Huw Langridge

I woke up early this morning on my 50th birthday. It was as bright outside as it would ever be at 5am due to it being the summer solstice, the longest period of daylight time. From here on, the nights get longer. Sitting in bed with a cup of tea I started to think about some of the first stories I wrote, and a few memories came back to me. The first thing I remember writing was in my penultimate year in primary school, so we're talking 1983-4. Successfully combining two major phobias of mine, it was called "Tarantursnake" and took up a whopping four pages of my English workbook. I remember getting a decent mark for it, but the only thing I could remember from the story itself was a man hanging on for dear life to a pole suspended over a pit of tarantursnakes. In fact, that may have been the whole thing. I'm not so sure it followed any conventional rules of narrative. Later, in 1987, in high school, a collection of us smuggled copies of the newly published paperback of

  Four of my books are now available in Prestatyn and Rhyl Libraries. Being an indie author I wasn't sure that they would accept book donations as they might have had a computer system on which they may have needed to be discoverable. Either that wasn't a thing and my concerns were unfounded, or they were actually discoverable on said computer system. Anyway, they have taken copies for both libraries. If you happen to be in the area, the books they have available are: The Tolworth Beacon The Axiom Few The Sapling Method (set in Prestatyn!) The Train Set So basically, and this was definiitely not intentional, they have all my "The Something Something" books. Does this mean my titles are becoming as cliche'd as "A Something of Something" or even "The Girl Something Something"? Maybe I need to find a new title format... Except I am writing a sequel to The Tolworth Beacon which is going to be titled "The Tolworth Something". (I do know wh

So eager was I to get home to my wife and child, that I drove a little carelessly. It was Friday evening, and I was at the end of another long working week in the city. A weekend at home was exactly what I needed. When I was only a few roads away I rang Juliette. I was sitting in traffic waiting to join a roundabout and she told me she had lit the fire to make the house cosy for my return. She was bathing little Elliott and had allowed him to stay up late to see me. I was concerned when she hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Perhaps she had needed to urgently attend to our boy's regular antics of tipping water out of the bath.      I pulled up the gravel driveway and swung the car in front of the house, noticing that the front door was ajar and all the lights in the house were on. I got out and stepped across the threshold, calling out to Juliette. She didn't answer. From the kitchen a beautiful smell of cooking. The carpeted stairs were peppered with dark drips. The lig

  I'm delighted to announce that THE SAPLING METHOD is now available on Kindle, Kindle Unlimited and in paperback. Here's the video tralier for the book: And here are the Amazon links: UK:  https:// amzn.to/35FDiJ3 US:  https:// amzn.to/3IE2Zbu

I'm thrilled to announce that my latest novel THE SAPLING METHOD is available for pre-order on Kindle. The digital version of the book will be released on 21st April 2022 and the paperback version will follow a couple of weeks later, date to be confirmed. Here is the front cover marketing banner: The novel tells the story of young James Lewis, who finds a way to make contact with his future self. But information is only meant to flow forwards, not backwards. When paradoxes appear, there are forces at work that that seek to redress the balance. The story is set in the town where I live, Prestatyn in North Wales, predominantly on the forested hillside that backs onto the town. The book has taken the best part of a year to write, and I'm really excited to finally be sharing it with you. If you want to get your copy please click on the links below: UK:  amzn.to/35FDiJ3 US:  amzn.to/3IE2Zbu

Harry felt a familiar tug on his heart whenever he saw the shape of a Triumph Herald. There was something about the way the rear quarter windows terminated in an acutely angled sloping point of glass that seemed to resonate within him indescribably. Besides, Harry felt no need to describe such a sensation because it did not encounter him all that often anymore. At least, that was the case until the first Thursday of January, when he finally acknowledged the faded burgundy Triumph that was parked at the end of his road, a few doors down from the house, since the morning of New Year’s Day. He had passed it six times on the way to the high street to fetch mother’s shopping. Triumphs aren’t made anymore and Harry guessed that the car he could see from between the lace curtains that were drawn across the lounge bay windows was probably assembled towards the end of the cars’ twelve-year production lifespan, as it boasted the angular headlamp formation and horizontal grille slats that were no