NOSEY BIO: Loud, brass, and tastelessly attired, I.B. Nosey is famed for his exuberant “Greetings, cybernuts! This is I.B. Nosey, your official unofficial reporter!” He seeks answers to the kind of probing questions no accredited journalist would deem intelligent, let alone newsworthy enough, to ask. Fleet of foot, wide of mouth, and fluent of tongue-in-cheek, I.B. Nosey’s unique interviewing style is comparable to none.

Winner of the Pukelitzer Award. Spokesman for Gum Drop Island’s confectionary plantation. Featured in InD’Tale magazine and The Woven Tale Press.


Fated Destiny...Oh, Yeah? -- Given FREELY!


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BLURB:

Prisoner 86's fate is in the hands of his merciless captain. Or is it? As their ship enter a raging thunderstorm, what bizarre event transforms their lives in an eternal destiny? 

EXCERPT:

He shuffled to a stop inside the cabin’s threshold, his gaze riveting on the uniformed back of a man who studied a wall map.

“Your smell,” said the officer, “tells me you’ve entered the room, number eighty-six.” The captain turned from his perusal of the chart and crinkled his nose. “A stinking bit of rubbish you are. You sleep in filth, you eat filth, you live in filth. You are filth.”

The prisoner’s fingers tightened on the chain of his manacles, but he said nothing.

Large ruffles partially concealing his wrist, the captain picked a sheet of paper off his cluttered desk. He glanced at the guard who waited at the door. “Leave us,” he ordered. “This vermin can’t harm me.”

Left alone with the prisoner, the captain flicked the page as though he held a soiled rag. “I have your history here, number eighty-six. A convicted mercenary.” He released the paper, allowing it to flutter back to his desk. A sneer tugged at the corner of his clean-shaven mouth. “We’re transporting you to meet your deserved fate.”

He stepped closer, the sneer twisting into a taunting grin. “Rats like you deserve to die. No one will bewail your passing.”

Eighty-six steadied his gaze on a large black trunk set against a wall corner. Though the once shiny wording had worn away to almost total oblivion, a few faded letters spelled ‘...Van...’ He inhaled deeply through his nostrils. Slowly, quietly, he stretched his manacles’ chain to a taut line. “I am a man, an innocent man.”

“You are a criminal, worthy of your death.” The captain slapped Eighty-six’s cheek, the sound snapping like a cracked whip. “You’re naught but a rotten piece of scum.”


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