it True,

For we were Bred

& Domesticated,

not to have

any Natural

Means of Defense,

but our Mind,

again

Why.

To Covet

First the Apple

& then

thy Brothers',

For then

& only then,

did They know,

We were ready

To be

set Loose

upon

the World?

Darwin Traced it True,

Water

the Origin of our Species.

For Silver

& Gold

do not Tarnish,

Lovely are they to Behold.

The Brothers Cain

& Abel,

For Thought/After Thought,

the Parody still Humors me.

We had to Shed our Skin/our Defenses,

The Snake you Say.

For what Differentiates

Us

From our Brothers the Beasts,

the Ability to convey Thoughts

& Actions,

the Word.

Do we not Domesticate Livestock?

Institute Breeding Programs,

Do we not School Beasts.

To do

What we cannot

Or do not

Wish to do.

Could we,

Not be

Set upon

the Same Tasks?

Do all the Old Stories tell the Same Tale?

What a Story that would be?

Would it Tell of our Origins

& our Rise?

Would it tell us Why,

the Same Motifs,

Echo Down the Halls of Time.

Would we

Even now

In this Day

& Age

Accept the Lessons

That they Teach,

Parables,

Metaphors?

What is the Underlining Message,

what Vein Runs True?

The Tale

I am about to Unfold,

May be True.

I will let you,

Judge for yourself.

How much Whim,

How much Fancy.

It Begins with the Dark

& Loneliness of Space,

so Like the Depths

Of our Great Oceans.

An Irony

That I Hope

Is not Lost on you.

Depths we have Barely Scratched,

Why I ask is it So.

It Begins with Slavery

& the Dissatisfaction

That it Brings.

It Begins with Those

That First Taught us

the Taste of the Bit,

to Yoke the Beast

& Later thy Brother.

We all Know,

Man was Created,

but for What,

A Reflection of Who.

Shall I Tell you,

Will These Words

Ever be Seen by Another?

Will They be Considered

the Drug Induced

Ravings of Madness?

For I have Known

the Taste of the Needle.

The Siren Song

of Lies she Sings,

Only for you

If you have Enough.

Twirling upon the Edge,

Dancing the Dream,

as you

Dig It in.

I only Know.

I must Commit this to Paper.

In Hopes

That a more Enlightened Mind

than Mine

Can Fathom the Possibilities

... 

#B27321

The Story

Weird Tales

Magazine

Tried

to Kill

Returns.

Harbinger

by B27321

-

I had just Gotten Out after a 6yr Stretch,

For an Armed Robbery Gone Bad,

Really Bad.

Fell In with the Carnie Crowd,

Started working with Them

through

the Half Way House.

We use to Joke,

Half Way to Hell.

Like Most Jokes Cons make

It’s not really a Joke.

Where Men Prey upon Men

& Life Is Valued In Snack Cakes

& Cigarettes.

What Would you Call It.

...

#B27321

New; Knew

–

I Don’t Know If Its New,

But I Do Know It Was New To me;

Nor Had I Ever Heard

Such a Thing Described To me.

For I Don’t Believe

They Are From This World or Any Other.

Demons Ripped From Another Dimension;

Nightmares Rendered Real.

Crazy I Know.

That Is Why I am Writing This,

Because Only On Paper

Can I UnLeash

This Torrent of Conflicting Emotion.

To Try To Make Some Sense of It,

To UnBurden my Mind,

Because Sex & Drink

Just Doesn’t Make It.

the First Time

I Was Drifting Through Some Southern Towns

& I Came Upon It,

In a Glass Case;

a Human Brain

With Filaments

Like Spiders’

Legs

& It Spoke To me,

In my Brain of Its Need to ImPregnate me.

I Escaped & Returned to Kill It

& Its Keeper.

Once Again

When I Was Working

As a Carny In a Run Down Town,

I Dealt Death to Another

In the Visage of An InSane Clown.

Nothing In the News Papers,

No Bounty On my Head;

I Know I Killed Them;

I Know Their Dead.

I Don’t Want to Go Back;

I Don’t Know If I Should.

Scared,

Edgy,

Shot Gun By the Bed;

Crazy,

MayBe;

I Can’t Get Them Out Of my Head.

I Can’t Stay I Have To Go.

Wait;

What Was That,

a Knock On the Door.

#B27321

Crimson Queen

–

Satan; Adversary,

Lucifer; Morning Star,

but She was Older much Older.

Older Than the Castrating Cult

of the Great Mother;

Cybele,

She Was the Oldest

& Greatest of Gods,

She Was Eros;

Desire,

the Crimson Queen.

& We,

my Family & I

Have Served Her

Since Man

First Crawled From the Wild.

We Who Have Suckled From Her Tit.

Who Have Known Her

As Pandora

& Again

As Eve.

We Were There

When the Walls of Troy Fell

& Again

When We Pierced the White Gods Side.

We Are the Ones

Said to Wear the Mark;

the Mark of Cain;

the Spear

& to This Day

We Are Still Known

As the Sons of the Dragon.

Yes,

Even He

of the Impaling Fist

Served Her;

Her

Blood Red Bliss.

She Who Came to Us

When the Moon Was Swollen,

Swollen With Sin

& Desire

Desire

Like Fire.

a Fire to Sear your Soul

& Strip your Sanity.

Bacchanalian Rites

of the Blackest Kind,

Orgies

of Mutilation & Murder.

She Would Stroll Through

Some Times Stopping

to Touch a Subjects Head.

As Her Worshippers

Offered Up Their Bloody Sacrifices;

Dripping Mangled Manhood.

Blood Wine

Heaped With Herbs

of the Darkest Sort,

Flesh of the Fallen;

Man,

Beast,

or Child;

Was the Feast We Had.

Screams of Agony & Ecstasy

In the Torch Light,

the Scarlet Flames Illuminating

Hellish Flickering Scenes

of Satanic Night.

She Covered In the Blood of the Devout,

Licking Her Fingers

Bouncing About

All Eyes & Thighs,

Tits & Ass.

Tonight I Was to Receive my Birth Right.

Ouroboros; the Snake Circle,

So Driven by Desire

It Eats Its Own Tail;

to Take the Place of my Father,

I the Oldest Surviving Son In an UnBroken Line

Since Life Began.

I to Sit Upon Her Left Side

& He

to Cross Over

& Serve Her In Her Own Land;

Hand Picked Children

In the Image

of Lillith.

#B27321

me

#B27321

A Product of the 80s.

Heavily Influenced

By the Music

& Art of that Era.

Glenn Danzig,

Blackie Lawless,

& Doro Pesch.

My First

& Finest Friends

were Books.

E.R. Burroughs,

H.P. Lovecraft,

R.E. Howard,

& Michael Moorcock.

Not to Mention

Gor

& Dimension X.

Not just the Words

of These Great

Artists,

but the Covers

by Frazetta

& Whelan.

The Savage

Sword

of Conan,

Berzerker,

Heavy Metal

& Weird Tales.

My Sites

Name

Ink&Iron

Heroic

Fantasy

Is a Homage

to the Sword

Saint:

Miyamoto Musashi.

Interests

Other than

Above

Plow/Ox/Roof/Fool

Western Sword Play,

Swimming,

Weights,

Isometrics,

Breathing,

Walking,

Meditation

& the Dream

of Writing.

#B27321

Father

a Word

I Have

Heard

Many Times

Though

the Meaning

Defies me

Or Perhaps

Has

Defined me

For It

Has

Plagued

my Life

Painting

the Canvas

Green

With Jealousy

For

a Life

Never Meant

To be

a Discarded

Seed

a Weed

#B27321

George shot through the open doorway, fell to his knees, and slid across the slimy wooden deck of the ship.

He lifted his head to catch his bearings and was greeted with the sight of about a dozen, open mouthed, pirates who were stood completely still having immediately stopped whatever task they were in the middle of performing. It was as if he had gate crashed a game of musical statues.

‘Er…hello,’ he said, red faced.

Suddenly the pirates came to their senses and released one conjoined roar into the breezy sea air. They all jumped, to a man, on top of George forming an untidy pile of arms and legs in the middle of the deck.

George managed to find a gap to squirm his way through and crawl from beneath the teeming mass of smelly armpits and greasy limbs. His freedom was short lived though as another pirate, coming to see what all the commotion was about, grabbed him as he took to his feet. The pirate twisted George’s arm around his back and put a cutlass blade to his throat.

‘Going somewhere are we?’ he said, menacingly.

‘Get up you scurvy bag of scum,’ the pirate shouted at the others on the floor. ‘Go and get the Captain.’

One of them, a tall thin man with thick spectacles, peeled himself off the top of the pile and headed up some steps to the side, onto the upper deck, tripping on every third stair.

After several seconds of loud bumps and sounds of ‘Ouch’, ‘Gerrof’ and ‘Who put that there’, the man came back accompanied by the un-mistakable figure of Captain John Ladybird.

‘What have we here then, a stowaway?’ said the Captain.

‘We found him on deck sir, trying to steal our booty he was,’ said the pirate holding George.

His breath stank as he spoke and George tried to pull his face away. He tried to say something but the sharpness of the blade persuaded him otherwise. Luckily the Captain saw through the pirate’s false claims.

‘I hardly think that to be the case,’ he said, calmly, ‘considering we don’t actually have any booty, as you call it, do we?’

All the pirates looked down at the floor together and, in unison, shrugged and grunted.

‘Well I’m sure if we did, he would’ve tried to steal it, sir…..can’t we just get the cat ‘o nine tails out anyway, just to be sure…..please,’ he pleaded.

All of them nodded their heads and a mirage of toothless grins graced the Captain’s eye line.

‘No,’ he shouted with authority. ‘We shall let the boy speak first and see what he has to offer in way of an explanation.’

Captain John looked directly at George. ‘Well, boy. What do you have to say for yourself?’

George desperately wanted to show the gold coin to the Captain.

‘I have something in my pocket that will explain everything, I think,’ he gargled.

George moved his free hand towards his inside pocket but stopped sharply when his other arm was pulled tighter up his back.

‘Aaaaargh,’ he wailed.

The Captain, luckily, sensed he wasn’t a threat and put his hand out to stop any more of the torture.

‘Colin,’ he ordered, ‘see what it is he wants to show us, if you please.’

A gormless looking, short, scruffy haired pirate walked over and reached into the inside of George’s coat. He pulled something out and hoisted it into the air.

‘Look sir, a gold coin,’ exclaimed Colin.

He examined it more closely, fiddling with it between his fingers.

‘Hang on. This isn’t real,’ he said.

He peeled away at the gold with his dirty fingernail to reveal a chocolate coin. George looked up to the sky, exasperated. He couldn’t believe this was happening. That novelty coin had been there since Christmas.

‘The other pocket,’ he shouted desperately. ‘Look in the other pocket.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Colin, taking a bite of the chocolate.

He again slid his hand into the inside of George’s jacket, this time pulling out the Leprechaun gold.

‘Hang on, is this some kind of joke,’ Colin said, trying to scrape the gold away from the coin.

Captain John suddenly grabbed the rail and hurdled over onto the steps and bounded down to the deck below, snatching the coin from Colin’s grasp.

‘Let me see that,’ he said.

He held it up to the light and inspected it more closely. He turned to the pirate holding George.

‘Let him go, immediately,’ he barked.

George twisted and stretched his sore limb, which had now been released.

‘You, come with me,’ he said, pointing at George, before marching into the inner part of the ship.

George picked up the book from the sodden wooden planks and discreetly removed the bookmark, before following the Captain into what was now just a normal doorway.

*

George stood inside the Captain’s quarters, now minus the reading glasses which had been safely put away. In the middle of the room was an old desk set at a strange angle to the walls with various nautical measuring instruments and charts adorning the top of it, and an equally old chair resting to the side. There was also an old pewter tankard, with goodness knows what murkily residing within it, sliding gently back and forth to the rhythm of the swaying ship. In the corner was a bunk, only a foot or so off the ground, with a stained woollen blanket dumped roughly at its base.

Captain John took a swig from the grubby tankard and immediately pulled a face then shook his cheeks from side to side.

‘So, the stories were true then, what my Mother told me when I was young,’ he said, almost to himself, staring blankly out of one of the portholes.

He turned his head towards George. ‘So, what do they call you then….they do still use names in the future, don’t they?’

‘Yes sir, my name is George, sir.’

The captain nodded.

‘Right then, George. I assume you’re here because you need my help in some way,’ he said, coldly. ‘So, while you’re here you can be of help to me too. I need another able seaman to assist with some of the duties on board. One of them went and died on me recently, most rude it was.’

His expression remained serious. It was clear he wasn’t having a joke with George.

‘Yes sir,’ said George, solemnly.

’Right well, go and see the crew and get yourself better attired for the job. Then, when I think you’re on your way to actually being of use to us, I’ll ask you what it is you need my help for, understood.

He looked back out towards the sea.

‘Yes, but I….,’ said George, desperately.

‘Is that understood,’ interrupted the Captain, sternly, without turning back to face him.

‘Yes,’ George agreed meekly. He realised there was no point arguing with the Captain at this stage. He would just have to play ball for the moment and hope that his mood changed for the better, and that he would soon come to terms with the situation unfolding on his ship.

‘Oh,’ said Captain John, with a sly smile creasing up at the corner of his mouth, ‘do leave your bag here for the time being, I will need to do an inventory of its contents, standard ship procedure, I assure you.’

George hesitated for a brief moment. He was obviously very nervous about letting the contents of the satchel from out of his sight, but again the pointlessness of resisting the Captain’s wishes persuaded him it was a risk he would have to take. He pulled it over his head and laid it down onto the table, before excusing himself from the room and going back above decks to go and introduce himself, properly this time, to the crew.

*

The next few days went agonisingly slowly. Every time he was in Captain John’s presence he acted indifferently to George. Most nights he had laid awake on his bunk, staring at the ceiling above, wondering if he should steal his book back and leave the ship, but to his credit he stuck with it.

The crew, on the other hand, had turned out to be fantastic with him and had become very friendly. They taught him all about life on board and the tasks and duties that went with keeping everything ‘ship shape’.

George was now confident when it came to climbing up the rigging to untie ropes and unfurl sails. He had even taken a couple turns up in the crows nest, although after a while this got a bit boring when George sat there for hours with nothing to look at except miles upon miles of rolling ocean.

In return George taught them about the importance of things like hygiene and washing their hands, especially after trips to the toilet and before preparing food. He explained how important it was to keep the drinking water separate and safe from contamination. At first the crew had scoffed at his suggestions, but when he pointed out that these simple steps would prevent them from getting diseases like dysentery, or as they called it ‘the bloody flux’, they were only too eager to adapt his principles.

There were three pirates that George worked with in close proximity on a daily basis, and had become his closest allies on the ship. There was ‘short sighted’ Sid, the scrawny, thick spectacled one who had fetched the Captain when George first appeared on the ship, ‘Clueless’ Colin, the short, scruffy, pirate who had looked for the gold coin in George’s coat and ‘no nickname’ Pete.

Pete was a podgy, but tall, man who owned a pet parrot that often sat on his shoulder while he polished and cleaned his pistols during his free time. Occasionally Pete would offer to do the cooking for the crew, but they often denied him because the last time he did it he accidentally poisoned them all. Pete also had a tendency, when in the face of serious danger, to panic uncontrollably. Despite all of these characteristics, Pete still didn’t have a nickname because the others ‘couldn’t quite think of anything that had a ring to it yet.’

It didn’t come as a shock to George when he found out that the crew had been through a spell of bad luck recently and hadn’t plundered any treasure in over a year. George took it upon himself to work with them, for only about an hour every day, to develop their close combat fighting skills, boarding tactics and pistol shooting.

Despite the massively positive effect he was having with the men, the Captain still continued to look on and say nothing. George decided it was time he had to do something about the situation with the Captain. They had to talk, but not in front of the crew. He would wait until everyone was asleep in their bunks that night and sneak into the Captain’s room to confront him. After all, it should have been his duty to have helped George in the first place, for the sake of the family.

*

Every footstep George gingerly placed in front of the other on the rough wooden timbers appeared to creak even louder than the preceding one. Despite the friendship he’d forged with the crew he knew they still remained steadfastly loyal to the captain, although puzzling to him as it was, and if he was caught sneaking into the Captain’s quarters in the middle of the night they may develop the wrong impression about his intentions.

George was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea, but he was nearly at the Captain’s door. It was now easier to go on than risk turning back and getting caught as he tried to get back into his bunk. As he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar and a flicker of candlelight was emanating through the gap. He cautiously peeped into the room, holding his breath, and saw Captain John sat in his chair, facing away from the entrance, staring down at the floor.

‘Come in George, I knew you would come, eventually’ he said.

This startled George but nevertheless he pushed aside the door and slowly crept into the room.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said ‘but I really need to talk with you.’

‘Yes, it’s alright George, I know you do,’ Captain John said, resignedly. ‘I’ve been watching you for several days. The effect you’ve had on the crew is quite exceptional lad, and as for how far you’ve come yourself, well, you would make a very valuable addition to this ship. I suppose I’ve been afraid to talk to you myself because of what it may mean.’

‘Oh…..,’ George mumbled. He was surprised by this. He had thought the Captain was ignoring him because he simply didn’t care about helping him and was only using him for his own ends. He now realised that the Captain actually appreciated what he was doing on board the ship.

George took another step towards the desk, noticing the biography lying in the middle of it.

‘So you’ve looked through the book then I see?’ George hissed. ‘I’m not sure that was the wisest thing to have done, looking into your own future, sir.’

Captain John quickly spun round in the chair, but George could see he wasn’t angry with his comments. On the contrary, he had a sad look in his eyes.

‘I know, you’re right George,’ he said. ‘I realise that now, but looking at the book has helped me to understand some of the many mistakes I’ve made in my life.’

He picked up the book and offered it to George who politely took it from his grasp.

‘Look inside the book George,’ he said, ‘look at the pages from the middle onwards…they’re all blank.’

George flicked through the pages and indeed there was not even the tiniest spot of ink upon them.

‘Of course,’ he proclaimed. ‘From where we are now and onwards none of it has happened yet. The book can’t tell us about events that haven’t occurred because some things may yet change by me being here.’

‘That’s right George. So you see, the book offers me no clues anyway, except to show me how wrong I’ve been in my past.’

They looked straight at each other and for the first time George noticed the anguish and pain etched within the creases of Captain John’s face. He could see the longing for home. The Captain hadn’t chosen to be a pirate; it had been forced upon him, many years previously.

‘Go now, go back to your bed George and get a good nights rest,’ the Captain ordered. ‘In the morning you can tell me all about how we can help you, then we shall hit port and re-supply for the adventure ahead.’

Title: George and the Magic Library – The search for the Phoenix Quill

Genre: Fantasy, Historical Adventure.

Age Range: 11+

Word Count: Excerpt – 2,500, Main Book - 60,000+

Author Name: S J Andrews

Why this is a good fit: Although the book is an adventure story, the research has been meticulous, meaning there will be factual elements, but only on a subtle level so that it does not get in the way of the story. I believe the story will appeal to boys and girls alike as, though the central character is a boy, there are several strong female characters within the story. The story has many twists and turns, with cliff-hangers dotted within the story to keep young readers engaged and wanting to see what happens next. There is also a twist at the end which leads to the possibility and promise of more adventures to come.

The Hook: Characters can magically travel into books and have adventures within them.

Synopsis: George’s parents have been missing for several weeks and now his Grandma has died in mysterious circumstances. Sent to live with his uncle in the country George discovers a family secret at his new home – a magic library which allows the readers to enter into the stories within the books. He must use this magic to put together a series of clues and try to find an ancient artefact known as the Phoenix Quill, which ultimately has the power save his parents.

Target Audience: Boys and Girls between the ages of 11 and 16, particularly fans of fantasy, history and other similar genres, such as Narnia and Harry Potter.

Bio: I am 41 years old and live in Lancaster, England. I am educated to a good standard and run my own digital content and marketing business. I lead a wide ranging and healthy social life and am always attempting to gain new life experiences. I enjoy history and have a keen interest in myths and legends, especially the psychology of how many of the tales come about – I like to then take these two elements and combine them into my storytelling, which is written in a way that children can identify with and understand (I have 4 Children of various ages), but without appearing condescending or insulting to their growing intelligence. I am a firm believer that reading is an important aspect of a child’s education, so the stories they are presented with must be kept exciting and engaging as well as giving them access to new words and information.