I am thrilled to share a new book called Family Rules by Vincent Tuckwood. This looks like a great read and I am anxiously awaiting to be able to review it! Thanks to Pump Up Your Books Virtual Tours for allowing me to showcase this novel today!
About the Novel:
New York. In this city that never sleeps, anyone could make a brand new start of it. Or so the song goes.
For some people, starting again is no option.
Kenny is adrift in the city, tormented by the scars and memories of his unique upbringing as a child star in the UK, chasing any addiction that can fill the void he carries at his core.
Increasingly unable to paper over the cracks, to numb himself with street corner narcotics, or build an abiding relationship with his junkie soul-mate Ivvy, he turns to stealing cars to provide momentary escape from his increasingly desolate life.
Estranged from his parents, Kenny has no hope or vision of a better future.
Until one night he steals a car from a gas station in New Jersey and is offered an unexpected, final opportunity for redemption; a radically different role to play.
About the Author:
Vincent Tuckwood is a story-teller working in fiction, song and verse. At any given point in time, he’s proud to be a father, husband, son, brother, cousin and friend to the people who mean the world to him.
He is the author of the novels Escalation, Family Rules, Karaoke Criminals and Do Sparrows Eat Butterflies? as well as the 2010 poetry collection, Garbled Glittering Glamours. His screenplays are Team Building and the screen adaptation of Family Rules, Inventing Kenny.
Vince regularly connects with his audience at VinceT.net and at his story-teller page on Facebook, often writing poetry in response to their prompts, and encourages everyone to get in touch there.
You can find out more about him and his work at http://vincet.net.
I slowed to a walk a block from Central Park. More from exhaustion than any rational response to the situation; I was long past caring whether I drew attention to myself or not. Across Central Park West and I was entering the park through Strawberry Fields. I had no choice but to sit down on the first bench I passed; my arms burned with the weight of the kid. Burned.The kid kept clinging to my neck even when I’d sat down.
Over its head and shoulder, I stared at the black and white circular mosaic: Imagine.
The kid’s hair was stuck to my face where I was sweating, strands of it in my mouth.
Some hippy freak was playing a Beach Boys song about five benches around the circle: Sloop John-B. There were flowers on the memorial, dry from being there all day, withered now, petal flakes dropped all around where the breeze had denuded dying blooms. I looked up to my right and there was the Dakota, where Lennon was shot and I was sitting holding a ****** child I had accidentally abducted from ******* New Jersey.
A kid who had grown silent in my arms.
As the hippie played Sloop John-B, I began to cry a little.
What was I going to do?
What the ****** was I going to do?