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  Hero dwarf Stephen By Jonathan Traynor He was trapped under the giant’s body. Eight times he’d stabbed the behemoth in the neck, but it was only when he stabbed it in the eye did it falter and fall. Now, the blows and spear wounds could no longer healed, nor the burnt hair from the dragon’s breath ever grow again. His breaths were ragged, but he took a last look around the battlefield. He could see the bodies of so many, and the two dead dragons. A shadow passed over him. “My queen,” he muttered. Her armour was tarnished by the fire of the dragon she killed. An arrow was jammed into her side, through a gap in the plate. Yet when she crouched beside him it seemed that she was not in pain. “What is your name dwarf?” “Stephen, Stephen StJohn.” “I don’t think you are going to last the day Stephen.” He nodded. “Stephen, many of your dwarven kin have died today, but thanks to you many more have lived. Your courage will be sung of in the halls of men, dwarves and elv...

Inevitable By Jonathan Traynor Rampaging hordes of delivery cyclists Speed to foist fast food heart attacks Upon the unconsciously inept couples Their kitchen somewhere to make tea Drinking cheap wine, silent conversation Picking over chilling delivered pizza Dodging the cyclists, dropping head down To avoid the beggars’ eyes, those let down By state, family, friends and themselves Blinking in the light of shops doorways Luxuriating on what credit card debt buys Coffee with the girls, beer with the lads Football, fashion, it’s easy to criticise and It’s easy to label, labelling thyself too as you Shout into your social media echo chamber Never thinking, words can rebound, brought Into light of judgement as you label them And they type to make sure you are labelled Flayed flaccid fifty fighting to live as a fleeting Life flies by, counting wishes never fulfilled Faded nights drag on, hand on phone as the TV drones, new hips aching as the invisible Inevitable s...

   Bold, challenging... Review by Jonathan Traynor Soviet Hotel Dressing Gown – Christopher Owens To base a book around a song title, and name that song in the title is a bold move. However, Owens accepts that, draws deep on the undercurrents in the lyrics – despair, reflection, melancholia and observation. Soviet Hotel Dressing Gown by Sons of Robert Mitchum – a self-styled neo-noir band – is the hook Owens hangs this tale of two people’s silent taxi ride from Dublin to Belfast, after a flight diversion. Jake and Roibeard’s stories are bracketed by the thoughts of the taxi driver, a   brief but reliable narrator. The two protagonists’ separate stories bear Owens’ trademark examination of the buried psyche and interior monologue that explores the parts of the mind most do not wish to delve. For Jake’s part mental health is painted in stark colours emphasized at one point by the refrain of the word ‘remember’ and the question “What will I do?” repeated four t...

Death Duty By Jonathan Traynor The screen flickered as he reached for the ship’s controls. It was soaked with the captain’s blood. The captain had been cut in two by the collapsed bulkhead. The first officer was also dead. Now he was in charge, a mere ensign, of this Avenger Class starship. The computer rattled off casualty and damage reports: 200 dead, multiple hull breaches, and still the hits continued. He programmed some return fire, but it was futile. The Disrupter ship was too large for the remains of the armaments on board. “Computer, Ensign First Class, Taveneer, 616567. Order and implement Abandon ship.” “Confirm order Ensign Taveneer.” Its voice remained calm, with that hint of humour. “I confirm.” He watched the sub-screen as bright green dots popped into space, and then in horror as the Disrupter’s fire began to target the escape pods. “Computer, full available speed to vector five, slash eight.” “Ensign Taveneer, I cannot comply, that is directly into t...

Triumphal roar By Jonathan Traynor Muttering a spell to cast fog in the path of her wizard brother she bent to wrap the wound in her thigh with a piece of leather. Around her the dead and injured of her honour guard. The bastard child of the chieftain, she was all that remained of the hoped for release from wizardly tyranny of her clan. She was wounded, and if she waited for further volleys of spears, it would be over. The revolution was needed or the clan would be corrupted, and others fall in wars of conquest. Would she fall as a result of her wounds or meet a more grisly end at the hands of her brother? Neither she decided. She reached for her horn, still holding mead. Taking a large swig, she spoke the incantations that would reanimate the recently deceased of her guard. She knew she had moments until the fog cleared, but she took the time. Around her revenants stirred and began to rise. She pulled aside the curtain of fog for a second, then hurled her axe. It landed de...

Song of Death By Jonathan Traynor She slumped against the cooling corpse of her dragon. Her left shoulder aching from the axe blow on her armour, an arrow stuck in her leg. Her traitor brother’s body lay in front of her, his sorcery silenced. Spawn of a tyrant, saved by her queen, her mother. She stood in front of the last revenant rebels. Six of them in front of the piled bodies on the accursed battlefield.  They wanted to kill her, the defiant one. Her sword was still in its hilt. Pushing herself upright she screamed to the heavens. They ran towards her. The first fell to her last axe. She drew her restless black blade. It sang its song of death. The revenants fell one by one to its song. She would be queen of this damned land. And set it free. ENDS All my published books are available here .

  Death Hastens vengeance By Jonathan Traynor On his knees in the sand. The wound of the cursed one’s black blade would be his end, but he smiled still.  The daemon, unknowing, was hastening his master’s demise, just as he had ended its infernal life. It was at the expense of his own, as blood oozed from him, mingling with blackened blood of the imp.  Still, he smiled. This broken body would rise in hell. He drank the last of his whiskey. Eyes closing, his vengeance ready to be delivered on to Lucifer. A smile fastened on his dying lips. 

  Awaiting the Court of the Damned By Jonathan Traynor   Her hand reached to the gravestone. Just that brief touch brought an unbidden smile.   The dead lights of the cemetery drew her ravens. They cawed at the illumination. She drew back from the grave marker, inspecting her hand, still stained scarlet from his blood. Her ravens had ripped his eyes out. With a scream of glory her black blade had cut his heart from his ribs.  Tomorrow evening… she would desecrate his body and laugh. Consequences? That was for tomorrow’s court of the damned. She looked forward to its judgement.  

 It is a weird old world, where nothing is certain being a self-published author there is a marketing quandary. That is promoting and marketing. Where should the focus be? My first two books (Watching the Watched and Zero Fucks Given) sold better as paperbacks, my second two (Race The Undead and Chords of Chaos) sold better as e-books, specifically on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited, So which do you prefer? Answer in comments, please. On my  Amazon  page, you can find all four, and within the next four weeks there may be a new book appearing on that page. In the meantime, just buy my books.  And if you want to buy direct from me, message me on Facebook or X/Twitter. 

  Remember the date - February 16. Why? read below: Acclaimed Belfast-based writer  Christopher Owens  returns with his most searing and psychologically incisive work to date,  Soviet Hotel Dressing Gown  — a novel of fractured memories, parallel lives, and the silent aftermath of trauma. Set against the liminal no-man’s-land of a diverted flight into Dublin Airport, the book follows two strangers,  Jake  and  Roibeard , who never meet, never speak, and never realise how closely their internal storms mirror one another. As each man confronts the shadows of his past — the wounds that shaped him, the choices that scarred him, and the future that awaits once they finally reach Belfast — Owens crafts a dual narrative that is both intimate and monumental. The cover of Soviet Hotel Dressing Gown Soviet Hotel Dressing Gown  explores how trauma lingers in the body, how cities carve themselves into their inhabitants, and how two lives can run parallel...