FRAMED – A Protect Your Breasts Anthology Raising Money For Cancer


I am a #PYB Wordy Warrior and I’m thrilled to share this with you today. I’m proud to have an exclusive piece featured in this book, and you can check it out in exchange for a donation to Cancer Research. Read on for more info…

Framed is a book put together by Protect Your Breasts in order to raise money for Cancer Research, but rather than put the book on sale, it’s being given as a thank you gift for donations made through their Just Giving page

28 authors

Framed is a collection of twenty eight stories, one thousand words in length, each written by one of twenty eight writers, collectively known as the #PYB Wordy Warriors.

Beautiful girl travelling through the magical portal - fantasy tale

All the tales in this anthology are inspired by this picture. Every story is different, every writer’s way with words unique, but they stand united for the cause. Fear, love, pain and freedom; you’ll find it all in this book, on a heart-breaking and uplifting journey through beautiful prose.

The team of Wordy Warriors and the team at #PYB want to say a huge thank you for all your support and we hope you enjoy this collection.


You can get the full list of #PYB Wordy Warriors and more details about this project here


How can you get your hands on this book and support this cause? In three easy steps

  • Make a donation through this Just Giving Page
  • Register the name you made the donation under and your email address through this form
  • Enjoy the words, support the cause and follow #PYB



Protect Your Breasts is a non-profit campaign ran by Lisa Fulham and V to raise awareness for the importance of self examination for the signs of Breast Cancer.

You can follow and support #PYB in the following places





So please go and make your donation and leave your email address, and receive 28 wonderful short stories.

Together let’s make C stand for Clear, not Cancer


RELEASE DAY – JUST JACK BY @KLShandwick – #MustRead

I’m thrilled to share the release info for K.L Shandwick’s new book, Just Jack.  Check out the synopsis and excerpts below, and find her various social network presences at the bottom.  K.L is a wonderful writer – you’re not going to want to miss this one!
 Being Lily Parnell’s best friend was effortless for Jack. Growing up together, Jack loved Lily and was fiercely protective of her and for most of his life all he wanted was to make her happy. When she was happy he was happy, except Lily lived a world away from him now and Jack missed her dreadfully. As far as Jack was concerned there had never been a time in their lives where they hadn’t shared everything. In recent years Lily’s ambitions took her overseas and even with an ocean between them, Jack still managed to support his best friend. One day things changed everything between them and their relationship began to shift. Lily was carving her own life and after observing a scene involving her, it made Jack take a close look at his own. Feeling confused, Jack decided to take a difficult decision never realising the potential fallout from doing something he felt was the right thing at the time. With his life laid bare Jack and as a simple, uncomplicated guy he thought he had things finally figured out. Women loved Jack and they came and went in his life apart from Lily. She was always there, until one day she wasn’t. Jack felt betrayed and abandoned by the one person who he thought he could rely on no matter what. During his journey from that moment on Jack faced more separation and loss than he could ever have imagined how would it shape him both as a man and can he forgive her?
Rick cracked the door open and padded through it hacking a cough and reaching for the mini-bar. “Mornin’ Lothario.” He croaked in my direction without making eye contact, reading the labels.
Chuckling loudly, there was just no way I was going to live down that after party Mark was talking about, but when I took in the sight of him I couldn’t help but throw a come-back at him.
Did your mother send you that get up, or are the pyjamas supposed to turn the women in your room off enough to leave?”
Rick looked down and smirked at the wine coloured paisley patterned silk pyjama bottoms he was wearing.
Waving his hand at the chair for me to sit down he pulled a glass and poured himself a miniature of gin and a small bottle of tonic water into it. “Long story.”
“Can’t wait.” My hurried comment was followed up with a wide grin as I settled back in the chair with one leg crossed over the other, my ankle resting on my knee.
“Allergy. I’ve got a rash from the starch on the hotel sheets the other night.”
As soon as he said that I knew he was going to regret it and I could see from the startled look on his face he’d been caught off guard and didn’t mean to be so open about it. He knew he’d walked right into something that I’d use against him, even if I was managing to keep my face straight.
“A rash?” I couldn’t keep the humour out of my voice, and there was even the hint of a breakthrough giggle in those two words.
Rick stared pointedly at me as if to say, “Laugh and tear you a new one,” but my sense of humour just overrode any potential fall-out consequences he may have been planning.
“That’s a bit like saying I got pregnant from the sheets, Rick. Don’t you think you’re more likely to have caught something from one of the women in your bed than the sheets? Or don’t you want to believe that just in case you get pussy-fright?
Rick threw the lid of the gin bottle at me and it bounced off my forehead but by that time I was chuckling loudly. “Laugh all you want, I’m allergic to starch. So they got me these from the hotel store because I needed something to make sure I was protected in bed. It was fucking murder trying to play with the itch in my pants the night before last.”
“Most guys wear condoms for protection, Rick not theatrical pyjamas.”
Rick was being deadly serious but the more he spoke the more uncontrollable my laughing became until he stood up and pulled them down to show me the red welts on his legs, his dick at eye level with me. Just as he did this, the door opened and the two girls he had in his bed came through the door.
Turning my head to look at them, I was still stifling a grin. Rick was true to form and had two classic groupies for his sleepover, skinny girls with big tits, no bras, dyed blonde hair with black roots dressed in the usual rock-chick attire of leather mini-skirts, fishnet stockings and tight dark brown and cream t-shirts with the ‘Cobham Street’ motif on them.
“Sorry ladies, I was just about to part-take would either of you like to join me?”
My quip was out before I’d even thought about it. Hell, I was probably going to be sacked after this, but I grinned widely and Rick smacked me around the head, making me cry out— partly in surprise, partly out of pain.
“You’re such a smart ass Jack Cunningham.” Pivoting the top half if his body in their direction he gestured at me with his hand, his pyjamas still at his ankles. “I was just showing him my rash.”
Laughing raucously I stared helplessly at Rick taking in his pathetic form with the patterned material draped around his feet and his dick dangling in front of him. As soon as I knew he felt the need to explain what was happening all of my professionalism suddenly deserted me and I was struggling to catch my breath, let alone stop laughing. The skinnier one of the girls gave a loud snort, then her resolve was gone and she joined in laughing, but I think she was laughing because mine was so infectious more than anything else.
Rick continued protesting his innocence when suddenly the second girl who had been standing staring deadpan erupted in the oddest hee-haw laugh I’ve ever heard in my life. The look on Rick’s face was a picture as he gawped in disbelief with his jaw open taking in all of us laughing hysterically at his expense. I was sure he was going react badly, but even at that I just couldn’t get it together at all.
Rick bent down and pulled his pyjamas up, which I found even funnier for no particular reason and this set off a fresh bout of laughter. Striding over to open the door, Rick waved a finger in the direction of the two women and Jed made short work of evacuating them from the scene. All I could do was watch helplessly because I couldn’t get my laughing fit under control, and I was sure I was going to be next to be thrown out, but probably via the roof terrace.
Closing the door again, Rick bent forward, his hands on his knees and he suddenly cracked up with laughter. “Jack fucking Cunningham, I should bury my size eleven up your ass for what just happened there, and I don’t understand why I can’t…I fucking love you, dude. You have no idea what a breath of fresh air you are in a world full of ‘yes men’. How the fuck have you been?”
KLShandwick just Jack 2015©
K. L. Shandwick lives on the outskirts of London. She started writing after a challenge by a friend when she commented on a book she read. The result of this was “The Everything Trilogy.” Her background has been mainly in the health and social care sector in the U.K. She is still currently a freelance or self- employed professional in this field. Her books tend to focus on the relationships of the main characters. Writing is a form of escapism for her and she is just as excited to find out where her characters take her as she is when she reads another author’s work.
Get in touch with her:

Guestblog for Chris Kuhn: The Great Debate – Book Vs Film

The amazing Chris Kuhn, author of The Muse Unlocked, has kindly had me over at her blog to write a new piece on topics I’m passionate about – writing, books and movies.  I turn my eye to the book and upcoming adaptation of The Martian by Andy Weir, and give my thoughts on the book vs film argument…


It got me thinking about adaptations of books, and particularly that withering mantra so often clung to by readers as tightly as the tomes they adore: “The book was better.”

Hear that?  That’s the sound of my interest in any potential discussion sauntering off to look at dandelions.  “The book was better”, as an opening conversational gambit isn’t “I’m not sexist, but…”, but its about as likely to render a meaningful and open-minded discourse.

Read the full blog over at Chris Kuhn’s website here.

AFTER / HER – A Poetry Collaboration With Edina Jackson of Pink Intrigue Media

I’m thrilled to be part of this collaboration with Edina Jackson of Pink Intrigue Media and Laptops & Coffee Cups, a wonderful project bringing poetry and art together.  Take a look at our pieces and read all about Edina’s projects below…

AFTEREdina Jackson is a journalist/creative writer/multimedia artist and business owner. Growing up the in the UK, she always knew she wanted to write. She wrote her first poem at the tender age of five, and the rest is history.  Her poetry often focuses on the topic of love and relationships, and in some way writing is a cathartic process for her.

Her Edina owns and runs London based multimedia company, Pink Intrigue Media. The company was founded in 2008 out of a love of technology and a deep attachment to the written word. One of Pink Intrigues sites, Laptops and Coffee Cups is dedicated to visual art and poetry, and the promotion of talented creatives like herself.

Edina has one published children’s book entitled ‘Dusty the Ditsy Dog Paints the Town Blue’ The book focuses on the idea that we can change the world if we believe we can. She was inspired to write the book by her son, and she continues to  write online short stories for children  in her spare time.
Edina is currently working on a number of visual art and creative writing projects. Such as ‘Thinkingaboutaboy’ which is a series of visual art pieces, poetry and short films. It will be released at the end of 2015.  She has just completed the ‘Glow Pink’ Series, which is a series of visual pieces focusing on the effect that certain colours have on the brain.   She is currently working on the next series ‘Glow Blue’ which include a number of written pieces as well visual pieces.
Edina works from her studio in South London, as she continues to create art using various different mediums.
We hope you’ve enjoyed these pieces!  Head over to Edina’s social links above and her Instagram page to stay updated with her wonderful work.

Three Simple Tips To Make Your Book Better

Three Simple Tips

So, you’re writing your opus, or a series of short stories, or an epic poem.  How can you make it as good as it can be?  How can you let your readers get so lost in the piece that finishing it feels like discovering a new love and an old friend, all at once?

Give these tips a try.  I had to learn them all the hard way, but they most definitely work…


Let It Breathe

You’ve just finished a first draft that has left you in a breathless whirlwind. You feel fantastic. Of course you do, and you should, because you’ve just created something wonderful. You’re desperate to share it with the world.

Don’t you dare.

Not just yet.

That stack of pages, those lines of verse, those frolicking clauses and fictional marvels are just as exhausted and buzzing as you. That means they’re not thinking straight. They’re the headless chicken we hear so much about. They’re lava, nowhere close to cool enough to touch.

Leave them be.   Put the pages away. Close your laptop for a few hours, or better, a few days.

Walk, run, read, listen, watch, screw, laugh, and love, and put this new creation out of your mind, just for a while.

Then, when you’ve refilled your energy reserves, take the project out of the drawer and look at it with eyes that feel like they’re seeing it for the first time. Let your new project be the old friend you haven’t seen in a while. You’ll notice how they’ve changed, but you’ll love them all the same.

You’ll see where the roughest edges are. You’ll see what you can lose, and what you can expand upon. It will make your second draft – and there should absolutely be a second draft – be that much easier to get into shape.


The Pudding Is In The Proof

You can’t make a delicious cake without the right ingredients, and you can’t make a masterpiece without the right steps, either.

One of my failings is haste. Sometimes I’ll write a poem directly into an image app or Photoshop, a quick musing that tickles me, and I’ll pull the trigger to fire it off into the world without a moment’s hesitation. And then, after it’s been retweeted, liked, shared and commented a few times, I’ll notice there’s a glaring typo in it, or a superfluous repeated word. For that split-second I know the reader will be thrown out of the piece.

I’ve done the same with blog posts, and I’ve published books that, while I was convinced I’d caught every minor error, I’ve picked it up, flicked it open, and seen a glaringly obvious blunder on the first page I come to. Occasionally, somebody who is deep into one of my books will drop a discreet tweet (and bless them for that) saying ‘There’s a spelling error on enter-page-here’.

It’s embarrassing, dispiriting, and it’s entirely preventable.

Proofread your work. Seriously.

Like a famed speech-giver extolling the virtues of sunscreen, I cannot stress this enough.

Proofread.  Your.  Work.


Proof it, and get other people to do it. A bunch of them. People who know the difference between ‘there’ and ‘their’. People who can see where your tense shifts from present to past and back again, all in a single sentence. Folks who pay attention to things like clothing, like eye colour, and that nut allergy you mentioned on page four that didn’t rear its head when your protagonist dipped into a bag of dry roasted on page ninety-two. You need your Grammar Nazis and your continuity-sticklers. Arm them with a fine tooth comb, and let them search for the nits amongst your pages.

Once you’re entirely sure, it’s one hundred percent proofed and perfect… proof it again.


Know What The Story Is – But Not Necessarily At The Start

The best stories are about something.

That doesn’t necessarily means a lot of things happen in them, although that’s very important too.

It means they have themes, and motifs, a heart, and a point.

Harry Potter isn’t about magic, or wizards. Sure, those things are in the story. But it’s about friendship, about growing up, about being brave in the face of the vagaries of the world. A story of love between two strangers may really be about acceptance, or discovery, or coming to terms with the past.

Your story could be about love, or life, or memory, or friendship, or passion, or betrayal, or all of the above in one glorious and exciting tale. As the writer, you need to know what these things are.

You can know when you start, you can find it as you go, or even realise it at the end.  Just know it.

Once you know it, go back and see where you can make these themes stronger, how you can create cohesion in your future drafts. Trim away what the story isn’t about, to show off what it really is. That’s not to say your story can’t meander into new territory, but be wary of trying to cram too much ‘about’ into one place.

Save some for your next wonderful story.


So – writers and readers – do you agree or disagree? Do you have any of your own advice for how to make sure your book is as good as it can be?  Let’s hear them below.


Cameron Lincoln. 2015.

SWEAT – A Swift Encounter


The heat is oppressive, and we’re driven inside seeking the solace of shade.  In the stifling atmosphere of the kitchen you pour yourself a glass of water, sip the icy nectar to slake your thirst, but I have other plans.

My shadow casts on the wall as I approach; you are dwarfed, and have no time to prepare.   I press against you, the bare, moist musculature of my chest against your back, my arms enfolding you, guiding the tumbler away from your lips and angling it with care.  You anticipate the splash of mercurial water across your neck, your bikini-clad breasts, but it’s still a surprise when it comes.

You yelp.


You slip your finger into my open mouth and I close my plush lips around it, sucking, tasting the salt of your sweat, and your hands cup my breasts, tracing through the rivulets of water that washed away the natural gloss my pores provided.  The cleanse will not last, for nature has shown her fiery mood today, and my own body responds in kind to your touch.

I want to sweat for you, to slip against you like oil, skate against your skin.  I grind the cheeks of my buttocks against your shorts and feel you, all ready for me; you watched me bask in the glow of the sun and could not contain yourself.  I know it’s all for me, and it makes it all the more a delight to feel.

Your tongue trails my shoulder, leaving a wet wake through the beads of moisture on my flesh, and you end the trail on my neck with a sharp nip and a lingering kiss.

Take me.


The ropes of your hair drape between my fingers as I clench my hand and tilt your head back, savouring the gasp you release.  I empty the last of the glass across your chest and imagine the water hisses as it hits the sun-heated floor.  That is the last thing on my mind now; you are the fore, your taste and your scent, the wetness of your skin against mine.

My finger tips dive the plunge of your stomach to the cove below, seeking the hidden treasure nestled between your quivering thighs, peeling back the covering and cresting the moistening rise of your desire for me.  You let me in and I find your most intimate pearl already waiting for attention.  Your texture and your mewls strengthen the length that needs release.

I walk you to the couch and tip you across it, pinning you with my weight, the oily canvases of our bodies unified and one.


You are sensual, beautiful and caring so often, but I love when you are like this; animalistic and desperate.  This is raw and right.  I seethe as you arrive within my being, filling me so ably and thrusting to my core.

Your sweat splashes my spine and you steel yourself with my sodden locks.  My flesh weeps with heat and exertion and you lap the tangy tincture away in slaloms of sensation.  There’s silence but for the sound of wet flesh slapping and our primal, ragged breaths.

I tighten inexorably around you and I’m blinded by the heat of the moment when I howl my desire.


You shudder beneath me, every muscle twitching under your glistening bronze skin.  You bury your face to mute the sound of your abandon and I feel you explode as I have done so many times before; a spray of natural mist coats my thighs and I cannot contain my own fluid delight.

I spill within you; a floodgate unhinged, pouring every drop in a torrent of intimate intrusion.  We’re doused and drenched, saturated and stuck to one another by biology and lust.  I cling to you as the final clammy inches of skin seal together.  We’re a cocktail, mixed and blended, inseparable and complete.

The moisture cools but the heat remains, and I kiss the red welt I nipped on your neck, and forever refuse to peel myself away from you.


Cameron Lincoln. 2013.

Author & Poet


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