Guest Blog by Aaron David

In our first Guest Blog, Aaron David writes about himself and his writing. Links to his excellent work can be found at the bottom of the page.

I hate talking about myself but here goes. I was born at a very early age in 1965. If you look at a map of the UK, there’s a mountain range called The Pennines; often referred to as ‘the backbone of England. On the east side is Yorkshire and on the west is Lancashire. Nestled in the western foothills is Bolton. Bolton is widely thought to be the biggest town (that isn’t a city) in Britain. Someone recently told me it’s the biggest town (that isn’t a city) in Europe. In a few weeks it will probably be the biggest town (that isn’t a city) in the universe. Back then, Bolton was still a mill town, producing and treating cotton and cotton products. Most of the walls were coated in soot and fluffy, filthy cotton waste. I couldn’t and wouldn’t describe my childhood as happy; my parents were not a happy couple and they constantly argued. My Mum was one of the best examples of a human being I’ve ever known, but she had rotten taste in men. The least said about my Dad, the better.

I excelled in school, being alternately known as ‘the brainy one’, and ‘the class clown’. In the seventies, we had grammar schools and the eleven plus exam. The pupils who scored in the top ten percent were offered a place in grammar school. I went to one and have always been and will always be grateful. Aged fifteen, I decided my vocation was photography. I set up a darkroom in the loft and spent as much time and money as I could to become competent. When I left school, I was a professional photographer for nine years. Aged nineteen, I had the tremendous good fortune to meet the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. Thirty four years later we are still happily married. I became disillusioned and bored with photography and, aged 25 I started a business, installing and repairing burglar alarms. I still own and run the company. In 1993, we had a son, in ‘95 we had a daughter and in ’97 we had another son. My wife worked for social services and did three twenty-four hour shifts per week. Being self employed I would stay home when she was at work and go to work when she came home. It meant we never had to use any kind of childcare. Dear reader, I don’t know if you have children but if you do you’ll know that there’s a lot of time spent waiting; waiting for them to wake up, waiting for feeding time, rocking a cot at 4.00am, etc. In ’97, just before our youngest was born, I decided to use this time to test a theory; I’d always thought maybe I could write but was always busy with other things. I bought an exercise book and pack of ballpoints and set out to write ‘a funny book’. I wasn’t interested in changing anyone’s life, critical acclaim or winning awards, just writing a funny book. The first night I wrote page one. The second night I wrote eight pages. Doing some quick maths, I worked out I’d finish it by Christmas and be able to retire on the royalties by Easter. Sure enough, a mere ten years later, I finished the bloody thing. This was 2007, I didn’t do anything with it until I launched a website in 2009 and published on Amazon in 2010. By 2013, I’d sold six copies and decided I’d better have a go at marketing. I joined social media and made some amazing friends, most notably Ian Hutson, Pat McDonald, Carol E. Wyre, Tony Gilbert, Christoph Fischer and many, many others. Towards the end of 2013 I started writing short stories. I now have a dozen books published (three are compilations) and I’m working on a film script with an American screen writer.

Did I mention I hate talking about myself?

Where do my ideas come from? Ooooh! Sometimes a phrase, a TV program, sometimes something will pop into my head while I’m driving but most often I get ideas late at night; I’m an insomniac and never get to sleep before 3.00 or 4.00am. Something just goes ‘ping’ in the back of my head and the adventure begins. Here’s an example; a couple of years ago I was talking to a friend who owns a small publishing company. He said they were putting together an anthology of horror short stories and did I have anything to contribute. I said it wasn’t my genre but he said if I came up with anything to let him know. That night I was watching the original Jurassic Park films. In the second one (The Lost World) Vince Vaughn is translating for one of the islanders and says they call the island ‘the five deaths’. Ping! My mind wandered off and when it came back I had the nucleus of a story which I called ‘The Six Deaths’ (nothing to do with dinosaurs).

Short stories start with an idea or a few ideas, then it’s just a case of writing them. I choose to be concise; no starter, bread rolls or flower arrangement, just the main course. My short stories are typically five to ten pages long. Just over half of them are sci-fi (I call them ‘skiffies’ in my wacky, northern English way). A novel is a completely different beast; I have an idea of what will happen but once I set about writing, anything can happen. I have to write in solitude; I can’t have anyone in the room with me and normally have the TV or radio on in the background. Thanks to the wonders of technology, my phone has a large screen and has Word and Kindle installed so if I’m waiting in a car park I can carry on with whatever I’m writing. I used it to finish off two short story collections when I was in hospital, following a heart attack in 2016.

Since March of last year I’ve been writing a film script with an American screenwriter. Once that’s finished I have a few short story ideas and I really must crack on with my second novel; I’ve written just under 10,000 words of it.

Writing by Aaron David: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Aaron-David/e/B00CJH738O

An Invitation to Kill

The following is an extract (which may contain some language that could offend) from An Invitation to Kill by A. P. Grozdanovic. Available to buy on Kindle or Kindle app now!

He slammed the car boot shut, jumped into the driver’s seat, floored the accelerator and left the scene at speed. He retrieved the cigarette he’d jammed into the air duct earlier and took a long pull, inhaling the noxious smoke deeply.

What had he done? What the hell had he done? Shit! This wasn’t the plan!

Nick Mason’s Intermediary, Kosinski, had texted him a couple of days earlier from a burner phone and arranged to meet. They always met at different locations, never the same. Routine was dangerous in their line of work.

Kosinski got out of his car as Mason parked up. Kosinski’s squat, overweight figure looked as if it was going to burst out of the ill-fitting suit as he walked the length of the car park to the restaurant entrance. His bald head seemed to grow straight from his shoulders, with no discernible neck to hold it up. Mason joined him, and with a nod, they went inside.

The Star, a restaurant-cum-bar on the main arterial road, north out of town, was new to them both. On the right of the entrance was a small seated area. The bar was straight ahead, covering most of the back wall. The main dining area lay to the left. Light streamed in from the windows that stretched around three sides of the building. The parquet floor and wooden tables and chairs gave it a rustic, but spotless feel. A waiter welcomed them as they entered and asked if they would be dining.

‘Is the beer garden open?’ Kosinski enquired.

‘Yes, sir. If you’d like to come this way.’ They followed the waiter out of the side door, to the left of the bar, and into the beer garden. Kosinski had picked this location carefully. The garden was walled-in by a high wooden creosoted fence. A pathway split the grassed area in half. Wooden tables lay either side of the path on the grass. All the tables were available, meaning they would be alone. Kosinski chose the furthest table from the building. The waiter dropped two menus in front of them.

‘We’ll both have a Club Sandwich and a double brandy.’ Kosinski ordered without looking at the menu or conferring with Mason.

‘I’ll be back in a moment with your drinks, sir,’ nodded the waiter.

They remained silent until the waiter had disappeared inside the building.

‘So, what’s the urgency?’ Nick asked.

Kosinski looked nervously towards the door to the restaurant. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. ‘We need a hit doing.’

‘What?! When?’

‘Like yesterday.’

‘It can’t be done,’ Nick cautioned. ‘Your people will have to wait until I’m ready.’

Kosinski’s hand slammed down onto the wooden table; his eyes blood-shot. ‘It can’t wait! Not this time. You’re gonna have to, I don’t know,’ he wavered, ‘condense your planning.’

‘No, can do.’

A tiny trickle of sweat ran down Kosinski’s forehead. ‘Do you want the job or not?’

‘Keep your hair on!’ Mason said, with the thinnest of smiles. Leaning in, he confirmed, ‘I’m interested. Look, when you say “yesterday”, what does that mean exactly?’

‘This person needs to disappear permanently.’ The agitation in Kosinski’s voice was palpable. ‘Like now!’

The door to the restaurant banged shut. It was the waiter approaching with their drinks. The conversation died between them while he placed a glass at either side of the table.

‘Your food will be here shortly, gentlemen. Is there anything else I can get for you?’

‘No, that’s fine.’ They paused for the waiter to leave before Kosinski continued. ‘Look! It’s a simple job.’

‘What you’re asking me to do is way out of my comfort zone. I’m a driver. I normally only do surveillance, drop-offs, getaways. That sort of thing.’

‘But, you’re perfect for this job.’ Kosinski took a gulp from his glass. The drink took his breath for a second before he continued. ‘There are hundreds of deaths on the roads every year. What’s better than someone dying in a car accident? Hit and run. Happens every day,’ he said casually.

‘A hit is a completely different ball-game, though.’

Kosinski looked around before adding, ‘Look, Mason, stop playing hard to get! What did you say to me when we first met?’ His question was met with silence. ‘I’d better remind you. “I don’t have a red line”, you said. “Anything goes”, you boasted.’

‘Killing is different,’ Mason admitted. ‘It’s not something I do regularly.’

‘But for the right price?’ Kosinski rested his elbows on the table, his question hanging in the air.

To read more of An Invitation to Kill visit:

Aftermath, Extreme Measures 2

The following is an extract from Aftermath, Extreme Measures 2, a short story by A. P. Grozdanovic, that is available on Amazon Kindle…

Maybe this was the happiest day he’d ever encountered in his whole life. He felt at peace. Maybe it was the last place he would like to see before…

Glenn had learned from watching a plethora of action movies that you don’t pull a trigger. You caress it. You squeeze it gently. Contrary to that advice, at this moment he wanted to pull it hard. Hard in the hope that the bullet would come out of the muzzle so fast, with so much explosive power, that it would rip through George Forester’s head and make a real mess of it.

But first, he wanted to see Forester sweat, and to suffer the reality of the situation they both found themselves in. He needed Forester to understand he had no control over his own fate. And to be fair to his captive, he was in serious distress. As Glenn stood over Forester, the last words he heard Forester bleat out like a frightened child he was were, ‘Glenn, no! Don’t! Please!’

He’d let the girl, Anna, go. How young and naive she was, they all were. He couldn’t have kept her any longer. She’d been beside herself. It wasn’t until she’d left that Glenn realised how much he needed a woman’s touch. He’d forgotten how distant he and Elena had become in those last turbulent months. Of course, before he’d let Anna and John McCarthy go, they’d tried to talk him into giving himself up. But it was too late. The dye had been cast.

And at the precise moment Forester was screaming ‘Please!’ Glenn had made peace with what he had done. He didn’t believe he’d chosen this particular path. It had been forced on him. 

Glenn was content. 

Glenn could guess what was going to happen next. There would be a police marksman out there somewhere just waiting to pick him off. He’d searched desperately through the setting sun, but failed to get a glimpse of the man who would be his executioner. He’d concluded some time earlier that once he made the move to kill Forester he was more than likely signing his own death warrant.

And now the time had come. A calm descended over him. Despite his earlier inclination, he took the advice and slowly squeezed the trigger…

To read more of Aftermath, Extreme Measures 2 visit:

Extreme Measures

The following is an extract from Extreme Measures, a short story by A. P. Grozdanovic, that is available on Amazon Kindle…


… It wasn’t a secret why Glenn had been called into head office to meet with George Forester, the Principal Officer. Like the rest of the workforce, he knew his fate. He had attended the council meeting in the public hall recently. He had heard the councillors discussing various options, essentially privatisation of the services. They all spoke fluently and with feeling, about the services they were overseeing, typical of the politicians they were.

Glenn couldn’t help feeling that they didn’t give a damn about the staff they employed or the people they supplied a service to. With every weasel-like statement about how hard it had been to sign off on the current proposals, Glenn was inclined to punch each speaker. One by one they clicked the little button at the base of their personal microphone, their light came on, and an amplified rebuttal of claims of council mismanagement and central governments unfair demands ensued. He found it nauseous. Glenn had had his fill well before the meetings conclusion. Holding his tongue ’til the end of the meeting would have stretched his sanity to breaking point. He left early. A stint in the pub with the self-serving union figures didn’t appeal either. For all their good intentions, they got absolutely zip done.

Anna Parkin returned with two plastic cups of water, cold from the fountain outside. One, she placed on the desk, the second she gave to Glenn. Before leaving she said: ‘MrForester will be along presently.’

Glenn took a sip. The sanitised office did nothing to ease his anxious disposition. Knowing what was coming wasn’t always for the best. He could hardly bear to be in the room. He found the place stifling.

The door opened behind him. The athletic purposeful figure of George Forester, the Principal Officer, strode past him without a word. He was tall, his darkhair groomed to an inch of its life and teeth whiter than any toothpaste company could possibly promise. He sat behind the desk, moved the pad to one side and laid a beige, nondescript file on the desk in its place.

‘Glenn. how are you?’ he enquired, exhibiting his usual insincere smile.

Going through the motions had started. They both knew why they were here.

‘Fine, thanks.’ He wasn’t.

‘Let me cut to the chase, Glenn.’ He paused for a second, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘Well, as you know, the outsourcing of the service has been brought forward. The time-frame has been cut dramatically and we have to act. Pressure from those all-knowing people in the clouds, as it were, has forced our hand. Budgets have been constrained. In fact, they’ve been strangled.’

Glenn had the feeling this was a speech recited before a mirror. Forester’s facial expression was, to put it mildly, actor-ly with those sparkling white teeth, as he delivered his script.

‘In the present climate, which is positively Baltic, there’s no room for manoeuvre.’ He took a sip from the cup that had been left for him. ‘The old maxim, that we’re all numbers, has never been more true. In this modern financial nightmare of a job we’re in, we’re all expendable.’

Glenn couldn’t help but cut in, ‘Except I’m not in a nightmare sort of job, financial or otherwise, am I? I work with people, you know, human beings not figures on a piece of paper, and I quite like it.’

‘Yes, you do. That’s what we’re all here for: people, isn’t it?’ Of course, the question was rhetorical. He continued, unabated by Glenn’s interruption. ‘And on that note, I’d like to place on record our gratitude for the work you’ve done over the years. Everyone in the office feels that your dedication has been nothing but first rate. Your work with this particular client group has been an example to us all.’

Glenn took a drink of his water. He wanted to drift off, perhaps into the planetary system this guy resided. Wherever it was, it wasn’t in Glenn’s universe.

‘Before I go over the particulars of the package that’s on offer, Glenn, I’d like to have a short discussion with you. Get to know why we’re at this point.’

‘Go ahead.’ They were still paying. He had no desire to cut the supply of finance prematurely.

Forester opened the folder in front of him, taking a moment to reacquaint himself with its contents.

 ‘You’ve indicated to your manager that the restructure of the new organisation isn’t for you. Why is that?’

This was all a tick-box exercise. It was no surprise to Glenn. Forester hated being here just as much as he did. Protocol dictated they sit opposite each other today and have a cosy chat, both knowing the inevitable. But human resource manuals wanted questions answered, and for that questions must be asked.

‘There are a few reasons that I could flag up straight away.’

‘And they would be?’ enquired Forester.

‘Roster allocation for one. The new system doesn’t help either the service user or staff. The computer programme you’ve used to concoct this new routine, I presume must tick the required boxes, but it doesn’t for one minute cater for the people we are offering a service to.’

‘An example would be?’ Forester barely looked up.

‘What about when a service user wants to go and do something not identified on the roster? Like six months earlier,’ he added flippantly. Forester didn’t take the bait. ‘Something simple. It’s summer and the weather is nice. He’d like to visit the seaside. There are lots of positives in taking someone to the seaside, you know, besides simple enjoyment. Community presence or promoting positive behaviour. They’re just a couple of the benefits. In the new system there is just no allocation of time. Previously, this would have been paramount. There was flexibility in the system. Not any more. With the cuts staff have been let go and not replaced. How are we supposed to do those sorts of activities on the skeleton level of staff that’s left?’

‘But the system has built-in mechanisms for assessed needs. We have been very careful about this.’

‘You need to go back to the people who write these programmes and allocate the time then, because it just doesn’t work.’

Forester was jotting notes down. This may have been a mere exercise in reality, Glenn knew that, but would Forester check these points out later? He had no idea whether the issues he raised would lead to change.

‘We’re just not serving the people we’re meant to be in the right way.’

Glenn waited for a response. It didn’t come immediately. Forester appeared to be in deep thought. Had he struck a chord? Or was he just swimming against a very strong tide.

‘But we found that under the old system staff were controlling the roster. Essentially, re-writing it to suit themselves not the service. Put simply, it was costing the tax payer a fortune!’

‘You can believe that if you want, but if you think for one minute I, or anyone else, wanted to work those unsociable shifts, you’re wrong.’

‘I’d like to go through that with you some time, if I may.’

‘Show me any roster and I’ll explain the reasons for staff to be present, or not as the case may be. I think if you put a roster alongside a service user activity sheet, you’ll see what was being done with the time available.’

Forester took another sip of water and sneaked a glance at his watch. It appeared he was tiring of the exercise already. ‘Okay. So what else is behind your decision?’

‘How about privatisation, or outsourcing, as you like to refer to it?’

Forester shuffled in his chair.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s not right. It’s going to reduce the service to the service user further and cut staff pay. How can that be good?’

Forester certainly wasn’t comfortable, Glenn could see that but he wasn’t concerned. Sometimes he enjoyed being unpopular.

‘Look, there’s not a lot we can do about it. Savings have to be found. Services can’t be as they were. Everyone has to understand that in the present economic climate things have to change. Budgets can’t be kept at pre-crash levels. The service just wouldn’t be sustainable. We’ve been surfing a financial wave destined to crash on the shore for years.’

‘And you’re happy with that, are you?’

‘It’s not about me being happy or not. It’s about securing the service’s future in whatever form that takes.’

Glenn’s mouth was drying, he took a sip of water. ‘And while all this is going on we’ve all just got to grin and bear it?’

Forester snapped the file shut. He was losing control of the meeting and obviously wasn’t getting anywhere.

‘No one is saying this is easy. No one wants to do this. But, understand,’ he warned, ‘we are faced with stark choices, difficult decisions just have to be made.’

‘Can’t you stand up and refuse?’

‘Refuse to do what? My job? That’s just not realistic, Glenn. Look, I think we should close the meeting; we’re getting nowhere.’ Forester appeared rattled.

He stood, moved around the table and attempted to shake Glenn’s hand. Glenn stood but declined the offer.

From his file, Forester picked out a sheet of paper. ‘You know what’s on offer from Fresh Solutions in Care, the new company. All you have to do is come in and sign this form and you’re still doing the job you love.’

‘Work for a private company? That’s not going to happen,’ he said with some certainty.

‘Well then…Good luck with whatever you choose to do next.’

Glenn turned without a word and left the room. He exited the building without speaking to anyone. He could feel the redness in his face. He was reaching boiling point. If anyone he passed had said anything to him he would surely have bitten their head clean off.

To read more of Extreme Measures visit: