Wednesday, August 31, 2011

All ebook formats supported

I've been hearing about smashwords and I intended to go there to look around in the last few weeks, but I was busy getting my book ready for the kindle and paperback. I finally did it... It was easy as pie to upload and they assigned an ISBN number for free. My book, The Killer's Co-op, is now in ALL eReader and eBook device formats, for a limited time set at only $0.99

kindle ebook:

and in paperback too for people like myself that don't prefer the electronic book formats!

Here's a list of the formats currently supported. I think it's all of them!

FormatFull Book
Online Reading (HTML, good for sampling in web browser)View
Online Reading (JavaScript, experimental, buggy)View
Kindle (.mobi for Kindle devices and Kindle apps)Download
Epub (Nook, Sony Reader, Kobo, and most e-reading apps including Stanza, Aldiko, Adobe Digital Editions, others)Download
PDF (good for reading on PC, or for home printing)Download
RTF (readable on most word processors)Download
LRF (Use only for older model Sony Readers that don't support .epub)Download
Palm Doc (PDB) (for Palm reading devices)Download
Plain Text (download) (flexible, but lacks much formatting)Download
Plain Text (view) (viewable as web page)View

If you are wondering what The Killer's Co-op is about... Bob is a horse riding and horse training detective...
A murder staged as a railroad accident soon leads Acting Sheriff Robert Schwimer to the cold-case shotgun death of a sociopath teenager and a series of murders, and kidnappings. With the current sheriff’s corruption scandal; a State Coroner fighting the County Medical Examiner. Bob is racing across the Massachusetts South Shore to neutralize the killers before they neutralize him.

Good reading!

Richard Howes

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Not Stuck any longer.

Well, Julie is well on her way to fighting zombies and finding herself again. Moving towards a grand ending! You'll be surprised.

So I need to post...

What do you do when you're 17, trapped in a fortress that's surrounded by a zombies, and your boyfriend is lost? If you're Julie Rayzor, you lock n load.

Writers write... So I'll write...
I'm a little stuck on the new zombie book. Thought up a good title and main charcter name, plays into a nickname that she (the protagonist) hates. I'm writing... This is writing... Okay, back to writing my novel. Does anyone have any idea how hard it is to market a book and get people to buy it? I'm starting to understand.

Why do I have 123 views of this page and zero views on almost all my other longer and more interesting blog posts? Okay then. I won't argue with success! I'll just use this moment to advertise that my zombie book is on amazon and kindle at:

Check it out here in paperback:

Or Kindle tinyurl here:

What do you do with too many victims? Schwimer digs deep, exhumes the dead, and tracks down suspects. .

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Vi Hart

This woman, Vi Hart, is very interesting and explains some great concepts in music, rubber bands, and math.
Also MoMath has this cool presentation series. You should go to the next one, because I'll be introducing the supercool speaker, Scott Kim.

The Terror, a new book idea, 30% written, four days old

Okay, so Sully from Sullyland is on temporary vacation. The murders, the tailing of suspects, evidence collection will all have to wait. I've got a great idea for a new novel that I'm provisionally calling The Terror, for lack of any good ideas for a title. It's for young adults or adults who feel young. I'm in the second category incase you were wondering. It has Action, Romance, Drama, Clash of Personalities, and Zombies. I've written over 18,000 words in four days and my target is 60,000 to 70,000 words - a short novel. My books tend to grow as I write them. (Getting off that first page is the hardest thing! Then it becomes easier.) So 18,000 words means I'm about 30% done. I know I probably cannot keep up that writing pace. I actually wrote 10,000 words in the first 24 hours. Now, I'm averaging a bit less than that. I hope you like 'The Terror' when it comes out. Keep an eye on for excerpts.

I've decided that this book will be an ebook for kindle, nook, ibooks, and lulu, plus maybe a few others. If it does well there I will consider putting it as POD, such as on along side The Killer's Co-op. On THAT note, I've got to get Killer's Co-op onto lulu, and nook, and ibooks.

Hope you are all well.


PS: I've got a new follower... AnnaC. Hi AnnaC. Please write some feedback. What genre of books do you like to read?

Saturday, August 27, 2011

String of Pearls and Get Smart

Okay, this is gonna be eclectic and "totally random" but listen to it for yourself...

Did anyone ever notice that the Get Smart theme music sounds exactly like the Glenn Miller Orchestra playing "String of Pearls" at time stamp 1:12 to 1:18?

Let's see what youtube has to say...
Go to String of Pearls time stamp 1:15

And let's compare that to Get Smart Time stamp 0:08

Am I right?

Now at Amazon and Createspace

The Killer's Co-op paperback and ebooks are now both available on Amazon.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

The Killer's Co-op now on sale at CreateSpace

The Killer's Co-op (by someone I know) is now on sale at CreateSpace

Click this link or copy and paste it into your browser address bar for the Create Space estore.
This is a Print On Demand book. They will print you a copy and mail it to your house.

If you prefer Kindle, look for it on the Kindle store website in a day or so... I'll let you know when it is finalized. (It will be for sale on Kindle for $2.99.)

Monday, August 22, 2011

The Killer's Co-op book preview

Hi Friends and Family.
As promised, here is an excerpt from The Killer's Co-op, published Aug 22nd 2011. Please take a look and if you like it, please tell everyone, and if you didn't like it, please tell me why! Thank you
Click this link for the preview:

The book is available for sale at and

Best of everything to you!


Saturday, August 20, 2011

excerpt from Sullyland, coming soon...


By Richard Howes

“Wake up, dead man.”
“What?” I awoke to the muzzle of a gun staring me in the eyes. I focused and saw a large man pointing my own gun at me. I contemplated taking the gun, my gun, away from him. I wondered if he had racked a round into the chamber.
“Get up. Someone wants to talk to you.”
“Who?” I asked as I sat up and put my feet on the floor. The man was tall. He wore Bertuli shoes and a high-end dark blue business suit. He backed away, giving me room.
“The guy you been harassing. Let’s go.”
“You think you’re a big man taking a knife away from a kid?” The man backed to the doorway.
I needed him in close if I was going to act. He seemed to suspect that and he gave space with every step I took.
“At least I didn’t kill him.”
“He’s my brother.”
“You want to return the favor?”
“And not kill you?”
“If you insist.”
“Ha! Get in the car. Today I don’t get to kill you. Maybe later.”
“Comforting to know.”
The man smiled and backed down the left hallway towards the living room. Another man, shorter, fatter, ex-wrestler or rugby player, stood in the doorframe of the bathroom to my right. The man gestured with a handgun and said, “Move it.”
He had a thick Italian accent. My guess was Tuscany, but I could be wrong. He swore slacks from a department store and a golf shirt. Black sneakers completed the classy ensemble.
We went out to the car, a white limousine waiting in my driveway. The driver and another muscleman waited. The muscleman hefted a double-barrel shotgun.
“Where we going, Tony?” I figured someone might be a ‘Tony’.
“Get in,” the driver said.
I climbed in the back and sat facing forward to see where we were going. Tall-Tony waved a gun inside and said, “Over there,” pointing to the backward-facing-seat.
I complied. Tall-Tony and Sneakers-Tony got in and kept their guns pointed at me. I rapped on the glass behind me. The window slid down.
“No bumps, okay? We don’t want any accidental discharges back here.”
The butt of a shotgun knocked the back of my head.
“Wise-ass,” Tall-Tony said.
“Dead wise-ass,” laughed Sneakers.
I rubbed the knot that swelled up on my head. The glass slid up. The doors closed. The windows were tinted dark. The men pulled shades down over the side and rear windows. I’d have to find Guiseppi’s hideout on Google-Maps, later.
“So what would Mr. Medici like to talk to me about?”
“What makes you think we are going to see him?” Tall-Tony asked.
“Because... When Mrs. Medici hired me, she didn’t need four gunmen and a limousine ride.”
“Veronika is nice eh?”
“Mrs. Medici? She’s a looker.”
“She’s very nice? Very pretty? I’d like to fuck her. He’d like to fuck her. Would you’d like to fuck her?”
“She’s very pretty.” I smiled. Tried too anyway.
Tall-Tony raised his gun. “You don’t laugh. You don’t talk like that. Only we get to talk like that!”
The two Tonys laughed. I frowned.
“Good. You frown. That’s good!” They laughed some more.
The remainder of the ride went about the same. They told stupid jokes. I kept my mouth shut. They laughed about it.
We got on a highway, probably I-15 through the middle of Las Vegas, but it could be 215.
We cruised at high speed for twenty minutes and then got off an interchange and went to highway speeds again for another ten, followed by surface streets and six or eight turns.
We stopped and the doors opened under a Mediterranean style carport attached to a Mediterranean style house. Good. I could be at almost any house in Las Vegas, or Los Angeles, if the ride had been longer.

The Killer's Co-op - Excerpt

Bob stood in the middle of a small circle of dust. Bluebonnet trotted around him counter-clockwise on a long-line. He turned round and round to follow her, keeping his shoulders and eyes square to her croup. The morning sun was just starting to show through the trees. He had an hour set aside three or four days a week to train or ride their horses. He roped steers one or two Sundays a month and sometimes team-penned with Mary for fun. He felt the horses grounded him, to become intentionally distracted from his job and experience nature, return to a more base level of life and living.
He loved it. He’d worked for two years as a mounted cop in Boston, riding details by Fenway Park and the Red Sox games, Quincy Market, Faneuil Hall, and Boston Commons. He spent many cold nights patrolling near the Boston Gardens, the old name for the ever-name-changing home of the Boston Bruins and Celtics.
That was before the soulless number-crunchers disbanded the country’s oldest Mounted Police unit. He’d moved to homicide after that, and then moved to Duxbury and their own private little horse farm.
He had named Bluebonnet after one of his favorite actors in one of his favorite movies; a western about the open range. An easygoing man who should not be mistaken for a wilting flower, much like the horse in front of him. Blue was tough and stubborn, but he knew there was a kind and willing horse somewhere inside her. It would take time.
 He raised the lunge-whip in his right hand whenever she threatened to falter and drop down to a walk. He lowered the whip or bumped on the line with his left hand if she picked up her feet and appeared on the edge of cantering. Like working the gas on a car, he pushed her to the speed he wanted, keeping her moving, keeping her mind occupied with her job. And she had to work. All horses did better with daily exercise. Make them earn their keep, he told Mary. Give them a job. A job they are suited for, and they will thrive... and they did.
Mary suggested that he had been neglecting the horse’s training for the last week; that Blue was still green and would be so for many more months. She thought that if he worked the horses he would be able to clear his mind and regain some perspective on the murder cases. Bob thought Mary correct. She also reminded him not to risk getting bucked off again, for a while.
He let Blue slow with a soft verbal, “Easy,” and a slight shift of his shoulders and turn of his head to the right, taking pressure off her and letting her slow down a gait. She walked around in three circles.
Bob put his eyes in front of her, turned his entire frame to adjust and said, “Whoa.”
Blue immediately stopped. Instinctively she recognized humans as predators. Through training, Bob made her see that he was not to be feared, but was to be respected.
He said, “Reverse,” in a sharp and clear voice. He switched the whip from right hand to left. The nylon long-line switched to his right hand.
Blue knew the command. She turned to Bob and around to face his right and she started walking again.
“Trot,” he ordered and the horse complied.
“Whoa!” someone yelled and Bob was caught by surprise. Blue spun around at the sudden new voice. Bob wondered why she had not sensed the person sooner, as most horses will.
“Whoa!” the command came again as four young men jumped over the fence into the arena. They spread out around him, encircling him.
Bob dropped the long-line and let his right hand move to his waist. He realized that he never carried his firearm when working horses. That would have to change.
The men laughed as Blue ran free, dragging twenty feet of line behind her. Bob looked from one man to the next. They wore black t-shirts, one with the sleeves cut-off. Various logo’s stated their interest in martial arts and street fighting. One man, the biggest and thick-necked, wore a tight t-shirt stating ‘Ultimate Boxing’. Tattoos emblazoned his black skin. Bob guessed that he sported over 220 pounds of muscle and sinew. The man’s arms hung as if muscle bound.
All but one wore fighting gloves, meant to hurt the target and protect the weapon. The smallest man had his knuckles taped-up. He was skinnier than the others, almost scrawny, and maybe Asian or Pacific Islander. He bore close resemblance to a rat; a rat with Bruce Lee muscles.
Bob knew that his regular work-outs and his horse training kept him fit and strong, but he knew he was no match for these four thugs.
The big one said, “Back off.”
“Glad too,” Bob replied with a cocky grin. He backed away from the men but they continued to encircle him. They punched the air, warming up for the main bout.
“Got a sense of humor.”
“I think so.” Bob pondered a break for the fence and watched for a spot to open. He wondered if he could clear the fence and get to the house before they caught him. He thought about going for the barn, which was closer. A metal hay-fork would give him a lethal defense.
“Back off.”
“I understand that part.” Bob raised the whip and cracked it in the air.
“Look guys. He’s got a fly swatter.”
Bob knew the horse whip stung as he’d accidentally hit himself once or twice, but the whip was only a mild threat and these thugs seemed to have experienced worse in the ring. Bluebonnet ran a full circle of the arena, distracting the men for fear of getting run over.
“I’m telling you to let off,” the big man said as he watched the horse run by.
Bob knew they were not talking about horse training. He wondered what interest this guy had in police work... besides being on the wrong side.
“Who hired you?” Bob asked.
The scrawny guy ran in behind Bob and punched him in the kidneys. Bob’s back arched as he twisted sideways.
He saw one of the middleweight fighters coming in for an attack and he struck his fist upwards and under the man’s chin. The jaw slammed closed and knocked his whole head backwards, as a gloved fist connected with Bob’s left eye.
The big one stood aside and watched his men do the dirty work. He was probably saving his own strength for when Bob was beaten down, and he would deliver the coup-de-grace. Bob felt blow after blow land on his sides, back, gut and face. He blocked one or two attacks and he landed a lucky punch. An attacker struck a crippling kick to Bob’s inner thigh. He went down. Blood filled his eyes. Anger wracked his mind. Pain flooded his body as kicks and punches viciously met their targets.
He heard a gunshot and realized he was still alive. Mary, he thought. He heard the slide of a shotgun rack another round into the chamber.
“Gun!” one of the thugs yelled.
“Get out!” Mary ordered. “Now.”
Bob looked up to see the thugs running for the far fence. As one of them topped the fence Mary let loose another blast. Bird shot peppered his backside. The man fell forward off the top of the fence, landed on his face, and was helped up and away by his friends.
Mary ran to Bob’s side as he slowly got up.
“What did they want?” Mary asked.
“I don’t know,” Bob said as he reached for the shotgun. Mary handed it to him. He pumped another round into the chamber and watched the woods at the back of their pasture. The men were gone. Probably parked on the next street over and soon they would be miles away.
“I’ll call 911,” Mary said.
“No. Too late. Thank you for the rescue.” Bob let Mary slide an arm under his as she helped him walk to the house. His right leg cramped as they went.     
“They were going to kill you.”
“No. I think they were sending a message.” He felt around his mouth with his tongue at a loose tooth. He spit blood into the grass. They went into the house.
“You know,” Mary said impishly as he settled into a kitchen chair and she wet a dish towel. “Every time you train that horse you end up in the dirt.”
“Not the horse’s fault.”
“Not this time.”
“Not the other times either.”
“She’s stubborn," Mary said.
"She’ll eventually understand her job,” Bob replied.
“If you live long enough.”
“That’s another matter...”
“I wish you’d hire a trainer. Get someone to buck her out for you. At least that.” Mary started to wipe the dirt from Bob's face.
“I’ll consider it.” He tooked the towel from Mary.
“No, you won’t.” Mary laughed.