Tag Archives: FICTION

Hap the Prize Winning Horse Blitz

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Christian Literature & Fiction
Date Published: November 2019
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Hap, the Prize-Winning Horse is such a positive, charming tale of triumphing over obstacles. There is so much heart and dedication in this novella, and you will feel invested in Hap’s journey and Kemper County.
There was once a horse named, Hap. He was purchased along with several other horses by Bennett Wingate and he grew up on a farm in Kemper County, Mississippi. When Hap was young, he had aspirations of being great and becoming a great race horse. However, his owners, the Windgates, did not have much money to put him in the best races nor train him to compete for the big prize (s). These setbacks did not stop Hap from dreaming. He knew that if he kept the faith and maintained his determination that one day his dreams would be accomplished. This is a story of triumph over many obstacles and tragedies. But, the central theme throughout the story is that if you maintain a positive attitude, determination, hope, and perseverance you can dream big and those dreams can become a reality.
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 Excerpt
Chapter 3: Setbacks to make the dream a reality
Even though, Hap had many setbacks early on it was the dream that kept him going. While sitting in Bennett Wingate’s barn each and every day, he would sit in his stall and constantly reflect on what it would be like to win a great race, perhaps the Kentucky Derby. But, the true reality was that his owner did not have much money and Hap realized this. The only true enjoyment that this horse would experience would be riding with his owner after he got home from work each day. However, Bennett had to share his responsibilities and love with horses, the young Hap and the older horse, Jackal. The older horse was quite stubborn and obstinate and at times posed several behavioral problems. But, Bennett and Delores adored this horse even more than Hap it appears. This made Hap especially uneasy because he knew that Jackal had a terrible attitude. He knew this because he was around this horse each and every day.
Matter of fact, Jackal harassed Hap, ate his food, and at times would use the bathroom in his stall. He knew that Hap was young and he took advantage of him on numerous occasions. Jackal told Hap one day that he was going to “kick him out to the wild” and off of the Wingate Farm if he did not obey him and follow his lead. Unfortunately, Bennett Wingate would not see this side of Jackal until the end, a tragic end at that.
Bennett Wingate was a simple man who believed in the simple things in life. He went to church on Sunday’s as a Deacon at Pleasant Hill Baptist Church, then went home to sit down, drink a beer, and spit tobacco in the empty can. Pleasant Hill Baptist was a church that Bennett was born and raised, literally.  Most folks in the community knew him by Junior because he was actually born Bennett Wingate, Jr. He was name after his father. He was an avid hunter, fisherman and an all around outdoorsman kind of guy. But, believed in hunting deer in the Winter and turkey in the Spring time.
Yes, Bennett was a simple man living a simple life. But lately his fascination outside of his hunting and fishing was his adoration for his grandkids and horses. Every day after working long hours at the reservoir, he went straight home, fed his cows, and got on his horse. The majority of the time he rode the older horse, Jackal, and let his grandkids ride, Hap.
“Junior, you are always riding that horse” Delores exclaimed. “Do you ever think about others but those horses?” Bennett would state emphatically, “Now, Delores, honey you know that you are my first love”. “Besides after a long day riding around the reservoir, I need a little down time and this relaxes me.” He would say with a huge grin on his face. So, it was his passion and it was not lost on anyone who visited their home. But what Delores did not realize is that he would take his grandson, Curtis with him while he tended the fields and cows. This would have a profound affect on young Curtis because he loved his “ Pa Pa” dearly, and clinged to his every word.  How great it was to visit the Wingates, though because while Bennett was passionate about outdoors, animals, and wildlife his wife, Delores, was passionate about cooking. She worked all her years as a cook at several cafés and restaurants around East Mississippi. Her pound cakes would simply “melt in your mouth” They were just that good!
About the Author

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Author, Christian, avid sports enthusiast, Tuskegee Univ., Webster Univ and The GWU alum.
Horace Crenshaw is an accomplished author, business consultant, and motivational speaker. He infuses core concepts such as focus, discipline, leadership and drive into every aspect of his life. He uses these same core concepts to help his clients excel at the highest level, and achieve excellence. Horace loves seeing other people thrive, and he enjoys being an active member of the community.
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Needs Work Blitz

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Fiction
Published: October 2019
Publisher: Paragraph Line Books
Once upon a time in Cleveland… Phil Derleth, a former Army “combat cartoonist,” comes home to Cleveland, Ohio after a messy divorce. Phil is brain-damaged from a war wound and there are holes in his memory. His father Larry, a stone mason living on disability, takes him in. Soon enough, Phil finds himself embroiled in all sorts of trouble, including dodging the Ohio Department of Transportation, blood-stealing tramps, the ghost of his dead mother and stray dogs who are more than they appear to be. One stray in particular will show Phil the way back to a life that he may have forgotten.
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 Excerpt

 

I was let go.
That was months after my wife threw me out, taking our daughter with her. I was twenty-seven and starting all over again with life. I moved in with my father. Moved back to Ohio, a place that I thought I’d left in the rearview mirror. Instead, it was in my cracked and hazy windshield.
My car, a ten-year-old Ford Mustang, broke down in my father’s driveway never to recover. It had thrown a rod.
I got out of the car. The parking brake popped. The car slowly rolled into the street. A small fire crackled under the hood. In few minutes, dark black smoke poured out from the undercarriage and a red glow simmered within the passenger compartment. For a moment, I saw a shadow behind the wheel, a remnant of my former self, the one who was so confident that he would never again grace the state of Ohio. A small explosion. Another small explosion. They sounded less like explosions than someone manually popping a paper lunch sack. The driver’s side front wheel fell off and the car tilted over. The Mustang emblem clinked onto the pavement. A car, and then another car, drove past as if this sort of thing happened all the time. Nothing to get excited about.
“My clothes are in there,” I said aloud. “My employee of the month certificate. My Army uniforms. My crazy pills.”
My father emerged from the tiny house I’d grown up in, leaning forward on an aluminum walker, a wry grin on his mossy face. There was a reason why he’d never grown a beard while my mother was alive. The beard was patchy in so many ways. The coloration was wrong. The growth was uneven. There were too many things wrong with his beard to list.
The look he sent my way told me that he hadn’t yet forgiven me for not coming around while my mother was dying. I came to the funeral. Wasn’t that enough?
The police arrived. They pulled their cruiser up to the curb. A decal on the side of the car read, POLICE INTERCEPTOR. An older fat patrolman strolled up to me. He stood alongside me in silence and we watched my car burn for a while. Finally, he said, “That yours?” His name tag said, SMITH.
“Yes,” I said. “I have no money.”
“Who does?” He patted me on the shoulder solicitously.
The flames licked the air. It was sensuous.
“This is my son.” My father was beside us, opposite the cop.
“Total loss,” the friendly, gray-haired patrolman said. He rubbed his belly like there was a cat underneath his shirt.
His partner, a youngish woman, her hair pinched into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, stood near the car in the street, waving other cars past. When the street was clear, she pulled out her ticket pad and wrote me up.
My state of Illinois vanity plate fell off the back. It read, “E4MAFIA.” It was a joke that wasn’t funny now that I was out of the Army. I’d been out of the Army for years. I was in the Army for four years, most of it spent in a Navy hospital in Illinois, recovering from my war wounds. The Navy corpsmen would wheel us all up to the roof of the hospital at times, I remembered. We’d sit up there, high above the base, staring at Lake Michigan. It was calming. The hospital specialized in traumatic brain injuries. It was why we were all there. We were learning to speak again. To feed ourselves. To walk. To read and write. The Navy’s corpsmen school was there, so the student corpsmen would come by to gawk at us, or help us out with basic things. Eating. Finding our way back to our ward.
About the Author

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John L. Sheppard, a graduate of the MFA@FLA creative writing program at the University of Florida, is a native of Cleveland, Ohio. He lives in Illinois.
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The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae by Stephanie Butland Blog Tour

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The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae by Stephanie Butland

Description:
For fans of Josie Silver’s One Day in December, The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae is a wholly original, charismatic, and uplifting novel that no reader will soon forget.
Ailsa Rae is learning how to live. She’s only a few months past the heart transplant that—just in time—saved her life. Now, finally, she can be a normal twenty-eight-year-old. She can climb a mountain. Dance. Wait in line all day for tickets to Wimbledon.
But first, she has to put one foot in front of the other. So far, things are as bloody complicated as ever. Her relationship with her mother is at a breaking point and she wants to find her father. Then there’s Lennox, whom Ailsa loved and lost. Will she ever find love again?
Her new heart is a bold heart. She just needs to learn to listen to it. From the hospital to her childhood home, on social media and IRL, Ailsa will embark on a journey about what it means to be, and feel, alive. How do we learn to be brave, to accept defeat, to dare to dream?
From Stephanie Butland, author of The Lost for Words Bookshop, The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae will warm you from the inside out.

EXCERPT

6 October, 2017

 

Hard to Bear

 

It’s 3 a.m. here in cardio-thoracic.

All I can do for now is doze, and think, and doze again. My heart is getting weaker, my body bluer. People I haven’t seen for a while are starting to drop in. (Good to see you, Emily, Jacob, Christa. I’m looking forward to the Martinis.) We all pretend we’re not getting ready to say goodbye. It seems easiest. But my mother cries when she thinks I’m sleeping, so maybe here, now, is time to admit that I might really be on the way out.

I should be grateful. A baby born with Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome a few years before I was would have died within days. I’ve had twenty-eight years and I’ve managed to do quite a lot of living in them. (Also, I’ve had WAY more operations than you everyday folk. I totally win on that.) OK, so I still live at home and I’ve never had a job and I’m blue around the edges because there’s never quite enough oxygen in my system. But –

Actually, but nothing. If you’re here tonight for the usual BlueHeart cheerfulness-in-the-teeth-of-disaster, you need to nd another blogger.

My heart is failing. I imagine I can feel it oundering in my chest. Sometimes it’s as though I’m holding my breath, waiting to see if another beat will come. I’ve been

 

in hospital for four months, almost non-stop, because it’s no longer tenable for me to be at home. I’m on a drip pumping electrolytes into my blood and I’ve an oxygen tube taped to my face. I’m constantly cared for by peo- ple who are trying to keep me well enough to receive a transplanted heart if one shows up. I monitor every

icker and echo of pain or tiredness in my body and try to work out if it means that things are getting worse. And yes, I’m alive, and yes, I could still be saved, but tonight it’s a struggle to  think that being saved is possible. Or even likely. And I’m not sure I have the energy to keep waiting.

And I should be angrier, but there’s no room for anger (remember, my heart is a chamber smaller than yours) because, tonight, I’m scared.

It’s only a question of time until I get too weak to sur- vive a transplant, and then it’s a waste of a heart to give it to me. Someone a bit tter, and who would get more use from it, will bump me from the top of the list and I’m into the Palliative Care Zone. (It’s not actually called that. And it’s a good, kind, caring place, but it’s not where I want to be. Maybe when I’m ninety-eight. To be honest, tonight, I’d take forty-eight. Anything but twenty-eight.)

I hope I feel more optimistic when the sun comes up. If it does. It’s Edinburgh. It’s October. The odds are about the same as me getting a new heart.

My mother doesn’t worry about odds. She says, ‘We only need the one heart. Just the one.’ She says it in a way that makes me think that when she leaves the ward she’s away to carve one out of some poor stranger’s

 

body herself. And anyway, odds feel strange, because even if my survival chances are, say, 20 per cent, what- ever happens to me will happen 100 per cent. As in, I could be 100 per cent dead this time next week.

Night night, BlueHeart xxx

 

P.S. I would really, really like for one of you to get your- self a couple of goldsh, or kittens, or puppies, or even horses, and call them Cardio and Thoracic. My prefer- ence would be for puppies. Because I love the thought that, if I don’t make it to Christmas, somewhere there will be someone walking in the winter countryside, let- ting their enthusiastic wee spaniels off the  lead, and then howling ‘Cardio! Thoracic!’ as they disappear over the brow of a hill intent on catching some poor terried sheep. That’s what I call a legacy.

From The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae by Stephanie Butland. Copyright © 2019 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

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Author Bio:
STEPHANIE BUTLAND lives with her family near the sea in the North East of England. She writes in a studio at the bottom of her garden, and when she’s not writing, she trains people to think more creatively. For fun, she reads, knits, sews, bakes, and spins. She is an occasional performance poet and the author of The Lost for Words Bookshop.

Book-buy link: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250242174

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Black & Blue Tour

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Fiction
Date Published: July 2019
Publisher:  BookBaby
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Have you ever wanted to do something that everyone said was impossible? Then you’ll love BLACK & BLUE. Loosely based on the author’s own life, this coming-of-age novel will inspire you to pursue your dreams.
For as long as she can remember, “Toady” wanted nothing more than to play football.  But for Toady, the love of football is bittersweet – because Toady’s given name is Christine. She’s a girl, and girls “can’t” play football. Despite her exceptional abilities, she watches bitterly as the boys play on the high school team and win scholarships.  Reluctantly, she gives up her football dreams and moves to New York City – where she finds that life is full of surprises. Christine hears about a group of women playing flag football, and she joins their game. The players are so good that before long, they’re invited to become part of a professional women’s tackle league.
For Christine, this is the chance she’s always dreamed of. Not only does she play football, but she raises enough money to become the team’s owner. But that’s when the real challenges begin. Does Christine have the guts and the stamina to spite the odds? BLACK & BLUE will leave readers cheering as Christine doubles down to fight for her dreams and for the women who want nothing more than to play their favorite sport. If you loved Bend It Like Beckham or A League of Their Own, you’ll adore BLACK & BLUE.

EXCERPT

INVITATION TO PLAY 

I stand in the heat of the day, thinking this must be a mirage! I look again: a group of women is playing football! 

By Andra Douglas

I am sorting socks one day and thinking that all of them can’t possibly belong to one individual when I realize that there are two companions I have overlooked—Me and Myself. After this realization, I view my existence as three entities sharing space in one body. It is a type of schizophrenia that I find comforting. Plus, it explains all the socks. 

Time passes quickly and living in New York City means paying the Piper. It also means paying the doorman, the coat checker, the cabbies, the “super” in my brownstone and the woman giving out hand towels in the bathrooms of fine establishments. Life in New York City moves so fast that it seems as though events overlap. Unlike my beloved game of football, there are no time-outs, no half-times, not even any two-minute warnings. Even the traffic lights mean nothing. And all the horns honking make it so noisy. At home, the things with horns say “mooooo.” In New York, there are lots of nasty and maladjusted people. They swear loudly from the middle of the streets and write rude words on walls. The rudest thing on the walls back home was the day the “l” dropped out of “public” on the building we know as the Public Library. Nevertheless, I navigate this city well. And it is slowly becoming home. 

“Come through, New York!” I say, aiming my words at the beautiful skyline at the southern end of the island. “Come through…” 

Then one day it delivers something. A group of women who play football. Somewhere I hear that beach football is played on Fire Island. So one Saturday I take the ferry over from Sayville out on Long Island. I sit down in the sand holding my football like a security blanket and look for the football action. 

Suddenly, like an apparition, Jessie appears next to me. Twenty-nine, slim, muscular and quite beautiful, until she opens her mouth, at which point you know for sure she is a true Brooklynite. Everything you hear is unruly and the opposite of what you might expect from her full and opinion-giving lips. She swaggers; even her gestures have an accent. 

I take notice of her curly, unruly shock of short hair. She takes notice of the football in my hands. Then she speaks. 

“Seen ya bwall,” she says. 

“Yeah?” My slight southern dialect is not nearly as distinguishable as her ‘Brooklynese.’ 

“Wanna play wit us?” she romps around me in the sand like a puppy.


“Yeah. Ok.” Of course, I want to play! Who’s “us?”

I follow her down the beach and see a group of about fifteen women throwing a football to each other. The heat of the day, the sand…this must be a mirage, or a dream and Jessie is the ghost of football past. But as we approach, I can see that they are still there. An entire group of athletic women and they are playing football! Jessie introduces me. 

“Hey! Found another player for the game today. Maybe for the Sharks, too!” They greet me with sandy handshakes, and soon they are telling me about their team named the Sharks in a league in Brooklyn where they all live. 

“It’s flag football,” announces a woman named Sarah who says ‘ flag’ like she’s just discovered rancid milk in her lunch pail. She is sitting in the sand putting a pink band-aid on her toe, and her long blonde hair drapes around her knees as she leans forward. Flag football. Alright, maybe it isn’t the spot on the Miami Dolphins I dreamed of as a child, but at least I can play my favorite game and meet people, too. 

“But it IS full contact,” Sarah is quick to throw this in, as if embarrassed that they don’t play tackle. They all nod in agreement, grateful that Sarah has pointed this out. She is the EF Hutton of the group. Everyone listens. “Plus, it’s all we have.” She adds as a light afterthought. “So…let’s play…is it Christine or Chris?” 

“Christine.” She stands up and her stature is not nearly as big as her presence. About 5’4”, Sarah has a thin, athletic but curvy body. She begins to trot away from the group and puts her hands up signaling for me to throw her the ball. I feel like I just reached heaven and as I whip the football in her direction, I hear several murmurs and a grunt of approval from Jessie, “That lil’ ‘ol skinny arm can send that ball!” she says and Jessie grunts again, but is smiling. Someone named Dulce is waving for me to throw the ball to her, so I zing one her way. She catches it effortlessly and grins at the others. 

“Aiiight!” she says, and Sarah is kind enough to translate. 

“That’s ‘alright’ in Puerto Rican, Christine.” Then she laughs as a cacophony of ‘aiiiights’ fill the beach air. We play most of the day and the only reason we stop is because Sarah’s dad, Thomas, is picking a group of the players up at the dock in a boat. 

I sit in the sand after everyone is gone, tossing the football in the air against the blue sky, reliving moments that made my adrenaline flow: Jessie catching my pass in the end zone and rushing back to the huddle full of excitement. “I didn’t think you saw me!” But I did! Or after I was flushed out of the pocket and ran for a long gain; as we returned to our side of the ball, Sarah flipped her long hair around and, in a playful taunt, told the defense I was the fastest one on the field. These are the things I want to feast on, and the more I eat, the hungrier I become. I lie down in the sand to digest the delicious moments. The clouds form the X’s and O’s of the playbook in my head. I will go home, gnaw these memories to the bone and be ravenous in the fall when I play flag football in Brooklyn with my new friends. 

Excerpted from BLACK & BLUE by Andra Douglas (BookBaby/2019).  Available at Amazon at: https://www.amazon.com/Black-Blue-Love-Sports-Empowerment/dp/1733583505/ref=pd_ybh_a_13?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=8DHM7RR02F84K4Z0S170

About the Author
ANDRA DOUGLAS is a native of central Florida and a graduate of Florida State University and Pratt Institute.  A national champion athlete in rugby and women’s tackle football, she was the owner of the New York Sharks Women’s Pro Football team for nineteen years and is the founder of the Fins Up! Foundation for Female Athletes, a non-profit to benefit at-risk teens.  In addition to her love of football, Andra is a professional artist and served as a Vice President/Creative Director at Time Warner for many years. Today, she lives with her parrot, ‘Pie’ in New York’s Greenwich Village where she creates mixed-media artwork.  To learn more, visit: www.andradouglasart.com.
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The Meaning of Life Blitz

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Fiction, Suspense
Publisher: Xlibris
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While change is in progress in James’ life, terrorists give just 48 hours to agree to their demands. Is it too late to stop them?
The Shaw family have experienced insurmountable tragedy in their lives culminating in the sons’ mother wasting away from cancer and the father committing suicide because he can’t bear life without her. Whilst the son James is undergoing counselling, he too is confronted by another death which leads him to examine the meaning of life, and in total despair, he attempts to take his own. Whilst building the courage to do so, he is visited by an entity who encourages him to help save the world, which is rapidly destroying itself though pollution, climate change, over-population, and war.
The boy agrees, and progressively encourages the world leaders to participate in this change, sometimes by force, but not before he has to thwart terrorists who attempt to disrupt the inaugural conference of the world leaders, and then threaten the United States with nuclear warheads they have stolen from a Russian facility, giving them 48 hours to agree to their demands. The chase is on as the FBI attempt to locate these terrorists before the warheads are detonated. They travel half the globe to find them, but is it too late?
 Excerpt
There is a hint of anger in the Russian president’s face, although James can’t read his
mind.
‘I don’t care whether you want to help or not. I don’t give a shit, but I’ll give you
 
three possibilities on how this will go down. I can make you a puppet so that you
 
appear a fool in front of everyone. I kill you now and encourage your replacement to help, or you do this willingly. Which is your pleasure?’
‘I’m not going to be made a fool of, and I’m not going to help you.’
‘Fine!’
The president opens the right-hand top drawer of his desk, finds nothing, and opens
the drawer below. He reaches inside, pulls out a PSM pistol, and holds it to his head. The president’s eyes widen. He can feel his index finger beginning to press the trigger.
‘Wait, stop,’ pleads the president.
James let the president rest the gun on his desk.
‘OK, I promise I will help you.’
‘I am completely baffled as to why you are totally against helping change the
 
world for the good of mankind. I understand that the majority of your people love and worship you, but everyone else hates your guts. Others think you’re an arrogant tyrant, a liar, and a lowlife. Wouldn’t you rather be remembered as the greatest saviour of the world? A leader with the foresight and the passion to help his fellow man? I don’t care whether you take credit for the contribution you will make in helping the world but as long as you do it for the right reasons and not take advantage or manipulate those who are vulnerable and are trying to help.’
‘Yes, I understand what you are saying.’
‘I hope I can believe you because we will have no further discussions. If you lie
to me again, I will not give you another chance to plead for forgiveness. You will cease to be. You may consider this a threat, but I call it giving advice. Agree willingly, contribute positively, participate completely, and help change the world, and humankind will live a long and peaceful life, including your family, for generations to come.’
‘I still don’t understand why you are doing this. What’s in it for you?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all. I’m not in this for fame or gratitude, and I don’t want to
 
be mentioned outside the group. I’ve had a happy life, but I’ve also experienced great sorrow, so much sorrow that I wanted to end my life. The majority of the people on this planet know nothing but sorrow and hardship until they die. On the other hand, very few of them enjoy wealth and power and sometimes greed to the detriment of the poor and the environment. But no more. I want those people like you, with wealth and power, to contribute and help everyone and everything on this planet for its long-term survival and happiness. You may think that I’m a fool, but I know what’s coming even though you don’t believe it. The destruction of this planet will not come in our lifetime, but it’s not that far away. In two, three, or maybe four generations, we will have contributed to our own destruction to the point where change will not make a difference. We need to start changing now before it’s too late.’
About the Author

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Robert Scollo lives in Melbourne, Australia, and has just turned sixty. The Meaning of Life is this first book, and he hopes that it inspires people to help one another.
The author says, “Frustration. We are constantly frustrated when we hear how badly we treat one another. We whine and complain. We turn our backs when people ask for help, or we ignore famine and prosecution, or we abuse the environment and leave it barren and toxic, or we slaughter animals to extinction, but no one does anything about it because we’re a single voice in the wilderness. Apart from one impossible thing occurring in this novel, everything else is achievable. We just need enough of the right people to listen.”
Robert hopes that more people than not will enjoy the book, and if they do, the main character James will return in a second novel.
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