Media Kit
Forgive Me, Mr. Hunter
By T.N. Cullen
Editors: Claire Mulligan and Cindy Cullen
Forgive Me, Mr. Hunter
By T.N. Cullen
Editors: Claire Mulligan and Cindy Cullen
Forgive Me, Mr. Hunter
By T.N. Cullen
About The Book
Back cover information:
Axel spends his days pedaling around his neighborhood, secure in the knowledge that his watchful and caring mother is always looking out for him. As a four-year-old, Axel’s whole world fits in the span of his neighbourhood. The highlight of his daily routine is visiting Mr. Hunter, who always lets Axel help with his handyman projects, kindly and patiently taking his suggestions and sharing words of wisdom.
Axel’s life is carefree and simple. He feels like it could go on forever like this until his carefully thought-out plan to do something good ends in disaster. Young Axel’s simple, happy life is torn apart and changed forever.
Following that unfortunate event, Axel is placed in foster care. Confused and heartbroken, he clings to a piece of advice from Mr. Hunter. Axel becomes determined to do something good in the world to make up for his mistake and, ultimately, to find forgiveness.
Over the next decade, Axel’s life seems like a never-ending battle to turn negatives into positives, and to keep moving forward. In an effort to get himself and a close friend out of a serious predicament, Axel makes the difficult decision to get involved in illegal activities. In a remarkable turn of events, it is then that Axel finally finds redemption.
Forgive Me, Mr. Hunter
By T.N. Cullen
About The Book
Back cover information:
Axel spends his days pedaling around his neighborhood, secure in the knowledge that his watchful and caring mother is always looking out for him. As a four-year-old, Axel’s whole world fits in the span of his neighbourhood. The highlight of his daily routine is visiting Mr. Hunter, who always lets Axel help with his handyman projects, kindly and patiently taking his suggestions and sharing words of wisdom.
Axel’s life is carefree and simple. He feels like it could go on forever like this until his carefully thought-out plan to do something good ends in disaster. Young Axel’s simple, happy life is torn apart and changed forever.
Following that unfortunate event, Axel is placed in foster care. Confused and heartbroken, he clings to a piece of advice from Mr. Hunter. Axel becomes determined to do something good in the world to make up for his mistake and, ultimately, to find forgiveness.
Over the next decade, Axel’s life seems like a never-ending battle to turn negatives into positives, and to keep moving forward. In an effort to get himself and a close friend out of a serious predicament, Axel makes the difficult decision to get involved in illegal activities. In a remarkable turn of events, it is then that Axel finally finds redemption.
Forgive Me, Mr. Hunter
Author Bio:
Thomas Cullen grew up in Cranbrook, B.C., in the heart of the Purcell Mountains, but has lived most of his life in Victoria, B.C. on Vancouver Island. His wife and two grown children have “kept (him) grounded, and have always been a source of inspiration.” He taught in the public-school system, mostly middle school, for over 20 years before semi-retiring. He still does a lot of substitute teaching to stay in touch with colleagues and students. With squash as a regular physical outlet, writing has become his creative avocation. He maintains that there are so many stories to be told, yet so many remain untold. He hopes to continue to refine his ability to be a storyteller and to produce more novels.
Author Bio:
Thomas Cullen grew up in Cranbrook, B.C., in the heart of the Purcell Mountains, but has lived most of his life in Victoria, B.C. on Vancouver Island. His wife and two grown children have “kept (him) grounded, and have always been a source of inspiration.” He taught in the public-school system, mostly middle school, for over 20 years before semi-retiring. He still does a lot of substitute teaching to stay in touch with colleagues and students. With squash as a regular physical outlet, writing has become his creative avocation. He maintains that there are so many stories to be told, yet so many remain untold. He hopes to continue to refine his ability to be a storyteller and to produce more novels.
Contact Information:
Website: www.tncullen.ca
Email: t_c_cullen@shaw.ca or tncullen55@gmail.com
Website: www.tncullen.ca
Email: t_c_cullen@shaw.ca or tncullen55@gmail.com
Forgive Me, Mr. Hunter
Questions and Answers
Q: What inspired you to write this novel?
A: The incident in my novel that sets the plot in motion is actually based upon a true incident that became family folklore. The fire started by a little boy – me at about five years old – for altruistic reasons, really did happen, but nobody was hurt. By using that event, but with a very different outcome, I wanted to create a story with a positive message for young adults. Having seen so many young people struggle with low self-esteem, my hope was to encourage them to remain optimistic, to hold onto hope, and to keep moving forward no matter what obstacles they may face.
Q: What genre is your novel?
A: Young adult / youth fiction. It could also be classified as modern realism. The setting is Victoria, B.C. between the years 1986 and 1995. The characters, though rough around the edges (as were the characters in the Outsiders), could be characters in modern times. Their personalities are like puzzle pieces of people I’ve known; bits and pieces of several personalities were used to create each character which made them very real in my mind as the story unfolded. Although the protagonist ends up in foster care, I did not wish to dwell too much on that particular issue. Coming from a fractured family is central to the theme, but what is more important is Axel’s determination to remain optimistic.
Q: Why did you choose to self-publish?
A: This is my first novel, so I thought it would be a good idea for me to understand the whole publishing process from beginning to end. As well, it gave me a lot of control in the decision-making. I see more clearly now that the first draft of a novel is only the beginning! Indeed, it’s where you put most of your creative energy. However, the subsequent revisions and the general proofreading require a huge number of hours – more than I anticipated. But it was an extremely gratifying and rewarding process.
Q: Why did you choose Victoria for your setting?
A: I’m very familiar with Victoria. It’s a fabulous, beautiful city, but it’s not without blemishes and social issues that every city deals with, not the least of which is homelessness. Part of my plot revolves around that. I do use some real place names and locations, and a few are fabricated for personal reasons.
Q: Will there be a sequel to this novel?
A: I guess I could use a quote I repeated in the novel: ‘never say never’. But I don’t believe so. Even though it ends when the protagonist is just 13, it’s a point in his life where it might be best to leave the story there. I can’t really elaborate more on that without a spoiler alert.
Forgive Me, Mr. Hunter
Excerpts:
Chapter 1
Days of Innocence: Summer 1986
I was small, as was my world. To an outsider my existence would have appeared to be one with constraints and boundaries. Maybe it was, but that was okay with me. It was the only world I had ever known—happy, carefree, and uncomplicated. I was certain it would go on forever.
It never occurred to me there might be obstacles along the way.
“Obstacles, or challenges, usually come from mistakes we make,” my mother had explained to me. “And they’re just opportunities for learning.”
Maybe so, but I discovered far too soon, before my fifth birthday, that some obstacles can also be life altering.
I was four, almost five. Summertime in Victoria. The sun rose early and the brilliant rays streaming through the windows were like an invitation. I couldn’t wait to venture out on my trike.
“Stay on the sidewalks or driveways, and don’t go too far. I need to see you from the living room window,” my mother would say. That meant I could go no more than three houses in either direction of our house. A small world, but to me it was as vast as Canada.
“Okay. Where’s dad today?” I would ask. It was important for me to know this.
“He’s in St. John’s.”
“St. John’s. Okay.”
Maynard, my ancient, rusty, red tricycle, was like a good friend. I knew his every scrape and rust mark by heart. I loved how the battered, colourful plastic streamers made a cool whirring sound in the breeze. The bent wheels wobbled on a frame that had to be welded together almost weekly. My mother offered to buy me a new trike. I flatly refused. There was no replacement for Maynard.
At almost five, I had outgrown Maynard. My knees were constantly bruised from knocking against the handlebars as I pedaled frantically up and down the sidewalk and in and out of driveways. Each driveway was a new city that depended on where my father was traveling that week.
When my father was away, there was an emptiness in my life that I couldn’t explain. I was sad and happy at the same time. I cherished the limited time I spent with my father, but it was always more peaceful when he was gone. And my mother was a happier person.
When my parents argued, which was pretty much all the time, I would disappear into my room and cover my ears. But they were so loud that nothing could block them out completely.
“If you would stop your damn drinking, maybe we could do something as a family!” I remember my mother screaming.
“If you would stop your bloody nagging, I wouldn’t have to drink!” was my father’s return.
When the screaming finally stopped, I would go sit in the living room just to be near my father. He said very little to me. He smoked, drank beer, and watched TV, and never left his chair. I just sat and watched his every move.
Sunday mornings at church were the only times I could be certain my parents would get along. For that reason, I looked forward to church.
My father sold hospital equipment right across Canada, so he was away most of the time in places like Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, Winnipeg, Toronto, Montreal, and even St. John’s.
Using an atlas, my mother had gone over Canada’s geography with me a hundred times so that I would know where my father was. Not many four-year-olds knew all the major cities in Canada, but I had a map in my head that allowed me to make all the necessary stops en route to anywhere.
That week it was St. John’s. Now that was something. Victoria to St. John’s is about a zillion kilometers one way, and, of course, another zillion back.
So, when I was on Maynard that day, I made a stop in Hagen’s driveway—that was Winnipeg; then Hunter’s carport—that was Toronto; and then I finally entered forbidden territory. I went out of my mother’s view to get to Kline’s driveway—St. John’s. It was such a novelty being in Kline’s driveway that I stayed a while to sightsee, refuel, and what not.
Big mistake. Soon enough, my mother noticed I was out of sight. She bolted out of the house in curlers, nightgown, and bare feet. That was something to see, my mother doing the hundred-meter dash at Olympic speed in bare feet. I would have laughed if she hadn’t yanked on my ears as she dragged me back home, still astride Maynard. Ears just weren’t made for that kind of tugging, especially my big ones. The pain wasn’t worth the trip to St. John’s, believe me.
My mother never stayed angry for long, and I never stopped loving her. I always felt safe and protected. But I enjoyed pushing the boundaries from time to time, and my memory was a little short, so it certainly wasn’t my last trip to Kline’s driveway.
Chapter 3
1995: Two Connections
This is the third week in my sixth foster home, and my fourth dysfunctional home in a row. Four in a row! Now that’s something. For anyone keeping score, that has to be some kind of a record. I’m not really a stats guy, and living with four whacko families in a row is really nothing to write home about, so to speak.
School is a safe haven. It’s one of the few places where I find a little peace of mind in my life. My escape from reality for the past few years has been reading, so academically I’m ahead of most people my age. I don’t do a lot of writing, but teachers tell me that I express myself well when I do. Oddly enough, I use a dictionary regularly. I like knowing the meanings of big words.
I read almost anything I can get my hands on. In fourth and fifth grades, I read all the Hardy Boys book written. Frank and Joe became a part of my persona back then, and I dreamed every night that I would become the best detective in the world. But I moved on to broader horizons with stories that were powerful enough to make me cry like Where the Red Fern Grows, Bridge to Terabithia, and Black Beauty. I read Treasure Island and Huckleberry Finn three times each, and I most recently discovered a penchant for darker-themed novels such as The Outsiders and Lord of the Flies.
Pacific Shores Middle School is a big ancient brick building with an institutional look. It’s located in the municipality of Vic-East, near the border of Victoria proper. Vic-East has negative connotations for some people because it’s an older part of Greater Victoria, and many of the houses are run down. It’s a lot more affordable than most other parts of Victoria, and I actually like living in this part of the capital city. I feel more at home with people who don’t have their noses in the air while driving around in a Mercedes Benz or a BMW.
I always arrive at school with ringing in my ears from the screaming and rampaging of my foster dad, Flick. His real name is Cliff but he landed the permanent nick name because of his habit of flicking his head. Likely, it started years earlier as a convenient way to get bangs out of his eyes. The hair vanished, but the flicking stayed.
Despite the raucous voices of all the middle-schoolers, the ringing in my ears disappears the moment I walk through the front doors of the school. Having been here just a few weeks, it still feels new to me. I haven’t made any real connections yet, but that’s mostly my own fault. It’s a struggle for me to work up the courage to initiate a conversation with anyone. I mingle a bit and listen to conversations, but everyone seems to be established with groups of friends and they don’t readily welcome outsiders into their cliques. I’m okay with that. I like observing and taking mental notes.
I’m tall and slender—some say I’m lanky—and my worn-out blue jeans are still as loose and baggy as the day I got them, but now they’re high enough off the ground to stay dry in a significant flood. I know people mock me behind my back, but I really don’t care. I just pull back my long, straight, dark brown hair, tuck it behind my big ears and ignore anyone with a superior attitude.
I saunter into my classroom, heels dragging, but Mrs. Watson greets me warmly. I have her for homeroom, English, Socials and Math.
“Good morning, Axel. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, or maybe you just need about one more hour of sleep.” She smiles and I smile back.
“Just one?” I reply. “I think maybe a week would be a start.” She nods in her understanding way. I walk to my desk with a little more bounce in my step.
She knows all about me and my foster-kid life. I sense she pities me and that’s why she gives me lots of breaks. If she had any idea about the dark cloud that consumes my every waking minute, and has for the past nine years or so, I doubt she’d still be so understanding.
No matter what anyone might say, I’m responsible for my own actions. I would give anything to change one particular event of my past, but that kind of thinking is a waste of time. It’s also hard keeping it to myself. But whenever I ask myself who I could trust to tell about my life-changing incident, the answer is always the same: nobody. Mrs. Watson might be the exception. She actually reminds me of my mother, the way she takes things in stride. I suppose she’s somewhere between forty and fifty, a little older than my mother would be. …
Excerpts:
Chapter 1
Days of Innocence: Summer 1986
I was small, as was my world. To an outsider my existence would have appeared to be one with constraints and boundaries. Maybe it was, but that was okay with me. It was the only world I had ever known—happy, carefree, and uncomplicated. I was certain it would go on forever.
It never occurred to me there might be obstacles along the way.
“Obstacles, or challenges, usually come from mistakes we make,” my mother had explained to me. “And they’re just opportunities for learning.”
Maybe so, but I discovered far too soon, before my fifth birthday, that some obstacles can also be life altering.
I was four, almost five. Summertime in Victoria. The sun rose early and the brilliant rays streaming through the windows were like an invitation. I couldn’t wait to venture out on my trike.
“Stay on the sidewalks or driveways, and don’t go too far. I need to see you from the living room window,” my mother would say. That meant I could go no more than three houses in either direction of our house. A small world, but to me it was as vast as Canada.
“Okay. Where’s dad today?” I would ask. It was important for me to know this.
“He’s in St. John’s.”
“St. John’s. Okay.”
Maynard, my ancient, rusty, red tricycle, was like a good friend. I knew his every scrape and rust mark by heart. I loved how the battered, colourful plastic streamers made a cool whirring sound in the breeze. The bent wheels wobbled on a frame that had to be welded together almost weekly. My mother offered to buy me a new trike. I flatly refused. There was no replacement for Maynard.
At almost five, I had outgrown Maynard. My knees were constantly bruised from knocking against the handlebars as I pedaled frantically up and down the sidewalk and in and out of driveways. Each driveway was a new city that depended on where my father was traveling that week.
When my father was away, there was an emptiness in my life that I couldn’t explain. I was sad and happy at the same time. I cherished the limited time I spent with my father, but it was always more peaceful when he was gone. And my mother was a happier person.
When my parents argued, which was pretty much all the time, I would disappear into my room and cover my ears. But they were so loud that nothing could block them out completely.
“If you would stop your damn drinking, maybe we could do something as a family!” I remember my mother screaming.
“If you would stop your bloody nagging, I wouldn’t have to drink!” was my father’s return.
When the screaming finally stopped, I would go sit in the living room just to be near my father. He said very little to me. He smoked, drank beer, and watched TV, and never left his chair. I just sat and watched his every move.
Sunday mornings at church were the only times I could be certain my parents would get along. For that reason, I looked forward to church.
My father sold hospital equipment right across Canada, so he was away most of the time in places like Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, Winnipeg, Toronto, Montreal, and even St. John’s.
Using an atlas, my mother had gone over Canada’s geography with me a hundred times so that I would know where my father was. Not many four-year-olds knew all the major cities in Canada, but I had a map in my head that allowed me to make all the necessary stops en route to anywhere.
That week it was St. John’s. Now that was something. Victoria to St. John’s is about a zillion kilometers one way, and, of course, another zillion back.
So, when I was on Maynard that day, I made a stop in Hagen’s driveway—that was Winnipeg; then Hunter’s carport—that was Toronto; and then I finally entered forbidden territory. I went out of my mother’s view to get to Kline’s driveway—St. John’s. It was such a novelty being in Kline’s driveway that I stayed a while to sightsee, refuel, and what not.
Big mistake. Soon enough, my mother noticed I was out of sight. She bolted out of the house in curlers, nightgown, and bare feet. That was something to see, my mother doing the hundred-meter dash at Olympic speed in bare feet. I would have laughed if she hadn’t yanked on my ears as she dragged me back home, still astride Maynard. Ears just weren’t made for that kind of tugging, especially my big ones. The pain wasn’t worth the trip to St. John’s, believe me.
My mother never stayed angry for long, and I never stopped loving her. I always felt safe and protected. But I enjoyed pushing the boundaries from time to time, and my memory was a little short, so it certainly wasn’t my last trip to Kline’s driveway.
Chapter 3
1995: Two Connections
This is the third week in my sixth foster home, and my fourth dysfunctional home in a row. Four in a row! Now that’s something. For anyone keeping score, that has to be some kind of a record. I’m not really a stats guy, and living with four whacko families in a row is really nothing to write home about, so to speak.
School is a safe haven. It’s one of the few places where I find a little peace of mind in my life. My escape from reality for the past few years has been reading, so academically I’m ahead of most people my age. I don’t do a lot of writing, but teachers tell me that I express myself well when I do. Oddly enough, I use a dictionary regularly. I like knowing the meanings of big words.
I read almost anything I can get my hands on. In fourth and fifth grades, I read all the Hardy Boys book written. Frank and Joe became a part of my persona back then, and I dreamed every night that I would become the best detective in the world. But I moved on to broader horizons with stories that were powerful enough to make me cry like Where the Red Fern Grows, Bridge to Terabithia, and Black Beauty. I read Treasure Island and Huckleberry Finn three times each, and I most recently discovered a penchant for darker-themed novels such as The Outsiders and Lord of the Flies.
Pacific Shores Middle School is a big ancient brick building with an institutional look. It’s located in the municipality of Vic-East, near the border of Victoria proper. Vic-East has negative connotations for some people because it’s an older part of Greater Victoria, and many of the houses are run down. It’s a lot more affordable than most other parts of Victoria, and I actually like living in this part of the capital city. I feel more at home with people who don’t have their noses in the air while driving around in a Mercedes Benz or a BMW.
I always arrive at school with ringing in my ears from the screaming and rampaging of my foster dad, Flick. His real name is Cliff but he landed the permanent nick name because of his habit of flicking his head. Likely, it started years earlier as a convenient way to get bangs out of his eyes. The hair vanished, but the flicking stayed.
Despite the raucous voices of all the middle-schoolers, the ringing in my ears disappears the moment I walk through the front doors of the school. Having been here just a few weeks, it still feels new to me. I haven’t made any real connections yet, but that’s mostly my own fault. It’s a struggle for me to work up the courage to initiate a conversation with anyone. I mingle a bit and listen to conversations, but everyone seems to be established with groups of friends and they don’t readily welcome outsiders into their cliques. I’m okay with that. I like observing and taking mental notes.
I’m tall and slender—some say I’m lanky—and my worn-out blue jeans are still as loose and baggy as the day I got them, but now they’re high enough off the ground to stay dry in a significant flood. I know people mock me behind my back, but I really don’t care. I just pull back my long, straight, dark brown hair, tuck it behind my big ears and ignore anyone with a superior attitude.
I saunter into my classroom, heels dragging, but Mrs. Watson greets me warmly. I have her for homeroom, English, Socials and Math.
“Good morning, Axel. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, or maybe you just need about one more hour of sleep.” She smiles and I smile back.
“Just one?” I reply. “I think maybe a week would be a start.” She nods in her understanding way. I walk to my desk with a little more bounce in my step.
She knows all about me and my foster-kid life. I sense she pities me and that’s why she gives me lots of breaks. If she had any idea about the dark cloud that consumes my every waking minute, and has for the past nine years or so, I doubt she’d still be so understanding.
No matter what anyone might say, I’m responsible for my own actions. I would give anything to change one particular event of my past, but that kind of thinking is a waste of time. It’s also hard keeping it to myself. But whenever I ask myself who I could trust to tell about my life-changing incident, the answer is always the same: nobody. Mrs. Watson might be the exception. She actually reminds me of my mother, the way she takes things in stride. I suppose she’s somewhere between forty and fifty, a little older than my mother would be. …
Ordering Information
Book Details:
- 302 pages
- Black & White
- 5.5 x 8.5 inches
Paperback available directly from author: t_c_cullen@shaw.ca $12.00 CAD (+shipping) ** 4 or more copies for teachers: $10.00 each (plus, a supplemental novel study guide is included: chapter by chapter guiding questions about the characters, issues and literary elements, many that lend themselves well to class discussions.)
Also, find it at:
*Dragonfly Book Store ( 721 Station Ave. Langford, B.C. Phone: 250-478-0914 )
*Munro's Books ( 1108 Government St. Victoria, B.C. Phone: 250-382-2464 )
*Coles Books (Westshore Town Centre: 2945 Jacklin Rd. Langford, B.C. Phone:
250-478-3543)
Available Formats: ISBNs: FriesenPress Bookstore Prices
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Categories:
- Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Emotions & Feelings
- Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Adolescence
- Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Values & Virtues
Contributors:
Author
T. N. Cullen
Editors: Claire Mulligan and Cindy Cullen
