E-Publishing Network

As some of you may already know, I'm currently studying a Master of Arts (Writing). During this course, I've had the good fortune to meet some fantastic writers and critique partners. One such individual is Natasha, who has been my critique partner since my very first study unit. She gives me blunt, honest feedback on how to develop my work, yet she's always encouraging, because she sees the potential in any piece of writing.

I'm not all that keen on sharing her.

That said, she shares me. There are a few other writers that I partner up with and I believe they are all immensely talented. (I'm hoping I might get an acknowledgement in a book or two along the way—that will be a genuine claim to fame.) So it would be unfair if I didn't share her in return.

Natasha is a part of something bigger, and it's called E-Publishing Network. They're an Australian team offering manuscript assessment, e-publishing tips, book cover design, blog setup, marketing—all the things that are very useful for someone looking to self-publish.

Someone like me…

Someone like you.

Tea

Tea comes in many unique colours.
It can be black, green, white, red, or yellow.
It is borne into each culture,
but never born into race.

Tea does not discriminate.
It does not judge.
It does not find me wanting.

Tea brings me comfort in these long, dark hours that fall
between midnight and dawn.
It is my companion through these hours, in which
few are charged with seeing
or standing
or walking.

Tea can be bitter, sweet,
strong, weak, aromatic;
it can transcend the bounds of categorisation.
Within the confines of my teacup
it can hold a gentle flower or a
raging fire.

Tea warms my hands.
It wants me to drink it in, so it can
warm me from within.

Tea does not take offence at my suggestion that
it needs sweetening tonight.
Instead, it humbly accepts the gifts I bring, of
honey, sugar or some artificial sweetener that
I can't pronounce.

Tea does not protest my attempts to cool it sooner with
cold water from the tap,
milk from the fridge, or
ice cubes from the small tray in the freezer.
In warm and sunny tomorrows
tea will thrive on fruit and bubbles.

Tea welcomes the addition of the not-tea,
the foreign.
It is always open to change,
yet it changes little and
remains dependable.

Tea shares my initial;
it sounds like my nickname.
In me, you find tea.

The Dark Side

I am a writer and I have gone to the dark side.

What dark side?

E-publishing. Self-publishing. Both of these, rolled into one.

Yes, I intend to self-publish some e-books. Why? Well, for a start, I'm not particularly interested in the long and drawn-out process of finding an agent or publisher who will like me. I have a hard enough time getting regular people to like me. More importantly, I love to read e-books. So does John Birmingham, apparently.[1]

Don't get me wrong: I love the musty smell of a priceless tome filled with ornate words of wisdom just as much as the next girl—but not as much as I love my Kindle Touch 3G.

I haven't always been a Kindle user. My first e-book reader was a Sony Reader Pocket Edition, which I impulse bought from a vending machine in LAX. For my Australian readers, yes, you honestly can buy electronic goods out of Best Buy vending machines in America. You can also get your credit card skimmed, and if this happens, I hope you share my good fortune of having a bank that calls you about possible fraudulent transactions.

But I digress. I bought the Sony Reader at a time when my friends were singing the praises of their iPad Kindle Apps, and I did it for the e-ink display. I loaded my Reader with free books from Project Gutenberg (and the Australian site) and research papers that my employers found fascinating.

But, as with many overseas technology purchases, it didn't work quite as I had planned. The Reader Library application was great for syncing books between my computer and my Reader, but the Shop function only worked in North America. Years later, online shopping was made available from several Australian stores, but their ePub versions were still significantly more expensive than a Kindle e-book—anywhere from $3 to $10.

That's what prompted my move to Kindle. I made the transition gradually, first installing Kindle Apps on my iPhone and MacBook Pro, then updating the software on my HP Mini so I could use Kindle Cloud Reader. I bought a Kindle version of On Writing, then a few magazines, then…

I still resisted buying a Kindle, because I was hanging out for the Kindle Touch 3G, which wasn't yet shipping to Australia. New versions of the Kindle came out in Australia (at inflated prices—of course) and even the Kindle Fire could be shipped. I was infuriated when the Kindle Touch arrived, but only the wi-fi version.

A girl has needs. I needed free 3G so I could download my books when travelling, rather than using data roaming on my phone. I needed an e-ink display so my eyes wouldn't be strained. And I needed the touchscreen, for ease of selecting text. So I held out for as long as I could. And along came this article, which pointed me in the right direction. My Kindle Touch 3G arrived the next business day (albeit at an inflated price—of course).

I love it. I really do. I love jumping around the text, flicking forward and backward through pages or whole chapters. I love that it remembers where I'm up to in all my books and can quickly sync to the last page I read on my iPhone. I love highlighting interesting phrases and adding my own annotations. I love adjusting the display to suit the text and the conditions. I love its menus and the way I can one-touch download my books. I love the way it can download and play my Audible audiobooks (though I more frequently listen to them on my old iPod shuffle while running). I even love its accessories, such as the lighted leather cover that I ordered soon after.

Most of all, I love being able to look up words I don't know at the touch of a finger. Yes, I'm a writer. Yes, there are words I don't understand. My Kindle teaches me these words, and I add them to my vocabulary for future use. My Kindle is teaching me my own craft.

I've downloaded a few Kindle and PDF e-books on writing prompts, publishing and style. I even tried to get Ursula K. Le Guin's Steering the Craft, but it wasn't available. And there's the rub: sometimes there's no e-book, and I have to resort to a printed version. And as much as I poke at the words on the page, no definitions pop up.

T

[1] I know this because he wrote about it in 'The New Deal'. It was in the column section of Ampersand Magazine's Issue 5, 'Eleventh Hour', which I picked up today. I read a good chunk of it over a coffee, and when I got home I subscribed.

A note to my readers

Hi everyone,

I know you're out there. I do. You sneaky little buggers.
I like you. I do.
I just wish you'd admit to being there. That'd make you seem so much less like stalkers…

Jokes aside, as a writer it is really important to me to get critical feedback on the things I post.

The work I post on my blog is never perfect. Except maybe 'Myth'—that came pretty darn close. Sometimes I am too eager to post my work and I don't notice the typos. Sometimes I am out and about and I can't spot the plot holes. Sometimes there is no point to my writing, and it shows. Sometimes I read over my work and cringe; sometimes I'm embarrassed to have posted it.

You can help.

Please consider sharing your reaction with me using the 'like' and 'dislike' checkboxes. Please consider hitting that '+1' button if you like what you see. If you think someone else might like it, please consider sharing it with them using your social media networks or that fantastic little 'email' button.

But even more than that, please tell me what you think. If you don't want to post a comment on the site, I've got my details on the 'About Me' page, so try me there. Maybe even tell me why you don't want to post a comment on my site, and if it's a technical problem, I can change my site to fix it.

First, I need to know.

Ark

The two unicorns obediently followed the undead up the gangplank. Selwyn looked nervously at the vampire pair behind her. She found her new acquaintances to be rather unfriendly and a little on the malodorous side.

'Sucks to start with a U,' she muttered, enviously eyeing off the sprites, sylphs and succubi that got to hang out near the sphinx. A troll looked up and caught her staring. He made a face; Selwyn quickly looked away.

Elwyn nodded his agreement. He had been fantasising that he was the sphinx, followed by the beautiful sprites, succubi and sylphs. He hadn't noticed the first troll leering at Selwyn, but he looked up when she turned her head quickly, so he saw the second troll club the thunderbird's foot. He chuckled. 'Trolls!'

'I don't know, Elwyn…'

'No, really, over there—see, trolls!'

'I see the trolls. That's not what I mean.' Selwyn sounded so uncertain that Elwyn finally gave her his full attention.

She continued. 'I'm not sure about him.' She pointed her horn at the Ark's captain, navigator and lone sailor. He was holding a golden clipboard upon which there was a list of the approved species. Selwyn wasn't sure who had constructed the list, but it had surely not been any great authority, because the man was adding as many new names to the list as he was checking off the ones already there. He did this with a diamond-encrusted pencil that he waved extravagantly as each pair stepped aboard.

'Weeeelllllcome tooooo meeeee shiiiiiiip, ladieeeeeeeesh,' he slurred at the nymphs that had just stepped aboard.

One nymph retorted, 'I'm a male. That's the whole point, right?'

The captain giggled hysterically and waved his sparkling pencil. 'Yeeeesh, iiiiifff yoooouuu shay shoooo… Weeeelllllcome aboarrrrrd!'

The unicorns shuffled forward with the queue. Elwyn thought this very unseemly. He eagerly awaited the acceptance of the ogres; removing such enormous beasts from the queue would surely offer an opportunity to prance, as a unicorn should. Sprites, succubi and sylphs were unlikely to notice a shuffling unicorn, but a prancing unicorn could probably draw their attention.

Noticing that Elwyn's thoughts were wandering, Selwyn nudged him quickly, once, twice with her horn. He focused on the captain once more.

There was a woman by the captain's side, seated upon the decking with her head resting on his thigh.  Elwyn thought he could see a trail of drool down the captain's trousers, connected by a silver thread to the wench's mouth. Selwyn explained how she had watched in astonishment as the woman slumped to the deck in a stupor twelve minutes earlier. So far, the wench was showing no sign of recovery.

Selwyn lowered her voice. 'I think he's drunk, or stoned, or something.'

A hushed silence fell around them. The undead turned their blank gazes upon Selwyn and emitted a haunting moan. One of the vampires shuffled a little closer, as if to hear better. 

Elwyn acknowledged that she had made a very good point. 'So, should we bail?'

'I guess so, but… Where would we go? It's not as if we can suddenly sprout wings and fly away.'

Their conversation was interrupted by a loud beating sound. The unicorns braced against the buffeting wind. Elwyn looked up, half expecting to see a helicopter. Instead he saw a pegasus taking to the skies, closely followed by his mate. Elwyn's harmless envy of the fortunate sphinx, followed by sprites, succubi and sylphs, dissolved into the aether. In its place he found a bitter jealousy.

'That's hardly fair. Bastard.'

Some rows ahead, a thylacine pronounced to her mate that she was keen to head to Tasmania. 'I've heard the scenery is lovely, and it's an island, so we'd be quite sheltered and safe. What do you say?'  Her mate nodded, and together they slunk past the other creatures, back down the gangplank and onto dry land.

One ogre stepped aboard, and the two unicorns pranced forward. The sprites, succubi and sylphs noticed, and smiled coyly at Elwyn. He shook his impressive mane and was about to rise up on his hind legs when Selwyn prodded him again. 

The other ogre stepped aboard and the ship swayed alarmingly. The captain laughed merrily as he teetered and tottered. The wench slipped from his thigh, her head striking the deck with a loud thunk.

Despite their misgivings, the unicorns continued to wait patiently in the queue, and when their turn came, they boarded the Ark. Selwyn politely introduced herself to the captain.

'Faaaaarrrrrk, youuuu have naaaamesh?'

'Of course we have names.' Selwyn was perplexed. 'Don't all the creatures have names?'

'Nope. I'm Noooooaaaaah.'

'Hi Noooooaaaaah, it's nice to meet you,' said Elwyn.

The captain started to giggle again. Elwyn did not appreciate being laughed at, particularly when he did not understand the joke. Before the situation could escalate, Selwyn led him toward the stern.

She explained the joke in a whisper. 'I think his name is Noah. He's just slurring because he's so drunk.'

Come to think of it, that was pretty funny, thought Elwyn.

In the seven odd weeks that followed, it rained all day and all night. Selwyn wished fruitlessly that Noah would construct some sort of cover on the deck. The furry animals soaked up an ever increasing volume of water and the entire vessel began to stink of wet carpet. A few species of fish lay rotting on the deck, though Selwyn couldn't imagine why they had come aboard in the first place. Quite frankly, the place was a bit of a mess, and the unicorns had lost all faith in the captain.

So they weren't all that surprised when they struck the reef.

'Buggerrrrrr…' said Noah. He dug out his golden clipboard and diamond-encrusted pencil and started to call the roll. Within minutes, he was up to his knees in water, but only up to 'Banshee' on the roll.

Selwyn and Elwyn huddled together, disappointed and yet relieved that their ordeal would soon be over. The vampires approached them shyly.

'I suppose this is it for us, then,' said the female. 'We can't swim. How about you?'

Selwyn seemed to be choking up with emotion, so Elwyn answered for them. 'We can't swim, either.' The vampires nodded sadly. 

Selwyn sobbed. 'All these beautiful creatures…' 

Elwyn moved closer to comfort her. 'And we are the most beautiful of all. Perhaps, someday, someone will write about us,' he said. 'Someone like Stephenie Meyer.'

Remember

Remember

the smell of her soft, warm skin,

the scatter of her long hair

turned golden by the sun's early rays

through the grimy windows.

Remember

this moment,

when you two lay side-by-side,

as one, in the place

where last night you lay entwined,

enraptured.

Remember

this peace,

for tomorrow you lie alone

in the trenches.

Around Me

I float effortlessly atop a sea that earlier threatened to drown me. Before, it was churning, burning and now it is calm, soothing. I drift with the tide of happiness, buoyed by a mood that came over me just recently. I have found the trail and it lies within me. This trail runs deep through my veins, linking my clearings, always sheltered by the tightly woven canopy. The clay cools my bare feet; they in turn sculpt it into beautiful shapes and scrunches. Then gravel crunches. Sharp stones press at my heel but I do not feel them in pain. I recognise the joy they bring, because they are solid, the earth beneath my feet. The hills tower before me and the breeze pushes me back, but it is gentle, like a lover, like the tide in which I float effortlessly.

We run for joy, to solidify our friendship. My companion is struggling; his legs are shorter than mine, though he has twice as many as I do. He strides valiantly along, determined not merely to keep up but to lead the way, even though he doesn't know where we are going. He puffs and pants but continues to drag me forward. We run in response to some deep instinct that lies at the core of all running beings. He is a dog, and I am human; together we run for joy.

I simply run. Before this moment, the world could have swallowed me up—I may not have noticed. I was too busy running. It wasn't joyous; it wasn't real. I was running away from something, being chased down by the expectations of others, fearing capture and containment. Now I simply run.

The world around me bursts into glorious song. The colours speak to me in hushed voices; flowers reach out with long tendrils of esters to enrapture my senses. The sun shines brightly somewhere above, but I can not see it, here beneath the canopy. The trail winds endlessly on between the trees, littered by the gold and red leaves they have dropped here. Something scurries beneath and my companion darts off into the low scrub, snuffling at the ground, desperate to catch a scent. My feet dance swift and fleet over rocks and mud as I leave him behind. I am at one with the world around me.

A tiny rock juts up and catches my toe. I squeal, as I do each time I trip. My companion lets out a panicked bark in response. I take two more steps in an attempt to recover, but this only serves to drive me towards the ground even faster. My shoulder slams painfully into the dirt, and my head hits a tiny rock.

I open my eyes and tentatively touch my forehead. Shifting my hand disturbs my companion, who has been worriedly licking it in an attempt to wake me up. At my temple, find a trickle of sticky blood, but not so much that I should worry. I laugh, and stand up. Twilight has come, filling my dreams with new colours and images that I can't quite fix upon. It is always hard to focus externally at this time of not-day, not-night. The only thing left to do is seek within. I open my eyes.

This mystical world has suddenly opened to me in all its glory. I see lights dancing across the forest, flitter-fluttering to and fro in the gentle breeze. A small worm inches slowly out of the mud, wiggling its way over to me. A mosquito alights gently on my arm; I slap it away and a small splotch of blood paints my arm. I hear the distant hoot of an owl and feel the silent beat of bats’ wings through the inky emptiness above my head. Something scurries, stirring up the leaves; it has given away its position and a hungry night creature pounces. A weak, longing howl echoes in the night, raising my hackles, but my companion sits calmly by my side. Everything is moist and fresh; everything smells like life in this mystical world.

The darkness is now complete. I swing my backpack down to the ground and fish around in it for a torch that I know I threw in there weeks ago. My fingers skim across the emergency blanket, the first aid kit, the packet of chips and my jacket. They sink into something softer, tearing a foil wrapper, and the rich smell of chocolate makes me salivate. It seems to have the same effect on my companion, who looks at me intently, willing me to share. I wonder if I was mistaken, but then my fingers brush the cool metal surface and I grab my torch. I switch it on; it lights my way and cuts through the darkness.

We have played all night, it seems. I stop, disoriented by the twilight, until I realise it is dawn. I know this trail well, yet I have wandered all night. Only now can I see that I have circled back on myself. We have a way to go, but it is not a long way. My companion is tired; he slumps to the ground and licks at his paws, whimpering. I kneel down to pat him, which seems to be all the encouragement he needs. He sits and drinks the water I offer him in his collapsible bowl. I have very little left, but he has always stayed by my side and I am happy to share. We move again; this time he is content to follow my lead down the trail. Soon we reach the clearing at the end of the road, where my car is parked. The red paint has been decorated by golden brown leaves and the gritty defecation of night creatures, but that is to be expected when we have played all night.

Kids Do That

'Shit.'

Cam nodded in agreement. 'Shit, indeed. Wasn't expecting that.'

'What the fuck do we do now?' Ange's voice was rising to that almost-hysterical tone that inevitably caused Cam to lose it. Jess thought it best to intervene before things got out of hand. But, of course, things were already out of hand.

'I guess we have to tell someone.'

'Are you fucking insane!' Cam exploded. 

Much as the house had done, Jess reflected. She figured her intervention had failed, but persisted anyway. 'Look, we screwed up. We're in trouble. But it won't go away if we pretend it's not there. It'll still be there, getting worse. We should tell someone now.'

'Like who?'

'I don't know, Ange. Maybe the cops. Maybe your folks--they're pretty cool, laid-back.'

'No way. Not my parents.'

'And not the fucking cops,' said Cam, as if drawing a conclusion from a reasonable argument that had never taken place. His face was bright red, punctured by thin slits where his eyes and mouth had been minutes before. A bright purple vein pulsed at his temple and the cords stood out on his neck as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

Jess looked at the smoke rising from the forest beyond the clearing. It was thick and dark, like the thoughts in her head; both the smoke and her thoughts seemed to be blown away by the gentle breeze. It was one of those surreal moments where she was sure she would wake up soon, but felt it necessary to take action anyway--just in case. The only problem was that she couldn't think of what to do.

Ange looked apologetic. 'Maybe we should just get out of here. You know, before someone finds us.'

'We never should've come here. Fuck!'

'Calm down, Cameron.' Jess continued thinking. 

'We should've listened to Jo. Fuck!'

'Calm down, Cameron.' Jess found it very hard to think with Cam's continual nattering.

'Fuck it! It's all over! We're screwed! Let's get the fuck out of here!'

'Cameron, just shut the fuck up and let me think a minute!' 

That seemed to work: a silence settled over the clearing. But it was an uncomfortable silence, awkward and uncertain, not like the peaceful silences they usually shared. Jess didn't find it much easier to think, and wished that Ange and Cam would talk again. Then it clicked.

'I have an idea.'

Ange's face lit up with delight at the prospect of yet another perfect solution by Jess. Cam was less enthusiastic, but Jess figured that was probably a simple case of grudge-bearing. He never liked being told to shut the fuck up.

'So, no one saw us coming out here, right?'

Cam and Ange nodded in unison.

'And our bikes are back at the main gate, but we always leave them there when we head bush, right?'

'Yeah, but--'

Ange cut Cam's sentence short with her elbow and a stern look. She knew what Cam was thinking: it was obvious that they were covered in soot. Jess must have noticed. 'Let her finish.'

'So, as far as anyone knows, we were just coming out here to... do what we do. And we were just doing that, when all of a sudden there was a godawful explosion and we saw smoke coming from the old Kitchener house. But we figured that a fire wouldn't start on its own, and we were worried someone was in there, so we smashed the lounge window in, just in case someone needed help to get out. And that's why we're sooty, and why there's a broken window and why our fingerprints are in the house. So now all we need to do is call the police and tell them our story. So that's all good.'

Jess sounded calm, but she was freaking out. It seemed like a plan, but she was sure she was missing something.

'But there's one more problem,' Cam added, sighing. 'Jo knows.'

Jess wondered briefly if Cam was psychic, but decided it was a pretty obvious point to bring up. So, what to do about Jo?

'Jo won't say anything,' Ange said confidently.

'You're right, she won't. We won't give her the chance.' Jess sounded cold, distant. Cam and Ange looked up sharply, one eager, one apprehensive.

'What do you mean?' Ange sounded rather less confident, now.

'I mean, we'll make sure she won't. Or can't.'

Cam leaned closer. 'What are you proposing?'

'I'm not sure yet. But, first things first--let's call the cops.' She pulled out her phone and was dismayed to find she was out of range. 'Damn, no signal. How's yours?'

Cam had three bars, so he made the call. He didn't give much detail, but Jess figured that was for the best. That's what criminals did on TV show... not that they were criminals. Nor were they on TV.

They sat down to wait. All of a sudden, Cam started laughing. The others soon joined in, not quite sure what had prompted their laughter, but unable to contain it. Jess was mildly worried that she might wet her pants, but she was grubby anyway. She lay down to chuckle it all out, and the others lay down too: Cam with his head on her abdomen and Ange with her head on Cam's legs.

And that was how Jo found them five minutes later.

Build 'Em Up

'So, why'd you put her up there?' Mark nodded his head towards the girl. She was sitting cross-legged and hunched over. Her messy hair blocked her face from view, except for those wild eyes that flickered back and forth across the room, seeking an escape route.

Steve raised one eyebrow quizzically. 'But... it's made for her. She belongs up there. My queen, upon her throne.'

'I don't think she likes it. In fact, I think she's fucking terrified.'

Steve shook his head. 'You don't know what you're talking about, mate.'

'I think I do.' Mark was worried. He could understand why Steve had put her up there--Abigail was certainly beautiful and he'd heard that she was quite the poet as well. But it was clearly not working out for them. For a start, she'd let herself go. Messy hair may have been in fashion, but Mark didn't like it. There was also a foul smell in the air, which he suspected was the result of her shitting her pants.

And then there was the whole out-of-reach problem. Steve had placed her so high up on that fucking pedestal that there was no way she could get down--and no way he could touch her.

'Steve, how's it working out for you?'

'It's good. I'm good. We're happy.'

Mark nodded at the girl again. 'She doesn't seem so happy. Do you let her down often?'

That eyebrow, again. 'Why would I do that? She belongs up there, man. Aren't you listening?'

'I'm listening. I'm hearing you. I'm just not getting it. Why does she belong up there?'

'Because she's my queen. She's perfect. Her skin, her eyes, her voice... her words...' Steve trailed off into a memory or a daydream or perhaps insanity.

'Okay. But she's not looking her best now, is she? And... when did she last speak?'

'She is always speaking in my heart.'

'You've fucking lost it. I'm calling the cops.' Mark took his phone from his pocket and unlocked it.

'Don't!' Steve lunged to knock the phone away, but Mark sidestepped. Off-balance, Steve crashed to the floor, cracking his shoulder on the pedestal as he fell. The pedestal shook, and Abigail stood up in wide-eyed shock.

Mark leaned closer and investigated the damage. He had thought it was made of cement, but he saw now that it was papier-mâché over a skeleton of coat hanger wire--hardly fit for a queen, which, he reminded himself, she was not. She was just a sweet, innocent girl that this poor fool had placed on a pedestal. 

Steve seemed to be unconscious.

Mark's eyes were drawn upward by some invisible but nevertheless tangible force, which turned out to be Abigail's gaze. She had knelt down near the edge and was now peering down at him. As she gripped the edge of the platform, a barely perceptible smile twisted the corner of her mouth up.

Her voice was like coffee. 'I don't suppose you could help me down.'

'Ummm...' Mark looked around for a ladder, a stool, something, anything to reach the young woman who suddenly seemed so warm, so alive.

'It's okay,' she said. 'You won't' find anything. Just help me knock this thing down so I can touch the floor again.'

Mark was uncertain, but the girl started to tug on the edge of the platform, gently rocking it back and forward. He joined her dance from the bottom of the pedestal, gently swaying away from it and then striking it with the full weight of his brawn. Each strike caused Steve's body to shudder. Mark wondered if he would wake up soon, but wasn't overly concerned.

Mark had a sneaking suspicion this was a dream.

The pillar swayed, tracing a growing arc, closer and closer to its tipping point. With some alarm, Mark realised it wasn't going to fall away from Steve. It was going to fall on him. He stopped pushing.

'Wait!' he called out. 'Why don't you just jump down?'

'Oh no,' she replied, still tugging at the platform. 'That wouldn't work at all.'

And with one more heave, the pedestal fell, crushing Steve. His brains spattered across the space and splattered onto Mark's crisp, white shirt. 

After the initial shock, Mark felt relieved--it must be a dream, after all. He wasn't waking up, though, so he figured he might as well play along, and he went to check on Abigail.

She was gone.

Mark heard sirens in the distance, and willed himself to wake up.

Mark heard sirens nearby, and willed himself to wake up.

Mark heard yelling at the door, and willed himself to wake up.

Mark was a little confused and unsure of what to do next, so he approached the door. It was made of beautifully carved mahogany, and Mark realised uneasily that he had no recollection of entering this way. His suede jacket was hanging on one of its two brass coat hooks, though, so he must have. He reached for the shiny door handle, deciding it would be better to open the door than to have it kicked in by a burly police officer.

He decided too late.

The door was kicked in by a burly police officer. The handle slapped Mark's hand away, and his suede jacket swung wildly from the coat hook before coming to rest against the wall. Mark hung limply from the other coat hook, which was neatly inserted into his left temple.