Home

For when you have a spare minute or two

About the Author

James has lived in London, Manchester, Bristol, and Exeter. He taught Math, Economics, and Outdoor Pursuits whilst living in England.
James now lives in Florida with his wife Bernadine, and their dog Barkley. They have eight wonderful grandchildren; five girls, three boys.
In California and Arizona, he worked as a banker, stockbroker, and insurance agent.
George Orwell and H.G. Wells have inspired his writing. More recently he has enjoyed the novels of James Patterson, Blake Crouch, and Hugh Howey.
His first published novel, a thriller, is entitled ‘The Man Who Would Cheat At Cards’.
The most recent publication is Book Two of a four-part saga: ‘Amulet’ (A Quest For King Arthur). Book One: ‘Conundrum’ was published in June 2016.
Books Three and Four in the series ‘A Quest For King Arthur’ are planned for 20Fall 2019 and Spring 2020.

221, Mount Olimpus, Rheasilvia, Mars,
Solar System, Milky Way Galaxy
+1 (999) 999-99-99

PGlmcmFtZSBzcmM9Imh0dHBzOi8vd3d3Lmdvb2dsZS5jb20vbWFwcy9lbWJlZD9wYj0hMW0xOCExbTEyITFtMyExZDYwNDQuMjc1NjM3NDU2ODA1ITJkLTczLjk4MzQ2MzY4MzI1MjA0ITNkNDAuNzU4OTkzNDExNDc4NTMhMm0zITFmMCEyZjAhM2YwITNtMiExaTEwMjQhMmk3NjghNGYxMy4xITNtMyExbTIhMXMweDAlM0EweDU1MTk0ZWM1YTFhZTA3MmUhMnNUaW1lcytTcXVhcmUhNWUwITNtMiExc2VuITJzITR2MTM5MjkwMTMxODQ2MSIgd2lkdGg9IjEwMCUiIGhlaWdodD0iMTAwJSIgZnJhbWVib3JkZXI9IjAiIHN0eWxlPSJib3JkZXI6MCI+PC9pZnJhbWU+

Thank You. We will contact you as soon as possible.

Send Message

Do you want massive traffic?

Scelerisque augue ac hac, aliquet, nascetur turpis. Augue diam phasellus odio lorem integer, aliquam aliquam sociis nisi adipiscing hacac.

PGlmcmFtZSB3aWR0aD0iMTAwJSIgaGVpZ2h0PSIxMDAlIiBzcmM9Imh0dHBzOi8vd3d3LnlvdXR1YmUuY29tL2VtYmVkL2o4bFNjSE8ybU0wIiBmcmFtZWJvcmRlcj0iMCIgYWxsb3dmdWxsc2NyZWVuPjwvaWZyYW1lPg==

* we never share your details with third parties.

Get Instant Access

Thank you for your Subscription

KEEP UP TO DATE WITH NEW PUBLICATIONS AND POSTS

Subscribe to receive information on up and coming publications and new posts

{subscription-facebook}

{subscription-google}

Thank you.
We will contact you as soon as possible.

SEND MESSAGE

JOIN US NOW

Purus sed vel ultricies, lorem rhoncus. Augue hac, adipiscing risus, sed ac? Pid nunc dignissim, non, ac parturient sociis enim.

Your Information will never be shared with any third party.

James G Riley (Author)

SEND MESSAGE

Free Animation Course

Subscribe to our free newsletter and get a chance to win free 10-days animation learning course. Learn real skills now!

james@jamesgriley.com

Fill in the form to get
daily updates straight into Your mailbox. 100% Free.

You can unsubscribe in any moment. Find out more on our website.

WE WILL LET YOU KNOW WHEN THE BOOK IS PUBLISHED

Fill in your details

Submit

We hate spam and never share your information.

Dragon's Breath

BUY NOW

My Example

It was a sunny day and the weekend. With no school, Jake was amusing himself at the end of the garden. He had a model glider; a simple affair made of thin balsa wood with long front and short rear wings that slotted through the balsa wood body. Each time he threw the airplane, the breeze would carry it a fair distance. This time it soared and flew to the very end of the garden where there was an old apple orchard, with trees possessing gnarly, twisted branches. The knots on the trunks, where limbs had been sawn off, the young lad imagined were eyes of tree monsters.
It took Jake some time to locate the glider. Eventually, he spotted it nestled in the unmown grass. He waded in, bent down, but was distracts by something scurrying through the tall vegetation.
A grass snake, maybe? Jake was not scared of grass snakes. Their green camouflage was no match for the boy’s keen eye. Sometime he would bring one home, much to the displeasure of his mother.
“Take that ugly thing out of here, this instant,” she would scold.
Jake smiled and complied, whispering words of encouragement to the reptile. “Take no notice of what my mom says. You’re not ugly at all. In fact, I think you’re rather adorable.” The snake flicked out its tongue in response.
Today, there was no grass snake. However, something moved a few paces away; scuttling along, flapping its wings, swishing a tail.
Jake thought it might be an injured bird, but birds do not have tails that swished. He took a hesitant step forward, and then another, and another. More harried movements kept the critter ahead of him.
“It’s all right; I won’t hurt you,” he told the animal. “If you’re injured, I’m here to help.”
Two more strides, trying to keep a quiet as he could, and Jake stopped in his tracks. He bent down and carefully picked up the creature, cupping his hands securely under its body.
“Well; aren’t you a cutie. Poor thing, what have you done to your wing?”
Jake walked back to where the glider had landed and picked it up.
“Best get you fixed up. But I can’t take you inside the house. Mom will throw a fit. Stay here.” He put the creature down. “Don’t worry; I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Sure enough, after a few minutes, Jake returned carrying a roll of adhesive tape. He snapped a piece from the wing of the glider and promptly applied a make-shift splint.
“There. You’ll be as good as new in a week or two. Are you hungry?”
Unsure what his newfound friend might eat, the boy produced a banana, a handful of dog biscuits, and a bar of chocolate.
The banana was sampled and spat out; the biscuits and chocolate were consumed with relish.
“I suppose you’re thirsty as well. Do you like vanilla flavored milkshake?”
Apparently, the animal did, slurping the drink from Jake’s cupped hand, burping with satisfaction when it had finished.
“Serves you right for drinking too fast; that’s what my mom would say.”
As if the very mention of his mother’s name had conjured up her call, he heard, “Jake, where are you? Time to eat.”
“Gotta go. Mom’s taking me shopping this afternoon, so I won’t be able to see you until tomorrow. I hope you’ll be okay.”
The creature swished its tail as if to say, “Sure I will.” Another flick, the barbed point scraping the boy’s face, and Jake imagined it adding “And don’t forget to bring more chocolate and milkshake.”

“You took your time. I nearly fed your lunch to the dog.”
Jake smiled and sat down.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, young man? And take that toy off the table.”
Jake picked up the glider and set it on the sideboard. He ambled to the bathroom, washed his hands and returned to the kitchen.
“So, what have you been doing this morning, apart from breaking your airplane?”
“Oh; the glider. I tried to fix it with tape. Still doesn’t fly very well.”
“What did you expect? Part of the wing is missing. Apart from the crash landing, nothing else?”
“I…” The boy hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. “I met a new friend.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Boy,” Jake guessed.
“Does this boy have a name?”
Jake hated it when his mother played twenty questions.
“He didn’t say, but I’ve nicknamed him Drag.”
“Drag? How come Drag? That’s an unusual choice.”
“Drag; as in dragon.”
“A dragon, huh.” Mom decided to play along. “Did it have scales and breath fire?”
“All dragon’s have scales. You should know that, Mom. It had a long tail, too. See; it grazed my cheek.
His mother looked and decided the mark had likely come from a tree branch. “You should be more careful. How big was this dragon?”
“You don’t believe me do you?” Jake asked accusingly, picking at his food.
“I might if you describe it to me. And stop playing with your food. You haven’t been eating chocolate have you and ruining your appetite?”
The lad ignored the question. “It’s not very big; only the size of a pigeon. I guess it’s still a baby. Had a broken wing but I fixed it with a splint.”
“Which would explain the broke glider?”
“And I fed it chocolate and a milkshake, to keep its strength up”
“Jake, stop telling porky-pies. You know I don’t like that. If you took candy and a drink, just own up.”
Jake put down his fork and burst into tears. “Drag is a real dragon, and he’s my new friend.”

Continue reading with eBook or Papaerback.

Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in this popup are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."

Paperback

eBook

The Great Pyramid

BUY NOW

My Example

Major Anthony Roberts was not one to loosen his tie. He considered it not the done thing, himself a retired Guards officer and a gentleman. His only concession to the mid-day heat was to briefly raise his Panama hat, and surreptitiously wipe his brow with a handkerchief hastily secreted from his trouser pocket. He considered the whole thing a mistake, from the unplanned last minute trip to Egypt to today’s visit to a street market. All at his dear wife’s insistence, despite her failing health.
“Treasures from the Great Pyramid. You buy? Genuine treasures from the Great Pyramid.” Roberts took no notice of the ill-kempt street vendor. “Twenty pounds. You buy for pretty lady?”
Treasures indeed. I bet they are bits of brass, thought Roberts. The place reminded him of his time during the North Africa campaign. Remove the scent of cordite and the stench of death, and it was still the same dirty, filthy squalor, full of flies. The Bible was wrong. It was not a plague of locusts that had been sent to persuade Pharaoh to release the Israelites, but swarms of flies. He knew that personally, for a fact. He hated flies.
“Aren’t they sweet, Tony?” Marion concluded slipping one of the two golden rings onto her finger. She always called him Tony when she wanted something. “Perfect,” his wife declared, holding it up so that the ring caught the rays of the sun, “You would think it was made for me, wouldn’t you dear?”
“You try?” said the merchant, thrusting the second ring under the Major’s nose.
“Go on, dear. Do as he says.” Reluctantly Roberts did as his wife commanded. “Yours is a good fit, too, darling. We simply must have the pair. Please, Tony?”
“Ten pounds!” said the Major, commencing the haggle.
“Twenty!” the merchant replied.
“Fifteen pounds!” exclaimed the Englishman, reaching into the inside pocket of his blazer for his wallet. “Not a penny more,” he added, producing a crisp twenty-pound note.
“Tony, don’t be an old meany.” Marion snatched the pristine piece of paper out of her husband’s hand and handed it over. “Thank you, my man. Come on darling, this way.”
Before the Major was able to argue, she was halfway down the street. Hurriedly he followed, never turning to see the blacked teeth showing through the vendor’s disingenuous grin.

The evening meal did not go well. The Major picked at his food, while he brooded over the loss of five pounds. Marion, giving up on her one-sided conversation, protested a headache, and retired early to bed. Alone with his own morose company, and the sounds of the night, Roberts sipped at his whiskey and soda, his sullen mood not improving. At eleven he decided to call it a day.
Once in bed, sleep did not come easily. The alternatives were either to lie awake listening to the rattle of the faulty air conditioning, or open the windows and risk the mosquitoes. He compromised; windows remained closed, fan off. Despite the oppressive heat and Marion’s snores, eventually, he drifted into a fitful slumber.
Waking with a start, he sat up. At the end of the bed stood a figure of a man dressed in an ancient garment, the like he had seen depicted on the walls of Pharaoh’s tomb. Beckoned, the Major found himself elevated from the bed, and then he began gliding across the room. Looking down, his dressing gown had become a robe similar to that of the stranger. Around his neck hung a gold seal. The two men floated to the balcony, and on towards the Great Pyramid, which, in the moonlight, cast a long shadow across the sand.
Once inside, Roberts was taken to an embalming room. He questioned the authenticity of such a chamber inside the tomb, but then anything could happen. After all, he told himself, it was only a dream. He witnessed the embalming of a beautiful princess. He noticed the ring on her finger; similar to his own.
The ceremony, conducted in complete silence, was finally over when slaves placed the mummy in its sarcophagus and closed the lid. Then came movement to his left. He expected to see his former escort, but the face of his companion had changed. He knew the man well. It was his father-in-law, Cheops.

Continue reading with eBook or Papaerback.

Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in this popup are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."

Paperback

eBook

Tzolk'inometer

BUY NOW

My Example

I had just finished a two-week vacation at the Zermatt resort in Switzerland. There I had enjoyed some of the longest ski runs, surmounted by the intoxicating views of the Matterhorn.
Arriving by train at the Gare du Nord, Paris, with over an hour’s wait for my connection, which would take me via the Channel Tunnel to St. Pancras, London, I took a short exclusion outside. Finding myself walking the Rue de Maubeuge, I began browsing the windows of an assortment of outlets. A delicatessen. An antiquarian bookshop. Drugstore. Beauty salon. Tobacconist. A women’s clothing boutique. Even a haberdasher. I had no intention of buying anything. Almost passing a patisserie, my resolve was crushed by the enticing display of mille-feuille, macaron, bichon au citron, chouquette and other selections. I went inside and ordered two macarons. To drink, I chose une noisette – the French equivalent of a macchiato; coffee with cream.
By the time I had finished, I had still had thirty minutes left before my train’s departure. Three doors away was a store displaying an overhead sign. It read:

HORLOGERIE.

In the window were an assortment of pocket watches, wrist watches, shelf clocks. skeleton clocks and more. All analog, nothing modern, some antique.
Inside I could see cuckoo clocks, pendulum clocks, and long case clocks. A customer was gesticulating madly with the gentleman behind the counter, who I took to be the proprietor. The latter, having placed the fingertips of each hand together, was smiling graciously, waiting for the prospective purchaser to finish his fulminate. I glanced once more at the window display. An unusual timepiece caught my eye, which prompted me to enter the store.
 I waited patiently, noting that none of the items for sale displayed a price tag.
The clocks’ hands creep slowly round. Five, then ten minutes passed before a deal was struck. The American produced a wad of traveler’s checks and seemed unconcerned when he parted with two thousand euros. I swallowed hard, hoping the item that had peaked my interest was not in the same ballpark. Taking his newly acquired pocket watch, the foreigner left.
“Monsieur, comment puis-je vous aider?”
I’m sorry; I don’t speak French,” I replied.
The proprietor smiled again. “Not a problem. ’Ow may I ’elp you?”
“In the window, there’s an unusual pocket watch; the one with three dials in a spiral pattern.”
The tray he produced contained six items, all basically the same, except for the finish.
“We French call zem Tzolk’inometres,” he informed me. “In English, you say Tzolk’inometers.”
“I’m sorry. Tzolk’nometer? I am not familiar with the word.”
The Frenchman smiled once again, unsuccessfully trying to hide his sense of patronizing superiority. “Few people are. Tzolk’in is taken from the Yucatec Maya language. It means The Division of Days.”
I picked one up.
“Solid, ten-karat gold case; that one. Don’t be thinking you should buy eighteen or twenty-four karat. Too soft; not durable.”
“I see. How much?” I asked.
“One thousand euros.”
“More than I can afford,” I admitted, returning it to the tray. “The one next to it?”
“Platinum; two thousand euros. Next to that solid silver. The next is gold plated. The fourth is silver plated.”
The white one, on the end?”
“Enameled steel. Only one ’undred euros.”
“Forgive me for my ignorance, but what exactly does this tzolk’inometer do?”
The proprietary let out a bellicose laugh. “Why; tell the time, of course. After all, it is a watch.”
“But why the three dials?”
I had obviously asked the jackpot question. He beckoned me closer and whispered, “The center one tells present time. The smallest one gives time past. The largest; time future.”
I looked at the man as if he had just spoken gibberish. A watch tells time now. Not time past and time future.
He must have seen my expression. “If you ’ave a few more minutes, I shall explain.”
“My train leaves at four minutes past the hour,” I responded.
“You are catching the Eurostar to London?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I do not need to be a Hercule Poirot to work that out. Your British accent is a giveaway.” He consulted the pocket watch that was tucked into his waistcoat. “You ’ad best be going. If you leave it too late, all the window seats will be taken.”
I nodded, accepting the man’s advice. “You said the white one was a hundred euros.” Remembering the amount of bargaining conducted with the previous customer, I continued, “Will you accept fifty?”
The proprietor shook his head.
“Then, I thank you for your time, monsieur, and wish you good day.”
I turned to leave.
“Un instant s’il vous plaît. Seventy-five.”
“Sixty, not a euro more,” I responded.
“Agreed. Sixty euros, it is.”
As I counted out my money, the proprietor was about to box the watch and place it aside a small maroon-colored plastic bag. He stopped.
“I am forgetting, monsieur; the device needs to be synchronized with your personal biological clock. It will only take a moment.” He asked me to place my right thumb on the small circle in the center of the reserve side of the case.
If felt a slight tingling and told him so.
“Just as I would expect.”
“Now it has stopped,” I said.
“Then it is done.” After packing the tzolk’inometer, he handed me the bag, and I headed toward the exit.
Just before the door closed after me. he shouted, “Sir, the manual. You ’ave forgotten the manual.”
Mindful of the time, I called back, “Don’t worry; I’ll figure it out,” and then hurried to the railway station. If I can’t, I’ll ask an eight-year-old, I told myself, pleased at the bargain I had struck in the store.

Continue reading with eBook or Papaerback.

Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in this popup are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."

Paperback

eBook

Games

BUY NOW

My Example

At 0600 hours Colonel James Harris woke to the thunder of artillery, which continued a full ninety minutes until daybreak. It was the third year of a war, which back in 1914 everyone had expected would be all over by Christmas.
The Colonel was in charge of the field dressing station, positioned according to his superiors a safe distance behind the front lines. He mentally pictured the setting three miles to the northeast. All along his sector, whistles blew. Men were hauling themselves off the firing step, out of the relative security of the trench, to start moving at a steady, slow walk across no man’s land, through the screen of smoke that the generals mistakenly believed provided cover.
Harris considered the whole scenario pathetic. So often had the tactic been used that, to the enemy, it came as no surprise. He imagined the staccato of machine-gun fire, bullets slicing through the advancing ranks, tearing frail flesh, giving no favor to rank or social standing. Young men, boys really, were being mown down like corn to the reaper’s scythe.
The Colonel put his hands to his ears as the barrage resumed, but in his mind, he could not shut out the screams of men falling into the quagmire of mud, if not to die immediately, to be left for hours until a lull allowed the painfully crawl back to their own trenches.
And so his working day began. The casualties came streaming in. Mercifully, today there had been no gas, but even Harris, a hardened veteran, fought back the bile that repeatedly rose from his stomach as emasculated flesh presented itself to the surgeon’s knife. There was no respite. No sooner had one casualty been cleared than he was replaced by two others. A German shell exploded in one of the tents, killing not just the wounded but a three of his staff as well. This horror was compounded only minutes later when he recognized one of the injured being stretchered in; his lifelong friend, Major Douglas Perry. Together they had been at Eton, where Perry had captained the First XV. At Oxford, he had gained his Rugby blue.
Popular with his men, Perry had a reputation for being a bit of a wag. On one occasion, he was seen kicking a rugby ball ahead of himself. The whole thing was to Doug one big game. With both legs amputated, the game was now over for the Major.
This apparently unending carnage became even more poignant when the catalog of human tragedy touched the Colonel so personally.
Perhaps, Harris mused, he should invite the generals here for the afternoon to witness the folly of their little games; to this safe haven. Maybe they would come to realize reality was not quite the same as lines on maps, or that casualty lists were not just names printed in the national newspapers.
By 1900 hours, now dark, the numbers of wounded coming in slowed to a trickle. Harris had been on his feet for over thirteen hours and was exhausted. He went outside for a smoke. Looking up at the stars, he was suddenly aware of the silence that had at last fallen all about. Even the wounded, apparently, were too tired to cry out.
The creak of the planking, which kept their feet out of the mud, caused the Colonel to turn. The smiling face of Father O’Malley, Catholic chaplain assigned to his station, met him.
Lord knows what you have to smile about Padre, thought Harris, but he kept his opinion to himself.
“Would you have a cigarette, James?” O’Malley asked in his broad Irish brogue, a gentle tone, with a manner that endeared him to officers and enlisted men alike.
“Certainly, Father Mike,” Harris replied, offering his silver cigarette case, “Have you been busy?” he casually asked, making small talk.
“Haven’t we all, James? I was sorry to hear about your friend.” O’Malley placed a hand on the Colonel’s shoulder. Harris nodded but said nothing. Realizing it was not a good idea to allow the Colonel to dwell unduly on the incident, the chaplain added, “Have you got a moment? There’s a young boy, in one of the tents, I want you to take a look at.”
“Can’t one of the nurses attend to him?” Harris replied, adopting a realistic stance that unless he got some sleep, tomorrow he would be of no use to anyone.
“This won’t take a moment, James. It’s not medical attention he wants.”
“Then that’s surely your department, Michael,” Harris responded, once more attempting not to comply with the chaplain’s request.
“There’s something strange about the lad. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” The Irishman spoke softly, looking straight at the Colonel with his deep brown eyes.
“You know Mike, you could charm the breaches of a leprechaun. How can I refuse? If it will only take a minute, lead the way.”
Father O’Malley turned, and within a short time, they were quietly making their way between rows of cots on which lay the injured and dying. O’Malley stopped at the foot of one bed. He gestured with a nod that this was the lad. The medical officer moved silently to the prostrate figure’s head and carefully lifted the blanket. Slowly he replaced it, after seeing the swathes of blood-soaked bandages around the young man’s torso. Harris said nothing, simply lifting his eyes to Heaven.
Sensing the two men’s presence, the boy opened his eyes. His lips were moving. Neither man could hear the words. Harris bent forward, placing an ear close to the youth’s mouth. He listened. He took the boy’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Two minutes passed, perhaps three. Neither observers spoke. They watched the shallow heave of the blanket that marked each breath. Finally, the blanket became still. Harris placed his fingers on the young man’s neck. Feeling no pulse, he pulled the blanket over the dead boy’s head.
“I could do with another smoke,” the Colonel declared. “Fancy one, Father?”
“Why not,” replied the chaplain. “Besides, I want to know what the boy said.”

Continue reading with eBook or Papaerback.

Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in this popup are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."

Paperback

eBook