Category Archives: Young Adult


Well, people have enquired many times here, and it has taken eight or more years, but a fan here, supporter, young author himself and online US publisher, Jonathan Thurston, will publish SCREAM OF THE WHITE BEAR by David Clement-Davies, in 2018. Actually it is to be entitled CRY OF THE WHITE BEAR, in the spirit of a new adventure, and leaving behind the really terrible battle that was fought over it and other principals of art, law, truth and decency, with the major New York publisher Harry N. Abrams.  Which, because so much is about money over principle in the world today, has sky-rocketed to success with Young Adult books like A Diary Of A Wimpy Kind, that has sold over 180 Million copies.  The real story of its delay is probably as powerful as the book, but although David is sceptical about so much about the Internet world, or indeed how you really publish without the powers that be, or how much people are truly reading and connecting now, it is entirely appropriate that a young man of talent and passion like Jonathan tries to bring it to the world, with a quiet apology from the author for having disappointed his fans and readers for too long.



Filed under Books, Culture, Fantasy, New York, Publishing, The Arts, The Phoenix Story, Uncategorized, Young Adult



Gareth Marks was in a world of dream, or nightmare. On a mean little cot in a dingy basement in Pendolis where the 12-year-old was now sleeping he suddenly heard a soft, whispering voice in his darkened mind.
“Gareth, where are you, Gareth? I can’t even see you.”
At first the boy thought that it was his mum but the voice became clearer, delicate but strong and almost beautiful, and he saw his little dragon, the Firecutter, hovering before his eyes again.
“You must get out of there, Gareth, it’s not safe. No where’s safe any more. Not even Pendolis.”
The dragon’s mouth didn’t move at all but she was definitely speaking to him. Gareth Marks felt an awful ache and reached out to the little creature, but like a spirit, trying to escape capture, it flapped its blue wings, pulled backwards in the air, and was gone.
“NO. Don’t leave me. Not again.”
The 12-year-old woke with a jolt, shivering badly, and sat bolt upright, half expecting his step dad to be there. Instead he saw Sao Cheung standing at the end of his cot, smiling kindly at him, although his eyes were red and puffy, and he had obviously been crying.
He was holding some clothes in both hands and his Baseball jersey was gone. Instead, the Chinese American boy was wearing baggy moleskin trousers, leather sandals, and a kind of rough sacking, that looked like it was made of coconut hair with a big pocket at the front. It made him look slimmer.
“Hiya,” he said softly, blinking, “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Thanks, Sao.”
“Er. They brought us these,” said Sao, holding out the bundle of rough clothes, “They say they want us at work in ten minutes.”
“Work?” mumbled Gareth wearily, half thinking himself back in the flat in London. His back was aching.
“Scullies. Kitchen boys, I guess,” whispered Sao, “The twins have started Dragon training. I saw them through the window, this morning.”
“Morning?” said Gareth, “But how long have I been asleep, Sao?”
“Hours and hours. A whole day and night, and more. I had some really weird dreams. It was horrid.”
Gareth rubbed his eyes, got up and took the unpleasant outfit. He suddenly felt a pang of jealousy for the older twins, joining those tough looking Dragon Warriors, and wondered where Sarissa was. They had taken her to a different room, the morning before. Then Gareth thought of the poor mute boy, and his smuggled FireCutter. He shuddered.
“Gareth, er, it’s going to be ok, isn’t it?” asked Sao Cheung nervously. “Please.”
“Yes,” answered Gareth kindly, not knowing at all, “I promise.”
The poor eleven year old looked a little reassured.
“And I promise something else, Sao, I’ll find a way to get us all home. Somehow.”
“They left us some water and funny biscuits,” said Sao, more cheerfully now, looking to a battered metal tray, sitting on a wooden table in the corner. The room was like a stone cell, with a metal grill over the window. From the light outside, Gareth Marks guessed it was about mid day in Blistag.
“Go and have some, Sao,” said Gareth, yawning but trying to be the adult, “I’ll get changed.”
The 12-year-old boy was used to dealing with himself at home and pleased to get out of his pyjamas, and into some shoes, and proper clothes, although he made sure to collect all the pieces of the very dangerous book and stuff them in his front pocket. As Gareth turned there was a thumping on the thick wooden door that made them both jump.
“Scullies to the ready,” cried a gruff and angry voice. “Bouchebold is waiting and it he doesn’t like waiting.”
“Bouche…what?” whispered Sao nervously.
“Come on, Sao,” gulped Gareth, “Keep your eyes peeled and stick close to me.”
As the two boys pulled open the door and stepped outside into a narrow stone corridor, lit by burning braziers in brackets on the walls, they saw other scullions emerging from their rooms too. From their evident confusion it seemed they were just starting too. They were one or two grimy faced girls amongst them, although they were mostly boys, tall and older than Gareth and Sao, about ten of them in all. They were all silent and nervous, as they stood in their coconut sacking and they looked rather brow beaten and frightened.
Gareth grinned immediately, surprised how glad he was to see Sarissa again, as she came storming out of a door on the right, dressed like Gareth and Sao, although with a kind of white napkin on her head like the other two girls. Sarissa Hallet was addressing no one in particular but she kept looking around frantically.
“I demand to be sent home immediately. I’m Sarissa Hallet and I’ve got a tennis…”
Sarissa suddenly noticed Gareth and blushed and fell silent. He and Sao Cheung lined up beside her as a tall, thin scullion, marched up and down the line. He was about seventeen, with a mean, angry face and he looked at them all in utter contempt, with a definate hint of cruelty in his mean little eyes.
“Buttersqueak fodder,” he snorted scornfully and Gareth Marks wanted to run at him with his head, “Nothing but filthy Buttersqueak Fodder. But know yer place, right, and learn the rules around the Great Bouchebold. Do as you’re told, work yer fingers to the bone, keep quiet, and you’ll be rested and fed, more than water and biscuits too. I takes my cut, mind. Cry, steal, make wave, or mess up and you might be fed to a dragon instead.”
They all looked wretched and bowed their heads.
“But one tip, above all,” said the bullying scully, “While you’re working in the kitchens or anywhere near Bouchebold, never, ever mention Dragon Chefs, right? Now come with me.”
The chief scully turned on his heels and dutifully the ten of them followed down the dingy, flickering corridor, Sao, Gareth and Sarissa taking up the rear. The stone passages seemed to go on forever, as they traipsed along, sensing the weight of an entire citadel above them, and wondering what they were about to face. But at last they saw a blaze of light ahead and heard the sound of shouts and frantic voices, the bustle of hectic activity. The new scullions were all flabbergasted as they stepped into the open room.
The great kitchens of Pendolis were like a huge stone cathedral or a stone vaulted wine cellar, billowing out smoke and steam, like incense, lined with wooden work benches, above which, from metal racks, hung huge spoons and knives, colanders, kettles and saucepans and copper pots, that shone like evening gold.There were people everywhere, cooking over open flames, washing in great stone basins, like cattle troughs, or preparing food, from great mounds of fresh produce, piled everywhere.
In one corner was an enormous bench, completely clear, that opened beyond into a dark hall, while in another was a great stone archway that glowed with a dim orange firelight. A giant carcass that looked like a miniature rhinoceros was slow roasting on a huge spit in the centre of the kitchen as scullies stood around and basted it in oil and fat. But strangest of all the flames seemed to rise out of the ground, with no coal, or wood to feed it, and Gareth noticed a peculiar smell, slightly unpleasant, mixing with the many delicious scents he recognised around him.
To one side of the cobbled kitchen were lined bulging sacks and every now and then cooks would shout and scullies would run to the sacks to bring them more ingredients as they worked over their hobs, where flames seemed to rise magically too, since Gareth Marks was sure Pendolis hadn’t invented modern cooking methods.
The haze was like being in an old-fashioned train station and the place like a little citadel itself. The newcomers noticed that every now and then a cook would turn on the scullies though and shout, clip one over the ear, or give them a kick with a boot.They saw all this through the haze like a magical dream itself, but suddenly a huge shape loomed out of the steam, there was a sharp cry of HALT and everything stopped moving.
The most extraordinary man was standing there now in a shining white chef’s outfit, smeared with blood and gravy. Huge, not for his height, but his girth and his chubby, rubicond face. It was so hot and red it looked like a Halloween pumpkin with a blaze of shock white hair on the top, that made him look like a mad, but rather brilliant professor. His eyes were gleaming, although the strangest and purest blue and he was sweating profusely and looked rather angry. The scullies suddenly looked terrified, even their leader, because he was also holding a huge chopping knife in his gigantic, fat fingered hands. But the chef suddenly smiled and it was like the sun coming out.
“Here, now. The new recruits!” he cried, in a rather squeaky, high-pitched voice, “How very splendid. Der-licious. And so much to do today too. I am the Great Bouchebold and this is my little kingdom. We serve the entire citadel, of course, but we’ve a special banquet tonight, for the start of the season. The first day’s often the hardest so we must serve the young Dragon Warriors something tremendous.”
The Great Bouchebold had begun to walk up and down the row slapping that knife rather ominously into his sweaty palm and eyeing his new recruits.
“The Dragoman will be there too, of course, ‘the Man Upstairs’, who adores his food. Though little does he know who’s really in charge, since an army marches on it’s stomach, eh?”
Bouchebold grinned and winked and turned to look back at his little army, hanging on his every word now.
“The Dragon Maidens will be there too,” Bouchebold went on in his odd, breathless voice, glancing at Sarissa and the other girls, “and to please THEM, we’ll have have to be real magicians, tonight, even you scullies.”
The new kitchen scullions were trying to nod and look interested.
“You may not have been chosen as fit to be Dragon Warriors,” said Bouchebold, “but you’re still young, so worthy to do your bit in the kitchens, in the great fight. It’s a war down here too, remember, so just try to do as you’re told and we’ll all get on splendidly.”
The new scullies were all rather relieved since Bouchebold did not seem a bad sort at all, until he stepped up to each and began prodding them, tweaking their cheeks, feeling their biceps, or surveying them carefully, as if they were all the finest cuts.
‘Scrubbing’ he would decree, with a laugh, or ‘Peeling vegitables’, or ‘basting’.
As he did so the elder scully pointed to one part of the kitchen and they filed meekly away, until Bouchebold scowled at him and pointed to a sack of potatoes.
At last Bouchebold came to Sarissa, Sao and Gareth though and it was Sao he was suddenly scrutinizing carefully. At first Gareth Marks fancied there was some recognition at the podginess of the Chinese boy, until he realised he was looking at Sao’s eyes.
“Extraordinary,” the Great Bouchebold whispered with an odd little giggle, “most remarkable. We should send you to see the Great Naturalist. What can you do though, lad?”
Sao Cheung gulped and shrugged.
“Dish washing,” said Bouchebold immediately, looking at Sao’s stomach, “and no pinching food.”
“If I have to work here,” said Sarissa suddenly, straightening her back with immense dignity “I’m not washing or scrubbing, I assure you. I’m pleased to help you cook though. As a Sou Chef,” she added knowledgeably. “I’m nearly fourteen, you know.”
Sao gulped and ducked slightly while Gareth Marks looked nervously at that gigantic knife, but they both sighed with relief as Bouchebold roared with laughter and rocked back on his heels. The roar, it has to be said, was more like clattering saucepans and ended in a high-pitched squeal.
“How splendid,” he cried, “Really delectable. You’ve spirit, girl, and I always like that in the mix. Just can’t get the help any more, so I’ll trust you with some basting, today, if you can lift the ladles. But keep your pretty nose clean and learn, girl, then who knows, in a year or two you…
“A year,” cried Sarissa Hallet in utter horror.
“Time flies like Dragon wing in Pendolis,” said the enormous cook and even as he said it, Gareth thought, at the very far side of the kitchen, he saw something take to the air from a pile of plucked chickens.
Bouchebold was pointing now and Sarissa and Sao were already moving off towards their allotted positions, obediently, but the cook turned to Gareth Marks now. He did not speak for several moments though.
“Hmmm. There’s something keen in your eye,” he said, at last. “Some boldness. Discernment too, perhaps.”
Bouchebold suddenly flipped the huge kitchen knife and offered Gareth the handle.
“Correcting,” he said, looking significantly to a group of scullies in a line, also wielding chopping knives, waiting in front of a bench piled with plucked animals, vegetables and spices.
“Correcting, Sir?” gulped the twelve-year-old nervously, although trying to look enthusiastic too. Gareth wanted to make an impression.
“The produce,” explained Bouchebold a little wearily, “there’s something wrong in Pendolis now the Black Warlock’s slobbering over everything and we have to be careful. Puts everyone off their food too, upstairs, if we don’t prepare and present, absolutely perfectly.”
Gareth Marks looked confused.
“So when a cut of lamb turns up with a sow’s ear or a lamprey starts to look like a lobster, we chop, separate and put things back in order. Order, order, order. It won’t ever go to high table, but nothing’s wasted down here.”
“The Teller,” said Gareth suddenly, his eyes sparking furiously, although his head was starting to spin too, “Because they say the Teller’s wounded?”
“You’re sharp, lad,” said Bouchebold approvingly, “For one so young and lowly. With ears to the ground too. That’s good. Very goos. In training, or down here. But what’s your name, lad?”
“Gareth Mar…. Er, Gareth of the Mark,” corrected Gareth, trying to stand taller.
“Got one, boy?” asked Bouchebold and his pure blue eyes narrowed.
“One, Sir?”
“A mark? Scar, birthmark, lesion, cicatrices, sixth finger?”
“No,” answered Gareth softly and he blushed. Bouchebold seemed rather disappointed as he loomed over him.
“Pity. I thought there was something about you. Everything in life is about the best ingredients but it’s important to stand out in Pendolis too. Mind you, the first lesson in blasted Warrior Training, they say, is always pick the right moment to show your true stuff. It can be really vicious out there, at times, and I mean, we’re making heroes here, not idiots.”
Bouchebold winked.
“Yes, Sir” said Gareth, feeling like an idiot and wondering what the twins were getting up to in their warrior training. He was suddenly glad he had been given kitchen duties.
“And stop calling me, Sir, lad. It’s COOKS down here. First Cook, in my case. Got that, Garnet?”
“Yes, First Cook, but it’s Gar.”
“And take a tip from Bouchebold. High or low, whatever it is you do in life lad, do it well. Everything you learn is of use, everything. But here, very few will tell you how it’s really done. Why should they? I mean they have their own dreams and ambitions. So you have to learn on the job. LEARN.”
“Yes,” said Gareth Marks, as BoucheBold seemed to look at him rather significantly, “thank you, Sir.”
“Manners too. I like that. Perhaps we’ll have you serving then, in six or eight months time. Now, musn’t dawdle. They’ll soon be waiting at the Pass.”
Gareth Marks suddenly felt home sick.
“Kitchen Staff of Pendolis,” bellowed Bouchebold though, swinging round dramatically, “Back to work now. Keep it tight and together and Good Luck, one and all. A Working kitchen is a happy kitchen. GET IT DONE.”
Bouchebold flicked his head and started to move off towards the bench as Gareth followed meekly but suddenly there was a flash of red and a bird went sailing over their heads.
“What’s that?” cried Gareth, ducking. The bird had settled on top of an enormous upturned copper cooking pot and he looked around as if he owned the place.
“THAT?” said Bouchebold, looking rather irritated with Gareth for even asking, “THAT is not a THAT, boy, but Herbert, the Kitchen Phoenix.”
“Phoenix,” gasped Gareth Marks, “the mythical bird that rises from…”
A thin wisp of steam seemed to be rising from the Phoenix’s feathers even now while Herbert had a decidedly sour expression in his doleful, watery eyes and his red feathers looked rather old and mangy. In fact one suddenly fell out, drifted into a bowl of jam and burst into flames.
“Mythical!” squeaked Bouchebold, looking very flustered indeed now, “oh, we don’t use such language in Pendolis, dear me, no. You’ll be saying Dragons are mythical next, heavens, or chimera, gorgons and even the Last Unicorn. Herbert would get very steamed up to hear he’s mythical. And Herbert has very good ears, or had, before he started to go a little deaf.”
Gareth shivered and suddenly remembered that horse he had seen running in terror from the Dark Wood.
“Yes, Sir, I mean First Cook,” corrected Gareth Marks quickly, “of course. You don’t use Dragons then, in your kitchen?”
Gareth was thinking of those recipes in Pendellion’s book and Bouchebold looked at him sharply. His face had suddenly become rather hard and suspicious, but it softened again.
“None to spare, nowadays,” answered Bouchbold almost wistfully, “But Herbert is my real eyes and ears down here,” he added fondly, although he seemed to be talking to himself now, “Quality Control, you see. Could never manage without him, dear creature. Herbert has a perfect palette too. Herbert’s worked and slaved in the Kitchens of Pendolis even longer than I have. And that’s nearly 80 years.”
Gareth was astounded, since the First Cook looked rather young, but even as Bouchebold said it the old bird took wing again and landed next to a cook who had been tasting something with a spoon and was looking rather confused.
The Phoenix stuck his head straight into the saucepan and, when it emerged, it was dripping with a thick, wine dark gravy. Gareth wanted to curl up with laughter as Herbert shook its head furiously and nodded its beak towards a pile of fresh rock salt. The cook looked rather crestfallen but added some obediently, and then some more, as Herbert nodded, rather superiorly too, then flew away in disgust, with a mournful and disapproving screech. The inspecting Phoenix settled by another cook now, chopping huge red onions this time, nearly the colour of its moulting feathers. Rather than do anything though, the bird just stood there, and Gareth suddenly realised huge tears were streaming from its feathery face.
“Is he chopping them wrong?” asked Gareth, holding his knife even tighter, and determined to make an impression today.
“Not at all,” said Bouchebold. “Best slicer in the kitchens. Trained him myself.”
“The onions then,” said Gareth, because Herbert the Phoenix was literally sobbing now, as the bird stood there watching.
“They’re sweet onions, not eye waterers,” answered Bouchebold, grinning. “Thing is, poor Herbert can be rather sentimental and always gets upset at cruelty, especially to vegetables.”
“Oh,” said Gareth Marks, thinking Pendolis the maddest place he had ever been now, and feeling suddenly lost again. He saw Sarissa by that spit-roast rhinoceros thing trying to pick up an enormous copper spoon, very irritably indeed, and poor Sao rolling up his sleeves, by a stone water trough and the most horrendously large pile of filthy plates.
Gareth looked down at the bench they had stopped at. It was ranged with plucked chickens, ducks, rabbits and geese, but they all had something slightly wrong. A rabbit had a frog’s legs, a duck had sparrow’s wings, a chicken had what looked like the comb of a Dragon. Gareth Marks felt rather sick but Bouchebold had suddenly reached out and grabbed one of the chopper’s arms.
“Not like that,” he growled, looking significantly towards that stone archway with the red glow, “or I’ll send you to work cooking for the Dragons, and you wouldn’t like that at all. Be careful and precise.”
Gareth wondered if Dragons really lay beyond and was rather startled by Bouchebold’s change of mood and tone but two men had come bustling across the room now, carrying two large wooden crates.
“Your fish, Bouchebold,” grunted one, “fresh from the Foundless Sea.”
“And a delivery of berries and champignon,” said the other, “from the Dark Wood.”
The Great Bouchebold’s glowing face lit up immediately.
“At last,” he cried delightedly, “The special ingredients. I thought they’d never get through, with the wars. Put them over there and don’t forget to mark them VERY DANGEROUS.”
The men nodded gravely and the great Bouchebold swept away into his kingdom, as Gareth was left with his chopping knife wondering what could be dangerous about food. So it began, their very first day’s work in the great kitchens of Pendolis.
As they worked Sao, Gareth, and Sarissa kept checking on each other’s progress, although they often lost sight of each other in all that smoke and steam. Gareth also kept trying to catch the First Cook’s eye, since he felt they had made some special connection but as he went about, testing, checking and suggesting, and the cooks took out their anger or frustration on the scullions, the Great Bouchebold had completely forgotten who they were.

David Clement-Davies Copyright 2014 – All Rights Reserved Published by Phoenix Ark Press

You can join the campaign on Facebook too, with David Clement-Davies, or at the page “Stories in The Post – The Dragon tries again”. There is an online meeting tonight with the Street Team about strategy at 6pm London time. You can also read what has been blogged so far on Wattpad.

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For Sarah, so sorry that the link to Kickstarter and Light of the White Bear wasn’t working yesterday. I hope it does now by CLICKING HERE

It really needs support now, if you want to be a reader and person waking up to connections in the world.
But if technophobes here have still got it wrong, you can instead Copy and Paste the URL into your browser

I think if we reach just 30% today we still have a melting ice cap’s chance of doing it!!!! Whether it’s there only being two months of ice in Greenland, when there used to be five, and this has happened in our lifetimes, or supporting Ban Ki-Moon’s cry and the UN New York summit in September, or just the love of good story and many blocked projects at Phoenix Ark it would be lovely and important having you along.

Thanks so much.



Filed under America and the UK, Books, Culture, Education, Fantasy, The Phoenix Story, Young Adult


Meeting Brit comic Jo Brand today in the Kennington Texaco – well, I opened the door for her – I should have told here about this and asked her help, reminded her of meeting her in a bar in Madrid years ago, when she told me to piss off, or just asked for some hot tips of Kickstarting stand-up comedy! It is the only way ahead.

Light of the White Bear has just jumped to 15%, which is great. On the other hand, do you know about Buddhists who rail at their pupils with heavy insults, then swap places? It is called trying to grow. Because in just a day and a half now I have already had another 200 visitors and only 3 pledges!!! Cheapskates. ARE YOU LISTENING, as the IPCC spreads a prophet of DOOM about Global Warming, you enormous CLOTH EARED DULLARDS? Kiss, Kiss. Is a film interesting, good enough, tedious, humiliating, even remotely funny? (Don’t answer that)

What exactly would move you though to TAKE THE PLEDGE, or risk anything except lurking about on the Internet? The true and extraordinary tragic love story of fluttering Phoenix Ark Press? Being a bit more Zen? Reading the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, (you know, machines with a Kickstarter motor), or discussing why my mate Tim is such a mean idiot for talking about certain people not having earned the right to be an artist, or complain, compared with the sufferings of him and the world? He should try being knifed in the back by a lover, an editor, a best London friend, fight on all fronts and survive! (Sort of.) But the point is Spirit is all.

Enough, reader help is required now, to PLEDGE or to please SPREAD THE WORD,because artists prefer proper publishing platforms and some peace too. But at least you can have a good laugh (I hope) at Kickstarter by CLICKING HERE

Tomorrow I’l talk more about story. I am going to bed!

Yours in humiliated exhaustion


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Well, when I was told years back I must keep my mouth shut by my own editor, but then politics saw a small department threatening a contracted author, when he was not challenging an ex’s career, and in a two year story that became both betraying, vicious and kafkaesque, I refuse to not be personal about Light of the White Bear, Phoenix Ark Press, books and stories, or indeed writers and editors. Things called books are made by real people and first by the writer.

I think the reason for the savagery is the very fear of that public eye, the internet too, that does encourage spooks with talk of ‘sooks’! But the point is the one person who should not have been destroyed in it was the award-winning author, contracted to tell difficult and challenging stories. Why too Phoenix Ark Press has always been a rather sad love story!

In the good fight then I go off book again and talk directly to an ex partner, Tamar, and to an editor of years in the US, Susan, and damn the world for preferring to hide, or to exercise unjust power behind the scenes, let New York Attorneys perjure themselves last year, pretend they fight against US Censorship or indeed say that books and great stories are not and should not be personal!

You can see that online, trying to bump a stalling Kickstarter project (despite sudden great jumps today – thank you) and trying to get over a bad hair day. But because everyone who supports, rich or poor, is important and it’s so helpful hearing from you too a new pledge and reward of £1.99 has just been created, that brings a thank you here and a free ebook too. Find out by CLICKING HERE


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Hello all! Well, nothing quite so melodramatic as planet saving, but just 30 days to pledge to a new project on Kickstarter and help an author publish the newly named Light of The White Bear, that certainly has very strong environmental themes.

It’s the book that has been held up so long, by people-killing publishers in New York City, but which now tests a Kickstarter model that has just reached 1 Billion in Pledges on the Internet! What’s great too is that in one sense it’s risk free, because, if you pledge and it doesn’t hit the investment target of 6k, you spend nothing at all. Meanwhile the smallest pledges are little more than what it would cost to buy the book anyway, which you will get on publication, signed too. There are several other types of pledges possible.

Readers and fans here have been an inspiration, and suggested such things as crowd funding before, but if you don’t want to get involved by pledging, or can’t afford to, it would be really fantastic if you could just alert friends and readers to this website and Kickstarter too, via blogging, emails, twitter, Facebook and Social Media, right after you’ve read this, if possible. 30 emails to friends, or even three, could make a big difference! Folk can even see an awful video of my ugly mug on camera.

But that 30 count down clock is ticking now, which could of course prove a little embarrassing(!), so thank you everyone for all your support. This might even be fun!

To link to kickstarter CLICK HERE

David Clement-Davies – Phoenix Ark Press

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To celebrate the August heat wave Phoenix Ark Press are delighted to announce the free promotion of The Terror Time Spies by David Clement-Davies. Kindle copies will be available for free download this Wednesday, August 22nd. Happy reading adventures! For your courtesy Wednesday copy Click here

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Phoenix Ark Press are delighted to publish The Terror Time Spies, by David Clement-Davies.

It is 1793 and Henry Bonespair and his little sister Spike are about to make a very dangerous journey to French Revolutionary Paris. It is Henry Bonespair’s birthday too and the leader of The Rat Catchers, a bold young gang of loyal friends, who love imitating the daring exploits of a rumoured English hero, The Scarlet Pimpernel, has just received a special present from his father’s employer, William Wickham. But in giving Henry Bonsepair his fabulous silver Chronometer, Wickham has his own dark motives, involving a plot top end the Revolution in a stroke, and a shadowy group of Royalists called The League of The Gloved Hand, as strange and ghostly voices are heard around his estate.

When the great trip is suddenly cancelled though, a boring English summer threatens to consume the Rat Catchers, until a pretty French girl staying on the estate is kidnapped by Revolutionary spies. So the children decide to take matters into their own hands, and in a moonlit barn form a brand new gang to help her. The soon-to-be hugely famous Pimpernel Club is born and a series of thrilling adventures begins that not only involves ships, coaches, guillotines, highwaymen and balloons, but a magical watch that may take them travelling through time itself.

Reading age 8-13

The Terror Time Spies is published exclusively to Amazon Kindle at $5.99 and available here

Phoenix Ark Press is a member of the IPG, The Independent Publisher’s Guild

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Hi Tiffany,

thanks for writing again. I’m very positive about Phoenix, readers’ kind and interested responses, and trying to let the issue ‘go’, but some very deep principles indeed were abandoned in this, both in life and in publishing. The astounding fear generated in New York around it has much to say of our times, perhaps, and a harm that can spread well beyond something as apparently unimportant as books. I did not behave very well, at times, but Abrams did something that was not only inhuman but actually breached essential US legal, even Constitutional principles. That’s why it’s flagged at the top of a blog. It is boring and repetitive sometimes, even damaging to put it there, but it was also blind and unnecessary. It is people who make the ‘systems’ we hide in or blame, and people who stand over real harm, or actually cruelty. In other examples that can go really dark. Abrams could and should make it right, but never will, and it is also about the sad climate in Publishing nowadays. As for The Sight 3, that would have happened too. I was told in the middle of it, by my editor Susan Van Metre, now Abrams VP, that fans ‘would love’ a sequel to Fell, and wrote a proposal, but that too was jettisoned, in a completely inadequate response to another book there and an editor’s ‘power over her list’, as my time and fans were disrespected.

As for my stories, Fell, Kar, you’ve hit a nail on the head. But Fell was the novel written at a wonderful time, that a person refused to even read, once talked about in warm jokes during editorial, but later part of awful invasions, by both an ex and my own editor, side by side. No writer or artist can be forced to function under those shocking conditions. No one can be dictated to like that, but see such dreadful and cynical hypocrisy. I hope they wake up to the harm they did, not only involving me but Howard Reeves. Nor was the story only about Abrams, but friendships back in London, and a laziness and emotional negligence that well reflected the passions and rivalries of wolf packs! Wolves though also seem to look after their own. Let’s move on and tell better stories about many things. Thank you for the encouragement, fans are only and rightly interested in the quality of stories, not the back room business of publishing, which here got straight into the front room.

all very best, DCD

To David Clement-Davies

I know Abrams stung you right through the middle but (being positive) forget about them. Your on this site now, your releasing ebooks on Amazon. Your doing wonderful for yourself. Look up reviews on amazon on paperback on some of your books:

The Sight:

Fire Bringer:

These reviews are not towards the publisher but to your work. The Sight has about 182 reviews.

Forget about The Man and continue this site’s great future.

You have my fan love, I don’t care about a publisher when I read a book I only care about the story, how it’s written, how character personalities are written and their situations. For a good example: Kar from The Sight, Kar is dragged away from his family when The Balker kidnap his siblings by Skop and adopted into Larka’s family and he seemingly accepts what he’s got before being separated from Larka and having to turn lone but calls Huttser father near the end when reunited with his pack.

I remember The Sight like it was a movie. I think it’s your best. Fire Bringer was good too but for me, I personally love dogs more then deer.

I hope Sight 3, will happen one day and you can give us the epilogue where Fell and Tarlar and puppies. Puppies would insure Fell’s happiness I think he needed it after the end of Fell, Kar needs to be with Larka. I’m sorry but I can’t imagine any other wolf with him.

This is the ending I’d write as a fan but my plot and layout planning sucks.

Hope this encourages you keep on your future track. All the best.

Tiffany B, A fan

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Phoenix Ark Press are delighted to announce the forthcoming publication of The Terror Time Spies by David Clement-Davies. The first in a thrilling adventure series about the soon to be famous Pimple Club, based on rumours of a daring English aristocrat, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and set during the French Revolution’s horrifying reign of terror.

It is Henry Bonespair’s birthday and he has been given a very strange present, a beautiful watch, while he and his tomboy sister Spike, in their wild little gang called The Rat Catchers, prepare to make a dangerous journey with their father to Revolutionary Paris. But the trip is cancelled, as fear and horror mount abroad, so when pretty French émigré Juliette St Honore is kidnapped by French Spies, there is nothing for it but to form a brand new gang, go to Paris, rescue Juliette from the jaws of the Guillotine and defeat the Frenchies themselves! Little do the daring Pimpernel Club know that Henry’s watch conceals not only a grave English spy secret, but can also open a doorway into some very strange and exciting worlds indeed. Perhaps through time itself.

Coming this July

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