Intergalactic Space Travel? What for? What’s wrong with Spain? It’s against God and it’s against religion and it’s a plot to destroy the Pope, (and you all know who’s behind that!) It’s outrageous,taking our holy mother’s name in vain with this malarkey. It’s a communist plot and I think they’re all in it together.
John Zakour is a humor, science fiction and fantasy writer with a Master’s degree in Human Behavior.
He has written thousand of gags for syndicated comics, comedians and TV shows (including: Rugrats, The tonight show and, Joan River’s old TV show.) John currently writes his own syndicated comics, Working Daze and Maria’s Day for Universal Press.
Working Daze appears in papers all over the world (well the US, Scotland, Canada and Taiwan) and has a regular following with over 100,000 readers. John also has been a contributor to Nickelodeon magazine writing Fairly Odd Parents, Rugrats and Jimmy Neutron comic books. John also writes Simpsons comics for Bongo comics.
He has written seven humorous SF novels for Daw books (the first The Plutonium Blonde was named the funniest SF book of 2001 by The Chronicle of Science Fiction). All seven of John’s novels have been reproduced as audio books by Graphic Audio. John has also written three YA books, four humorous self-help books and three books on HTML. John has also optioned two tv shows and three movies. In the 80s and 90s John was a computer programmer and web guru for Cornell University and was also an EMT and judo instructor. John currently lives in upstate NY with his wife a professor at Cornell University. The two of them have one son. For exercise John plays softball, is a competitive pickleball player and still hits his punching bag daily. To relax John likes to play World of Warcraft, watch TV and do Tai Chi.
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Mikey Flynn is originally from County Clare in Ireland. His parents moved to Brooklyn, when he was eight years-old, and he has lived in trauma ever since.
Mikey’s mother wanted him to become a doctor, or at least sober, like his dad. Sadly, Mikey couldn’t cut the mustard. However, he did become a psychiatric nurse, and joined the NHS in 1999.
Mikey suffers from xenophobia, mild-psychosis, and ‘bargain-basement’ self-esteem brought about by a failure to live up to his own high-standards.
Mikey’s writing depicts a life lived on the edge, and then some. His humour is with weirdness gleaned from life lived on the psychological edge. Writing allows Mikey to fully explore his chronic state of cruelty. Mikey also writers for our blog, at New London Bloggers.
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Author of Zombie DIC
Mikey Flynn is an ‘Irish Yank’ from Brooklyn, New York. He moved to England when he was eight years-old, stowing away on a cruiser ship bound for Scotland. The rest of the family soon followed suit.
Mikey wanted be a doctor, like his dad, but couldn’t cut the mustard. He did however complete his nurses training in 1999.
Now, ‘a fat, lazy basturd’ (Mikey’s own words) Mikey suffers from severe paranoia, mild xenophobia, agitated depression, and a host of other complaints, including “bargain-basement self-worth”.
Mikey writes candidly about his miserable life, combining strong social commentary with elements of crime and brutality, a genre that allows Mikey to fully explore his chronic state of cruelty.
Mikey’s literary influences are the Italian medieval saint, John Gotti, and Irish writer Maura Laverty, author of ‘Full and Plenty’.
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John Turnbull, born as a last bastion on the sea of change in the idealistic hippiedom known as the 60s, started reading novels and short stories at a very early age, preferring horror and comedy. By 10 years old, after some off-kilter encouragements (to say the least) he decided to try writing his own stories. Throughout his formative teens, the stories alternately got him in a lot of trouble or earned him a lot of praise – both outcomes were viewed as signs of powerful writing. His travels and experiences from his occupations (from a professional touring musician to teaching English in Thailand to a brief stint acting in some dodgy movies, to name but a few) throughout his 20s and 30s gave him a plethora of material to draw from in subsequent writing forays. Now, at 43, John has over 200 short stories, 3 finished (but to-date unpublished) novels and 7 screenplays. With luck, exposure and representation, this body of work should soon be presented to the masses, (that’s you and me folks!)
Nor Strongarm Dwarf P.I.
The case of deadly glance.
Nor sat at his office desk, nervously fidgeting. He was desperately trying to keep his mind and fingers busy, distracted. He wasn’t happy. A dwarf without work is never happy.
Not that Nor was the chipper type even during the best of times; but he was downright miserable when he had nothing to do. Dwarves aren’t built to sit on their asses. No profit in that. The door to his office, cracked open. Nor’s eyes shot forward, his spine snapped to attention. Could this be a case? A job? Some gold in his pocket? He kept one hand on his desk, ready to shake hands with a potential client. The other hand slid under the desk, just above the hand axe he always kept there. When you’re a private dick, there is no such thing as being too careful.
The door opened wider, Elisa coasted into the office. Nor’s entire body drooped.
“Don’t look so happy to see me,” Elisa said to Nor.
Nor looked at his watch. “You’re 20 minutes late, elf.” Elisa took off her wrap and released it. It levitated over to the coat rack. She glided over to her desk beside Nor’s.
“Wind your watch, Dwarf,” she said playfully but yet still seriously. “It’s slow again.”
She flipped her computer on and stared as it booted. “Did you hear?” “Hear what?” Nor replied. “It just hit the morning presses, but the chat room I visit was buzzing about it all night,” Elisa said. Nor looked at her.
Elisa sighed. “You really should get a computer. Come into the 80s with the rest of us.”
Nor shook his head. “I got you for the magic and the computers.”
Elisa smiled. “I’m also the sex appeal.”
Elisa was Nor’s business partner. She was everything Nor wasn’t. She was tall and slim, yet round in the right places. She had big beautiful yellow eyes that put the sun to shame. Her skin was so creamy smooth even the terminally dimwitted could tell that it had never seen a blemish or a wrinkle. Her long brown hair playfully danced around her shoulders caressing her back. Only her ears that were slightly pointed and her size 12 feet gave any hint at all to Elisa’s royal elf ancestry.
On parchment Nor Strongarm and Elisa Ruby were equal partners; but in reality Nor carried the brunt of the business, the dirty work on his wide back. While Nor was the heart of their organization Elisa was the face, the outward appearance. Nor knew that when push came to pushing harder most humans preferred dealing with the pretty face. Hades, he couldn’t blame them. Nor was a realist, he knew humans made up a good ninety percent of the population of Earth now. Seemed like the only thing humans were any good at was making more humans. Still, when one species dominates the population a good businessman learns to cater to them.
“Yeah, you’re the beauty and I’m the brains and the brawn,” Nor said, knowing fully well the brains part would get to her.
Elisa tipped her barely present nose up in the air. “I’m the brains also.”
“What’s the buzz about?” Nor asked.
Elisa smiled. “So you really haven’t heard? Don’t you buy a paper?”
Nor shook his head. “Papers cost copper pieces.” “Mayor Quinn died last night, making love to his wife.” “How’s it a surprise that the mayor died? He was getting up there in years. Plus his wife is a good deal younger.”
“That’s the surprising part, that he was with his wife…” Elisa said. “Not a very nice way to talk about the dead,” a voice said. “Even if it’s true.” Elisa and Nor both turned to the voice. It was connected to a small white haired pixie who was standing in the doorway. The pixie was backed up by a ten hand tall, four armed troll in a suit and tie and carrying briefcases in two hands. They had to be lawyers. “What’s it to you?” Nor asked. “We represent the mayor’s wife,” the pixie said. “I am Penelope Pixie and this is my associate Timothy.” “So what do you and Timmy want with us?” Nor asked. The troll clamored over and pounded a meaty green fist onto Nor’s desk. “It’s Timothy you daft dwarf!” the troll growled. “I expect to be respected. I am a lawyer you know.” “Don’t slime all over my desk,” Nor growled. No matter how hard trolls and dwarves tried to act somewhat civilized to each other their natural animosity almost always won out. The troll lunged forward with one of its arms, grabbing Nor by the throat. “I’ll teach you to back talk me, dwarf!” it spat – literally. Nor wrapped his fingers around that hand axe he always kept under his desk. Nor chopped off the troll’s arm in one swift motion. The troll recoiled backwards in terror, dropping his brief cases and using his other arms to stop the bleeding. “My arm!” Timothy troll screamed to Penelope pixie. “He cut my bloody arm off!” “Oh don’t be a baby,” Penelope said. “It will grow back!” She turned to Nor and Elisa. “You have to forgive my associate. He went to a public university.” “But it hurts like Hades!” the troll protested, still fixating on his missing limb. “Just be glad I didn’t lop your head off,” Nor told him. Every kid knows that everything eventually grows back on a troll except the head. Nor pointed at the troll. “If you bleed on the new carpet you’re getting the cleaning bill. It takes some pretty expensive and specialized magic to get troll blood stains out.” Elisa cleared her throat loudly. Everybody turned towards her. (Elves can make a lot of noise when they want to.) “So what do we owe the pleasure?” Elisa asked. “Mrs. Lilly Quinn requests you meet her in center park in one hour,” the pixie said, very formally. “Why does the late mayor’s wife want us?” Elisa asked. “That is not our place to ask,” Penelope said. “Is it a paying job?” Nor asked. Penelope floated over to Nor and nodded. “Mrs. Quinn is a very wealthy woman. She believes in paying well.” “We’ll be there,” Nor said. “Very good,” Penelope said. She gave Nor a half-hearted pat on the shoulder. “We will be on our way now.” “Where do we meet?” Elisa asked. “Don’t worry, we’ll find you,” Penelope answered as her and Timothy left the office. Elisa turned to Nor, “What do you make of that?” Nor thought about it, but not too hard. A wealthy new widow wanted their services. “We need the cash,” Nor said.
Aliens on the moon, what next!
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