Michael Fitzalan Books

Here I tell everyone about my latest books written under the pseudonym Michael Fitzalan – https://www.michaelfitzalanbooks.com
Then, I go on to outline the creative writing course offered by Owl Tutors.
https://owltutors.co.uk

Specifically designed for the 11 plus and 13 plus entrance exams, this creative writing course is designed to help boost writing skills by showing author techniques and improve comprehension scores by helping writers to understand the fundamentals of writing including inference. Children and adult can benefit from the skills learn in my courses.
It’s going to be a long hot summer and the courses are spread over July and August at convenient times so if you want to prepare for the 11 plus or thirteen plus, GCSE creative writing, short story creation or to pick up tips for your next chapter, please get in touch with Owl.

Michael Fitzalan is the pen name of the creative writing tutor, Finnian Fitzpatrick, Finnian is an entrance exam and GCSE English teacher who helps children craft thirty minute stories and longer narratives. I have taught adults how to write as well. https://www.michaelfitzalanbooks.com/

Chapter One, i, Getting the Sack, 4th November 1605

“Captain of the Guard,” cried a sentry, his voice echoing off the vaulted cellar ceiling.

The sound of footsteps filled the brief silence that the sentinel’s voice had created. Even the rats scurrying about the dust searching for spiders stopped as his voice boomed, bouncing off the brickwork. A stout soldier, with a grey beard, led a troop of four men each armed with a sword and carrying a pike. His hand rested on his sword and it was clear that although beautifully polished, his breastplate was old.

He smiled benignly to the sentry on duty. The protective plate was fashioned to fit a thin young man and the leather straps had only just managed to contain the expanded frame lashed on the final notch. On his head, he wore a helmet with a wool cap underneath to soften the feel of the metal and to keep his head and ears warm. His legs were clad in grey wool hose; they looked strong and slender, like those of a young man. His girth showed a love of taverns, ale and food, food and ale and perhaps a little more food with the ale.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Guy-Truth-about-Fawkes/dp/1520731787/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0

Life jackets on, Duncan and I edged toward the bow, leaning against the metal frame to scan the horizon for help. We lit cigarettes, exhaling into the dusk, careful to keep the smoke from the children.
Andrew—six foot two, built like a man who enjoyed his meals but carried them well—strained to lift the aft engine compartment’s cover. The rear deck yawned open, hydraulics hissing. Inside, the twin engines lay dormant.
Then we saw it. As Andrew bent to inspect the bay, the gun tucked into his belted jeans glared: a black-metal barrel, the grip and trigger guard exposed. A Browning 9mm, maybe. Or a Colt .45. NATO’s standard, or a killer’s souvenir. Not the crude threat of a revolver, but the quiet efficiency of a weapon designed to stop—not wound. The unspoken rule held. No gasps, no questions. Even the complainers found sudden interest in their shoes. Innocent, who’d wisely stayed below with Margaret, emerged. Andrew gestured to the engines, then ducked into the cabin to check the oil and fuel gauges.
Minutes ticked by. The truth pooled like spilled diesel: this wasn’t a quick fix. The captain’s pride curdled—his new engines, all power and no patience, had drunk us dry.
Night fell without ceremony. No sunset, just the clouds from that morning’s storm smothering the light like a wet rag.”
The cold crept in as the light bled away, gnawing at us all. I shifted uncomfortably, the pressure in my bladder turning urgent—another consequence of my obsessive hydration, a habit born from the sunstroke that had nearly killed me in Egypt the year before. Now, stranded on this godforsaken lake, my survival strategy had become my own private torment.
An hour slipped by with cruel efficiency when all you could do was stare at the pistol grip peeking from Andrew’s waistband and pretend not to notice. Kampala was still sixty minutes away—assuming we ever moved again. Our two-and-a-half-hour trip had already swollen to five, and the night wasn’t getting any warmer.
The cold does strange things to a body. My need to piss was now a white-hot distraction, made infinitely worse by Duncan’s running commentary.