About the Author

My name is Hanif S. Ali and I am a writer from Orlando, Florida.

Despite the ides of The Mouse and the perpetuation that Orlando is of the tourists, by the tourists, and for the tourists, my hometown is not what you think.  The groundswell of counter culture swept along with the disenfranchised fallout makes for an edgy fringe to the City Beautiful and I embrace it everyday as I walk the disgruntled streets and visit my patient haunts with one goal in mind…

to fill my pages with ink.


There’s more than a few authors I return to time and again for inspiration, so let me start with one of the most raw and unapologetic amongst them.

Cormac McCarthy has a style all his own. His brilliant prose splays the human dynamic out in all it grizzly glory and lets the reader decide for himself what the true nature of man is. I return to his cannon often to refill my wonder at how honest a writer can really be.


A few paragraphs from my recent manuscript:

Confidence Men: Chapter 3

        “Mr. Fox had gone to extreme measures to bring us all here. He’d stolen eight people from their lives and rendered them supplicated and powerless. I tried to quickly calculate the incredible focus, intelligence, and time it would take to accomplish such a feat. I don’t even know where to start.
The door opened again, but with force this time. CLANG! The echo exploded around the room and our heads with deafening force. The Mr. Fox of subtle brevity was gone and the Mr. Fox that plowed back into the room was possessed, screaming in some strange tongue at the helpless person he dragged in tow, masked and cloaked.
“You watchin’? You watchin’ this, little boys?” This is your lovelies, I find meself crossed!” Mr. Fox placed his prisoner, a rather large male by the look of him, dead center in front of us and hurried over to grab a thick metal pipe from the corner of the room. Without hesitation, he strode briskly at his dummy and swung his weapon at the man’s shinbone like Babe Ruth swinging for the stands. We all instinctively turned our heads at the contact. The sound of the crack was wretched – it popped like a giant’s bubble gum. While the sound echoed again and again, the redhead met my eyes briefly, then promptly threw up next to his chair. The masked victim yelped in agony between gasps for breath as he convulsed on the floor. I was the first to return Mr. Fox’s stare. He snapped his head at me and grinned, but this time I knew it wasn’t planned. He was happy.”