#BlogTour #LoveBooksTours @LoveBooksGroup / #Excerpt : All About Heaven #AllAboutHeaven – David Oliver @malcolmdown

– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –

All About Heaven

Today I’m on the ‘All About Heaven’ blogtour, organised by Love Books Tour.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.

About the Author :

David Oliver PicWorking with evangelical charismatic and traditional churches and organisations including Focus On The Family, Spring Harvest, LICC, Billy Graham Association, Care For The Family, New Frontiers, Vineyard, New Wine David has spoken to over 300,000. He has written 14 books including the seminal workplace ministry title Work Prison Or Place of Destiny and a book on prophetic Find Your Voice. David also features reading plans on You Version the global Bible App. David is based in the Salt & Light Family of churches where he serves on the UK Apostolic Team and works across the churches internationally in a prophetic role.
Following the recent death of his 38 year old son from an unforgiving, short, and brutally painful fight with cancer David discovered that there were almost no books written about present heaven the destination for christians at death. After months of careful research this book answers questions like what about those who have ‘passed on’ well before this Where are they now? What does heaven look like? What will occupy us there? When David Oliver faced the death of his son Joel, he set about researching and writing this powerful book on heaven, committing to write whatever he discovered. This compelling and inspiring read looks at many biblical texts and provides us with a thrilling view of the future, a destiny well worth preparing for and looking forward to, which will enrich our vision and faith.

Website

Synopsis :

9781912863242Many people understand that, at the end of all things, Christ returns, God will create a new heaven and a new earth where those who have trusted in Christ will live with him for ever. But what about those who have ‘passed on’ well before this? Where are they now? What does heaven look like? What will occupy us there? When David Oliver faced the death of his son Joel, at the age of 38, following a short and brutal fight with cancer, he set about researching and writing this powerful short book on heaven and committed to write whatever he discovered. Through a thorough examination of the relevant Bible texts, David provides us with a thrilling view of the future and a destiny well worth preparing for, which will enrich our vision and faith.

Amazon

Excerpt :

Heaven More Beautiful than Anything You Have Ever Seen

What is it that feeds our souls on earth? It’s a kaleidoscope of ingredients. The work we do, when it has meaning and does others good. Colour, light, the natural world, variety, scale, shape and form. Then add to that the limitless creativity of human endeavour, from the scale of construction like pyramids, to aircraft like the jumbo jet and Concorde, to thatched cottages, design, art and sculpture, exploration of other worlds. We are made for it, drawn to it, it is as if it almost calls to us. Then there is eating, drinking and fine dining. The exquisite process that goes into making then storing wines and champagnes. There is the milk of human kindness that we experience in friendships and family. There are moments of love, joy and peace that build us, entrance us, captivate us. Imagine paradise, then, as all that on steroids!
I love the natural world and have always been drawn to beauty. Some beauty on this earth is simply breathtaking, even with all its imperfection. My wife and I love to snorkel, and we have been to some wonderful places such as the Bahamas, the Florida Keys and notably the Red Sea. Some friends who are experienced divers took us to one stretch of the Red Sea near Sharm El Sheikh and they warned us of the underwater cliff-edge drop a few metres from the shoreline. I can remember the moment as if were yesterday: the breathtaking drop, the clarity of the water to seemingly impossible depths, the countless varieties of fish and sea creatures. It was beautiful enough to draw a tear of gratitude. We have watched the Attenborough nature documentaries and the ‘Blue Planet’ series, along with countless other natural world documentaries over the years with awe.
Gill and I celebrated our fortieth wedding anniversary with a series of safaris across five Kenyan game parks. The things we saw, the birds, the predators, the Big Five, natural beauty, sunsets and sunrises, were awe-inspiring. Mount Kilimanjaro calling with its snow-capped beauty, and the amazing sight not just of individual animals but the jaw-dropping encounters with thousands of elephants and tens of thousands of wildebeest gave a glimpse of unimaginable scale.
I sail a fair bit and get to see beautiful night skies with no night pollution, a sunrise where for a few seconds the sun almost fills half the sky. I recall my first ever celestial navigation lesson, where tears ran down my face as I ‘brought the sun down to the horizon’ using an instrument called a sextant. That moment was a moment of connection for me with my creator and the creator of heaven and earth. These are a tiny taste on the tip of our beauty appreciation taste buds. Heaven has to be more and has to be better.
Please don’t tell me heaven has none of this. Please don’t suggest that what heaven has will somehow be boring, set up like a Sunday gathering. Please don’t suggest to me that heaven will somehow be less breathtaking. This is God’s address, God’s place, God’s home. Eye has not seen, nor ear heard half of what God has prepared for those who love him. Think of the best places on this planet, the best sunsets, the best mountain views, the best of ‘Blue Planet’ above and below the water, the best natural world experiences and the best natural parks you’ve ever visited. They are nothing, nothing, hear it, believe it, nothing compared to paradise. There will be music like we’ve never heard before, light like we’ve never seen it before, construction that will make world-class buildings like Notre Dame or Westminster Abbey look like sandcastles, beauty more breathtaking than anything we could imagine. And it starts with his welcome, his arms wide open in a welcome home embrace. ‘Welcome home!’

The Magic of Wor(l)ds

#BlogTour #LoveBooksTours @LoveBooksTours / #Excerpt : Hiding in Plain Sight – Eoghan Egan @eoghanegan

– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –

Hiding PlainS ight

Today I’m on the ‘Hiding in Plain Sight’ blogtour, organised by Love Books Tour.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.

About the Author :

Photo 1A native of Co. Roscommon, Eoghan studied Computer Programming in college, works in Sales Management & Marketing, but his passion for reading and writing remains.
Eoghan’s work got shortlisted for the 2018 Bridport Short Story Prize, and Listowel’s 2019 Bryan McMahon Short Story Award Competition. His novel was a contender in literary agent David Headley’s opening chapter Pitch Competition, and during March 2019, Eoghan’s entry won Litopia’s Pop-Up Submission.
A graduate of Maynooth University’s Creative Writing Curriculum, and Curtis Brown’s Edit & Pitch Your Novel Course, Eoghan’s novel Hiding in Plain Sight – the first in a crime fiction trilogy based around the Irish Midlands – will be available in paperback and audio on January 11th 2020.

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Synopsis :

HIPS JPEG (1)The stunning debut from Ireland’s hottest new crime writer

A vicious serial killer roams the Irish Midlands, with his sights set on the next victim.

A successful businessman has found the perfect recipe for getting away with murder.
No bodies, no evidence.
No evidence, no suspect.
High art and low morals collide when graduate Sharona Waters discovers a multi-million euro art scam in play. She delves in, unwittingly putting herself on a direct trajectory with danger as the killer accelerates his murder spree.
When Sharona gets drawn into the killer’s orbit, she peels away his public persona and exposes the psychopath underneath. Suddenly, the small town has no hiding place…

Amazon

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Excerpt :

Wispy clouds clothed the moon.
Hugh shuffled along the lane, struggling to walk in the tyre track groove. Above him, a canopy of sagging tree branches arched and joined. The timber creaked and groaned under the weight of snow and ice. Slivers of moonbeams filtered between the gaps, giving faint shape to objects. Underfoot, frozen snow and rough ice crunched like crisp cornflakes. Hugh craned his neck, forcing his eyes to adjust. Except for the distant growl of a Harley with its modified pipes and kamikaze rider puttering along the main road, the night was still. Cold penetrated his bones. He shuddered. What had seemed bright from the comfort and warmth of Ruth’s car, now became dingy and menacing.
Something rustled in a hedge.
A fox howled. An owl hooted a rejoinder. Icicles dripped from naked branches, their plops, eerie whispers. The hair on Hugh’s head bristled with tension, as mangled nerves and stress ramped up his heartbeats. Eyes wide open, searching the tree-line, a snow pellet dripped on his face, making him jump. He didn’t see the pothole. Ice splintered, a gunshot in the stillness. His left ankle twisted and bolts of pain rippled up his leg. The runner acted as a sponge, soaking in weeks of slush.
Hugh shuffled on, each step producing a paroxysm of agony. He’d lost all feeling in his toes. To his right, through the trees, he made out the shape of a large structure. On the left, a machine sat hunched in a gateway. The invasive, cloying stench of silage hung in the air. It clung to clothes and stuck in his throat. The tree-line ended. A two-story house materialised out of the gloom, a grim and cheerless dark silhouette. The muted glow of an artificial light shone from the rear of the building and bounced off the tyre tracks.
Every fibre in Hugh’s body hummed with fear. His heart rattled against ribs, thumping trip-hammer fast, and nerves jangled, screaming at him to turn and run. The thin light beam hindered rather than helped lessen the intimidating atmosphere. He crouched and crab-walked to the house, inched around the gable end, and sensed movement behind him. He straightened, spun, and raised his arms for protection. A faint buzz. The side of Hugh’s neck burned and he got hurled backwards by an invisible force. His skull drummed against the concrete wall. A ball of white pain flashed. Then, like a blown fuse, everything faded to black.

The Magic of Wor(l)ds

 

#BlogTour #LoveBooksTours @LoveBooksTours / #Excerpt : Bella – R. M. Francis @rmfrancis @Wildpressed

– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –

Bella

Today I’m on the ‘Bella’ blogtour, organised by Love Books Tour.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.

About the Author :

RMFrancis - largeR. M. Francis is a writer from Dudley. He completed his PhD at the University of Wolverhampton for a project titled Queering the Black Country and graduated from Teesside University for his Creative Writing MA.
He’s the author of four poetry chapbooks, Transitions (The Black Light Engine Room Press, 2015), Orpheus (Lapwing Publications, 2016), Corvus’ Burnt-Wing Love Balm and Cure-All (The Black Light Engine Room Press, 2018) and Lamella, (Original Plus, 2019).

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Synopsis :

Bella front coverA spectre has haunted Netherton for generations.
Everyone has a theory, no one has an answer.
The woods that frame the housing estate uncover a series of heinous acts, drawing onlookers in to a space of clandestine, queer sexuality: a liminal space of abject and uncanny experience.
A question echoes in the odd borderlands of being, of fear-fascination, attraction-repulsion, of sex and death…
Who put Bella down the Wych-Elm?

Bella full cover

Excerpt :

Time is different. Memory is difficult. Space – infinitesimal. You can’t function when you’re dead. Time slowed down when I was with her. Time was different. I felt an hour become ten when my tongue tasted her.
You get turned around in here. You turn, into and out from, in here. Coal seams still steam from bell pits, now brambled and birched over. The toddler tears of fireclay seep through the soils, where roots fossilise toil. Milk-stained fens hiccup out of almost-runs, built from feet daring to step over the edges.
In my time Roundoak thundered through on one side. The Pensnett train clatter-clacked its way throughout. Hingley and other small forges hissed and roared at the other end.
Now, I see it changed. It’s difficult, but I see. Where the steelworks were, a shiny, bright and clean space – an indoor town with plastic, tile and brass – you come and go like insects. From the remains of Roundoak, still warm before the rust, buds this hankersore – sharp, sanitised with slick polish. Instead of taming steel that feeds every chink of our space, you’re sold stuff that breeds skulkworms over our loot. It chews and mottles larvae through our roots.
The forges, whimpering and dormant at Derby End. This, Saltwells, is a primordial belt-land, bridging the new and the ruined.
There are many of us who can’t sleep in here. I am here. You call me Bella.

The Magic of Wor(l)ds

#BlogTour #LoveBooksTours @LoveBooksTours / #Excerpt : The Fathers, the Sons and the Anxious Ghost – Jamie Adams @JamieAdStories

– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –

Father Son Anxious Ghost (2)

Today I’m on the ‘The Fathers, the Sons and the Anxious Ghost’ blogtour, organised by Love Books Tour.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.

About the Author :

PZu1Ez_Z_400x400Jamie is a teacher who has studied a geography degree back in the nineties because of his love of nature and the outdoors. He found environmental education especially important and soon became a teacher for the primary-age group. Jamie enjoys reading and watching all kinds of theatre productions, from high dramas to lively musicals. His love of writing shines through in everything he does.
After writing a group of short stories linked to romance, which he published as ‘Short Dates’ independently, he decided to write a novella centred around topical issues such as mental health, parenting and relationships.

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Synopsis :

510R4iYvfbL._SY346_Three guys in their thirties have something in common. Their children all go to the same school. One day a tragic event leads to them having to deal with a lurking aftermath which draws them into each other’s lives and causes them to rethink their attitudes to just about everything. The children tell the second part of this story, ten years after the initial events. The dust seems to have settled until one of them uncovers information that throws everything back into chaos. The third part… well that will have to wait.

Amazon

Excerpt :

I went home to find Mum going through some of Dad’s things. She looked fed up, and I asked her if she wanted a cup of tea or something, but she just shook her head and carried on sorting stuff into piles. When I came back from making myself a drink, she was outside starting a fire. I could see a pile of clothes slowly starting to burn. Running out to stop her, she pushed me away and began to cry. She hurried indoors, and I used the hose pipe to put out the fire, but the clothes were already ruined. When I returned inside, Mum was sitting on the kitchen floor, sobbing and rocking slowly. I tried to give her a hug; and this time, for once, she allowed me to. We sat there for about half an hour before I was able to convince her to go to bed and rest. She never said a word but forced a smile as I guided her towards the staircase. I was straight on the phone to Sam, wondering if he had seen my elusive father.
Sam picked up and I had it out with him. People used to think that I was weedy and shy, but when I got riled up about something, I just let rip! Sam’s ears were probably bleeding as he quietly listened, saying ‘mhmm’ once in a while to suggest that he was still with me. After I had gone on about how his dad had destroyed my mum’s marriage, I calmed down a bit, and we had a more ordinary conversation. To be honest, it was hard to stay mad at Sam, as he was a genuinely nice guy. It wasn’t his fault at all. Calming me down further, Sam offered to meet up and talk more, but he also told me that Alfie was beginning to worry about Tess. I wondered why he never mentioned it earlier on when we were smoking by the park. Sam just sort of dropped it into the conversation, perhaps to distract me further. Both Sam and I had always looked out for Tess. We worried that one day her mum’s death might get to her. Maybe that time had finally come. It was bound to at some point, and we didn’t think Alfie would be much use in those circumstances. I grabbed my coat and popped to see Sam and find out what he had managed to discover so far.

The Magic of Wor(l)ds

#BlogTour #LoveBooksTours @LoveBooksTours / #Excerpt : Vile – Keith Crawford @keithcrawford77

– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –

Vile

Today I’m on the ‘Vile’ blogtour, organised by Love Books Tour.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.

About the Author :

Keith Crawford (1) (1)Keith Crawford is a retired Navy Officer, a disabled veteran, a Doctor of Law & Economics, a barrister, a stay-at-home Dad, and a writer. He has written for collections of scholarly works, academic journals, and newspapers including The Economist. He has had more than thirty plays recorded or produced for stage, been listed in a variety of short story competitions (in spite of his hatred of short stories), and runs a radio production company, www.littlewonder.website, which regularly runs competitions promoted by the BBC to help find, develop and encourage new writers.
In 2014 he was lecturing at Sciences Po in Paris and negotiating a contract to write a book on banking regulation, when he and his wife discovered to their delight that they were due to have their first child. Rather than writing more work that would only be read by his poor students, and then misquoted by politicians, he decided he would do his bit to stick his fingers up at the patriarchy and stay home to look after his own kids rather than the grown-up kids of rich people. Two more children swiftly followed. Keith has discovered that if you recite Stick Man backwards you get the lyrics to AD/DC’s Highway to Hell.
This (looking after the kids, not satanic rites with Stick Man) allowed him to support his wife’s career, which appears to be heading for the stratosphere, and also gave him the space to write about swordfights and explosions. And spaceships. All of which are more fun than banking regulation. As an extension to his work in radio production, he set up his own small press, and his first novel, Vile, is due to be published in December 2019. More novels will swiftly follow, like buses in countries that don’t privatise the bus companies.

Synopsis :

Vile Ebook cover 1600 x 2560 (1)Elianor Paine is a Magistrate of the Peace in the Kingdom of Trist and a republican secret agent. She has 6 days to subvert her investigation, supplant war-hero Lord Vile, then coerce his adult children to start a revolution, before her masters discover the truth and have her killed. Just how far is she willing to go? And can she change the world without changing herself?

Amazon

Excerpt :

The howl of the Black Dog screamed through the night air. Was it from above, on the bridge, or below, across the tundra? Elianor didn’t stay still for long, working onwards, looking upwards, trying to find the right spot. There! Just within arm’s reach, a part of the wall where the rock jutted out and then folded in like a failed cave, a hole in the wall with delusions of grandeur. Her boots slipped as she jumped from the frozen rock, and she only just got her chest over the ledge. She pushed, hard, ignoring the pain in her ribs and the way her sword hilt jabbed her belly. Beads of sweat formed and froze on her forehead. When she finally clambered up, she had to kneel on the ledge to recover her breath. Then she straightened her collar and looked out into the darkness.
Nothing. No, there. Was it the Dog, or just her eyes swimming as the blood pumped to her temples? Quick as she could, she slid into the gap in the rock. The cave put a roof over her head and a wall at her back. It was not deep enough that the beast couldn’t cover the ground in one good leap, but it would have to stop on the ledge before it could enter the cave. She took the pistol in both hands, ready to fire the moment she had a clear shot.
She didn’t have to wait long. From below, outside her frame of vision, she heard it growl.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she said.
But it did not come. The cold wet of the snow soaked through her trousers. She shivered. The pistol became heavier. Her hands less steady.
“Come on, you bastard!” she shouted. “Come and eat me!”
A great black form shot up onto the ledge as if the leap were nothing. Clawed hands propelled it forwards. If Elianor had fired in that moment, she would have been lost, fear defeating patience and training. But she saw the truth in the flash of claws. She held the pistol firm. The Black Dog paused, less than a second, then leapt away again, out of her field of vision.
Elianor’s heart was running so fast she wanted to be sick. She felt the strange urge to laugh.
“Think you’re clever, don’t you?”
The Black Dog growled, from somewhere above.
“That’s right!” Elianor called. “My pistol is broken! I’m bluffing!”
The beast dropped onto the ledge in front of her.
“Come on! Can’t you tell I’m bluffing?”
The black shape blocked out the light. It continued to growl, holding still, watching her. She held the pistol up, steady as she could manage. She couldn’t afford to waste the shot. She still couldn’t get a clear look at it.
It leapt.
She fired.
In that frozen tableau of tension, in the brief flash of light from the gunshot, she thought she saw the number 1 tattooed on the bare flesh of its chest.

The Magic of Wor(l)ds

#BlogTour #LoveBooksTours @LoveBooksTours / #Excerpt : The Final Trail (Trail Series #5) – AA Abbott @AAAbbottStories

– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –

final -trail

Today I’m on the ‘The Final Trail (Trail Series #5)’ blogtour, organised by Love Books Tour.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.

About the Author :

Copy of Helen_Author_38English thriller writer AA Abbott’s real name is Helen Blenkinsop, but like JK Rowling, she wanted to . She loves city life, having lived and worked in London, Birmingham and Bristol. Her crime thrillers, set in Birmingham and London, sizzle with suspense, twists and the evils of office politics.
Helen’s books are available in a dyslexia-friendly large print as well as standard paperback and Kindle editions.
Her Trail Series follows the fortunes of glamorous blonde Kat White, a party girl who finds her purpose making vodka, shrewd businessman Marty Bridges, and manipulative East End crime lord Shaun Halloran.

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Synopsis :

TFT thumbnailFamily feuds just got bloodier… A gripping thriller, and a great story of death, revenge and vodka.
To save glamorous Kat White’s life, Ben Halloran killed his gangster father. Now his brother wants to even the score.
The gripping Trail series of British crime thrillers reaches its dramatic conclusion in this compelling page turner.

Amazon

Excerpt :

Obsessed by glamorous Kat White, London gangster Shaun Halloran stalked her and tried to kill her. Now Shaun is dead and Kat has given evidence at his inquest.

She wanted to run from the chamber, from the court processes, well-meaning friends and blistering memories. Instead, her legs wobbled. To her relief, Kat made it to the oak doors opposite the jury, without a backward glance.
She passed into a lobby: small, dark and claustrophobic. The stuffy air seemed to suck breath from her lungs. It emerged in short, sharp gasps until, like a diver resurfacing, she burst from the tiny room onto a light and bright landing. A stone staircase led to the building’s imposing entrance on the floor below. Freedom and sunshine lay within her grasp.
She hadn’t quite reached the first step when she heard doors swishing open.
“Kat, wait,” Tim called.
She couldn’t bear to look.
His voice was lost in the clamour, as journalists surged towards her, tugging at her sleeve.
“Miss White, how are you feeling?”
“Was Shaun your boyfriend?”
“Kat, darling, I can offer you an exclusive – my paper will pay good money…”
She pulled away from the press pack, biting her lip. Tears nevertheless flowed freely. Attempting to dry her eyes with the back of her hand, Kat dashed downstairs and out onto the street below.
The reporters followed. Mobile phones and microphones were thrust in her face; cameras flashed.
“I can’t speak now,” she whispered. Outside, the air, laden with exhaust fumes, seemed even more stifling than in the courtroom. Sweat prickled her skin and dampened her hair into curls. She removed the uncomfortable black jacket.
Amy pushed through the crowd. “You left your bag,” she said, thrusting the cheap satchel into Kat’s hands.
“Thanks.” Kat looked down, unable to meet her friend’s eyes. There was no way she was talking to Tim, journalists or anyone else, either. Panic threatened to overwhelm her if she couldn’t escape.
A red bus slowed to a halt, mere yards away. She made as if to catch it, then raced past the queue, rushing around the rear of the vehicle and across the busy street.
Heedless of high heels pinching, Kat ran until she saw a black cab for hire. She hailed it, barely noticing Amy and Tim’s shocked faces among the throng as the taxi left them behind.
Tim would have even more questions. She couldn’t deal with them. It was bad enough casting her mind back to the horror of that final encounter with Shaun.
She’d read Shaun wrong when they first met. Although she knew he was a villain, she thought she could handle him. Now, she had a job she loved, making vodka, but her circumstances had been very different three years before. As a croupier in London’s West End, she’d lived in a flat she could barely afford and drifted from party to party without a purpose. The promise of cash had blinded her when Shaun asked her to train the croupiers in his speakeasy.
That had gone pear-shaped when he thought she’d stolen from him. Even though it wasn’t true, it had led to his arrest and life imprisonment. She’d testified against him, having seen him kill a man as easily as lighting a cigarette.
Forgiveness wasn’t his style. She knew why he’d come to that hotel room.
Shaun’s death had freed her from his menace. He couldn’t reach her from the grave.
But his sons were still alive.

The Magic of Wor(l)ds

#BlogTour #LoveBooksTours @LoveBooksTours / #Excerpt : I Can See The Lights – Russ Litten @RussLitten @Wildpressed

– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –

I can see lights

Today I’m on the ‘I Can See The Lights’ blogtour, organised by Love Books Tour.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.

About the Author :

russ-picRuss Litten is the author of the novels Scream If You Want To Go FasterSwear DownKingdom and the short story collection We Know What We Are.
As one half of the electronic storytelling duo Cobby and Litten, he has released three spoken word/electronica albums My People Come From The SeaBoothferry and Pound Shop Communism.
He has written for TV, radio and film and has worked as a writer in residence at various prisons and youth offender units. I Can See The Lights is his first poetry collection. 

Synopsis :

I Can See the Lights front (1)The prose poems in I Can See The Lights are earthy and raw, but also incredibly sensitive. It’s pretty much guaranteed that more than one of them will bring you to tears. Characters are vividly brought to life, and stark but warm environments evoked in a down to earth, yet almost painterly manner by Russ Litten’s uncompromising voice.
Tales of home, of un-belonging, of strife at sea – of a northern city’s beating heart. Told in a mesmeric, stripped-down tone, this collection is a work of genius.

Excerpt :

I CAN SEE THE LIGHTS

Let’s get you home Dad, let’s get you off,
it’s late and you’re pissed, the time bell’s been rung
and you’ve already missed Match Of The Day
and the last bus home,
we’ll have to brave the late night streets
and you’re not walking on your own,
stepping and swaying and avoiding the wars
spilling out of the alehouse doors,
these young bucks, they can’t hold their drink
they can barely tie their own laces, the places
I’ve been, the things I’ve seen, sailed three times round
the world before they’d even got out their high chairs
alright, alright, calm down mister,
no need to get the dukes up,
no need to rant and curse
you don’t have to take on the universe,
there’s a full fat moon hanging up there,
let me take your arm and guide you past the take-aways,
under the orange sodium glow, let’s talk about City,
the lads in amber and black, let’s walk a staggered tango
quick quick slow,
three steps sideways
two steps back,
ignore the youth with their swagger and slurs, the streets
are full of beasts and their portable feasts, let’s talk about
your glorious past; Jackie Smith and that scrob
in Kevin Ballroom, 1957, you took him down hard and fast,
quick square blow to the solar plexus,
never spilled a drop, different breed back then,
yeah Dad I know, I know,
a square go boxed off,
ten kits of cat on the quayside,
bobbers clogs striking sparks from the cobbles
but the dock has run dry now
the dock has run dry
… and them cowards on the telly, dressed up like tarts
I’d go over there and fight em meself, if I still had me health
half a dozen kids from Gillet street
would sort them bastards out,
what a shame about them bains, if I still had me health,
If I still had me health, I’d gladly pull the lever meself,
World’s gone mad son, world’s gone mad
and him off the news,
he never alters,
and my head has detached and it’s a child’s balloon floating over the rooftops,
bumping up against
the full fat moon…
A&E will be packed to the rafters tonight
they’ll be slotting em in sideways that’s half the problem
none of these bastards can fight
yeah alright
alright yeah yeah yeah alright alright …
Let’s get you home Dad, let’s steer by the stars,
Neptune will guide us past the iron clad shops
and shut down bars, the bus-stop snogs,
tonight’s Sports Mail, City drew away at Port Vale,
the top deck of the sixty-six,
I could walk for hours and days and months
when the memories come fast and thick,
like our house at Christmas,
festooned with lights and glitter,
you said it was just for the bains
but you can’t kid a kidder
and it’s almost like you’re with me
walking home from pub
never take off your coat and tie when the fists start to fly,
the coppers always slap the cuffs on the man without a jacket,
the police always come too bastard late to stop it …
… keep walking Dad, home is in sight,
I can see the lights,
I can see the lights,
I can see the lights.

The Magic of Wor(l)ds