The odd thwack to the knackers…an acceptable risk…

I have spent the whole week in a good deal of pain with my left knee and to be honest, I don’t even know how I injured it.  Now I’m not so old that I have reached the stage where I cannot remember what I did, but apparently old enough to injure myself if I don’t do a warm up before I decide to stand up. There was a time when I had to lie about my injuries because of my recklessness, but that is called youth.

God be with the days when I’d twist my ankle jumping from a four metre high shed and  just get up and carry on regardless.. and that was when I was eight!  My Ma would have killed me if she knew how I did it, so I’d lie and say I went over on my ankle stepping off a footpath or some such auld guff.

The problem with my Ma was that she didn’t like us doing anything dangerous. I walked the railings outside our house on a near daily basis with my neighbour Martin, often timing who was the fastest.  We both fell off on a regular basis and occasionally we fell straight down to land astride the metal railings. I’m surprised I was able to father children I did it so often.

But you see, because my Ma was so unjustly strict about doing dangerous stuff, there was no way you could go crying to her so you had to just suck it up. For the most part, the odd thwack to the knackers was an acceptable risk for the pleasure we got from being high wire artists (in our heads), but sometimes you fell on the spikey part and that could leave a mark or cut you.

Pain was easy to hide, but my mother had a sharp eye for a cut or a bruise and at eight, she still put me into a bath every Saturday night whether I needed one or not, so you couldn’t conceal such things easily.

The lies I told about cuts, abrasions and bruises, you would be ashamed to hear them I’m telling you. The other problem was that my mother was as sharp as a tack when it came to sniffing out a fib. She’d skelp my skinny little arse for lying and she could read me like a book, so I had to be good at coming up with a cover story.  I was never good enough to be totally convincing, but the excitement of doing something stupid like climbing too high on a tree was always worth the ear bashing if she found out.

Of course now I seem to get injured going to the fridge. Seriously!  I’ve actually twisted my wrist opening the fridge door.  I mean COME ON! I blame it on all the sport I used to do. We didn’t have the same information or education, not to mention proper equipment like kids today have. Half the time we ran in the wrong shoes and played a lot of sport on dodgy tarmac. Bish- bash–bosh. As for correct physical education… we had one teacher who coached the football team (that’s soccer to my American friends) whose primary advice was, that if we couldn’t get the man, we should try to get the ball. We won the league that year if I recall.

I broke fingers, tore ligaments, sprained wrists and ankles, fractured ribs, had my nose split open, been stitched several times and generally put my body through the wringer over the first twenty odd years of my life. I’m paying for it now.  I should have stayed in my bed eating chocolate.

The problem was that back in the day when things were in black and white, just before many can remember but shortly after the dinosaurs, we didn’t have daytime TV, computer games, or any such nonsense.  I read a lot for sure, but that too had its limitations and my mother would inevitably feck you out the door,  as long as it was bright and it wasn’t raining. I was bound to get into mischief and break the odd bone or two.

I once fell out of a tree onto a fella on a bike – no joke. He didn’t even really break my fall. I sort of hit the front wheel and handlebars, then he bounced up in the air and landed on me.  He wasn’t happy I can tell you.  He was a big lad and he would have kicked the living sh**e out of me, only I escaped before he had time to get over the shock of a kid falling out of the sky. The weird thing was, I hadn’t a mark on me.

We played stuntman using our shed as a fall off point. The game was simple.  One of us would take aim with a toy Winchester and shoot the other… “Percherrrowwww” the sound would ricochet around the imaginary canyon as you shot.  Whoever was on top of the shed, had to take the hit, dramatically clutching their chest, maybe with a spin if you decided the bullet hit you high to one side, or a double over and stagger, if you were gut-shot.   Then came the tricky part; the fall from the roof of the shed into Mrs. Malone’s garden of nettles next door.  It was not a game for the feint hearted.

The worst injury any of us got was a scuffed elbow or knee, or the occasional nettle sting if we hadn’t cleared enough of them away.  I missed the last stair the other day; I nearly threw out a hip for feck sake.  Honestly, it’s not funny.

I no longer wonder about random, unexplained pains that appear and disappear for no reason.  I only count the ones that hang around for more than a week these days.  It’s not that I’m a complete crock or anything, I’m actually not in bad shape, but someone should tell my bits.

The worst thing is when you forget that you are no longer twenty.  There may or may not be alcohol involved, but … well you know.  Anyway, it can be a bit of music that gets you twerking or whatever, or in my case something silly that starts me off…I’m a bit of a child at heart and my head sometimes remembers what it was like to be free to throw myself about with abandon.  Not a good idea anymore.  Still I guess I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My biggest worry is that I will seriously injure myself doing something entirely inappropriate for a man of my supposed maturity, and then have to tell the emergency room triage nurse, exactly how I did the damage.  I suspect when that day comes, I’ll revert to the skills I learned dodging the questions my mother used to ask me… and lie…

Haven’t read a Max Power book yet?  I think it’s time to pick one up.
Max Power’s books include, Darkly Wood, Darkly Wood II The woman who never wore shoes, Larry Flynn, Bad Blood and Little Big Boy
You can find more details about Max Power’s books here : –
http://www.amazon.com/author/maxpower
https://maxpowerbooks.wordpress.com
fhttp://facebook.com/maxpowerbooks
twitter @maxpowerbooks1

Universal book links
http://getbook.at/Darkly-Wood
http://getbook.at/Darkly-Wood-II
http://getbook.at/Little-Big-Boy
http://getbook.at/Larry-Flynn
http://getbook.at/Bad-Blood

…the very smile and quip and jest of me…

There can be nothing more beautiful than a smile on the face of your darling. I have a very special darling in my life, yet I use the term with caution.  Darling is an old word and from my understanding, its origin points to the term ‘favourite minion’. My love is no minion for she is indeed mighty. Time, custom and practice have altered the meaning of the word however, and for me the modern intention of the word is more suitable.

Yet,that she is dear to me, is an insufficient expression of how much my darling means to me. I have never placed my happiness into the hands of another. That hefty chore is a responsibility that will always rest on my shoulders. My love, is given to a girl who adds to my life in a way that tricked my imagination. I thought my mind could explore the world unfettered by restriction, yet she fooled me, surprised me by showing me what true love really means, and it is something I honestly could never have imagined if left to my own devices. She has outsmarted my senses, overwhelmed my defences and enhanced my life.

Today  I slipped away to work under the cover of early morning darkness before she awoke. This day is special for it is her birthday. If anyone should mark or celebrate this day, it should be me and all of those whose lives she has touched, for by the mere shadow of her existence crossing our paths, we have been enriched.

How lucky am I to have been gifted the chance to spend my life with such a beauty. Inside and out, through and through, I am by her grace made a little lighter each day, a little kinder perhaps, a result of her soft teachings, and because of her, I possess a broader smile.

There can be no love song written, nor ode to her that can ever do justice to the girl I love. And love her I do. My other self, my sad-faced boy with a soul that broods on too many things, is enriched and enlivened with the mere touch of her hand.

We look to each other she and I. We look for each other and take care to nurture that which cannot be made. My heart is my heart, to ache or break, but she fills my heart with the joy of love that I could never have wished for.  As a young man, I dreamed of such a thing.  I thought it would never come sometimes yet here I am, immersed in the tranquility that comes from loving the finest of women.

The best of me, the rest of me, the very smile and quip, and jest of me, could never find the way to top, without my darling Jo, without my love. And so I celebrate her birthday deserving more than she, for it is me… that is the lucky one… Happy birthday Joanna…My Darling…

Haven’t read a Max Power book yet?  I think it’s time to pick one up.
Max Power’s books include, Darkly Wood, Darkly Wood II The woman who never wore shoes, Larry Flynn, Bad Blood and Little Big Boy
You can find more details about Max Power’s books here : –
http://www.amazon.com/author/maxpower
https://maxpowerbooks.wordpress.com
fhttp://facebook.com/maxpowerbooks
twitter @maxpowerbooks1

Universal book links
http://getbook.at/Darkly-Wood
http://getbook.at/Darkly-Wood-II
http://getbook.at/Little-Big-Boy
http://getbook.at/Larry-Flynn
http://getbook.at/Bad-Blood

 

Missing the big, agricultural men, who looked like they had spent their formative years pulling bullocks from ditches…

Hi-Viz jackets and de-culchification has ruined the way we look at the police in Ireland. I was stopped recently by a young lad who looked like he was embarrassed to ask me a question. There was a time when a Garda was seen in an altogether more respected light.  If you come from outside these shores, I should explain that in Ireland the police force is called “An Garda Síochána” translated to the guardians of the peace. A single one is called a Garda and the plural is Gardaí (Gard-ee).

Now you see, back in the day you’d be afraid of your sh**e to cross a Garda.  He’d give you a puck at the very least and you’d soon be put in your place. I say he for while there were female officers, (Ban Gardaí) they were another thing altogether for which I think I’d need a whole other blog. In my experience, back in the days of yore from whence I came, they were all very much big, agricultural men, who looked like they had spent their formative years pulling bullocks from ditches, wearing flat Paddy caps, collarless shirts with the sleeves rolled up past their elbows, and tweed trousers held up with braces and a length of rope.

They had proper Garda jackets with shiny buttons and in the winter, they wore thick long coats of navy blue. They were not men worried about being seen in the dark!  Not for them the Hi-Viz jackets that make our current Gardaí look like security guards in a car park, oh no.  They took pride in the fact that the only things likely to be illuminated in the dark, were the buttons on their tunics or the shine on their shoes.  There is something about Hi-Viz that screams small-minded, bureaucratic, health-and-safety obsessed box-ticker. I’m sorry folks, it had to be said and if that’s your actual job title, I can only offer my condolences.

The Hi-Viz is one thing but the de-culchification is probably a more serious matter. Again an explanation for the unfamiliar. A Culchie (Kull-Chee) is any Irish person not fortunate enough to have been born in the great county of Dublin. There was a time when it seemed that every Garda you came across was a Culchie and there is a difference between a Dublin Garda and a Culchie Garda.

You see it’s a well-known fact, though not always accepted by those outside the pale, (and yes the original pale from which that expression comes was in fact centred on Dublin) that Dublin is the centre of excellence when it comes to Gaelic football.  On the other hand, Dubs never quite got the hang of our other national sport Hurling.  That is more of a Culchie thing.

With that in mind, your average Garda being a Culchie back in the day, let’s say some big heap of a lad from Tipperary, would be familiar with swinging a caman (the big stick used in Hurling), so they had a natural ability with the baton carried by all Gardaí.  Dublin lads just haven’t got the same natural ability with a big stick I’m afraid, and like I said earlier, the sheer agricultural build of a fella from the bog compared to a soft-handed, soft spoken Dub, just held a bit more weight.

I haven’t even mentioned the hair.  They let them have hair now too. Skinny, soft-handed Dublin Gardaí with hair meeting the collar! No wonder there is so little respect for the men in blue, or should I say bright yellow these days. What was wrong with a proper short back and sides?  And… and… they have stopped growing moustaches. Once upon a time there wasn’t a sergeant worth his salt who didn’t sport a fine thick military moustache. 

But still that’s not the end of it.  They even removed the height requirement and replaced it with a physical competency test. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no giant myself but when it comes to me looking down on a small twelve year old, clean-shaven, long, haired, soft-handed Dublin Garda in a Hi-Viz… well I despair!

I’ll briefly address the women for there is light at the end of the tunnel.  The Dublinification of the female side of the force has seen a significant improvement in the fashion stakes, at least that‘s my opinion.  With the influence of the more cosmopolitan style of the Dublin ladies in the force, gone are the past-the-knee woollen skirts and 500 denier tights in favour of practical yet stylish slacks. 

While the hair length for men has lowered their masculine threat level, the opposite has occurred with the women in the force as suddenly Gardaí of the female variety, (we can’t say Ban Garda anymore) actually look quite professional as opposed to something one might to expect to find holding a cell door open for you in Stalinist Russia.

At this point, lest you think I’m a misogynistic, racist, sizesist, pro-mustachio, Culchie hating, Hi-Vizaphobic, Dubliner stuck in the past, let me tell you something important. I am not saying that ladies from outside our fair city of Dublin are less fashionable – God forbid they’d string me up – oh no and indeedthere has been a rebalancing in the fashion stakes in recent years. I am of course making a historical comparison, least you forget. STOP I hear you scream. Why am I focusing on the potential for brutality in the men and fashion when it comes to the women? What sort of twonk am I? Well pay attention if that’s what is going through your head, I repeat -this a satirical piece, focusing on historical values … memories and attitudes translated from a time now long past. (I’m turning into an old geezer)

So too with the notion of the Culchie Garda for while it may seem like a derogatory term to the outside eye, there is not a Culchie in the country who doesn’t have at least one similar term for the fine gentlemen and ladies of Dublin, or indeed for the fella down the road from the actual bog. We in Ireland have a fine tradition of slagging – we take the proverbial out of each other pretty much all the time so fear not , no offence has been caused except when it comes to the mention of Dublin being the best team at the football – In Mayo that’s a sore point, but it’s their own fault, there is the curse after all…

And Hi-Viz wearers, I mean you no harm; it is just not appropriate attire for Garda who has to take on knife wielding, gangsters.  It’s hard to take a man quite as seriously in a Hi-Viz, it just is.  Builders rock the look but apart from that there can be little argument.

So what of it you might say.  Well I’m not just picking on the fine men and women in blue, rather the way society has changed, expectations have changed and opinions have changed and how, little changes within the context of the big picture, can actually greatly impact on our perception.

Now that example has been exhausted let’s move on to politicians.. No… wait… that really is a whole new blog!

Haven’t read a Max Power book yet?  I think it’s time to pick one up.
Max Power’s books include, Darkly Wood, Darkly Wood II The woman who never wore shoes, Larry Flynn, Bad Blood and Little Big Boy
You can find more details about Max Power’s books here : –
http://www.amazon.com/author/maxpower
https://maxpowerbooks.wordpress.com
fhttp://facebook.com/maxpowerbooks
twitter @maxpowerbooks1

Universal book links
http://getbook.at/Darkly-Wood
http://getbook.at/Darkly-Wood-II
http://getbook.at/Little-Big-Boy
http://getbook.at/Larry-Flynn
http://getbook.at/Bad-Blood

Something ancient stirring…

There is hole in my psyche.  I can never quite understand what makes me and I am constantly thwarted by the shadows that come and go in my life.  Happiness has always been a choice for me, but sometimes that choice is stolen by the unexpected.

The collateral damage that grief has on my life is significant. It is strange because as I get older, I encounter death and loss more often. Perhaps I should be better prepared for the future moments that will draw shadows from my past. It is embedded in the craft I chose to pursue and in my writing; I know I occasionally drip some of my pain from my pen. It cannot be helped and in a way it helps me find a voice for some of my characters, often the darkest of them.

Today I rekindled much of the sadness that has followed me as I opened my eyes in the misshapen light of pre-dawn. Alone with my thoughts, I felt that crush which comes with sad news and as always, my reaction is to figure out my smile for the world. I laugh loudest when the darkness comes, for I am not one to be defeated easily.

Late yesterday evening, we had a strange experience in our house, one that set me on edge and not to be reported here.  Rarely do I have a witness to what hovers around me when I am at my lowest, but we both witnessed an unexplainable event and yet I am not surprised. This morning my shadow man returned as I waited in to silence of the early morning.

While he never changes in appearance, each time he is different. Those familiar with my Mr. Squiggles, will know the name I gave to him, has not had the desired effect of lessening his menace. I watched him in the darkness and he drew closer than he has in the past. Although he did not touch me, I felt him. People often use the expression, the hairs stood up on their neck. I felt them rise along my whole body, my arms, and my outer thigh. There was a touch of frost about me but I wasn’t afraid.

What I felt was involuntary.  Something ancient stirred, to remind me to be afraid and my body reacted but not my mind.  So I looked straight at my shadow man and he was neither distinct nor vague. He was just there, perhaps a foot from my face, examining me.  I could feel the tightness in my chest and he lingered, as if he knew something and had come for me this morning at last. But then he drew back.

There was a moment of hesitation before he slithered away, sinking low and then he disappeared beneath the bottom of the curtains. I watched the flurry of silent movement and the faded shadow of Mr. Squiggles beneath them, and then he was gone.

And what of it you say? It has been some time since last we met he and I. There is no reason for him to visit me that can be perceived as good; there is no version of the world where Mr. Squiggles is benign. We all have our ghosts and our own version of Mr. Squiggles, though few I suspect are as manifest as he.  It is just that despite what you may think from reading this, despite your beliefs, disbeliefs or incredulity, my Mr. Squiggles is very real. No one is more sceptical than I, yet here I am again declaring my strange shadow man to be tangible.  My creature of the night, watching and waiting, knowing something, sensing something in me and always there almost it seems, in the hope of acquiring my soul.

I know he will be back.  His visits are infrequent, often portentous; sometimes I suspect they are born of his curiosity. It is as though he is impatient with me, wondering why I have not yet succumbed to his darkness.

I have written some very dark tales, especially in my Darkly Wood series, but none as dark as Mr. Squiggles. My day has passed without event and I dragged the light from the darkness with a smile and a quip as I always do.  It’s what I do.  But I know he will return.  He will be there again, a shadow man hiding in the shadow of the night, on my window ledge or in the corner of my room, impatiently checking in on me, hoping. It always seems as though he knows something that I don’t. Perhaps he does. If one day I figure out his purpose, I will surely tell you, or perhaps by then, it will be too late…

Haven’t read a Max Power book yet?  I think it’s time to pick one up.
Max Power’s books include, Darkly Wood, Darkly Wood II The woman who never wore shoes, Flynn, Bad Blood and Little Big Boy
You can find more details about Max Power’s books here : –
http://www.amazon.com/author/maxpower
https://maxpowerbooks.wordpress.com
fhttp://facebook.com/maxpowerbooks
twitter @maxpowerbooks1

Universal book links
http://getbook.at/Darkly-Wood
http://getbook.at/Darkly-Wood-II
http://getbook.at/Little-Big-Boy
http://getbook.at/Larry-Flynn
http://getbook.at/Bad-Blood

 

The dirty smokes, loads of cheese and New Year resofeckinlutions…

I think I might have had one too many chocolates over the Christmas. I might also have had a bit too much turkey and ham. Then there was all that pork, beef, and I did eat a lot of bread for some reason. And who bought all that lovely dip, that quite literally forced me to eat all those crisps and nachos?  Of course there was also the matter of Joanna’s lovely trifle, which to be fair would have gone to waste had ‘someone’ not finished it off. She also made her very special sausage stuffing which needs to be tasted to believed, then tasted again and I must say I’m a believer.

Some people hate sprouts. I love them as long they are cooked in the water from boiling the ham and while I’m not generally a big potato fan – that’s potatoe if your name is Bush (who remembers that one?) – the Christmas spuds were to die for.

What the feck is wrong with us at Christmas?  I haven’t even mentioned all that yummy cheese, the Tunnocks Tea cakes or Caffrey’s snowballs. Somewhere between December 24 and New year, I ate my way through more calories, than the population of a small Mediterranean Island could manage in a month.  It’s unnatural I tell ya’.

The problem now of course is that it has all come to a sudden, crashing stop.   Over the coming days, I will have to adjust to getting back up off my arse as I return to work, in addition to resuming a ‘normal’ diet again. What a shock to the system that is going to be.  For me it’s not so much about the calories as the fact that I have a dodgy ticker, so I have to be careful in general.  I can’t afford to eat unhealthily if I want to stay alive, so it is back to eating good stuff. To be fair, I like the good stuff, it’s just that I know my brain has been re-set to craving junk.  I’ve even started to eat lots of bread. I’m a carb craving calorie monster at the minute…well up until last Monday anyway. Of course, I’m quite peculiar when it comes to food anyway. Not that I am picky, I will eat just about anything.  By peculiar I mean in relation to my appetite.

 I can go all day without eating, something that is certainly not good for you.  Some people get grouchy if they don’t eat, they het ‘Hangry’ if you will, overcome by an irritability that makes them rise to anger easily once hunger strikes. I can work away without noticing that I’ve not had breakfast nor lunch, and can even drive on past dinner time as though I have a full belly.  It is only when I actually eat that I get hungry.  It is the strangest thing.

The problem is that when I am at home for ten days over Christmas, grazing my way through anything and everything, I just keep eating.  Yesterday was my first day back to work and well, so far not a twinge.  I was even offered choccie biscuits but I declined without batting an eyelid. My challenge will begin when I get home for dinner and start eating. Ahh the lure of the left over Christmas junk food.

But  it is really not a complaint now is it. The solution is quite simple. Close the fridge, step away from the sweet bowl, and don’t go hunting for crisps. Choice is the key.  It is how I gave up smoking.  I made a choice. 

I gave up the ciggs thirteen years ago.  Like most people  who want to quit, I had tried everything and failed- many times. So I analysed what I was doing wrong.  I realised that it was never the quit part that was an issue.  I could always manage that part.  It was the staying off cigarettes that presented the problem.

So in the spirit of New Year and for all those with resolutions, especially the one to stay off the fags, I will share with you, the secret of my success  giving up the fags. Pay attention now campers. 

Usually when I quit, (and I had tried many times( day one was hard but that was when my resolve was strongest. By day three, I was weakening and if I dared have a drink I was fecked altogether. So in my analysis I came to a few conclusions. I realised that I inevitably had a cigarette ‘eventually’ which always meant I was back to square one or ‘back on the fags.’ The other thing I realised was that if I was honest with myself, a part of me wanted me to stay a smoker.  I liked them so why wouldn’t I?  Usually what happened (and this is only me of course, it’s different for everyone) was that I began to miss them. Then that missing turned to desire and because of the addiction, my desire inevitably won out.  I would panic if I got stressed out when I had no cigarettes – especially if I really ‘needed’ one which of course was a self-fulfilling prophecy. During withdrawal I was constantly looking for an excuse to go back on them. 

I chose to do several things to overcome my multi-layered problem. First, I dealt with the notion of re-set, by which I mean one cigg and you’re back to square one. Simple, I decided to forgive myself any single indiscretion i.e. if I slipped up and had one cigarette after say ten days for example, I would not press the reset button by which I mean the next day would not be day one again, but day eleven. This removed one common excuse. “Ah sure I smoked so I’m back on them now.” 

Next I overcame the problem of the feeling of panic because I had no access to cigarettes. Again –simple.  I placed a full, unopened pack of fags in the door pocket in my car. Should I be overwhelmed, then they were available to me. Out of sight importantly, but available, just in case.  But I knew from experience that wouldn’t work on its own, so I added two more key elements, choice and penalty. 

The penalty for opening the pack was that in order to smoke the cigarette, I had to first drive to a shop, buy a fresh pack of 20 and place them in the door of my car.  Then I could open the other pack; smoke only one before crushing and binning the remaining 19 cigarettes in the bin outside the shop.  It sounds ridiculous and it is, however it has a surprising impact on the old brain when you realise by default, how much money you spend on cigarettes. More importantly, as I was focusing on every cigarette being a choice, it highlighted the power they had over me. I began to gain control over my addiction through the power making it a positive choice to quit gave me.  The stupidity of the process, made me understand  just how much control nicotine had over me and I didn’t like it.  I became more determined to overcome the addiction from the very first time I opened the pack in my car and threw away the remaining nineteen cigarettes.  

Choice was the key.  I asked myself a simple question every day. “Do you want to be a smoker or do you want to overcome the addiction.”  This allowed me to leave the pack in my car unopened, while its presence gave me comfort and eliminated the sense of panic.  It allowed me to work with the strange set of rules I had created.  It allowed me to forgive myself on the very few occasions where I lapsed and went through the throwing away ritual, but I never reset back to day one.  I knew they were there if I wanted them, but what I had to go through to have one, reminded me that I really wanted to give them up more than I wanted to have another one.

The upshot was that after a couple of lapses, over about four months, I finally lit but didn’t even finish my last cigarette.  I realised that I really didn’t want to smoke anymore and eventually chucked my support pack away altogether. The important thing is that unlike many former smokers  – I don’t miss them because I don’t’ feel like I am depriving myself of something I loved.  Quite the opposite. I chose to quit and I was successful. Focusing on the fact that I was making a choice, gave me power and control over the demon nicotine.  Just as well…ten years later I had a heart attack and that could have been a lot worse had I not quit.  But even without my trip to the light and back, I know that  I will never smoke again and there is no sweeter feeling.  I think for all things in life, you have to make a choice and take responsibility for that choice.  That’s the key.

I’m not sure if this strategy will work for anyone else giving up the little devils, but it did for me. Now I’m off to see if I can fit a box of biscuits, a kilo of cheese, some sliced chicken and a large sliced pan into the door of my car.  Happy New Year everyone…

Haven’t read a Max Power book yet?  I think it’s time to pick one up.
Max Power’s books include, Darkly Wood, Darkly Wood II The woman who never wore shoes, Larry Flynn, Bad Blood and Little Big Boy
You can find more details about Max Power’s books here : –
http://www.amazon.com/author/maxpower
https://maxpowerbooks.wordpress.com
fhttp://facebook.com/maxpowerbooks
twitter @maxpowerbooks1

Universal book links
http://getbook.at/Darkly-Wood
http://getbook.at/Darkly-Wood-II
http://getbook.at/Little-Big-Boy
http://getbook.at/Larry-Flynn
http://getbook.at/Bad-Blood