Catfight and Hell Kitten . . . Really? Really!

Hey y'all! I'm beginning to think there may be a lot of writers in my life (and I will confess that sometimes it seems as though there are too many, but I love them all). I'm fortunate enough to call many of them my friends. I'm also fortunate that when I don't have time to put together a quality blog post for you all to read, they seem to have projects they want to talk about.

So, cutting to the chase, Joshua Unruh has an amazing new project in the works that I will be editing, but he's asking for help from readers of all ages, shapes, sizes, and any other distinction you can imagine. I'll let him tell you the rest while I go work on that project that's been back burnered for far too long.

Oh, and while you're here, check out the artwork he sent me to show off a couple of new characters. Also, stay tuned to the end of this post for last-minute info Josh gave me regarding a contest!

Meet Catfight.

So here’s the deal: I love superheroes and have for most of my life. I will not apologize for this. I know that some of you are wondering why I’d have to apologize. If that’s you wondering, it’s probably because you are very young.

I mean, sure, these days superheroes are making bajillions of dollars on screens across America every summer. But back in the day, I got ridiculed when I had them folded in half and stuffed in my back pocket.

Right now you don’t believe me. And you shouldn’t because that statement was a lie.

Because I would NEVER fold a comic and put it in my back pocket! You keep those damn things in Mylar bags with cardboard backs so they don’t get wrinkled and tell yourself they’re going to finance your college education one day.

Anyway, I love superheroes. But they haven’t stayed as lovable as I’d like. I once read a quote on the internet that went something like, “comics used to be for above average kids, but now they’re for below average adults.”

That statement isn’t entirely true, but it hits close enough to sting. It’s not that there’s too much sex, it’s that there’s too much sexism. And it’s not that there’s too much violence, it’s that the tearing off of arms is celebrated. And it isn’t that all the characters are white…well, actually, it is that all the characters are white. Or all the ones you can name, anyway.

So I’ve decided to do something about it. Now, I can’t draw for crap, but I can write my ass off. So my plan is to serialize prose superhero stories, one a month just like comic books. These stories will star heroes who are women and maybe even (gasp) not white. The stories will be appropriate for all-ages, which is totally different than “for kids.” And if you can’t tell the difference, then you’re the one with the problem.

Most of all these stories will be about heroes.

Somewhere along the line, it became cool to be cynical. Like cynicism is the most reality based way to see the world. Like how you’re naïve or simple or childish if you see the good in people.

Well screw that. Cynicism is the easy way out. Looking for the good in people? Seeing the hopeful possibilities for the future? That is HARD. Damned hard. And we need more examples of it, even fictional ones. So I’m going to write some. And every kid who needs reminded of how worthwhile selflessness and optimism are should see somebody who looks like them making it so.

Say hi to Hell Kitten.

So that’s my grandiose plan. But I’m a working writer. I have to eat. So to make this plan work, I’m using Patreon. Patreon is like an ongoing Kickstarter. You pledge a certain amount of money, and you get dinged for it whenever I publish a story. You can set a limit, though, if I start getting too prolific.

And then, you know the best part? I release that story into the wild for anyone to read for free whether they were a patron or not. Why? Two reasons. First, because I’ve already been paid. Second, because I want people who need to see heroes that look like they do to read my stories. Giving the stories away seems a good way to make that happen.

If you think that sounds worthwhile, then please visit me at www.patreon.com/pulpdictionpress. There are goals to add new things into every story, which are like rewards for my readers. And there are rewards for those who patronize as well.

Superheroes are ordinary people who use their gifts to do the extraordinary. You can be that for me with a click of the pledge button. The cape and tights are optional.

Here's that last-minute contest information I promised you: Josh has a few copies of his already released teen female superhero book, TEEN Agents in the Plundered Parent Protocol, that he has pledged to sign. So here's what you do . . .

If you choose to pledge to Josh's Patreon project, simply return here and leave a comment saying you did so. Your name will be entered into a drawing to win a paperback of the TEEN AGENTS book in addition to receiving the new comics as they are released. He doesn't have a ton to go around for this blog tour, so your chances of winning are obviously based on how many participants there are.

Thank you, Josh, and Happy Reading everyone!

The Writers Go Marching Two by Two

I have just finished editing a book that I hope to be a huge seller. I mean, I always hope they do well, but this one in particular hooked me. It wasn't so much the story, which is terrific, unpredictable, and sometimes a bit depressing; it was more the writing team with whom I worked. You see, Nathan and Derek Howe are two of the most endearing writers I've met.

They have gained my utmost respect for a few reasons. I won't go into the hows and the whys now; I'll save that for a future post. Just know that they, and their new novel, Aiden, have wheedled their way into my heart. And I've invited Nathan to join us today to tell us about his experience writing with his brother. He'll tell you . . . after you check out this cool cover:

Buy Aiden for Kindle on Amazon.com

Writing is generally a solitary art, and for me this is mostly true. I sit at home with headphones on, listening to music, blocking the world out. However, I don’t write alone; I co-write with my brother Derek. We’ve both tried to write stories on our own but never made it past a few chapters (in my brother's case, never made it past the first page). We both love to read and always wanted to write a book, but neither of us actually thought we'd finish one. 

About a year and a half ago, my brother came up with an idea that I really liked. He comes up with ideas for books all the time, some good, some bad, and some just weird. The idea he came up with stuck with me this time. As soon as he said it, I could see a story form in my head. I knew what I wanted to do with it. So as soon as I could, I wrote the first chapter. I sent it to him to see if he liked it. He made some edits, added some lines, and sent it back to me. Later we talked about the book and where I was planning to go with it. It wasn’t long before we were both knee deep in the book writing. 

A lot of people seem to have trouble writing with others; one seems to do all the work or they just fight over how they want the story to go. We’ve never had that problem, well maybe a little fight here and there, but nothing too serious. 

The reason co-writing works so well with us is we can play off of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Derek is good at coming up with ideas and outlining. I’m good taking those ideas and outlines and putting them to paper. Because I know Derek is going to go over what I write and add what he thinks needs to be added, I gained a freedom I didn’t have before. I don’t have to worry about missing parts, or forgetting certain details, because I know Derek will find them and make it work. And if he can’t, well, we can talk about it and figure it out together. 

Before, if I got stuck on something, I would give up. With my brother, I know he is there to help me. We both push each other to become better writers. In the past year we have improved a lot and plan to continue the process. That is one of the best parts: we can challenge each other to become better. 

I could talk on and on about why co-writing works so well for us, but I won’t. I will give you the most important reason: we have fun. It is that simple. We love to see what the other one has added to the story and see what the other can do. If we didn’t have fun, we would have never finished Aiden. 

I've talked a lot about what works for us. All the advantages we gain from working together. But not all is perfect. I mentioned it can lead to some disagreements about where, or how, parts of the story should go. But that has been rare for us. Another problem we run into is that I write a lot. At such a pace that my brother can't always keep up. At times that can be frustrating for me, and for him as well. But it can be a good thing for us, too. It allows Derek to pick my best work, my best stories, to work on. 

I would like to thank Laurie for her great work on Aiden, and letting me guest blog. She put a lot into Aiden, making it a book that we are proud of, and I hope that you, the reader, will enjoy.

Happy Reading!

A Day Late, But Well Rested

My apologies, folks, for yesterday's SNAFU. I woke up early, got a little work done, then closed my eyes, "just for an hour or so." I slept, quite soundly, for the next twelve hours. Then I got up, microwaved dinner, watched a bit of TV, and went to bed.

Such is life with chronic fatigue and a drive to get things done. I have a tendency to push myself past my limits and then pay for it when my body finally says, "no more." Welp, I pushed myself on Saturday and figured I could just drop the blog post into place a few hours late on Sunday, and all would be well. Wrong.

Anyhow, I guarantee it was worth the wait because the official launch of my pal M. L. Adams's first novel Cyber Dawn is tomorrow, but you get a double sneak peek. You see, as Mike's editor, I get access to the finished manuscript which means I get to post the first few pages here for you to sample. AND I happen to know the full book, both Kindle and paperback are already loaded to Amazon just in case you want to read the rest.

While Cyber Dawn is an excellent stand-alone novel, it may very well end up as first in a series. So read this, then we'll tell you a bit more about the author.

**********

Prologue

The eleven-year-old boy stared wide-eyed at the sleek silver and black cybernetic leg. He'd seen mock-ups of course. Even tried on a few as they worked to get the sizing just right. 

This is the real thing, he thought. That's my new leg.

His heart raced at the thought of being whole again.

He tore his eyes away and looked around the surgical room. The stainless steel furniture, bright lights, and adults wearing hospital scrubs, all reminded him of his last surgery. It even smelled the same – like when his house was freshly cleaned. But to the boy, it felt different. The last time he'd been in a room just like it, they had taken his leg to keep a cancerous tumor from spreading. Something the oncologist called a synovial sarcoma. Now, they were giving him a leg back. 

An even better one.

He gazed down at the end of the bed and stared at the single hump his left foot formed under the sheets. When he'd woken up from his last surgery, groggy and disoriented from the anesthesia, his eyes tried to focus on his missing foot. His brain told him it was there. He could still feel it as part of his body. But his eyes saw something different. Where there should be two humps, there was only one.

Later, the doctors told him the sensation he felt – of his leg being there when it wasn't – was called phantom pain. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out the phantom part. The pain sure felt real enough.

He pushed the memory to the back of his mind and stared at the ceiling. He wouldn't look down again until after the surgery. Not until there were two humps.

"Okay, it's time," said a nurse from somewhere off to his right. "You're already an old pro at this. Should be a piece of cake."

She pulled a piece of surgical tubing tight around his arm. She then tapped the skin with the back of her fingers and inserted the needle. The prick used to hurt, but now it barely registered.

"You'll feel a warm sensation flow into your arm and then throughout your body," she said. "When I tell you, start counting back from one hundred."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

A few moments later, he felt the warm liquid flow into his veins. At the nurse's prompt, he began to count backwards.

"100 ... 99 ... 98 ... 97 ... 96 ... "

1

Six years later

The CyberLife Industries Non-Disclosure Agreement I signed contains a long list of forbidden activities. Near the top, just under you will NOT attempt to access or otherwise modify your cybernetic system, are the words: you will NOT participate in contact sports. Of course, the second my parents hopped on a plane to Europe for two months, I forged the permission slip to try out for my high school football team. 

For exactly forty days, it was the best decision of my life. I made the team, started three games at wide receiver, and met a ton of new friends. I even scored a date with the head of the cheerleading squad. For the first time in six years, life was normal. Instead of a lab rat, I felt like an actual teenager.

That was all before the helmet-on-helmet hit.

The medic at the game on Friday night diagnosed me with a concussion. But I knew better. I knew right away what it was. The hit screwed up my neural cybernetic augment. 

* * *

By early Monday morning, the headache was so bad I called Megan, my cybernetic systems technician. Not surprisingly, she totally freaked out. After a half-dozen or so expletives, she demanded I meet her right away. 

For almost three hours, I'd been lying on a cold, stainless steel surgical table in a secret underground laboratory at the CyberLife headquarters. Normally I didn't mind our early morning appointments. Three hours was a lot of time for a nap or, in extreme cases, to cram for an exam or finish a homework assignment. With a midterm starting in less than an hour, I actually needed to study. My headache wouldn't allow it.

I looked over at Megan. She sat at the lab's lone workstation, hunched over a laptop. Her fingers moved rapidly, filling the otherwise quiet space with the sound of clattering keys. A light blue CyberLife lab coat covered her slender body. Her long, blond hair was pulled up in a ponytail and her blue eyes sparkled from the light of the laptop screen. Despite the boredom, and the pain, I smiled to myself. Even mad, she sure is easy to look at, I thought.

Megan tried to hide it, but I knew she was watching me in her peripheral vision. I could feel the anger flowing from her eyes. Anger because I disobeyed her direct orders. Anger because I woke her up at three in the morning. But most of all, anger because I let her down. 

"Megan, how much longer?" I asked.

Without answering, she stood and walked in my direction. She stopped at the bank of diagnostic monitors sitting on a wheeled cart near my table. The monitors, connected wirelessly to my various cybernetic components, displayed the status of my heart rate, blood pressure, and other vital systems – human and cybernetic. Placing both hands on the cart's handle, she began to push it back toward her workstation.

"Almost done?" I asked.

With a heavy sigh, Megan stopped the cart and turned to face me. "Benjamin, you do realize I'm in the process of repairing your brain?"

I swallowed hard. 

"Keep distracting me," she said as she pointed at one of the monitors. "And I might accidentally make this little zero here a one. The next thing you know, Ben's taking first-grade math again."

"And that's a downgrade?" I laughed. "You know I suck at math."

Megan opened her mouth to respond, but instead shook her head and stormed back to her workstation.

"I'm sorry," I muttered.

Idiot.

I spent the next ten minutes looking around the small laboratory in an attempt to focus on something – anything really – other than the pain in my head. Up until earlier that day, I thought I had been in every lab at CyberLife. Both at the headquarters in Brookwood, Colorado, where I'd spent all morning, and the secret research campus in the mountains west of town, where I spent most of my teenage years. However, this one was new and, in my opinion, barely qualified as a lab. It was dimly lit, had no heat, and was four stories under ground. The only furniture was Megan's workstation and my cold, stainless steel, surgical table. The room seemed more like a medieval dungeon than a place where she should be performing high-tech surgery on my brain.

"Why are we down here?" I asked, determined to strike up a conversation. "Is this even a lab?"

Megan walked over and set her laptop down on the table next to me. "If you must know," she said. "We're down here because my idiot teenage patient decided to play football, got himself smacked in the head, and just about scrambled the cybernetic augment attached to his brain."

I sat still, suddenly wishing I'd kept my mouth shut.

"And, so Dr. Merrick doesn't find out," she continued. "I decided we should meet down here this morning instead of in my office, which is two doors down from his."

Megan folded her arms across her chest and arched an eyebrow. "Make sense?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah, makes sense."

"Good." She turned back to her laptop. "Now shut up so I can finish."

"Any idea how much longer?"

Megan sighed and shook her head. "You're impossible Benjamin."

"I have a math mid-term at eight."

She glanced at her watch and resumed the rapid fire typing. "Lucky for you, I've figured out the problem. Just need to upload a new software build."

I groaned. New software meant new bugs. The last thing I needed was a system malfunction during mid-term exam week. Then again, being virtually stabbed in the foot every minute during an exam would do little to help either. Instead of arguing, I lay back down on the table. Wearing only my boxers and socks, the cold metal surface sent a shiver up my spine. 

"You look cold," she said. "Want to borrow my coat? I just need to tweak a few more things before we get started with the upload."

"You read my mind," I said. "It's freezing in here."

Megan slipped off her lab coat and placed it over my legs. She wore a tight, light blue sweater and khaki pants. The outfit provided enough of a distraction that I didn't notice her hands slide under the coat. She wrapped her ice cold fingers around my bare leg.

"Megan!"

I shot forward and tried to push, pull, and claw her hands off me. It was no use. I had learned long ago that the cute, blue-eyed blonde was freakishly strong.

"Your hands are freezing!"

Her grip tightened. "Oh, they are? I had no idea."

I tried to punch her shoulder, but she dodged out of the way, and I almost fell off the table.

"Not funny Megan!"

"Oh, don't be such a big baby." She let go and tucked her lab coat tight around my legs. "There, is that better?"

"Gee, thanks," I grumbled. "You cheated and tweaked the temperature sensors in my leg, didn't you?"

"Maybe." Her grin widened.

I shook my head and cursed the CyberLife engineers who had made my leg so damn realistic. Not only was it nearly impossible to detect visually, its lifelike synthetic skin could sense touch as well as a range of temperatures and relay the associated sensation to my brain. 

"How's your head?"

"Still hurts."

"You sure?"

Several moments later, I let out a deep sigh of relief. The headache was gone. Cute, strong, and ridiculously good at her job, I thought. "Thanks Megan. You're the best."

"No problem," she answered. "And while I question that your brain is still intact and functioning correctly, my tests revealed no major damage."

"So what happened?"

With a shrug, she said, "I think the impact occurred just as your augment was feeding stored Cytoxinol into your system. The process was interrupted, and a software bug kept it from starting again. The lack of Cytoxinol caused your headache. To be honest, I'm surprised it didn't result in more problems. You were lucky."

I whistled softly. Cytoxinol was a CyberLife-manufactured drug I took daily. I didn't know the details, only that it somehow kept my body and my cybernetic system in balance.

"What if I didn't call you to get it fixed?" I asked.

"You'd have been dead in two days."

My mouth fell open as I waited for the punch line. When one didn't come, I said, "Dead?"

"I'm serious Ben," Megan replied. "You're taking Cytoxinol for a reason. Without it, your cybernetic augments would poison you." 

I let out a deep breath. Joining the football team now seemed like a pretty dumb idea.

Megan squeezed my arm. "Now you know why I was so angry?"

"Was angry?"

"Am angry. Don't push your luck." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a black data cable. "Since you're in a hurry, I'll use the wire. It transfers data a hundred times faster." 

Before I could protest, she bent down and slipped her hands up my boxer shorts. I tensed, both because I expected her hands to be cold and because she had her fingers wrapped around my upper thigh.

"Easy there Benjamin," she said.

"Geez Megan, a little notice next time?"

"Oh, like you're not used to it," she joked. "I've been putting my hands in your pants for three years."

My face flushed red. "Megan, seriously?"

She laughed, tucked her fingers under the synthetic skin, and rolled it down past my knee. My cybernetic leg's rigid, titanium alloy shell and flexible Kevlar fabric muscles made it look like something out of a science fiction movie. Even now, six years later, I had to look twice to convince my brain it really was my leg.

After plugging in the cable and entering a series of commands on her laptop, Megan sat on the corner of the table and crossed her arms. 

"Okay Benjamin, you've got ten minutes," she said, a serious look on her face. "Start talking."

"Talk?" I replied tentatively.

She scowled and leaned in close. In a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "Tell me why, of all the things you could possibly do, you decided to join the football team? Not the golf team. Not the debate team or the chess team. The full-contact football team." 

At that moment, I realized the true downside to the sparse, underground lab.

Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

**********

About M.L. Adams

M.L. Adams was born in the Midwest and raised in Colorado. His parents, both avid readers, instilled a love for books at an early age. His 3rd and 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Watson, encouraged a passion for writing. Cyber Dawn includes many of his experiences as a childhood cancer survivor and amputee. He still lives in Colorado with his wife and two children.

Feel free to contact him at: author.mladams@gmail.com

For news and more information: www.mladams.com

It's All Over Now But the Tears . . .

It's really difficult for me to believe, but this serial that Tony and I began working on about fourteen months ago is finally done. Originally, it was to be released in twelve parts over the course of sixteen months, but I think Tony got restless to work on other projects, so he wrote, then had me edit, the last three segments in one go. Your benefit? No more waiting to see how it all ends. No more teasing. No more . . . just, no more. I'll miss working with Captain Jessica King and her crew, but I doubt it's the last any of us has seen of her, or them.

That said, I figured now would be a great time to revisit Chapter One of the first segment. Oh, if you want more, Far From Home 1: Legend is free on Amazon, as always. You'll also find Far From Home: The Complete Series finally gathered in one book which amounts to about 700 pages. If you're looking to grab the paperback rather than the Kindle, Tony was making a couple of corrections to the formatting and it should be available any day now.

If you haven't been following the series, but waiting for it in one whack, grab it now. If you HAVE been following, you are in for an ending that surprised even me. But I'll shut up before I spoil it and just let you start here:

Far From Home 1: Legend

Chapter One

Battered and bruised, the Defiant slowed on its approach to Starbase 6.

Commander Jessica King occupied the captain's chair. She’d hoped that one day she would get to sit in such a chair as Captain of her own vessel. She never once thought that the privilege of doing so would come at such a cost. It filled her with no joy to carry out her role as Acting-Captain in Andrew Singh’s absence, especially so considering he was lying on a mortuary slab two decks under her feet.

"Starbase has made contact, sir," Ensign Boi reported from the comm. station.

King nodded. "Okay Ensign. Patch me through."

She waited a few seconds for the connection to be made. "This is Commander Jessica King, Acting-Captain of the Union Starship Defiant."

"Please state your prefix number," a mechanical-sounding voice said on the other end.

"T.U. zero-one-one-three-eight," she said.

There was a brief delay, and then the voice announced that they were cleared to dock. "Docking bay three. Please do not exceed standard thruster speed."

"Close channel," King said.

She looked ahead at the large circular space station. It was a tall centrifuge at the centre, with spokes extending to a wide outer ring. Along the ring were enough docking bays to accommodate up to twenty vessels. There were several ships already docked, all much larger than the Defiant. That wasn’t to say the Defiant was a small ship.

But she was old.

At one time the Archon Class vessels had been the backbone of the fleet. Now they were relics twenty years past their sell-by date. If the system-wide war between the Union and the Draxx didn’t still rage on, they’d have been decommissioned and retired already.

Still didn’t stop us holding our own in a fight, did it? King thought. She might be old, but she’s got it where it counts.

"Banks, I think I can leave the parking in your capable hands?" King asked as she got up from the captain's chair.

Lieutenant Kyle Banks swiftly worked the controls across the front helm console.

"I’ve got it covered," he said.

"Good. Then I will be below decks," she said.

The bridge crew looked up from their stations, but when she looked around at them they hurried back to their assigned duties.

King walked toward the exit. Insulation and wiring had erupted from the ceiling during the battle and hung like copper intestines in places. She ducked beneath it on her way out, her feet crunching on bits of broken plastic and glass.

On her way to her quarters she passed the scorched carcasses of burned-out conduits, pipes that were still dripping onto the deck plating from leaks that hadn’t yet been attended to.

The ship had taken a beating, it was true. She was proud of the crew, and of the ship itself, for pulling through. They hadn’t run away from the battle like cowards. They faced the danger and hit back with what they had.

Several crew saluted as she strode past them. She quickly saluted back.

It lifted her spirits, despite all that had happened, to see the crew still going about their duty as they were meant to. The men and women she passed looked tired, dirty, some of them injured. But they carried on with grim determination and a sense of duty. King walked with a determined gait, showing the pride she felt for her crew.

When Jess got to her quarters she headed straight for the shower to freshen up quickly before her debriefing. She knew that Admiral Grimshaw would want to hear the full account of what had gone on despite having a copy of her report already on his desk. He would demand to hear it first-hand from someone who was knee deep in it all. The fleet had lost a brilliant Captain, and there were questions that must be answered.

In her quarters, she got out of her dirty uniform. Standing in front of the mirror in her tiny bathroom she looked tired, beaten.

Her temple carried a long cut from when a Draxx missile had hit the side of the Defiant, sending her flying against a bulkhead. Dr. Clayton had yet to treat it properly.

Her eyes were red, ringed with dark, puffy circles. During the journey to Starbase 6 King had done her fair share of grieving for Captain Singh. But she knew there would be more to come at some point. That loss was an open wound. Over time it might heal a bit, but never enough so you didn’t know it was there.

She stepped into the shower and tried to wash the difficulties of the last week away. But they were in there with her. She stood under the stream of the water, bowed her head, her hands up against the tiles. She started to sob. In the shower no-one could see her. No-one could hear her. In the shower she had privacy to give freedom to the grief.

King could still see him lying there on the deck, dying in her arms. She could still hear his final words . . . 

The mangled mess of his legs. The blood pooling from his mid-section. His face grey, washed-out. Tears streamed down her face.

Her voice cracked as she spoke. "Please don’t go, please."

Captain Singh shook his head slowly. Smiled. "Jess . . . We each have our time. My own is at an end . . ."

"No . . ." she managed to say.

Singh reached up, stroked the side of her face. "Now it is your turn to do as much as you can with the time you have . . ."

He smiled again, then his eyes seemed focus on something far away. The light in them faded. Singh’s hand fell away from hers and the sound of his last breath issued slowly from between his lips.

"No . . ."

She felt the thud of the ship as it jutted up against the docking bay. She came back to reality, regained her composure and set about washing herself, then got out of the shower.

She walked to the comm. unit on the wall, pressed the button that opened a direct line to the bridge.

"Bridge," she said. "Equalise the pressure seals and reduce all systems to idle status. I’ll meet all senior crew members at airlock four in fifteen minutes, so be sure to have your stations locked down. Please inform Chief Gunn and Dr. Clayton to be there also."

"Aye aye sir," a voice reported back to her. It was Lieutenant Banks.

Jessica closed the channel. Again she stood in front of the mirror.

Now she looked better. Not great, but better. Less tired and dishevelled. More like a woman. It felt good to be washed, wearing a clean uniform.

"Let’s get this over with," she told her reflection.

**********

Tony Healey is a born and bred Brightonian. He is married and has three daughters. 

For the latest on Tony's various projects, visit his site www.tonyhealey.com

Happy Reading!