Big Problem with Latest Earplug Adventures!

I was rather hoping that the Time Tamperer e-books would be published by now; but (if I understand the forums correctly) it appears that the publishers, Lulu.com, have huge problems with the software that converts Word documents into EPUB – the format required for e-readers. The glitch seems to have first appeared in October 2018; and despite their best efforts, continues to reject manuscripts in a random manner. I’ve gone through the manuscripts of Vol 1 and Vol 2 with a fine-toothed comb and can find no errors my end – but still the converter refuses to convert Vol 1 – showing an ‘unknown error’ each time I try. In the short term I plan to publish in PDF form, so that my adoring fans can still get their mitts on a readable copy for their laptop or whatever – even if it isn’t any good for e-readers. Hopefully Lulu can get their problems sorted and before long these lovely e-tomes will appear in all their glory…

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Coming Soon – to an E-Book Supplier Near You!

Once again the latest story is simply too big for one e-book. So, as a result, the multi-megabyte tale will be published in two volumes. And this is what they will probably look like – assuming that they get past the publishers standards, that is…

Utterly charming, I think you’ll agree. So watch out for more news on the subject.

P.S If you think either cover closely resembles a pile of excrement, please say so in the comment box: I’d hate to produce a shitty book.

Let’s Go Kobo

Checking out the availability of these, my latest, releases…

…I discovered Indigo, selling Kobo versions. So, if you own a Kobo Reader, you now know where to go. But, I feel certain, Indigo needn’t be your only port of call. If needs be, go explore the Internet.

And don’t forget it’s also at Barnes & Noble. and for your Kindle at Amazon! So get on over there and take a look. Why not give your funny bone a treat! 

New Release; With a Touch of the Hypothetical

Were you, by chance, to visit the iBookstore, you would discover that these two e-books have appeared there…

And were you the owner of an Apple product, upon which e-books can be easily read, I would urge you to visit. The world is full of wonders and although these books aren’t two of them, they are quite nice. And if you were to read them in public places, people might notice and begin to doubt the fullness of their lives. This, in turn, might cause them to investigate the Earplug Adventures – rendering them instant Earpluggers. How good would that be!

Launched…into Cyber Space!

Yes, even before the last excerpt appears on-line, The Grand Tour makes it into e-book-land. These two devilishly stylish volumes are now available at Lulu.com – prior to general release everywhere else. Go take a look, if only to satisfy your curiosity.

I’d like to think that the story was just too big for a single volume; but, to tell the truth, all those photos use up an awful lot of megabytes. The e-book file would have taken an eternity to download. So, yeah, like I said: the story was just too big for a single volume!

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 13

Long before those delectable earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

The following excerpt erupts, like a literary volcano, from Fanfare for the Common Hamster…

Nobody likes a sore loser, and there was surely no loser of more intense soreness than the Law Master of Weasels Pit – after once more losing her quarry – this time in a vast sump of slurry. Feeling utterly defeated she returned to the Rancid Maggot Inn where she resumed her copious imbibing, and entertaining those few lawmen who could be bothered to join her by showing them her latest piercings. Slowly, as the rough ale took its revenge for having been wrenched from the sanctuary of the beer cellar, Perfidity’s thoughts slowed, and the exalted feeling of being one with The Wheel seemed to putrefy, releasing the very beast within her that, under normal circumstances, she would have most dreaded: In short she got all horny.

Naturally Quentin Blackheart had already slipped from the scene, and was enjoying a bowl of steaming night time gruel in his little cabin beside Lake Effluence, so could not begin to assuage her needs.

Bet he was probably hamster-sexual anyway’, she thought morosely.

And the others now lay upon the floor, snoring in a most unmelodious way. It took a few moments for her brain to fully acquire the next thing that she looked at; but when she recognised the stairs for what they were – the way to Tybrow Mooney’s bedroom – she put aside her feeling of revulsion and loathing, and sent herself reeling towards the door.

Now it’s quite possible that in the event of the Law Master bursting into Tybrow Mooney’s private sanctuary  – smelling something evil, and swaying like a rhubarb frond in a hurricane – the potential recipient of a really good rogering could have been forgiven for clutching his night dress to his shallow chest, and screaming shrilly until either his eyes watered, or he ran out of breath. But this did not happen. This did not happen because Tybrow Mooney was very conspicuously absent.

“Ugh?” Perfidity grunted as she whipped back the sequined duvet that covered the solitary bed. Then she staggered in confusion: She could clearly hear the skinny hamster’s snoring; but of his body there was no sign. “Ugh?” she repeated.

Then, as is the way of well-trained Law Masters, her ability to overcome drunkenness kicked in: Rational thought returned.  She replaced the approaching third grunt with, “What the f…?”

Then she noticed that the candle beneath her outstretched arm was not burning her fur in the time-honoured way of candles: Instead it was making it stand on end, and giving her tingling feelings in places that she didn’t know existed.

“Tis the Axle’s candle!” she boomed like a wounded fog-horn, “Be extinguished!

With that she attempted to snub out the flame with a thumb and finger.

Naturally the sole result was that she was flung across the room by the resulting electric shock.

Stunned back into full intelligence she decided to avoid the problem of the Axle’s candle for the moment, and concentrate upon the invisible snoring. Well it didn’t take long for her to discover the hidden speakers, and then trace the wire to the bedside cabinet in which the old-fashioned cassette tape recorder lay. Of course she had no idea what she held in her paws as she turned it over and over in a close inspection: But she knew that it was a device, not of Prannick, but of somewhere else entirely. She also conjectured that it was evil incarnate.

“Hmmm,” she hummed as she replaced the items, then tidied the mess that she’d made whilst flying across the room. “Hmmm.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

If, by chance, you’d like to view this wondrous e-tome, you can do so by visiting the pertinent book covers upon the sidebar to the right side of your screen.

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 9

Long before those nauseatingly fabulous earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

On this momentous occasion I’ve elected to share with you an excerpt from The Psychic Historian.

It was clear from Freda Bludgeon’s appearance that time had passed in the green valley where the famous author lived in her stone-built cottage. Now her grey muzzle perfectly matched the low cloud that hung above the valley like a menacing oil spill. Her clothes had become worn, and the previously bright white net curtains that hid the interior of the house from nosey passers-by were dull and splattered with the detritus of years.

Freda, herself, was trying desperately to write her latest best-seller, but it was obvious that she had been stricken with the nastiest case of writer’s-block since the invention of the written word.

“Oh woe is me.” She cried plaintively as she flung aside her tatty, almost useless, typewriter, “Until I can feel my belly full once more I swear that I cannot write another word.”

Any other complaints and utterances of self-pity were put aside when there came a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Get up off yer skinny arse; answer the door; and you’ll find out – won’t you.” The gruff reply pierced the thick wooden door that barred the cold, blustery, day from entering like a head-hunter’s spear.

The voice belonged to Izzy Ekaslike – the local postal delivery person. For a moment the thought of what Izzy might have in the bottom of his satchel gave Freda reason to hope. ‘Is it possible that he might be delivering a royalty cheque?’ She thought it unlikely – especially since everyone was so poor now that not a single book had sold in the last year – anywhere throughout the entire land of Hamster-Britain.

‘But there’s always overseas sales.’ She thought, ‘Not every country has adopted the environmental concerns, and legislated new anti-pollution laws that my endless campaigning has managed to push through parliament, and which now cripples the country’s industry and farmers to such an extent that they’re no longer competitive in the world market.’

“Be right there.” She said chirpily.

Izzy Ekaslike stood and dripped in the doorway as Freda opened the door to him.

“Izzy.” Freda said by way of welcome.

“Miss Bludgeon.” The miserable-looking male hamster replied politely – if a little curtly.

“Do you have a little something for me?” Freda inquired.

Izzy held secret feelings for Freda, so he was surprised, and slightly thrilled, by the question.

“How’d ya mean?” he inquired in turn. “What – in me trousers, ya mean?”

Freda, for all her fame, was no female-of-the-world. “Your trousers?” she looked puzzled. “Has your satchel developed a hole in it?”

Izzy’s shoulders slumped. He knew it had been too good to be true. Famous authors never had sexual intercourse with postal delivery people: It was a well-known fact. “Yeah,” he said, even more grumpily than usual, “It’s a letter.”

With that he flung an envelope across the threshold; turned away abruptly; mounted his push-along-scooter – which Freda noticed no longer bore any tyres upon its tiny wheels – and made off at his best speed, which was actually very slow, due in no small part to the fact the road was nothing more than potholes held together by short stretches of tarmac.

Moments later Freda had returned to her pantry, and was tearing the envelope open with her incisors. It had been weeks since anyone had bothered to contact her, and she was shaking with the excitement of anticipation.

When, after she’d managed to calm her trembling paws, Freda had battled her way past the arsenic-laced seal, the cheese wire wrapping, and the small incendiary device inside, Freda’s eyes pored over the attached letter. In the brief moments before her solitary oil lamp stuttered into extinction she managed to decipher the opening lines: They read…

Dear Miss Bludgeon, you are an utter bastard. I hate you with all my heart. When the time comes for you to die, I hope it is long and protracted, and gives you the opportunity to reflect upon your actions, which have been instrumental in destroying the fabric of life in Hamster Britain. If it was physically possible for a minge to fall off – I hope your does. Or at least get horribly infected. Due to your stupid environmental interference I have lost everything, – my company, my family, my self respect, and, most importantly, my great wealth. Recently I was forced to sell one of my kidneys to one of the few rich people left in this benighted country, and the larger of my testicles to scientific research – merely to buy a loaf of bread and some fuel to power my lawn mower.  Worse still is the fact that I am one of your biggest fans. This winter I have found it necessary to burn my entire collection of your mystery novels – not because I now hate your work, but because it is the only way to heat the tiny garden shed that I now call home. If Springtime doesn’t arrive soon I’ll have to burn all your self-help and sex guides. After they’re gone I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t even nail up an electrical socket without literary aid: And quite what I’ll find to do with my willy confounds me. But that’s all by-the-by: The point of this letter is…

To say that Freda was shocked was possibly the understatement of the year. She was more than shocked. In fact she was so shocked that she had to run to toilet, which was fortuitous because she kept an early prototype Timmy the Twonk Engine wind-up torch on top of the cistern for situations just like this. Winding the handle on the side of the torch for all she was worth, Freda dropped her knickers, sat her withered buttocks down as comfortably as possible (which was difficult because the toilet seat had broken during an autumn storm, and she was yet to find the fiscal resources to replace it), and settled herself to read the remainder of the letter.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

These magnificent e-books are available all over the place. For easy access to your chosen e-reader (or whatever) visit the book covers over there → on the side bar. Failing that, you can always click on the Lulu logo, or Google ‘Tooty Nolan Books‘.