I'm being robbed! My books are all over the place: FREE

Decided to give KDP Paperbacks a trial. So I moved The Knowledge Seekers from Createspace to KDP. Seems to work fine and it is simple to do.

So then I did a few searches and sure enough the Createspace page is now marked as invalid.

But then I noticed lots and lots and lots of sites offering free PDFs of my Kindles.

Nothing I can do I suppose, except start chasing down phantoms.

But, as we say in Ireland, I couldn't be arsed.

But advice, on searches,  is not to click any of the links as the scammers are just looking for your details, for some purpose or other.

I'm improving I am writing Literature now - no it's not plagiarism - I can "write good" at times!

Dreamers of Literature

Polly, Pal, Slugger, and an assortment of eves-droppers sat in the dripping-dew of the dazzling moonlight.

They were silhouetted eerily on the side of the potting shed. A late night revelling Leaving Cert. Student on the way home from a “Having Failed - I Will Party” party saw the tableaux and started making notes. He went away wondering should he write a book about the apparition of call on the bishop.

Pal was smoking pipe tobacco he had rolled from some leaves that has mysteriously grown in the Pollytunnell. Probably a seed that was blown in on the wind or carried in by a bird and left as a deposit.

Slugger was casually munching on the pieces Pal had spilled when he rolled the flakes: now his eyes were closed as thoughts filled his head: a rare feat, about as rare as feet on a slug, or a one-leged man in a backside kicking contest.

Smiling he formed the words to describe Pal as he filled the pipe bowl - as solemn as any old-time priest of pipe and plug: he pared and rubbed between his palms the peat and heather, and dropped the chaff along the floor and blew the fragrance to the air and scattered the gardens on her bed. And told her he was sorry and called her his first love. Slugger was away writing his great masterpiece of a buke: the whacki backi was working.

Polly, who was now in a Southern Belle phase, was trying to whisper to Pal that their great romantic, Scarlet O'Hara relationship was gone with the wind. But to no avail: Pal was away with the fairies too.

Strangely it was even the same buke - same chapter and paragraph: I gave her soft air born of pine fronds that wafted chestnut smells and whirling seeds of sycamore. I made for her the rustling sounds of leaves, wind-tossed against the swaying bark of ash and beech.

Even the eves-droppers dropped their heads and slept into the night.

Hey! Hold on a second! It's me Fly On The Wall and this Buke is getting' outa hand. Leave that kinds stuff for the Chicks to Lit. Let their Mother Hen tell them dem kinda stories. Hubba! Hubba! Back on plot here.

“Hey! Pal! Snapouta it. She says she's coming back. Yer woman - your woman. Bismark, says she is coming home.”

Ah! Ha! Thought Pal; this backi is powerful – a talking fly tellin' me the good news. And it was that: good news – well it's only after when you really think about it that good news sometimes is not as good as it first seems. You know: you just inherited a million squids from an uncle Jeremiah. Who? But you hafta email a fello' first and give him access to your Bank Account.

“Me Missus, who rarely misses,” he said, carried away and rubbing his head. “Wonder am I still Made in China?”

“Wha' abit me?” Polly cries: in all her Southern Charm.

“Wha' abit me ….your own litter' honey child. My! My!. What will Pappa say?” She knew Pappa Don't Preach. But it was a good sound bite.

“Ashley. Ashley. My Ashley” she called as she tripped lightly away through the Rod and Dendrons. “Ashley..Ashley....” The rest was lost in a scream as she fell into the nettle encroached compost heap.

There she goes, thought Pal, another Polly: you wally; your canoodling's gone away. Ashley? Who's Ashley? Another footballer I'd say. But even as he shouted “Good Riddance.” He stared to miss her.

He glugged out of a bottle lying on the ground outside the potting shed and instantly grew another finger. “Bloody Miracle Grow...” He roared as he threw it after her.

Always one to look on the bright side, Pal thought: now I can count to eighteen on my fingers.

“Eight, nine, ten, eleven …..” And the rest was lost as the invisible dog, now promoted to invisible watchdog, growled to warn of approaching danger.

But it wasn't danger approaching: it was only Hedda, as out of breath she said.

“ I c-have sss-news. Harry's ttt-rying to.... to KILL US ALL."

See…. She wasn't too bad when she spoke without her mouth being full of creatures who were trying to do an Alcatraz Escape.

When I eat cheese I get nightmares (Day & Night) - so here's a cheesy story!

Jimmy Memory Man Magpie on Air

It was a mighty battle. A mighty mighty battle; mostly for Jimmy- it was a battle to keep in the air and broadcasting.

General Motor Stoat had his orders. Assemble the troops to run over and overrun Pea Stalk Hill and devour the inhabitants, poderise them into mushy green heaps.

The General revved up his boys into the red and away they tore at a speed of zero to one foot in two minutes, looking all around. In the Army of the Centre Mamo Hedgehog and The Girls were waiting and it was all over in a jiffy bag. Those Hogs were united closely and using their spikes knitted the interloping intruders into inter-looping loops.

The Girls formed a Forum and stitched up the enemy, purling them, slip-stitching them, and once picked up by a hedgehog, no attacker was dropped until they could be cast-off and dip-stitched back to their Fair-Isle where they could be slugs, slugging it out with each other for a chomp at a cabbage leaf.

General Surgeon saw this and decided to go Private, but before he sloped off he gave a field promotion to Private Anaesthesias, to General. His job now was to lead the Carrot Fly Brigade and lull the carrots and parsnips into sleep with his gaseous gasses, great gas one felt: once not down wind of his flatulence, flaunting, flavour.

“Cheesy Belling-ham Blue .” Wallace roared as he threw himself into battle with Anaesthesias. “Meet me Wallace the La-nark Blue and gird your lions, or what ever you lads gird. It's Gort-Na Mona for you lot. Caber toss them lads, into the Mossfields. Stay up-wind, for yer lives stay up-wind.”

General Electric saw the current state of play and ran and tried to volt over the wall when Tumper came bounding towards him, but alas alack too late. With hare-springing agility Tumper thumped him not once but several times, giving Electric a hare-lip all the way from across his head, and body, and foot, and tail. Oh! Everywhere a weasel can have!

From now on Electric was horribly, hare-lined, and hare-lipped. His career in Harry's Army was hare today gone tomorrow.

General Character showed he hadn't got any and hid under a flower pot. When last seen he had gone potty and like Pal's dog was not trained for the house.

General Nuisance? Well he raised himself up on his tail and charged into battle shouting “I'm a General. I'm a General. I'm a General Nuisance. “ He was . He kept bumping into combatants and generally making a nuisance of himself by getting in the way.

Frog Hedda was hopping in and out of the fray gobbling up the enemy bugs. It was a tough decision: deciding who was on her side, or against, or tourists just out on a rubbernecking day. Finally she decided friends is friends, anyone I recognise is safe, the others are foes to the fodder.

Fly On The Wall, kept buzzing up and down, hither and thither, in search of information. All he heard however was Crunch, Biff. Me Eye. Me Foot. Me shudda not come to gawp. Me shudda, couda, stayed at home. And the Centipedes who were singing “Foot Loose and Fancy Free and Lotsa More Where Them Came From.”

Jimmy Magpie, back from the brink, flew fleetingly furious but not fast above the battle. Who said a bird could never fly on one wing? They were not speaking of Jimmy, Take-a- Memo Magpie. No not me. Concussed I may be but the war and the program goes on.

I see tremendous feats of bravery and cowardice. I see mice and men, and frogs in the throat of battle, and ants, aunties of nephews and nieces, antiquating and stinging.

I see the Sack Flies have gotten their P45's and are on the way home. The Beef Leaf Hoppers are getting minced and The Beat Worms are out of time and not in step with the rest at all. It's a rooting rout of rectitude.

I've just been passed a note, in mid-air on one wing and a prayer. Holy holy, it seems George Eel Worm has withdrawn from the battle and Charlie Bird-seed has flow south for the Winter.

Folks, the band plays on; in the midst of the carnage. A three man band, it looks that way. A large Bagpussing Lady with a Bag-Pipe under her arm, and a lady with a Banjo playing a deliverance tune and a little scruffy fellow stamping time, either that or his foot's gone asleep.

The sound of the trio drifts up to me now on the hot-air uplift from the heaving mass of mayhem. What are they playing? Do they even know? Do we care any more? No. Because It's all over folks. The Cats in Bags Army have carried the tune and the day. The Weasels, the Badgers and their allies are out for the count. It's round twelve and the fight is over.

Now Jimmy thought to himself not out loud. Which of those two trees will I land on and rest, it's been a trying day, but then I was always a trier. I'll go for the one in the middle. Aarrggh.

More Nonsense - for anyone who had an invisible dog.

A man’s best frien' and music – Harry's theme.

He was missing the Gunship. Really missing her, lonely as hell. Sitting in the kitchen, in his declining chair: when it was made it was a reclining chair, now it was declining to recline. Pal said he got it for a snip. The Gunship said he got it in a skip.

The telly was on but he couldn't find the Zapper to change the channel from “Spongebob

Square Pants” back to the News, not that he though the truth in the news was any better than Patrick and his perils.

He could take Dog for a walk, if he had one. Probably sensing his mood Cat had cleared off. Chicken and Duck were asleep. But even if they weren't it was no use: his neighbour on the farm would probably charge him for hiring them to go walking.

He sighed, long and noisily. It always worked before she would ask “What's up with you now?” At least it was talk. This time the silence was well: it was silent.

Then he jumped up suddenly. He had just remembered. Ah yes, yes. But where was it? He pulled open the first closet and whistled. “Where are you Boy?” No ! He didn't whistle it: he said it! Another closet another blank. The garden shed? He rushed out towards the garden and flattened his nose, once again, the Patio Door was closed.

Then he remembered. “Under the bed. In the spare room. I hope it's not dead.”

He galloped up the stairs shouting “It's me Boy. Where are you?”

In the dust and fluff under the bed he saw the lead and the collar at the end. Gently he pulled it out. He thought. Oh don't be dead. I know we haven't been feeding you or bringing you for walks. But please don't be dead.

Gently he lifted the stiff lead and the collar on the end staggered up and waved unsteadily above the floor.

“Oh, Boy It's me.” And holding the lead in his left hand: he crouched down and patted Invisible Dog on the head.

“Let's go for a walk Boy. I'll tell you all the latest gossip.”

He was in the garden waiting for Boy to stop relieving himself against the tree. It was going to be a long wait. Boy had been under the bed for a year and a half. Another trinket form the Joke Shop of his past. The Invisible Dog, in his collar on a wired-stiff lead.

“Hurry up Boy. I'm starting to feel pressure myself.”

Then from somewhere in Brassicaville he heard a Banjo being tuned. He checked his pocket. It was there. Tying Boy's lead to the tree, in case he wandered, he went looking for Banjoed and a session.

Banjoed was almost finished tuning her strings, and Pal was knocking his Harmonica against his hand to clear the reeds. Pluck, Pluck. Bang, Bang. Ouch! Pal had forgotten to keep his hand open and was now sitting cross-eyed with his hand in his mouth. Well cross-legged and cross-eyed. Then he fell down.

Not a good start -thought Banjoed looking up at the scream still hanging in the air. The instrument should be jammed in his Gob not his fingers.

Bang. Bang Pal jumped up and began banging his foot up and down on the ground.

“Is that the beat?” asked Banjoed. “No.” answered Pal. “Me foot's asleep.”

Banjoed was tired waiting and started to play.

“Is that the Camptown Races?”

“No” she replied, testily. “Its All the Good Times are Gone.”

“Oh I remember that. The Gunship picked it as the first dance tune at our wedding.” Pal said wistfully, thinking Polly is OK, but Bismark can really keep the bed warm on a cold night.

The last message she left him was starting to fade from his forehead and he had manoeuvred his nose back, more or less, into position. It wasn't exactly in the middle of his face. But it never had been before. He reached up and realised the bang on the Patio Door had probably moved it again. 

More nonsense - to enable me cope with a dysfunctional Irish Government

He checked the phone. He had a text from Polly. It read DP MT POT SHD. DE GRTS WM. MD AS HL. SOS. POL.

He never knew what those messages meant but if he had sent it he would have said.

Dear Pal. You need to attend at a meeting in the Potting Shed, where Ali, The Greatest, requests to meet you . He is as mad as hell. Someone squealed. Polly. Well no. He wouldn't have signed it Polly. DOH! DOH!

“Wassup Pal!! How's it hanging? Someone here waiting on you,” says a cool slick Weasel on watch at the door.

“Ok. Slick. Sometin' terrible.” Replied Pal.

He's feeling a bit uneasy or is it just queasy and he's unsure, so he's thinking about stalling but quickly realises he would look a right cabbage if he were to falter. So he settles his “Kiss Me”, squares up in the doorway and pushes open the door in a John Wayne like fashion. He wants to say “Pilgrim” But instead says “Who’s there.”

“I am, I am Stoat-Ali The Greatest. Call me Ali.: if you dare. Pleased ta meet ya. I used to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee – just like my hero Muhammad Ali. I bopped 'em, 'til I dropped 'em. - they never got a chance to lay one on this pretty face.”

“OH MY GOD...”says Pal

“Yea that’s me: words out that you’re a bit of a jiver yourself, words out that you run a mean and nasty gaff here. From my sources words out that you was huerd saying: sing it for us Slick. Quote 'im man.”

Slick hummed an out of tune, flat as his belly, note and started.

As for slugs I do go out at night and collect them by torch light and then I put them in salt water in a Flora tub and they die quickly. Die wickly. Quickly. Quickly.

I would not give them beer in case they go on drunken rampages and terrorise the Worm farm or the Ant hill. Terrorise. Terry - Rise.

I would imagine slugs would be very anti-social when drunk. As Skunks. As Skunks.

I know for a fact , for a certain fact, It's a fact.

One of them was climbing the wall under the bedroom window a few nights ago. Nites, Nites. Agoooo.

Then Slick took a big gulp of air – filled up his chest, his belly and his, well what ever the rest was: his feet? Then went for it.

Probably going for my wallet and car keyssssssssss, keyyyyyyyssssss.

“Boom. Boom. Unquote.” Added Ali.

Never make the Hit Parade, Pal thought.

“Hey man whas with the accu..us..a the blaminman our friends the Slugs of Vandalism, theys is only trying to live!” Says Ali. Then slightly confused and emotional at what he imagined was Slick's, slickest performance so far, added. “Say! What kinda car you drive anyway? What’s the top revs?”

“Jees Ali. Mister Ali. No way man, you’re the Greatest, I’d never be disrespect-in the slug community. Jees man they're the best, I mean it.”

Feeling under pressure Pal secretly - texts his DP: bring some rescue remedy. Well that's what he meant; he only texted HELP!

Polly makes a grand entrance with the best treats of lettttuccesss and cuucuuumber bites: on her Blue Periwinkle Bone China.

“Delighted, delighted you could join us Ali for some light refreshments. Will you have some geesberry wune? “

She meant gooseberry wine but had tippled a few earlier! “Don’t mind what my sweet Pal says. The night air has affected him ever so slightly and at times he does tend to ramble some....poor dear.

I must let Mrs Hermione Pott know that you are here. She’s my neighbour with the jacuzzi and room for a pony and the husband that NAMA is investigating.”

Ali was smitten! Wow! He thought. That broad Polly would blow the whistle on my kettle anytime. She's a sophisticated broad, looks to die for..sometin' looking like a sharp cultured creature like Hyacinth from Keeping Up Appearances.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that creature of desire, his shoulders shook, his tail rose to a height and he sighed loudly: as he failed.

But what Ali didn't know was: she a tendency to over indulge on that home-made wine Pal makes...cheapskate won’t buy vintage! But mst of the tome ...oops..(sorry me too..) most of the time... she's class.

What he can't know either is she could be as sensitive as any sweet pea and but has a fiery temper on her like a Tsunami but that's what Pal sees in her, he's smitten, - isn't that right Pal.- and she knows how to play that to her full advantage!

Ali came out of his trance as in the real Rocky style Pal says...

“The Wurld! It ain’t all sunshine and rainbows- sniff, sniff. It 'sa very mean and nasty place. It will beat ya to yaur knees and keep you there perman'ntly – ifan you let it. Ya! Me! Nah nooobody is going to hit as hurd as LIFE. But it ain’t about how hurd you hit. It's about how hurd ya can get hit and keep movin' furwa'd, it's how much ya can take : and keep moving furwa'd.”

My Rocky Balboa speech should impress: thinks Pal quietly – well that statement beats Banagher! Writer? Can you think loudly?

It did the job; tired and emotional again, Ali said, “I’m feeling it man. Take me home Slick. Sing me a sad song”

“OK Boss.”

Under a Parsnip leaf. Old Rick Stoat, slurps his whiskers, drags on his fag and whispers, “Not that tune, though. I tole yas all, don’t sing that tune.”