| Chapter 2 |
I rush into the first stall in the old white tiled toilet and collapse to my knees. Holding on to the bowl with both hands, I feel my suit pants sop up wetness from the floor, which I think is pee. I make my way to the old-chipped hand-basin and hold on, then throw-up the beer and rum. The Boy Scouts law flashes through my mind. Loyal: A Scout is true to his family and friends. I look down at my watch and, it’s only forty-five minutes to closing time. I must tell my mates no pussy will ever come between us again. I stagger back through the pub and stand with me mates at the bar, but the words just won’t come. I try to put my foot on the brass-rail, but someone keeps moving it. I feel alone in the crowd and shake my head, trying to clear my alcoholic brain.
“Christ! Drink up. It’s almost the last call.” I say, trying to reconnect with me mates. “That’s right, Wills, and it’s your turn to buy, so get us another round,” Dave says.
Suddenly, the incessant chatter in the now packed bar drops to a whisper. I then follow everyone’s eyes towards the front door. To my horror, there stands Kurt Reichmann, the German gang leader from School, I sober up instantly. Behind Reichmann, there is a solid wall of the grizzliest cutthroats and villains that I have ever seen. Reichmann is even bigger and uglier than I remember. His neck is over half the width of his massive-hunched-shoulders. Even though he has an ape’s posture, he is still head and shoulders above everyone else in the pub. This six-foot-six, over three-hundred-pound monster yet has not seen me. “‘Er… boys!” I whisper, “Don’t look now, but Kurt Reichmann just came through the door.” I look down as I speak, hoping that the floor will open and swallow me up. “Holy shit!” Dave says, almost without moving his lips. “What the fuck is ‘e doing ‘ere? I ‘fought ‘is local pub’s The Bell.” “It is,” Danny whispers. “and if ‘e’s ‘ere, there’s ‘gonna be trouble.” Ed is looking around the bar. “Why the bloody ‘ell didn’t they build a back door to this fucking place? Cause I ‘fink it’s way past me bedtime.” Danny starts to look around as if he would suddenly find Ed’s missing back door. “Which one of ‘yah ASSHOLES,” Reichmann bellows into the now silent bar, “put the finger on Billy ‘ere, to the bleeding Coppers?” Billy Ratner is the one-legged hulk on crutches standing almost as tall as Reichmann, to his left. There are many stories about how he lost his leg, but no one knows for sure. Billy always plays the poor helpless cripple, especially when questioned by the police about pub fights. ” ‘ave a ‘eart Constable,” Billy would answer. ” ‘ow can a poor one-leg cripple, the likes of me, be involved in a fight?” The truth is, when standing wedged into a corner, Billy is a vicious fighter who swings his heavy wooden crutches and inflicts very nasty injuries. Everyone knows that to turn him in would be a death sentence. Reichmann’s beady eyes scan the bar, unfortunately. he picks me out of the crowd. “I don’t believe me bleeding eyes! If it ain’t the ‘eadmaster’s pet, Alan bloody Wills, the ‘ead Boy. You’re the type of bleeder what would turn Billy into the Rozzers! I shout back to him. “School’s a long time ago Kurt, I ain’t been in Walthamstow for donkey’s years. We moved away, you know,” I try not to sound nervous despite the giant butterflies beating the hell out of my stomach. “There’s ‘ya pencil-neck, sissy mates? They always squealed on me gang in School.” I yell back. “No, Kurt, we’ve all gone our separate ways now. This is the first time we’ve all been together for ages. Like a reunion, ‘ya know?” “So, what about that little weasel next to ‘ya! Who’s ‘e?” I turn to the stranger next to me. He is less than average height, but on closer inspection, he looks very muscular. Plus, he seems self-assured, with a determined look in his eyes. I had never seen him before. “Dunno who he is, Kurt. ‘Ain’t with us.” “Ma name’s Scotty. I’m from Glasgow!” “A bloody Jock!” Reichmann says in a very demeaning tone. “Maybe we’ll ‘ave ‘ya do a ‘highland bloody fling or play ‘ya bagpipes.” You can hear a pin drop as Reichmann takes a couple of steps forward. I look up at the ceiling and say a silent prayer. God, don’t let this little Jock defy Reichmann. You, of all people, know that Scots have a reputation of being hardheaded. “Get outta me way, you big oafs!” A woman’s voice shouts from the front door. Again, I look up at the ceiling. Excuse me, God, you sent a woman? I ask silently. As she pushes her way through his gang, we can see that she is wearing the navy-blue Salvation Army uniform. This poor little gray-haired dove surely doesn’t realize that she is landing in the middle of a potential battlefield. “I’ve never heard this den of iniquity so quiet. What’s going on?” she asks. “None of ‘ya fucking business,” Reichmann growls. “‘Ya watch ‘ya filthy tongue, ‘ya big moose,” she says, facing Reichmann. “Look, lady, d’ya mind? We’re in the middle of a bloody inquisition! So why don’t ‘ya go on ‘ya merry way and push God at the next boozer down the road?” “God’s work is far more important than whatever mischief you’re about.” She says. Then she shakes her tambourine holding it out in front of Reichmann. “A donation please?” “Get the fuck out of here, ‘ya fucking bible junky, before me gang throws ‘ya’re ass out,” Reichmann pushes her to one side with a swat of his left hand. She falls back, held up by a couple of gang members. She takes a few steps to be back in front of him. “You might bully little people, mister, but you can’t bully God!” Again, she thrusts her tambourine at him. This time, it hits his bulbous belly. The crowd lets out an Oh, then waits for the inevitable. “Look lady, I’m Kurt Reichmann. I’m sure you’ve ‘heard of me.” “No, can’t say I have. I’m Gladys Little, glad to meet ‘ya! Now, how about a little something for the Lord’s work?” Again, she shakes the tambourine, then taps it twice on Reichmann’s obese belly. An “Ooooo” goes through the bar. “That does it, lady. You just pushed ‘ya luck too bloody far! OK, boys, throw this old bible-bashing-bitch out in the street.” Four of his thugs pick up this poor little Salvation Army lady by her arms and legs. With one exception, none of the pub patrons lift a finger to save her. The wiry Scot leaps to within a couple of feet of Reichmann. “You’ll have ‘ya men unhand the wee lass, Mr. Reichmann!” The little Scot says “You must be off ‘ya ‘ead,” Reichmann chuckles. “One of ‘ya …” he points to his gang. “This ‘ere little Scot’s fly, what just landed ‘ere, needs swatting!” “Donee move! Not a one of ‘ya, or I’ll be forced to put a bad hurt on ‘ya boss.” The Scot’s eyes narrow as he stares up at Reichmann’s massive head. “You! You’re going to ‘hurt me?” Reichmann laughs heartily with his hands holding his big stomach. His gang follows suit and breaks into roars of laughter. Without a word, the Scot jumps into the air, and with a loud thud, his forehead smashes Reichmann’s forehead, much the same way a football player powerfully heads the ball. The giant falls like a rock to the floor, knocked out cold. The four thugs instantly drop the Salvation Army lady on to the floor and join the other gang members around Reichmann. Slowly he recovers conscience. and shaking his head, then shouts, “Get that little bastard!” The Scot’s courage must have touched all the local lads the way it inspired me. Without a word, we all leap on Reichmann’s gang, and the onslaught begins. All around me. I hear the painful sound of fists pounding flesh. I block a punch from a gang member, grab his hair and smash his nose onto my up-thrusting knee. His blood splatters over my trousers, and he hits the floor holding his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dave jump clear as a wooden table is overturned by one of Reichmann’s thugs. Dave then demolishes a wooden chair across the thugs head, and he is out for the count. Blood splatters everywhere; bottles fly through the air and smash against walls. I see Danny duck a punch, then raise his head and poked his fingers into the gang-members eyes, and the thug screams out in pain. Looking around for Ed, I block another punch. The public bar is full of fighters, with fists missing and connecting, heads ducking and weaving. I then see Ed hiding under a table. I smile. Maybe he is the smart one, I think. “Scotty, look out!” I yell. “Reichmann has a blade.” With the precision of a goalkeeper, he kicks up, and the knife flies from Reichmann’s hand up into the air. Miraculously, Scotty catches it and lunges at Reichmann, ripping open a gash of the full length of his right inner arm. Blood squirts all over the fighters next to him. “Christ! ‘e’s cut me bad,” Reichmann screams, holding his wounded arm to his chest, blood covers his huge belly. He heads for the door, closely followed by his gang. The four of us lift Scotty, our hero, on our shoulders, high above the battered and bruised crowd. The cheers are deafening as we step carefully over debris in what looks like a war zone. Holding Scotty high, we circle the bar to the cheers of the crowd. All the locals help clean up the mess, and we pass the hat around to pay for the damage. In return, the Governor buys everyone a beer. Dave, Danny, Ed, Scotty, and me, close The White Swan with the much-needed last beer at the bar. Scotty, we discover, is a famous football player. He is in London to play in the England v Scotland cup match. He had come to Walthamstow to meet an old army mate at The Swan. “Laddies & Lasses, us Scots have mighty hard heads in more ways than one, as your Mr. Reichmann can surely attest!” Are his parting words as he walks toward the front door, to the cheers of us all. Just then, Scotty’s army friend comes through the door, and asks “Scotty, why are they cheering you?” “Auk, I just straightened out the David and Goliath story with these Londoners. They didney know that David was a Scots soccer player.” During Sunday lunchtime, at the Swan, we learn that Reichmann was not able to go to the hospital Friday night due to a police warrant. Many eyewitnesses swore they saw him sew the long knife wound to his inner arm himself, using an ordinary needle and thread from a sewing kit, which luckily a woman outside the pub had in her handbag. Chapter 2 is from my sequel Book More Confession of a Wanker.The first book Confession of a Wanker is available from Amazon Books in Soft Cover, or as a E-Book for $4.95.It is selling like hot cakes! More Confession of a Wanker is being edited and should be available in approximately 3 months. However, I might suggest, you read the first book as it is the continuing story,about a boy growing-up in the tough East End of London ReplyForward
Synopsis: In the future a Government supplies peace and prosperity in exchange for the loss of some freedoms. In the shadows the government has been using its people for enhancement and other experimentations. An act of violence, which has been all but extinct, threatens the security of the government and could lead to their secrets being brought to light as well as a revolution.
Parker awoke early, enjoying the sun warming him as he strutted down the hallway towards the rear of the house. He stopped short of the milky glass door to the bedroom; it was ajar. He peered at his reflection with the sun shining in. If he’d had an opinion he’d likely think he was handsome. He pushed through and hopped onto the bed. His light footfalls didn’t wake Anne. Parker stepped on to Anne’s chest looking straight down upon her face, a light purr that rolled into a meow. His front paws alternated pressing down, contracting and relaxing his rounded black nails. His eyes narrowed to relaxed slits and then blinked, his sign of affection and trust that he’d shown to Anne every morning since she’d rescued him. As far as cats went, Parker was a dignified, although needy, gentleman.
A cool light breeze blew in through the open French doors of the bedroom. The early morning sea air combined with Parkers’ greeting woke Anne. She sat up and Parker put his feet up close to her shoulders driving the top of his head into her cheek, rubbing it back and forth. She said “Good morning to you too.” Anne thought that the sunrise, the breeze and Parkers’ morning ritual made her morning perfect.
Anne, dressed in a white silk sleeping gown, made her way from the bedroom to the living area. Parker trotted alongside. He purred and sauntered around her ankles in a figure eight, pressing his head into her legs and rubbing his cheeks against them. She paused, caressing his silky grey fur stroking him from his ears to the base of his tail. “Let’s get you some breakfast, shall we.” Anne filled and placed Parker’s silver dish down on the honey-colored bamboo flooring. She thought the colors were a gorgeous contrast against the dark grey fur of the cat, and she smiled at the simple beauty. She retreated back to her room for a few minutes, emerging again in simple khaki pocketless pants and a white t-shirt.
She headed out the side door towards the shared garden between the houses. Mrs. Kusta, the widow, as usual was at her dining room window that looked on this space. She was like clockwork, every morning sitting there alone with her old-fashioned white ceramic mug, taking in the view over the water. Anne liked the consistency that this neighbor had provided, as she herself was consistent, someone who ran on routine. Anne picked a handful of lavender, pulled a few weeds and watered the garden. Mrs. Kusta came outside.
“Anne,” she said with a smile “I can’t thank you enough for taking care of the little garden. I know you’re a busy woman but I can’t tell you how much I have appreciated all your help over the past few months since my Arland died.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Anne replied. “And it really hasn’t been a bother at all. If it weren’t for this little garden that you started we wouldn’t have our lavender, now would we?”
“Dearie, if it weren’t for you, this garden wouldn’t have survived, to say nothing of the odd jobs you’ve done for me either. Especially fixing the latch on my dining room window! I don’t know what I’d have done without you, and I just want to tell you how much I appreciate it.”
Anne smiled and stepped through the garden to give Mrs. Kusta a hug. The old woman smelled of a sweet perfume, something like jasmine.
Anne said; “Don’t forget to close that window this evening. It’s likely to be chilly.”
Anne leaned down and clipped a bit more lavender, handed it to Mrs. Kusta and bid her farewell with a warm smile. Mrs. Kusta then slowly shuffled back to her kitchen table calling out “Anne, dear, you take such good care of me.” Anne smiled and retreated inside her home. Mrs. Kusta lived a simple life, she was a quiet little old woman who minded her own business.
Inside, Anne tapped the control to the blinds that faced Mrs. Kustas’ home, then checked her holo-pad ensuring all the blinds were closed except those facing the water from her small dining table. She used the pad to unlock the front door as well, then sat and looked out over the water. She sat motionless, absorbing the view and the sounds of the gulls being carried on the breeze. The blue of the water, the small white gulls that flew above and the soft light of the morning helped to keep her relaxed, carefree and certain. After some time, noticing the clock, she stood and called for Parker. He came trotting to her, the bell on his collar jingling. It reminded her of the old-fashioned tricycle from her youth: whimsical, musical and pleasant. It made her smile. Alise gave her the little red collar with the bell. While Alise said she hated cats, Patrick would always sit on her lap when visiting. Alise never shooed him away.
She took Parker in her right arm, grabbed a few of his favorite cat treats and the catnip plant from the counter. Parker began swatting at them with his paw. She carefully placed the plant in the spare room on the bedside table, the treats on the bed and Parker next to them. She checked the attached bath, ensuring the litter box was clean and that the small water dispenser was flowing for him. On her way out of the room she stroked Parker and scratched under his chin. He purred loudly. She took the collar off; holding it in her hand, left the room and shut the door. Anne walked around her small but comfortable home, ensuring everything was as it should be. The rooms were neat and tidy, the few hand-written notebooks she’d set out upon her long marble Kitchen counter were open to specific pages, and documents that needed to be passed along were set out for the messenger, Molly, to scan and reproduce for work. She wanted to leave nothing unfinished. Her life’s work was here, or at least the copies she wanted to ensure were found today. The rest, well, it would be available soon enough.
As Anne walked back towards the kitchen and her view, she checked the plants to ensure they had enough water, straightened the mat in front of the glass doors to the rear deck, then went into the sitting room. She reached into a small antique wooden box, with the name “Montecristo” burned into its lid. This antique was one of her most treasured. The feel of the old wood and the aroma of lemon oil used to ensure its continued beauty, the old-fashioned metal hinges that creaked slightly when she lifted the lid. The lid had the Montecristo logo, a triangle of six swords surrounding a fleur-de-lis was worn, but recognizable. These little details made her feel alive, so different from the sterile and cold offices of the R&D lab where she spent her days with its holo-screens and grey uniforms. She grabbed some handmade paper and an ink pen from under the lid, as well as a small, but moderately weighted canvas bag. This, after all, was no job for the holo-terminal voice dictation program. This was an occasion for the old-fashioned written word. This was personal, and timing was important.
She sat at the small bistro style dining table, the marble countertop covered with her work. She took a moment to look over the items before her, contemplating their textures and the way the light was reflected or absorbed by each. She let the sunshine on her face, feeling its warmth, inhaling deeply to etch the odor of the salty ocean and decaying seaweed inside her lungs, then exhaled and felt peace. With two taps on the holo-pad the patio doors and blinds closed. Another tap and a single dim light shone over the table, an almost romantic light that cast a warm glow. Anne carefully uncapped the pen, its weight felt nice in her hand, not like the weightless instruments used on the holo-screens at work. The sensation of the paper with its ridges and imperfections of color delighted her fingers and eyes.
Anne wrote; “My name is not important, but what I have done is. When you proceed with the retinal scan you will find I am a registered citizen in good standing. What I do now, I can only hope will have a wide and deep impact upon my fellow citizens. In the time it takes you to enter my home, scan my retinas and begin the investigation, the damage to the Amerist Government and the hand that leads it will have begun. I ask only one thing: when Ms. Pearce arrives, please apologize to her for any inconvenience she suffers due to the time you detain her for questioning regarding my death.”
Once finished, Anne opened the canvas bag and pulled out the matching neuro-stim bolts. These were antiques, heavy in the hand and smooth except for the small ridges at the center of the rounded ends. The military had stopped using these years ago due to the fact that the needed effect was much less than these bolts were designed for. The bolts, once activated, would destroy the circuits in the brain where thought was processed. While the body could be kept alive, if necessary, there was never a chance of recovering any information. Even with the algorithms that Anne had created to read, decode it and translate electrical activity, once the neural pathways were destroyed there was nothing that could be read or retrieved.
Anne pressed the cold smooth bolts to her temples. The adhering compound worked; it was the one thing she’d worried about, as the compound was very old. She folded the canvas bag neatly in half, placed the newly inked paper on top, then the pen as the weight to keep it all together. She heard a small thud in the backroom, like a small weight hitting the bamboo floor, and Parkers bell jingling. She imagined Parker had found and gotten a hold of the catnip, and it made her smile. She gently touched the emergency alarm on the holo-pad.
“What assistance do you require?” the pleasant feminine voice chimed.
“This is Dr. Anne Augustine, please send a SOaC team to my home.” Her voice and hands were steady, as she pressed the disconnect button, cutting off the human voice that was just breaking into the holorecording. She then pulled up her messages that had not yet been sent out, each to a different contact but containing the same documents and research. She said slowly, in a quiet but strong voice, “Send all,” then lightly set the holo-pad on the table. She closed her eyes, exhaled, and simultaneously pushed in on the bolts attached to her temples. Her eyes turned crimson and her nose abruptly began to bleed, her jaw locked and a throaty deep momentary grunt arose. Her arms grew rigid as the electrical impulses batted around inside her head from one side of her skull to the other.
Once the electrical impulses had stopped, her head fell forward striking and cracking the glass top of the bistro table. The blood from her nose flowed slowly through the cracks in the glass, creating red channels that reflected the light above. Her arms fell to her sides, lifeless, and dangling. What remained were the faintest signals from her brain stem, short with long pauses between, causing the false appearance of breathing; they would call it “agonal breathing” on the incident report. Her body had only to wait a short time before the Social Operations and Control Officers arrived to begin the retinal scans. She greeted them with a deep chestnut lifeless gaze and the faint smell of the burned flesh at her temples.
End of Chapter 1
By Jennifer Schmidt
Select all writings of Jennifer Schmidt
Select biography of Jennifer Schmidt
England is a small, old country. Soon they started to run out of places to bury their dead. So they would dig up coffins and take the bones to a bone yard and reuse the grave. When the coffins were opened 1 out of 25 had scratch marks on the inside and they realized people had been buried alive. So they would tie a string around the wrist of the corpse, thread it through the ground and tie it to a bell.
Someone would have to sit at the grave site all night (the graveyard shift) to listen for the bell, thus someone was “saved by the bell” or was considered a “dead ringer!’
England is an old small country. Soon they started to run out of places to bury their dead. So they would dig up coffins and take the bones to a bone yard and reuse the grave. When the coffins were opened 1 out of 25 had scratch marks on the inside and they realized people had been buried alive. So they would tie a string around the wrist of the corpse, thread it through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would sit at the grave site all night (the graveyard shift) to listen for the bell, thus someone was “saved by the bell” or was considered a “dead ringer!’
From Norma and Alan Wills
To all Our Family and Friends, we need your help! Please Next Week view our New FREE web site for Writers, as it will help us be recognized by Google! Currently you can open Authors Preview.com on BING or on the Control Bar but not on Google!
Thanks for your help, Alan and Norma
Be sure to read 3 chapters of Alan’s Book Confessions of a Wanker it will be published soon! Also read Alan’s Blog, and the many other Stories and Poems that have already been submitted!
Thanks again Alan and Norma Wills.
PS: Send in your writing to be previewed and receive feedback from around the world.
Don’t be surprised if you are contacted by a publisher, a producer or a director
FREE Website for Writers http://www.AuthorsPreview.com
Submit your Writings to showcase your: Short Story, Poem, or Chapter of Your Book Receive feedback from Readers
To contribute your Writings, logon to the web site and select:
“How-To-Submit”. Include a brief bio, photo if you choose, and some of your writings.
And you can enjoy reading others’ writings. Many are personal life stories – serious and funny, full of life problems – often with unique solutions, rich with history from many different cultures, countries, and religions, which come alive with each writer’s inner thoughts and feelings.
Contact: AuthorsPreview Alan Wills
Feedback from my first blog:
John C form Palos Verdes: Why have such a silly picture of yourself?
Alan: Because I am a silly person. Didn’t you read Alan thinks “Life is too important to be taken totally seriously!” Thanks for the feedback John C.
Don’t worry John. There will never be a comprehension test on my blog.
Kathy from Ventura: Re: Your picture coming out from behind the tree. I love that you commune with nature. You are the type of man I have been looking for!
Alan: Take it easy Kathy! I am a happily married man with 6 kids and 12 grandkids.
Michael R from Woodland Hills: You look like a real nut coming out from behind a tree!
Alan: Michael, look at the relief on my face and you will know what I was doing behind the tree.
Betty: You look like a silly ass poking out from behind that bloody tree.
Alan: English Betty – better to be a silly ass than half-assed. Just ass yourself this question: What was that silly person doing behind that tree? See Michael above for the answer!
How did I become a writer? Being a creative speller I was ashamed to let anyone read anything I wrote. So I didn’t write!
Then the miracle of Spell Check!
I loaned a girlfriend money which she was unable to repay. To settle the loan she gave me a Commodore 64 computer.
Next I fired an order desk person, who I would classify as nebulous. So much so, I don’t even remember her name. She came into my office to say goodbye, and handed me an envelope, telling me not to read it until I was on the plane to Paris on a business trip. To which I complied. I was impressed by the poem she had written, expressing her unrequited love for me, her boss. I was astounded by how few words she had used, and the impact they had on me. Being somewhat of a chauvinist, I thought if that ordinary girl can write so well, so can I. On the back of the envelope I wrote my first poem to my daughter, as I would be away on her birthday.
My little girl is eight today
Business takes me so far away.
And ending with:
How I miss my Julie Ann
Daddy is coming as fast as he can.
Not great poetry but she loved it, and it encouraged me to take down the Commodore and learn how to use it. Spell Check was an epiphany that led me have the courage to write, and even let others read what I had written.
I was going through separation from my wife and children, which led to divorce. I was very alone in my little house. It was like holding a full bottle upside down and removing the cork. My emotions poured out … in poetry, and eventually into my first book Cockneys Ain’t So Tough. That book eventually became Confessions of a Wanker; the first chapter is available on this website AuthorsPreview.com.
As you can see from my photo I consider life far too important to be taken totally seriously. Confessions of a Wanker is a humorous look at my life growing up in England. It is currently being published and I will let you know where you can order. I hope you enjoy it!
First Time: Please enter all information. You will receive an email with your Author Number when your writing is approved and posted on Authors Preview.
After First Time: email your writing to email@example.com. Include your Name and Author Number in the body of your email.
By submitting your writing you agree: I have full intellectual property rights of ownership of the writing I am submitting, and I give permission to Authors Preview to post with my name.
The contributing authors’ writings are included here for your reading enjoyment. Writings are divided into three categories, each listed in alphabetical order.
Select a category to begin reading. You may submit your critique to the author at the bottom of their writing. Select the AUTHORS button to read an author’s biography.
About the Authors
Many of the authors are from LifeStyle Writing classes.
They are teachers, doctors, nurses, business people, musicians, engineers, attorneys, actors, tradesmen, fathers and mothers – with education from high school through advanced degrees – several born in foreign countries or are children of parents and/or grandparents born in foreign countries.
In many LifeStyle Writing classes the authors read a few pages from their original stories during each meeting, and provide one another feedback, growing in their knowledge and writing skills. And while hearing the joys, sorrows, hopes, fears, adventures, adversities, prejudices, pains, and inner thoughts and feelings… they grow in their understanding of their fellow man.
Publishers: You are welcome to communicate with the author of any of the writings in Authors Preview. email firstname.lastname@example.org with the title of the writing, and your email will be forwarded to the author.
Enjoy the writings shared on AuthorsPreview.com.
Copyright and Ownership
This website, the works contained heron and/or any portion of the same may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of AuthorsPreview, publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book, reviews or similar review publications.
Author submissions remain the intellectual property of the individual author.
- Confessions of a Wanker – Book 1, Chapter 1
- Confessions of a Wanker – Book 1, Chapter 2
- Confessions of a Wanker – Book 2, Chapter 2
- Confessions of a Wanker – Book 1, Chapter 3
- Confessions of a Wanker – Book 2, Chapter 42
- Escaping to Freedom Through the Eye of a Hurricane
- Kenny’s Single Show
- Mordecai Makes a Name
- My Life Stories – Grandpa Remembers
- Scary, Scary Night -Chapter 1
- The Internet President: None of the Above
- The Journey So Far
- The Judge
- The Law of Grace
- The Legend of V: Pyscho Star Showdown!
- The Red-Carpet Noir
- The Witch Lineage
- Wanker Crosses the Pond – Chapter 1
- Writing, from the Art of Seeing
- A Brief Encounter
- Boys and Girls
- But, What Will I Wear?
- Calabasas Fire June 4, 2016
- Can You Go Home Again?
- Car Accident
- Christmas at RCA
- Coulda, Shoulda
- Fit or No Fit
- Freedom of Speech
- Into This World
- It’s Winter, It’s Saturday – 1944
- Just a Case of Booze!
- Life Writing Check List
- Looking Back Through Generations
- Luck Comes In Various Forms
- Man Cannot Live by Book Alone
- Me and Sharon – Age 9
- Meeting Mr. Rafael De Avila
- Moonlight Serenade
- Patty Brown is Going on Vacation
- Sex in the 60’s
- Swept Away
- Teachers and Lessons
- The Christmas Show
- The Illustrated Woman
- The Naiad’s Tale
- The Process of Becoming a Writer: Getting Started
- The Real Twilight Zone
- The Secret of the Solent
- The Soldier and the Train
- The Wonderful World of Fiction
- Tug of War
- Vietnam War Protest
- Acy Burnes Crawford
- Alan S. Bricklin
- Alan Wills
- Bernard Selling
- Dale Crum
- Dina Souchotinsky-Klayman
- Edwin G. Roche
- Eva Montealegre
- Evelyn Goodman
- Florence Ames
- Gail Ann Field
- Geri Jabara
- Ilan Sendowski
- Ishrat Husain
- Jennifer L. Packard
- Jennifer Schmidt
- Judy Liebman
- Kathi T. Hiatt
- Marian Lindner
- Michael J. Savage
- Michael Lunsford
- Nicholas R. Nashick
- P.G. Sundling
- Peter Bruno
- Renate Colvin
- Robert Solomowitz
- Ron Lever
- Ruth Lathrop
- Sam Glenn
- Scott Skipper
- Sheila S Moss
- Sylvia M. Molesko
- Tall Fellow
- Varak Kaloustian
- Virginia G. Rafelson