etfiction eBook Concepts
Here are the concepts currently being developed into ebooks.

Jon Le Mac
Lazoo, Metofeaz, Le Mac & Afamasaga – LMLA-ink and the making of John Lazoo, Illicit Blade of Grass and WIPE.

It has been two years since he first met the old fellow, who sits at the back of the old book store. The books that line the walls and fill the insides of the room smell of paper treated, from pulp of dead trees. On the mat sits Jon Le Mac at the feet of JPS who prescribes him his medicine so the owner of used books and already read stories wants his friend to believe. The book he holds in his hand, from where the words come, is bound in Leather, the poem The Silverspoon is Little Le Mac’s favorite. Afamasaga, 7 years old pulls up the waist of the college uniform he bought at the second hand clothing store right next door to this shop, with money he and Le Mac make from sweeping the front of the shop.

K-Mantonio & the AmalgaMension Dimension
A seven-year-old boy is chosen to define the path to peace.

Brocoliflower
Two women – one looks like a flower and the other is good for you.

The Trafficker
LAZOO II.

The nozzle of the weapon is like an asshole. John Lazoo’s hand slow as to not alarm the fingers of the SS, four of them heavy like their breathing inside the cage, the elevator shakes, the cables are a blur. His head in the hat is slow, as his neck is stretched to bring his head up so his one working eye can make out the dark grey woolen coats, the darker smooth curves of the helmets, and lips that curve up. The walkie talkie, in his coat pocket vibrates, his right elbow is elevated. Genisis and his new life may flash before his eyes, the thought of her alone in her second trimester he focuses on as he manages his heart rate and his breathing, in hope theirs do the same. The shouting now comes into range, and then it is deafening, the orders in some Germanic language he can ascertain, their appearance he can recall from somewhere in his memory bank.

The SystemSpectacular
Polina Rada is now a young woman

Reddy Roland Ray
What little boys are really made of.

John Poet Soldier
The story, told.

...the FINALE...

It is a dark winter’s day, the air is freezing, the air, her nostrils inhale in abundance. The sobs that come, each time she exhales are exclaimed in the flood of tears, her voice is lost from her wailing that lasted all night long. A shovel stands on slight mound where her mother’s body is now buried in wooden crate, brought here yesterday by donkey on a cart she followed. Her brown shoes and white socks share a water mark, which has risen above her ankles. The front of her black woolen coat, which she holds as she huddles to herself she lets go, as another spasm of anger, riddles her body, her shaking is uncontrollable, and her knuckles are death white, as her clenched fits become a blur. The tree, which she leans against, now the wind blows, the rain drops fall down on Rozelle Zofen, all of 11 years.