The Bone Traders - when Apple is a much desired fruit, not a...?

Was Google another word for a gaggle of geese?

She had a doll and it was called Katherine. It was the only child she had known. 

...after the solar storm, when the clue to your future was left like stale marrow in the bones of the dead, it took one, gifted man, to ensure that tomorrow was for living and not dying.

Listen to Mark Roper's audio sample of THE BONE TRADERS -- available on +Amazon.com as an audio book, paperback or as a Kindle download. 

When Time Stood Still

...On your wide-screen television set, there is an image of an over brilliant sun. Then your television shuts down.

On your iPod there is an image of a mountainous section of an iceberg collapsing. Then your iPod goes blank.

On your mobile phone, whatever the make, there is an image of a wind generator. It crumbles like an autumn leaf underfoot. Then your mobile phone goes blank.

On your computer screen there is an image of dead cattle on a ravaged land. Then your computer shuts down.

Through your window you see the dust as it advances like a Tsunami. Then you can see no further. 

...and???

Read THE BONE TRADERS by Mark Roper -- when time stands still, your history stored in the mechanisms of an ancient clock-piece, what does the future offer?

AN AUDIO SAMPLE OF THE BONE TRADERS

Free Audiobook - The Bone Traders

...listen to a FREE sample of The Bone Traders -- soon to released in its entirety on +Amazon.com and +iTunes.

Any comments, good or indecent, gladly appreciated!!!!

FREE SAMPLE OF THE BONE TRADERS

When you have no future.

...an extract from "The Bone Traders" -- After the Event. When you have no future, all you have left is the past...adapted from the original screenplay. 

Welcome to the town that your God, Law, Time, Nature and society has forgotten. A line of bungalows now stand brick deep in ever increasing mounds of shifting sand, their structures built from salvaged remains of brick, wood, plastic and metal. A shanty town that whispers of a past you may remember, but shouts of a sad present.

An army of salvaged wind-pumps turn angrily in the wind, their battle now to suck water from an unyielding soil. Three crippled wind generators turn in the stale air, probably creating enough power to light a bulb or two.

A hint of ill repaired solar panels can be seen perched on the crudely constructed roof tops.

A small Church offers its imperfect steeple to a cloudless sky. There is one shop, a general dealer. There are no cars, no gas pumps nor signs of children. The sight of a blossoming flower is rare. There is a monotonous twirling of dust and the ricocheting of bright sunlight off metal.

At the far end of the only street, outside a house, a group of people have gathered. There is also a cart and a donkey.

Inside the house, in a narrow bedroom, Reverend Dickinson, spectacled, stands looking out the window. He’s holding a Bible. Reverend Dickinson is stooped under God’s forgetfulness.  It is a heavy burden for him and the slope of his narrow shoulders demonstrates that.

Suddenly there is a woman’s scream from within the room and it scares the crap out of Reverend Dickinson. He spins on his heels.

“Well?” Reverend Dickinson asks the midwife that is bent over the prone body of the woman who is about to give birth.

The woman giving birth again screams. She is over the age of seventy and her wrinkled, sunburnt flesh contorts grotesquely. Rivulets of perspiration gather in the valley of her wrinkles.

The midwife, who is in her late sixties, glances quickly toward Reverend Dickinson. “It’s coming. Help me.”

“No!” The Reverend almost shouts his response.

The pregnant woman mumbles incoherently.

“I need light. Move away from the window.”

The Reverend Dickinson does, his glasses shining like mirrors in the heat. Through the small window, he can see the group of people gathered outside in the street. An elderly woman sits on a wooden stool. She is knitting a garment. It is pink and suited for a newborn child. The knitting needles click furiously in her hands.

The midwife works, her heavy face sweating profusely.

A bowl of bloody water is dipped into and out of.

“Please God,” whispers Reverend Dickinson, still hypnotised by the rhythm of the knitting needles. 

“Come on, Mary, come on...you have to push, Mary!  I can see the head!”

There is another scream and the tension shows in the Reverend’s shoulders. He wants to turn and look, but he cannot.

The midwife suddenly shouts. Her own breathing is heavy. “It’s out! It’s a...”

Reverend Dickinson spins on his heels. “It’s a what? Tell me.”

Reverend Dickinson makes eye contact with the midwife as he struggles not to look at the bloody mess that he knows the midwife must be holding.

The midwife holds the Reverend’s enquiring look momentarily, then she vomits.

Reverend Dickinson gulps in air and closes his eyes. He inhales and exhales and he tries to compose himself. He straightens his back, finding strength from somewhere.

“Wrap the...wrap it up,” he finally says with an edge of hostility.

Then he leaves the narrow room, the Bible clutched to his chest.

Out on the arid plain, a small swarm of locusts fly through the dry air, the sound of their wings like crackling flames. The swarm is flying directly toward the approaching vehicle whose pearly sheen mirrors the flaccid desert shrub.

On the rear of the truck, in a makeshift wire mesh cage, there is a collection of materials: canvas tents, a battered electric oven, spades and an assortment of crowbars. The carcasses of recently killed hares hang from a butcher’s hook close to the rear window.

The driver of the truck is Joe. He is in his early twenties. His skin is tanned. His attention is on the track ahead and the approaching swarm of locusts. The manner, in which Joe drives, his posture, hints that he is at peace out here in the new nothingness. He is a man in control of his personal journey. The pair of hands that grip the steering wheel are strong, their palms lined with callous.

Joe, to use an expression commonly used in the rapidly growing language of The Event, has come from ‘Out There.’

The swarm of locusts approach. The texture of the insects’ wings flare in the sun.

Joe studiously watches the swarm. There is no malice in his eyes, only a soft, intriguing smile on his lips. A song played by Deep Purple whispers from the reconstructed cassette player. Joe’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.

Abruptly, there is a sound in the truck’s cabin: it is a ‘hiss’ like air escaping from a large inner tube. The noise is repeated, followed by shuffling – akin to shaking out a duvet – and then a muted ‘squawk’.

Joe doesn't shift his focus from the approaching swarm. “Not now, Dog. Not now,” he whispers.

The swarm of locusts is directly in line with the front of the moving vehicle. A collision is imminent.

The hissing and the shuffling sound again intrude into the cabin.

“I said not now, Dog!” Joe’s voice cracks like a whip.

The swarm of locusts is about to meet a windscreen. Only a few feet separate them.

But the insects do not pulverise themselves into the glass. As if parted by a miraculous force the swarm divides and flutters harmlessly either side of the vehicle’s huge bonnet, noisily passing by the passenger windows.

Joe exhales and his hands relax on the steering wheel. He shifts slightly in the driver’s seat, gathering himself like a man who has exited a tunnel.  Then he turns and glares across to the passenger seat.

“Next time you do that, it’s the cage for you. Understand.”  

Sitting on a makeshift perch on the passenger seat, is a vulture. The bird views Joe with fixed, hooded eyes as it shuffles its feathers.

“I was sharing the road, Dog -- never interrupt a man when he is sharing the road and trying to avoid a collision. It’s important to avoid a collision, Dog. That’s how people get hurt.” Joe leans over, turns up the music. “Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. Ends up with wreckage everywhere and it’s hard to pick up the pieces - hard to even FIND the pieces after a collision.”

Dog shifts on his makeshift perch and returns to staring at the dirt track ahead.

I am Dog. We have already met, as I flew over the canyon, some twenty years ago. I am a friend, in spirit, with the man Joe as he seeks out a similar carcass as I, but not for the same reason, as Time will tell.

The Bone Traders - Free Chapter

Dog's Home Page

DYING TO MEET THE DEAD

The sound of the crowbar Joe uses to shift the rock echoes in the canyon. He is sweating and he’s removed his shirt. Nearby, a small fire burns over which roasts a dead rabbit. A can of pineapple and a water canteen show that a meal is due.

Dog preens himself as Joe digs the crowbar deeper beneath an obstinate rock.

“...not idle chatter. No, Dog. Looking and wanting something,” Joe mumbles to Dog. “Why come to me like a blue-fly to a mound of dung?  A man has a problem where he is and what he does, he makes a change, right?  Every road has a detour; go left, go right, go straight. That is his choice.” Exasperated, Joe sits down on a boulder, wags a finger at Dog. “Just don’t make it my problem. Especially that sort. Sky - who is called Sky? Isn't there enough sky? There’s nothing but negative oozing from him like an old car battery. Just like this place, Dog. Negative.”

Joe lifts his head. “Come on! Speak to me!” He suddenly shouts.

Dog ruffles his feathers as Joe’s words echo in the canyon. Then silence.

As if in abeyance, a sod of chalky earth topples near to where Joe was digging.

Joe hears the movement of the falling sod of earth, looks to it. He grins. “Apologies for the shouting, fine stuff,” he tells the soil.

Joe drops to his knees and begins digging with his bare hands. He soon reveals a glimpse of black material. It is wedged like a layer in a sandwich. He pulls at the material. It won’t budge so he gives it another jerk and applies more strength. He leans back on his heels.

The material suddenly gives and pops out the hole. Joe falls back on his backside. Attached to the remnants of the material are the well preserved, skeletal remains of a human hand.

 You can barely recognise the colour of this material, but you finally do. It is the colour of the clothing worn by the armed, mounted Border Patrol.

Dog reacts by flapping his huge wings, the downdraught causing a cloud of dust.

I am Dog. We both seek a carcass.

Joe collects himself and kneels alongside the remains. There’s an edge of excitement to him as he blows away the dust, scrapes away the congealed soil, revealing more of the fingers and the wrist bone. 

Joe rocks on his haunches and looks at Dog. “It’s time for my silence now Dog. But you listen to me now and listen well, my friend. If I don’t come back, you eat me true and clean. You hear me, Dog?  You finish me before the worms do. True and clean is what I ask for.”

Dog stares and offers a blink from hooded eyes.

He seeks his for a different reason. 

Joe takes a deep breath. “Good, Dog -- good. Yes, before the worms get me and before the Priest gets to me.”

From his trouser pocket, Joe pulls out a strip of leather -- it is plaited, like a fake dog’s bone -- and he puts it between his teeth, and chews down on it so it becomes an extension of his mouth. He gets comfortable on his haunches, settles his feet on the ground, ensuring his boots grip the earth’s crust. He’s planting himself.

Joe bites down on the strip of leather with force. 

 You are able, through the gap between the two boulders, to see the man who is hunched over what you mistakenly think is a pile of garbage, of plastic. Out of the corner of your eye you take notice of the size of the bird that sits as stoic as a statue.

You see the naked back of the man. His shoulders are broad and glisten with sweat. You inhale quickly as you see the muscles on the man’s back tense and ripple. You hold your breath as those same muscles remain taut. Your reaction is alien to you and you are confused by it.

You shift your position silently for a better view. Now you see that his hands are hovering over what you think is garbage, plastic. Every sinew in the man seems to be working. He rotates his body and his chest suddenly expands with a breath of air or is it shock? That thing between his teeth – he is gnawing on it, his jawbones set rigid.

You are trying to hold your own breath.

There is a tremble to his hovering fingers.

You exhale and ‘yelp’ simultaneously as the man is suddenly thrown backwards as if kicked by an invisible horse, a something. You clutch your mouth to stiffen any further noise as the man is slammed against the ground.

There he remains motionless. 

MY NAME IS DOG

Talking with Dog -- review

DOG IS ON AMAZON

“Mad Max’ meets “Blue Velvet” It’s 2026. The world has suffered massive 

depravation; man has been exposed to the wrath of global warming. Mother 

Nature has dealt her ace. Transportation as we know it, communication as we 

know it, no longer exist. Extinction approaches. Has GOD abandoned man as 

well? Can one man prevail over human perversity in extremis? Can love prevail 

in a dog eat dog existence? 

....ONLY YOU CAN FIND OUT. 

The Bone Traders -- a FREE chapter

...this FREE chapter shows the link between Joe's abilities and stored time -- here he begins his journey to cross the line between the living and the dead. It is the beginning of an interesting battle for Joe -- when to cross the line and where is the point of no return.

Sky hurries toward the Church but just before he enters the building, he looks across the street to where an identical replica of the Ferguson house stands. The windows and the doors are bolted. Sky glances over the house with a sense of pride, almost gloating. He turns and enters the Church.  

There’s less daylight within the building, coldness even in the harsh sunlight.  Sky heads toward the covered altar, veers off and enters a narrow, bare hallway. He moves forward and enters a stark, semi-circular room. Its only furniture is a wooden desk and a chair. Leading off this room, is an archway -- behind the arch, a room of darkness. There is a doorway to the side.

Sky enters that doorway. He pauses there, tosses the soft toy toward the bed in the centre of the room.

“There’s a Digger in Erasmusville,” he tells the man resting on the bed. The man rolls over and looks at Sky. His name is Trader. He is a soul shrunk in a once tall frame. He is the dead alive. 

“I know. I heard. But it is yet to be proven.”

Sky lies down on the bed. He embraces Trader, like a child would his father.

“I was told...”

“...nothing. You were told nothing,” Trader interrupts. “Those three faeces eating, unwashed doggery couldn't tell left from right, right from wrong. Their breath alone will taint you, Sky. Let me smell.”

“You want to what?”

“Let me smell!”

Sky exhales into Trader’s face, their lips close. Trader sniffs.

“It is as tainted as the day’s dawn.  Deceit is contagious.”

Sky sits up on the bed. “But there is a chance? I mean -- that this man could be a Digger?”

Trader holds out a well manicured hand. “Rose Jarvis. She died?”

“Sorry, I forgot...”

Sky pulls out the ladies wrist-watch and hands it over. Trader caresses Sky’s hand before he takes the timepiece. He gets out of the bed and puts on a robe that hangs like an old curtain over a once proud window.

“She met with him,” Sky informs Trader.

“They copulated?”

“No. Of course they didn't!”

Sky follows Trader into the lounge. Trader walks toward the archway and enters the dark area.

“Then their meeting was of no consequence to me,” Trader says as he disappears into the black.

“You mean to us - it was of no consequence to us. Am I right?” Sky’s voice is suddenly shrill, like that of a spoilt child. He steps closer to the archway, but does not enter.”To your promise to me, remember?”

Trader’s voice is soft in the darkness. “Yes, my promise, my trade for pleasures past.” Then he raises his voice. “Yes, my promise to you.”

Sky calms as he watches a soft light invade the room. It is the light from a night’s sky pregnant with stars. As this light grows, Sky is able to see Trader operating the winch attached to the curved wall. Trader is mechanically opening the roof of the dome.

Trader pauses in his action to look at Sky. “But only when she is with child. Best you never forget that, my infertile friend,” he tells Sky.

“You have to do that, don’t you?  Just keep ramming it home like vomit in reverse. That’s what gets you off?”

Trader turns his back on Sky. “No my sweet boy,” he says. “You do.”

Joe moves through the canyon.  Neither torchlight nor lamp is required. Above him, the stars seem so close he could touch them. He squats, looks at the ground.

“If he is true to his gift,” Trader tells Sky, “then he will, at first, work at night.  He will have no need for light. After all, what he searches for is already buried in the dark.”

The damp light of the night’s sky fills the dome, ricocheting off the hundreds of timepieces that hang together like crystal drops on a chandelier. Wrist watches of all sizes, age and shape, their mechanisms still, hands dormant, stalled at different times.  Every time-piece hangs from a thin thread. They seem to be floating in the air, these souvenirs of the dead.

Trader begins to feed a thread into the strap socket of the watch Sky has just given him. “He won’t tempt to unearth anything,” Trader continues. “He’ll simply probe -- he’ll feel. Touch and sense. Let his presence be known -- that he’s a friend, a new light, a respectful visitor.”

Joe sweeps both his hands under the belly of a rock. The muscles across his hands are taut. He moves on like a water diviner, his stride loose, calm and sure footed on the terrain.

Trader randomly touches a free floating watch. “If a Digger has a response, he’ll settle and make camp. He’ll open the way for the dead to speak.  He’s as patient as a vulture. No difference between them really -- both eat off the dead...travel the same road.”

“He’s got a bird with him. An ugly bird,” Sky offers.

Trader sends the wristwatch aloft. It swings like a pendulum. “That’s interesting. I wasn’t aware.”Trader looks at Sky. “A Digger is patient and sensitive -- potent weaponry in the battle for love, Sky. Do you think you are capable?”

Sky stiffens in the doorway. “Screw you, Trader.  I shared your bed, now she will share mine.”

“And what of me, Sky? What of us?”

Sky turns his back. “A trade is a trade. That’s what you always tell me.”

Trader hears Sky leave. He smiles, the night sky reflecting in his oval glasses.

Joe lets his hands roam at the base of a boulder, where dirt meets rock.

Suddenly, a few slivers of loose stone and a few grains of sand float toward Joe’s hand, and cling onto his flesh. Like a magnet draws iron shavings.

He brushes off the slivers of stone and moves on.

A suspended watch begins to swing, to bob up and down. It touches another watch. That, too, begins to move.

Trader observes, doesn't move, and listens to the metallic rustle, like a breeze through a wind-chime.

Joe focused, shifts a hand to his left, to his right. He rotates on his heels, pirouetting almost, palms an inch or two off the ground. The occasional sliver of flint or dust rises and sticks to his hands. Concentrated, resolute energy as he rotates on his heels. His muscles are taut; a ballet in the moonlight.

Trader watches as a few timepieces shift now -- spin on their axis. Not all of them. A few -- like dancing puppets on invisible strings.  Above them the night sky through the open dome.

“Thank you father,” Trader tells the night sky.

Almost feline, Joe ceases his movement. He squats on the earth, his chest inflating, deflating as the slivers of stone and dust slip off his hands. 

Visit Joe's homepage

Free download -- The Bone Traders

....THE BONE TRADERS is being offered as a FREE DOWNLOAD by Amazon.com until Wednesday 19th June.
Being ignorant to these marketing campaigns, I presume, I hope and pray, it is to gather interest and COMMENTS relating to the novella.
So go ahead...get a FREE download, put your feet up with a Lager/Chablis or two and enjoy...either way, comment on Amazon.
"Tis but a simply request.
Many thanks!!!!!!!!

http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Bone-Traders-Mark-Roper/dp/1482752441

The Bone Traders - Extract for the day

...a quick extract from The Bone Traders...have a great weekend.

The sun is now a white, hostile orb; iris burning.

Welcome to the town that your God, Law, Time, Nature and society has forgotten. A line of bungalows now stand brick deep in ever increasing mounds of shifting sand, their structures built from salvaged remains of brick, wood, plastic and metal. A shanty town that whispers of a past you may remember, but shouts of a sad present.

An army of salvaged wind-pumps turn angrily in the wind, their battle now to suck water from an unyielding soil. Three crippled wind generators turn in the stale air, probably creating enough power to light a bulb or two.

A hint of ill repaired solar panels can be seen perched on the crudely constructed roof tops.

A small Church offers its imperfect steeple to a cloudless sky. There is one shop, a general dealer. There are no cars, no gas pumps nor signs of children. The sight of a blossoming flower is rare. There is a monotonous twirling of dust and the ricocheting of bright sunlight off metal.

At the far end of the only street, outside a house, a group of people have gathered. There is also a cart and a donkey.

Inside the house, in a narrow bedroom, Reverend Dickinson, spectacled, stands looking out the window. He’s holding a Bible. Reverend Dickinson is stooped under God’s forgetfulness.  It is a heavy burden for him and the slope of his narrow shoulders demonstrates that.

Suddenly there is a woman’s scream from within the room and it scares the crap out of Reverend Dickinson. He spins on his heels.

“Well?” Reverend Dickinson asks the midwife that is bent over the prone body of the woman who is about to give birth.

The woman giving birth again screams. She is over the age of seventy and her wrinkled, sunburnt flesh contorts grotesquely. Rivulets of perspiration gather in the valley of her wrinkles.

The midwife, who is in her late sixties, glances quickly toward Reverend Dickinson. “It’s coming. Help me.”

“No!” The Reverend almost shouts his response.

The pregnant woman mumbles incoherently.

“I need light. Move away from the window.”

The Reverend Dickinson does, his glasses shining like mirrors in the heat. Through the small window, he can see the group of people gathered outside in the street. An elderly woman sits on a wooden stool. She is knitting a garment. It is pink and suited for a newborn child. The knitting needles click furiously in her hands.

The midwife works, her heavy face sweating profusely.

A bowl of bloody water is dipped into and out of.

“Please God,” whispers Reverend Dickinson, still hypnotised by the rhythm of the knitting needles. 

“Come on, Mary, come on...you have to push, Mary!  I can see the head!”

There is another scream and the tension shows in the Reverend’s shoulders. He wants to turn and look, but he cannot.

The midwife suddenly shouts. Her own breathing is heavy. “It’s out! It’s a...”

Reverend Dickinson spins on his heels. “It’s a what? Tell me.”

(....Well, I'm not going to give it ALL away now, am I? Have a Great Easter.)

The Bone Traders - Quote of the Day.

Visit the website!

...so after yesterday's painful quote (probably in more ways than one!) I thought I'd share one of the many chats Joe has with Dog...and if you haven't figured who or what Dog is, that's your problem.

Here's Joe about to add some light:

“Could be that he is buried too deep, could be that he’s not.  But then I wouldn't be feeling anything.  But I am,” Joe tells Dog. “But it’s not a true feeling.  Just not right -- as if someone blew out his candle with a breath that was not his own. There’s just an uninvited dark left Dog, and that isn't good, my friend.  It’s an angry dark that can swallow a man up and have him lose his way forever.  So let’s see if a bit of added light may help.”

I am Dog. We both seek a carcass. 

P.S. The novel was released today on Amazon in both Kindle and paperback format. Hoorah!

The Bone Traders - Quote of the Day

Quote of the day is a painful one! Well, I at least think it is! Enjoy and feel free to comment, especially if you are a dentist...

The first jab of the blade at the base of the incisor causes David to wretch. He spits away the sour bile that has risen in his mouth as he struggles to inhale through his nostrils. A tear forms in the corner of his right eye and it collects dust as it descends. David lifts his upper lip. A thin line of blood stains his gum. He brings up the blade yet again and allows it to hover there as he opens his eyes and looks out across the canyon floor. He focuses on the approaching horses. He thinks only of the approaching horses.

With a deft jab and a twist, David thrusts the blade deep and up into his gum toward the root of his upper, left incisor. He will have to cut at least a third of an inch deep.

The website

Talking With Dog - quote of the day

DOG'S WEBSITE

...this is not so much a quote, rather a situation:

You are seated next to your father in a moment of re-created time...meeting him has been what your entire journey has been about. But you cannot communicate, you cannot shift your focus...you cannot break the link:

Joe is now aware that the man beside him has turned his head. He is aware that the man is smiling at him; that it is the smile a father offers a son after a term of absence.

“Hello Joseph,” David says with a nervous smile. “ I'm glad you came.”

He must not shift. He must not react. The chain will separate; the links of time will separate. He must not flinch. But he knows that this is his father. He must not doubt it. No negativity but so many questions after so many years.

...perhaps something to ponder over a cup of tea?

You sold it how, Sir? (3)

...bad news on my marketing ploy to gain a new coupon from the folk at Facebook. Inserting a recipe or two created by my hero in +Talking With Dog so the advertising campaign targets the good folk in Alaska (see earlier blog) ain't going to work. According to this fellow, http://www.abufares.net/2006/08/100-ways-to-cook-rabbit-recipe-no-26.html, he's figured out a 100 ways to cook a rabbit!
Be pretty dumb for my hero to challenge that and, besides, imagine what it would do to the book's format!
So its back to investigating all the social stuff on FB whilst my two free coupons glare at me and grow older.
Perhaps there is a way of targeting the folk on a very small Island somewhere?? A forgotten culture who, out of admiration for being targeted as part of my sweeping advertising campaign, form a cult...? Recklessly spend dollars, or whatever, on buying the novel?
Where to search, me asks? Amazon jungle....?? Mmmm...

..Ha,Ha...so the plot thickens! Some highly paid marketing exec at Facebook has again targeted me and sent me yet another coupon worth twenty-five quid. I think I'm on a roll here because the two coupons have a different expiry date. Now, if I'm shrewd here (which I am never) I should be able to stock-broker(?) both coupons at intervals, thus raising my advertising budget on *Talking With Dog* (there, got the name in!) to fifty quid -- watch out market, here comes the big time...now, ignoring all this bid clicking and whatever, FB is asking me who I want to target? who or what is my market? I typed in "...anyone who has a spare dollar to spend "...but that drew a negative, which seems honest considering the plight of this planet's economics. Moving on, I investigated further ;- this is all social stuff I see...people who are into film, people who only live in The Alps, people who have children or people that don't. Oh boy...well, it turns out the best target for my novel, are people who are interested in cooking and who live in Alaska and breed dogs (must be because I have Dog in the title). Now there's a thing considering my hero ain't no chef and the whole story is set in a heatwave. Mmm...but he does nosh the occasional rabbit, so if I added in a recipe or two....?? I'm working on this idea as it could spawn a cook book and gain me yet another coupon.
As for the bidding clicks? I'm still lost and hanging onto the remains of the credit card.
I await further marketing advice...or do I just purchase two messenger pigeons and get on with it?


...so I scrape together a few farthings to advertise the self-published novel,#Talking With Dog (had to get that in not that I fully understand this @ or # business) and I surf the net and think; okay, I've got the Facebook page done, but seriously doubt my flotsam of friends are going to give a flying F...so now I look at the Facebook advertising -- they sent me a coupon worth twenty-five quid the clever sods -- but its a head start. Add that to my farthings, I'm in for thirty-five pounds...you see, I'm thinking the economics here; on Amazon I'm selling the book for a pittance, so how much to break even?
Okay -- I'm soon realising that I have to be a stock-broker here -- what is this bidding per click?? Check it out...someone clicks on the dodgy advertisement, and I have to pay..okay, fair deal...but is that above the huge fee I allocated as my budget, or am I going to wake up and see an already drained credit card in the sewer...I froze. I panicked. Delete, delete...
Now I've got a plan -- messenger pigeons...I strap the advertisement to their ankles and off they go...
Must I use # and @ in a Blog to get people read?
Oh boy.