John Thompson was born in Zambia and crossed the equator by air, land, and sea by the time he was 6. His parents read aloud to him on these journeys, and so travel and storytelling have always been closely intertwined themes in his life. As a young adult he took time off from a degree at Harvard to travel in Scotland and Central America, and later traveled professionally for Lonely Planet. In 2000, John enrolled at the Harvard Divinity School to study literature and theology, to deepen his understanding of literature as a spiritual journey. He is currently, again, working as a private investigator with David Prum. He's less scared this time around.

Giles Morris writes a regular humorous column in The Guardian, as well as occasional features. He has also written for a wide variety of magazines, from Esquire to Literary Review. He's a frequent contributor to Smoke: a London Peculiar and Editor of Plan International's World Family magazine.

As well as freelance journalism , Giles offers a bespoke copywriting service, providing crisp, engaging copy that works.

He also writes fiction and drama . His one-act play, Here and Left Behind, was recently performed at the RADA Theatre Bar.

While he is not related to Giles Morris US, Giles Morris UK does provide many of the same services on the opposite side of the Atlantic. Westing Family Press is pleased to have him on board, and looks forward to doubling its capacity for Giles Morris-ness.

Read his story "The H Word" from London Pleasures.

Henry Armistead Cherry gave up a financially unproductive but spiritually rewarding dishwasher job to write commentary on hep cat indie rockers back at the turn of the century. He resides somewhere in Southern California.

Rampart and Dumaine is a story by Henry Cherry

This is a tale of woe. And boogie. Of beat down blind eyed dipsomaniacs and card sharps. Dark mists of unguided anger turn back to watch with awe the sweat that lines the sides of this story's street. A tale that wants to rip your heart right out of your chest and hand it to the next guy, waving for a handful of beads. Of a river of over poured drinks that tears holes in internal organs and sheet rock. There's a jungle here, it's peopled with automobiles, fast types dodging the interminable rays of sunlight. Wide brimmed hats banned with that same sweat, reeking of payola, a whole world of trickle down that bleats into a dark night, and goes sleepless so many other times. Of two men who grew into older versions they never expected to be, of places that they knew they'd see, but didn't know why, how or when.