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In a race against time, Frank must stop them before they do. A family friend is in danger. He hated the victim. But everyone in town hated Linda Turtle. So everyone is a suspect. Worse yet?

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If you want to increase this limit, your can make a donation:. Donate Now. Search Home About Donate. Book Details File Name free-by-riley-edwards. BM Date T Chapter 1 2.

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Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 However, they lack the interactive functions associated with.

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Simply right click on the appropriate link below and download the file that fits your e-reader. A new character with strange abilities wakes up in an unfamiliar bedroom. Next door, a creature lets loose a terrible, screeching wail. Outside — a werewolf, vampire and mummy are waiting to greet the new arrival. In a nearby green is a hive of undead bees. This is an edited version of one of my first ever books — with a funky new cover!

Unfortunately, due to the effects of my recent cancer treatment, I'm still very weak and unable to speak properly. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat—that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others.

That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed. He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself? Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art. A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy.

More especially this attractive unreality fell upon it about nightfall, when the extravagant roofs were dark against the afterglow and the whole insane village seemed as separate as a drifting cloud. This again was more strongly true of the many nights of local festivity, when the little gardens were often illuminated, and the big Chinese lanterns glowed in the dwarfish trees like some fierce and monstrous fruit.

And this was strongest of all on one particular evening, still vaguely remembered in the locality, of which the auburn-haired poet was the hero. It was not by any means the only evening of which he was the hero. On many nights those passing by his little back garden might hear his high, didactic voice laying down the law to men and particularly to women.

The attitude of women in such cases was indeed one of the paradoxes of the place.

Free by Riley Edwards

Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated, and professed some protest against male supremacy. Yet these new women would always pay to a man the extravagant compliment which no ordinary woman ever pays to him, that of listening while he is talking. And Mr. Lucian Gregory, the red-haired poet, was really in some sense a man worth listening to, even if one only laughed at the end of it.

He put the old cant of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness with a certain impudent freshness which gave at least a momentary pleasure. He was helped in some degree by the arresting oddity of his appearance, which he worked, as the phrase goes, for all it was worth.

From within this almost saintly oval, however, his face projected suddenly broad and brutal, the chin carried forward with a look of cockney contempt. This combination at once tickled and terrified the nerves of a neurotic population. He seemed like a walking blasphemy, a blend of the angel and the ape. This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be remembered in that place for its strange sunset.

It looked like the end of the world. All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers, and of feathers that almost brushed the face. Across the great part of the dome they were grey, with the strangest tints of violet and mauve and an unnatural pink or pale green; but towards the west the whole grew past description, transparent and passionate, and the last red-hot plumes of it covered up the sun like something too good to be seen.

The whole was so close about the earth, as to express nothing but a violent secrecy. The very empyrean seemed to be a secret. It expressed that splendid smallness which is the soul of local patriotism. The very sky seemed small. I say that there are some inhabitants who may remember the evening if only by that oppressive sky. There are others who may remember it because it marked the first appearance in the place of the second poet of Saffron Park. For a long time the red-haired revolutionary had reigned without a rival; it was upon the night of the sunset that his solitude suddenly ended.

The new poet, who introduced himself by the name of Gabriel Syme was a very mild-looking mortal, with a fair, pointed beard and faint, yellow hair. But an impression grew that he was less meek than he looked.

He signalised his entrance by differing with the established poet, Gregory, upon the whole nature of poetry. He said that he Syme was poet of law, a poet of order; nay, he said he was a poet of respectability.

So all the Saffron Parkers looked at him as if he had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.

When the Dead Come A Knockin’ by B.L. Brunnemer

You say you are a poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms. I only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden. The man with the meek blue eyes and the pale, pointed beard endured these thunders with a certain submissive solemnity. An anarchist is an artist.

The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen.

An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions.

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The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway. I will tell you. It is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria.

Oh, their wild rapture! The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it.