Clare London (clarelondon) wrote,
Clare London


Released today: Wishing on a Blue Star

Find it HERE at Dreamspinner Press.

Paperback $7, ebook FREE

A Special Project by Dreamspinner Press & ManLoveRomance Press. Edited by Kris Jacen, cover art by Catt Ford.

How much impact can someone have on your life if you’ve never met them face to face?

In this electronic age of E-mails, electronic publishing, and social networks, quite a lot.

Through his emails, stories and blog, author Patric Michael has touched numerous hearts, minds and lives from the start of his career and further as he now takes us along on his journey to battle cancer.

Along the way, Patric shows us a side of life that not many truly see-- how we are all a part of something larger than just ourselves, and how we are each touched by others for the betterment of all.

Now, those that have been touched by Patric and his words have joined together to give something back, to him and to us all through something he values highly – words.

In this compilation, short stories, poems, and anecdotes combined with excerpts from Patric's blog and a few entertaining, educational group posts reveal, and celebrate, the man who has touched so many hearts and minds.

This collection is a gift from all our hearts to celebrate Patric and give strength (and a little levity) to others. The price reflects this; no one is receiving royalties or payment from the sales. Use it to celebrate life, celebrate words, and possibly inspire someone who needs it.

Contributing authors: Jaime Samms, Jacqueline Lichtenberg, ZA Maxfield, C. Zampa, Lex Valentine, Patric Michael, Karenna Colcroft, Tame Adams, Victor J. Banis, Brian Holliday, Jambrea Jo Jones, Mary Calmes, Jan Irving, Jean Lorrah, Chrissy Munder, Moira McCain, Clare London, D.W. Marchwell, Taylor Lochland, Amy Lane.

And visit this post at Jessewave's blog for some more info about how the anthology came about and what it means to the authors to take part.


Clare: Forgive me a small personal message here?

Patric, thanks for the inspiration for this story and the kick up the virtual a*** on my writing - and my "real" life - every now and then! :) You've been a friend and confidante and supporter ever since I met you, fan-gushing over your book "Timeless". I love you and admire the way you've battled your illness, yet retained your sense of humour, your perceptive care and compassion for humankind, and always your hope. And still found time and generosity to share friendship with me. Thinking of you daily, as always.

EXCERPT from my story "The Better Part":

In my final year—accompanied by much eye-rolling shock from both my Chemistry and my Geography teachers—I got an academic place at the local University. Never seen Dad look so pink and happy in his life as when I opened the offer letter. I was excited and proud and arrogantly sure I was on my way up in life.

I just had no idea how lonely it would be.

One Saturday midnight, Adam found me curled up in a shop doorway outside one of the seedier gay student clubs in the town. The rain drizzled down under my open collar, the street lights reflected in the puddles on the pavement, the occasional passing car raised spray from the gutters. It had been a long, miserable night, though I’d stopped specifically counting the hours after too many shots and plenty of blow. Adam stood there for ten silent minutes because I was initially determined not to acknowledge him and his disapproval. I stared at his shoes until my resentment and misery curdled in the pit of my stomach.

“What the fuck?” I muttered.

A young woman passing the doorway on her way home started at the sound of my voice and quickly crossed the road.

“Go home,” Adam said.

“Trying,” I muttered. My legs seemed to have been reworked in putty and mis-connected to my hips.

“Pick up your wallet.”

I hadn’t realised I’d dropped it, not that there was much in it to delight anyone else. Four pounds fifty, a discount card to the sandwich bar and a condom that was not-so-rapidly-but-relentlessly going out of date. The journey back to my flat was through a blurred, occasionally psychedelic haze. Took me four attempts to get the key in the lock, then I lost my wallet again, until I saw it on the toilet seat. I grabbed hold of it before it fell in. Then grabbed hold of the seat itself and threw up into the bowl.

Several times.

“Good God.” Adam’s voice sounded strangely tired.

“At least I’m not singing,” I grunted, but wit escaped even me. The misery had become second-nature, a thick, heavy blanket over my heart and hope. I’d been here months, but no one had even tried to guess the truth behind my sharp humour.

“Give this up, Chas. You’re better than this.”

I frowned. “‘m fine. Student life, ‘n all. ‘njoying myself.”

There was a pause in the air as if Adam were considering a suitable response. Glancing around my modest little bathroom, taking it all in: the damp toilet seat, the chipped floor tiles glinting from the harsh fluorescent light over the shaving mirror; my inevitably flushed face and the crusty trail of another cheap takeaway dinner on the front of my shirt. I knew beyond a doubt that he’d seen the emptiness of both my fridge and my phone book.

I leaned back over the bowl and heaved again.

Adam sighed. “I think not.”

I sighed. Bastard was right, of course.

“Find him, Chas. He’s at this University too, isn’t he? Call him up.”

I knew who he meant. Billy Dean had got a sports scholarship to the University as well, but he was the year ahead of me. After he left school, I think we’d exchanged a couple of emails and circulated some stupid jokes at Christmas. Then nothing.

“‘s over now. Schoolboy crush.”

Adam’s tone sharpened. “Don’t be a fool. As if you don’t know where he lives, what days he comes on to campus. As if you haven’t always known.”

I glanced up at him, my eyelashes wet. “No secrets from you, eh?”

It was a joke, though feeble, but Adam didn’t smile this time. “No,” he said softly.


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