Wednesday, 30 November 2016

Enchanted Desire by Paul Lonardo

I have had published both fiction and non-fiction book published, including titles that have been excerpted in Reader’s Digest (Caught in the Act, Penguin Group, 2011) and reviewed in Publisher’s Weekly (Life, with Cancer, Health Communications, Inc., foreword by Anna Quindlen, 2012).

From the Ashes, a 2010 collaborative book written with a Gina Russo, who survived the deadly 2003 Station Nightclub fire in RI which claimed the lives of 100 people, became the basis of a 2013 documentary web series, The Station.

Thrill Killers is a 2007 true crime book (New Horizon Press, Berkley paperback, 2008) written with the Johnston, Rhode Island detective who headed the investigation of a brutal double homicide.

I was interviewed as part of NBC’s documentary program, I Survived a Serial Killer, featuring the true crime story depicted in the book Caught in the Act.

I had my first romance book published (Reunion of Souls, Liquid Silver Press, June 2015).

I recently had my second romance novella Enchanted Desire published by Wild Rose Press, released on June 17, 2016

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About the Book

Enchanted Desire, published by The Wild Rose Press, tells the story of a beautiful young college student, Shanna, who is looking for a fresh start and a way out of a bad relationship. She meets and falls in love with Kenny, a sexy 6 foot 8 Native American university professor, who himself is embarking upon a spiritual journey and must leave for a while. Kenny gives Shanna the incentive to rely upon her inner strength to leave her neglectful boyfriend, which she does. He also gives her a special gift that allows them to be together even while they are apart. Their spirits and their sexual desire for one another are satisfied with the help of a little imagination…and a magical object.

The official book blurb:

I had my life all planned out...until I met him. Kenny Honana is sexy and alluring. Mysterious. I’d always been drawn to the Native American heritage, and now I found myself dream-deep in a supernatural tribal ritual. Little did I know, his vision quest would involve me in a sexual odyssey beyond my wildest dreams. But when the quest is over...what becomes of us.

When you dare to dream, you might as well dream to have it all.

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Keep reading for an excerpt:

My disappointment quickly turned to delight when I saw the tall, broad figure that cut through the steam in the room. I knew it was Kenny right away.

“I had to see you.” Kenny’s voice boomed like thunder in my ears, making my body shudder.

“How did you—” I could not finish what I was going to say before Kenny crossed the room to the bathtub in three strides and gently put the tips of two fingers against my lips. “Sh-hhhhh.”

The sibilating sound lulled me back into tranquility. He slowly ran the fingers of his right hand along my jawline to my ear and then down the nape of my neck, he did the same with his tongue on the other side of my face. I shivered even in the heat of the steaming bath water. Cupping the sides of my face in his hands, he drew his head toward me and kissed me deeply.

Saturday, 26 November 2016

Justi the Gifted by R.R. Brooks

Robert R. Brooks, a native of New Jersey, writes fantasy, mystery, and science fiction novels and short stories as R.R. Brooks. He has fiction training from several schools, including The Great Smokies Writing Program of the University of North Carolina. His publications include a dozen short stories, a novel, and other pieces. Bob is a member of the Blue Ridge Writers Group, the Appalachian Round Table, and the Brevard Authors Guild, has served as a judge for the Brevard Little Theater Annual Play Competition, and as a reader for the Eric M. Hoffer Award for self-published and small press books.

Retired from the pharmaceutical industry, he lives with a wife and two cats outside Brevard. A science fiction-thriller novel is being revised. He has co-authored with A.C. Brooks a mystery with a paranormal and psychological-twist (hunting publisher). A sequel to Justi the Gifted is in the works.

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About the Book

This epic fantasy tells of a simple peasant boy with a damaged gift from the old god Li. Justi has nothing to do with the conflict between Tantrocan barbarians and the Kingdom of the Zell. And his gift, the Sense of Justice, is hardly a threat to the invaders who’d killed Justi’s father. It becomes so when Dar, god of Chaos, sunders the gift, sends a part to another human, and leaves Justi with a killing power. This power could defeat the barbarians if he could control it. To do that he must find the missing part—and survive.

Dar’s spirit servants engage animals to kill Justi. The Tantrocan high priest Aduk dispatches his assassin to do the same. The Tantrocan king sends soldiers to finish the job, driving the boy to the very person he must meet. Mercerio, daughter of exiled Queen Melsin and heir to the Zellish throne, has the mercy component of the gift. The teens are attracted and repulsed as teens will be. To thwart the prophesized liaison of the children of the gift, Dar has the prostitute Provani seduce Justi. In shame, Justi shuns Mercerio and refuses to help drive the Tantrocans from the Zell. Only when Mercerio is kidnapped can he use his untempered power and confront his great fear—killing an innocent. But his greater task is to resolve the rift with the princess and unite their gifts.

Justi the Gifted is a fast-paced adventure tale of enchanted animals, befuddled seers, and struggle to do what’s right to save a kingdom and a young love.

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Keep reading for an excerpt:

Clearly Stren didn’t want to talk about it, so Justi stretched, breathed in the woody mossy scents, and joined his friend in the warm pool. They were still swimming when Tirea arrived. She posed on the sand with her hands on her hips and surveyed the pool, smiling.

Justi noticed her first. “What are you doing here? This is our spot.”

“Really?” Tirea studied the spread-out clothes and then the two bathers. “Who gave it to you?”

A gurgle of falling water was the answer. The boys backed away from the shore.

“Well, I see that you think it’s yours.” Tirea picked up an undergarment, holding it at arm’s length in two fingers. “We girls will try to remember that when we use it.”

“Fine,” Justi said. “Now put that back and go.”

“I have something to tell you, Justi—”

“Can’t this wait until later?” Stren said.

“You mean when you have some clothes on? Don’t be concerned. I’ve seen you boys swimming here before.”

“What?” Stren said, sinking down until only his head was above the water. “You shouldn’t be snooping around where you don’t belong.”

“Walking in the woods is not snooping.” Tirea gathered up the clothes and walked to the edge of to pool, grinning. “Don’t you want these?”

Stren stepped into a hole and his head disappeared under water. He came up sputtering. “We’re not coming out until you leave. We’ll get them ourselves.”

Tirea dumped the clothes on the boulder. “All right. Quit fussing like cows who want to be milked. Goren wants you to visit him, Justi. Sooner rather than later. He asked me how you were doing.”

“Doing what?”

“You’ll have to ask him about that.”

Justi came half way out of the water. “This makes no sense. What aren’t you telling?”

Tirea sighed. “All right. I was visiting Goren and the thing about Morul just sort of came out. Goren was really interested.”

“Why did you say anything to the seer?” Justi, more than miffed that she was stirring things up again, fought an impulse to grab Tirea and shake her.

“He asked about you. I told him the most important thing I knew.”

“You’re making such a fuss over nothing,” Justi said, feeling as trapped as a pig in a butcher’s pen.

“Goren thinks what happened is important—”

“Maybe you think too much. Now go.”

“I’m going. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.” Tirea patted the garments and went into the woods.

Justi and Stren waited, listening to footsteps climb the path. When the sound disappeared, they emerged from the pool.

“We should dry off before we get dressed.” Stren stepped over sand and pebbles to a bright patch of sunshine and stood with his arms spread. “So you’ll see Goren, right?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

A rustle from the woods sent them both to crouch behind the boulder.

“Very cute. Both of you.” Tirea’s laughter faded as she ran off. Still damp, the boys scrambled into their clothes.

Wednesday, 23 November 2016

Shadow Stalker Part 3 (Episodes 13 - 18) by Renee Scattergood

Renee Scattergood lives in Australia with her husband, Nathan, and daughter, Taiya. She has always been a fan of fantasy and was inspired to become a story-teller by George Lucas, but didn't start considering writing down her stories until she reached her late twenties. Now she enjoys writing dark fantasy, and she’d dabbling with paranormal thrillers under a pen name.

She is currently publishing her monthly Shadow Stalker serial, and she has published a prequel novella to the series called, Demon Hunt. She is also working on a new series of novels, A God's Deception.

Aside from writing, she loves reading (fantasy, of course), watching movies with her family, and doing crafts and science experiments with her homeschooled daughter. Visit her site for more information and a free copy of Shadow Stalker Part 1 (Episodes 1 – 6).

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About the Book

Things go from bad to worse when the Galvadi Empire develops a new technology to use against the shadow stalkers. Now Kado and Makari are more determined than ever to keep Auren away from their enemies, but Auren decides enough is enough and takes matters into her own hands. She turns herself over to the Galvadi to get close to Drevin and Makari has no choice but to play along. He is forced to either torture Auren to prove his loyalty or die knowing she will be tortured and enslaved anyway. Somehow they must get close enough to Drevin to bring him down and put an end to the Galvadi’s tyranny once and for all.

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Keep reading for an excerpt:

Episode 13: Chapter 1

Cali gave me a nudge as she took a seat next to me. "Do you have any idea what's going on?"

"No idea," I said, moving over a few inches so she had space to sit between me and Shai on the log someone had converted into a bench.

Shai slung an arm around her cousin and Cali returned the gesture, then wrapped her free arm around me. I smiled at her. Cali was the only one who had helped me maintain my sanity over the years. It drove me crazy never knowing what was happening to Makari. Kado kept me busy, as usual, but any time I had a free moment, all I could do was wonder if he was safe. I would know if he died. I would sense him again in the shadow world. He had been blocking me to keep me safe, though I had no idea how it was supposed to help. All it did was make me want to go to him, which would be more dangerous.

Of course, Kado would never allow that. He saw my thoughts as I had them most of the time, and he would know as soon as I made the decision. I learned quickly not to allow my thoughts to go down that path too often. That's where Cali came in. She distracted me by helping me forget the war and making me feel like a normal person once in a while. She was as good a friend as Jade, except she didn't encourage me to disobey Kado when I was angry.

"Maybe the Galvadi have decided to give up," Shai said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Cali snorted.

"I know. It's wishful thinking."

I smiled at Shai. "I want this to be over too."

"You'll figure it out soon." Cali gave my shoulder a squeeze.

All the shadow warriors knew the end of the war would not come until I stopped Drevin. The only problem was I had no idea what I was supposed to do, and no amount of training helped. Each day it seemed like I was further from my goal instead of closer.

After everyone had taken their seats, Kado held up a hand calling us all to silence. "Makari has just given me some disheartening news. The Galvadi have developed a—"

I tried to listen, but I couldn't get past the fact that Makari had been here. "He didn't even bother to see me?"

Kado glared at me, and I suddenly realized I'd blurted it aloud.

"Makari has to keep a low profile for his own safety, and they were not aware he had left. He couldn't stay away long."

"I think it's time he left the Galvadi all together," I said, folding my arms over my chest.

"It would be the healthier option," Cali added on my behalf.

"Makari's work has been invaluable to us, and would not be possible if he weren't living among them for the time being," Kado said, then leaned in my direction looking straight into my eyes. "And he knows what he is doing."

Kado watched me, and I was sure he was waiting to see if I would continue to interrupt him. I remained silent, but neither he nor Makari would be able to convince me the man I loved wasn't taking an unnecessary risk. They could get whatever information they needed from their missions.
When he was sure I wouldn't interrupt again he finished explaining that the Galvadi had developed a new recinder and how it worked. "You will need to avoid capture at all costs. Once these recinders are placed on you, there is no known way to nullify its effects even after removal. Auren, I want you to visit Makari's unit to steal the schematics, and if possible, one of the recinders along with any other information you can find about new technologies. Makari suspects there is more, but they are keeping him in the dark."

I stood quickly, smacking my hands together. "When do I leave?"

"Wait a moment. I have other things I need to discuss with you first."

I sat again, hoping I wasn't in for one of his long lectures.

"The rest of you are dismissed. Sephir, you and Shai are clear to leave on that special mission you've been training for as soon as you're ready, but please be careful."

"We will," Sephir said, bowing.

I leaned over Cali to give Shai a quick hug. Cali wrapped her arms around both of us. Shai stood as soon as we released her, and Sephir, who had been standing next to her, wrapped an arm around her as they headed off.

"Good luck," Cali said, winking at me before following Sephir and her cousin.

Kado sat next to me. "Auren, you have been the most adept at overcoming the effects of the beryllonium. That's why I'm sending you on this mission, but you need to be extra careful this time. Makari believes even you wouldn't stand a chance with this new recinder. If they are looking for test subjects, they may also have new ways of detaining shadow stalkers that Makari might not be aware of. If you are discovered, do not take any risks. Makari will not be able to help you. You will need to leave immediately. Understood?"

"Yes, Kado. I'll be fine." I only just managed to stop my eyes from rolling.

"I'm serious, Auren. We can always return later, but if you are captured, you may be lost to us for good this time."

The fear in Kado's eyes sobered me. Things came easily to me now that I had completed my training, and though I had discovered abilities not even Kado had known about, I wasn't foolish enough to believe I was all powerful. Sometimes my foster father seemed to worry more than he should, but I was beginning to think that wasn't the case here.

"I'll be careful, Kado. I promise." It wouldn't hurt to pay Makari a little visit too if he was alone.

Kado gripped my arm and tilted my head with his free hand so I was looking directly at him. "Under no circumstances are you to seek out Makari. If you attempt something so foolish, Auren, you will be punished and banned from future missions."

My shoulders sagged. "It was an errant thought, Kado. I will focus on my mission."

"The mission and nothing else, Auren. This is important."

I nodded and averted my eyes. I just missed him. That's all it was.

"I know you miss him, Auren, and that it's been hard for you both to be apart, but it won't be forever. You and Makari will have your time in this world if the shadow people will it, but not if you risk both your lives on foolishness."

"I know. I'm sorry." Makari was being the more foolish of us both, and yet Kado supported him. It didn't make sense, but whenever I brought the subject up with either of them, they redirected the conversation.

Kado pulled me into a tight hug and whispered, "Come back to me in one piece, please."

I returned his embrace. "I will."

Sunday, 20 November 2016

Fraternity of Fractures by Mark Pannebecker

Mark Pannebecker is an author of fiction and the founder of the St. Louis Indie Book Fair, an annual event created to foster authors of fiction and nonfiction. He started out as a filmmaker but soon fell in love with the creative writing process and began to shift his focus from producing and directing films to writing screenplays. He now writes in whichever genre holds the narrative best. He has written screenplays, stage plays, novels, novellas, and has recently published a collection of poetry titled Motorcycle Boy Lives and a collection of short stories titled Godsfood. His first novel, Fraternity of Fractures, was originally written as a screenplay and was published late in 2015.

Mark had never tried to get published in the past for he loved the process of creating and was happy riding his motorcycle, traveling, living, loving, and writing. But it’s time now to put his body of work out there and pick up where he left off. He is proud of his past work that he offers now and hopes you enjoy it. Mark is in the process of preparing and writing new work, alive and fresh from a long slumber. The book he’s most excited about writing is a series titled Portrait of a Tourist, a semi-autobiographical spiritual journey based on the Fools travels through the Tarot.

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About the Book

Phoenix and Justin Sunder are master cat burglars and best friends until Dylan Panicosky enters their circle of hedonism and crime. Set in the blighted city of St. Louis in the ‘80s, Fraternity of Fractures is a love triangle played out in an urban setting full of nocturnal decadence and danger, with all the players fractured in their own way.

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Keep reading for an excerpt:

It was a perfect time for a robbery. Any earlier and there’d be too many people walking around; any later and the bars would be closing, causing too much activity; and later still, it would be unsafe as well as raise suspicion. Phoenix knew what she was doing.

She sat in her car listening to the Dead Kennedys, watching the thick smoke from the corner Vietnamese restaurant roll out from the exhaust fan and hang there ten feet above the sidewalk; she could smell the familiar spices of Asian cooking. The white smoke stagnating in the stale air added to her discomfort and she hoped for a breeze to cool her off.

Phoenix didn’t want to sit under the dimly lit, haloed streetlights for too long and draw attention to herself, but she saw a squad car in the rearview mirror nestled in the oncoming traffic and decided to wait; but just sitting there made her feel heavy, the gray St. Louis sky weighed her down. She started to sweat and looked again in her rearview mirror. To keep her mind off the suffocating weather she thought about the security system of Chin’s Orient Emporium and went through a mental list of what she needed to do to break it. The short rush of traffic finally drove past her, spiraling the cloud of smoke from the restaurant and sending it clutching into the night like skeleton fingers. The half-dozen cars continued down the two mile stretch of Grand Boulevard lined with inexpensive restaurants, cheap retail shops, and boarded-up buildings. When it was clear, Phoenix checked the area one more time: a handful of people, a couple of parked cars, little activity this time of night in the Tower Grove neighborhood.

She grabbed her Walkman and a cassette tape as she prepared to walk the block in a half to Chin’s Orient Emporium. When she stepped out of her car, she was immediately wrapped in the humid July weather, her black one-piece, tight around her five-foot frame, stuck to her body as she moved her oversized black nylon bag onto her tenuous shoulders.

Standing outside the building, shrouded in its shadow, Phoenix slipped surgical gloves onto her fine hands. Partly protected by the blue haze of the new moon’s light, she grabbed her small metal Mac flashlight, a pocket-sized version of what the police carry and a present from Justin Sunder, her friend and mentor, the first night they danced together. When she turned the head of her flashlight a strong white beam shot out and landed precisely on the store’s telephone line. Phoenix stood in her suit of night, poised in the dark, her muscles tight, her jaw slightly clenched, and her nipples hard. Her large green eyes followed the narrow, focused light as she traced the phone line down the side of the two-story building. When she heard a couple approaching, she quickly turned off the light, pressed against the building, and squinted.

“Your eyes are like beacons in the night,” Justin once told her, “close them.” She wished he were with her now because—although she was good—she wasn’t as good as Justin Sunder. Even though she knew Chin’s system could be easily breached she still felt a little uncomfortable dancing alone for the first time since meeting him two years ago. She had come to depend on his expertise. And she enjoyed dancing with him.

Wednesday, 16 November 2016

Private Spies by P.J. Nunn

In 1998, PJ Nunn founded BreakThrough Promotions (, now a national public relations firm helping authors, mostly of mystery novels, publicize themselves and their work. The business is thriving and PJ is excited about the release of her first novels, Angel Killer: a Shari Markam Mystery and Private Spies: a Jesse Morgan Mystery.

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About the Book

When Jesse Morgan’s boss and best friend died, she inherited Private Spies, a private investigation firm that specializes in missing persons. Unfortunately, she knew little about the business aside from her intensive work on the computer. But if Joey thought she could handle it, she felt obligated to at least give it a try. How hard could it be, right?

So Jesse took on her first case. Very straightforward. This guy is missing, find him. Oh but wait, he also kidnapped his own daughter. Find her too. Still not that hard. Except when she ran his report, the picture she found on his drivers license is of another guy. And when she found a guy who matched the first picture, he had another name. And when she found a girl that looked like the daughter, she didn’t match anything. Not good.

Enter a retired police officer named Byron (really?) who says before Joey died, he hired him to work for them. Ok. This might be helpful. But then came a stalker, and a dead guy, a dead duck and an increasing list of incidents that all seem confusing to Jesse. Up to her eyeballs in threats and questions, Jesse’s outraged when the woman who hired her decides to fire her. Unbelievable! Unable to stop at that point, Jesse is determined to find the guy and solve the case. If only it was as easy as it sounded.

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Keep reading for an excerpt:

Did you ever walk into the bathroom late at night and have a sudden urge to jerk back the shower curtain? Don’t do it. Run. Giving in to those sudden urges can be a real mistake. Trust me.

Wait. You don’t know me yet. Let me start at the beginning. Ever have one of those days where nothing goes the way it should and you spend more time explaining and apologizing than you do getting things right? I’ve been having one of those years. Mom says I’m having a mid-life crisis. I say thirty-four is way too young for that but according to Mom I did everything early. Never mind that she was referring to things like dropping out of college, getting married, getting divorced. Those kinds of things. I’ll never admit it out loud, but I’m beginning to wonder if maybe she’s right.

In the last month, I’ve buried my partner and best friend, inherited the business from him (much to Mom’s dismay), and figured out that I don’t know beans about running a private investigation agency. See, I’ve been different from birth. My older sister Caroline was Mom’s little princess. Dad figured the next delivery would be his bouncing baby boy but he got me instead. Mom let him know there’d be no baby number three, so he did the only thing he could do. He passed his wealth of male knowledge on to me. While my sister took ballet lessons, I was down the street at the karate school. When Caroline and Mom hit the malls, Dad and I hit the baseball, football and basketball games. Mom drew the line at the World Wrestling Federation. We had to watch that on television at home.

So it really shouldn’t have surprised anybody that Caroline grew up with a circle of frilly friends who practiced makeup and hairstyle techniques at sleepovers while I caught crawdads in the creek with Joey Catronio. Seemed perfectly natural to me. But all good things come to an end and Joey and I had to grow up. At least in theory.

Being the obedient children that we were, we headed off to college. I think that’s where our parents’ plans really started to go awry. Joey figured out he’d never make it into medical school if he couldn’t pass chemistry and I figured out I didn’t like college at all. So Joey changed his major to computer science and I quit and did the next expected thing. I got my MRS degree. I figured I’d already disappointed both of my parents. Mom wanted me to be a doctor or lawyer or at least something important. Dad kept hoping I’d buy a ranch and revive the old West. I didn’t think I was likely to do either, but maybe marriage was something I could do right. At least it was respectable and my husband was a banker. That’s good, right?

Unfortunately, he wasn’t all that respectable after all. Two years after the wedding at the ripe old age of twenty-two, I decided to surprise him at the office and take him to lunch. I surprised him all right. His secretary, too. Silly me. When she wasn’t at her desk, I just barged right in to his office. He was all comfortable, rocked back in that big leather chair. Too bad he hit her in the face with his knee when the chair hit the floor. Talk about being caught with your pants down. Probably dropped something under his desk and, like a dutiful secretary, she was picking it up. Right.

Always ready to do the wifely thing, I hurried over to help him zip his pants. He probably didn’t realize his fly was open. Damned if I didn’t screw up again, though. How was I supposed to know you have to tuck Mr. Wiggly back in the jockeys before you zip up? I can still hear that strange yowling noise he made almost fourteen years later. Still see Lucy’s face, too. Man, was she surprised. Or maybe she was just annoyed about the huge hole in her pantyhose when she got up off the floor. I swear I don’t know how that letter opener got close enough to do that much damage. Maybe if she wore dresses long enough to cover her ass that sort of thing wouldn’t happen.

In the meantime, Joey graduated from college and started his own business. Private Spies. Catchy name, huh? A classic computer geek, he’d found his niche. Amazingly enough, he did pretty good business. With a huge web site he updated almost every day, he advertised world wide that he could find anybody, anywhere, if the price was right. And most of the time, he could. Some people, my mother included, thought it was a shady business, but it was legal. Mostly.

When Joey invited me to join him, I knew I’d found my dream job. I could sit in front of my computer all day. I could wear jeans and cowboy boots. I could set my own hours. Besides all that, I got business cards with my name on them. Never got those working at Wal-Mart. That was five years ago, and I’ve been there ever since. I even have my own parking space at the office. How cool is that? It has my name on it. Jesse Morgan. It’s really Jesse Morgan Jackson, but I don’t talk about that last part much. My parents are strange, naming me Jesse when they knew what their last name was.

Now that Joey has passed, parking in the space beside his every day was still unsettling, even though the building super removed his name for me. I’d offered the space to Bernice, our secretary, receptionist and jack-of-all-trades but she wouldn’t have it. Honestly, after Joey died, I’d thought about selling out. Thought about it hard. Then I figured, it’s all I have left of Joey and he loved it. Besides, what was I supposed to do? Go back to work at Wal-Mart? I inherited my dad’s poker face. What I didn’t know, I could bluff my way out of.
Determined to make it work, I crossed the room to flip on my computer. It seemed odd in there with no lights and no Bernice. Her desk sits right in front of the door with an assortment of chairs scattered around a big coffee table. Not that we had many walk in clients, but you never know. Mine and Joey’s occupied opposite corners in the back.

I settled into the chair behind my desk and started sorting and stacking piles, making a clear space to work, then picked the stacks off Joey’s desk and spent the rest of the afternoon making new ones. Things for Bernice to file, people to call, cases to close, bills to pay, invoices to send. When the phone rang, interrupting my intense concentration, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Sunday, 13 November 2016

Unscrupulous by M.E. May

Michele (M.E.) May attended Indiana University in Kokomo, Indiana, studying Social and Behavioral Sciences. Her interest in the psychology of humans sparked the curiosity to ask why they commit such heinous acts upon one another. Other interests in such areas as criminology and forensics have moved her to put her vast imagination to work writing crime fiction that is as accurate as possible. In doing so, she depicts societal struggles that pit those who understand humanity with those who are lost in a strange and dangerous world of their own making.

In creating the Circle City Mystery Series, she brings to life fictional characters who work diligently to bring justice to victims of crime in the city of Indianapolis. Michele also hopes her readers will witness through her eyes, the wonderful city she calls her hometown.

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About the Book

Christmas is only a week away, but not all is merry and bright for Sergeant Brent Freeman and his partner, newly promoted Detective Anne Samuels. They find themselves facing more than a homicide when they discover the victim’s five-year-old daughter, Maricella, is missing.

When suspicion moves to human trafficking and gang involvement, the FBI sends in two of their best to assist in the investigation. In the meantime, two people who insist her mother didn’t want her anymore have transported a terrified little Maricella out of state. Fortunately, she finds solace in two older children. These two soon realize their captors are prepping Maricella for organ harvesting. Their main goal becomes to protect her at any cost, even if it means running away in the snow and bitter cold temperatures of December without any knowledge of the area where they’re being held. Can Maricella’s newfound protectors get her out of the house and to safety before the doctor decides she’s a transplant match? Will Brent discover where these unscrupulous persons are hiding the children before it’s too late?

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Keep reading for an excerpt:

“Where is Mamá?” little Maricella whined from the back seat of the minivan. “I want to go home. I have to go to the doctor and then get ready for school.”

“Cállate!” The fat woman in the front seat turned and scowled at her. “You’re too young to go to school.”

“Abuela Elena takes me to kindergarten….”

“I said, shut up!”

At only five, Maricella knew better than to keep talking when an angry adult started screaming at her. Her mamá always sent her to her room when Papá got mad. She would hear him yelling at Mamá and then he would break things. Sometimes he would hit Mamá and make her cry.

The fat lady finally stopped glaring at her and turned around. She was really mean. Maricella heard her hit an older boy named John right across the face before they left the big house she was taken to last night. He had a big bruise on his cheek now. The skinny man got real mad at her. He said she’d damaged the merchandise, whatever that meant. John didn’t get to go with them today. He stayed at the house with a really old guy who had an ugly gray beard and never smiled.

At least the skinny man wasn’t like her Papá. He got mad, but he didn’t hit anybody. Last night, he came into her room in the dark and took her out of her bed. When he carried her out, she noticed her mamá sleeping on the floor in the hall in some red stuff. Maricella was confused because Mamá had never slept in the hall before.

The man put her in the back seat of a black minivan and then the fat lady brought out a paper bag and told him those were Maricella’s clothes. The lady roughly put her into the seatbelt and told the man to drive. Maricella asked the man where they were going and why her mamá couldn’t come.

He didn’t answer, but the mean lady did. “She doesn’t want you anymore, so you’re going to a new home.”

She couldn’t understand why her mamá wouldn’t want her anymore. She’d been good. Abuela Elena had told her so. Then she decided they must be taking her to her abuela’s house. Even if Mamá didn’t want her any longer, Abuela Elena would.

That isn’t where they took her, though. The fat woman pulled her from the minivan, forcing her inside a big house in a strange neighborhood. She pushed Maricella and told her to sit on a big brown chair and not to move. Terrified, Maricella wouldn’t dare move. She heard them arguing in another room. That’s when she heard the woman hit John.”

The fat lady said they needed to leave by five because they had to deliver Amber the next day. Maricella didn’t know what time it was when she was ordered into the car, but it was still dark.

“Amber?” Maricella said to the girl in the other seat.

Amber had been looking out of the window ever since they got into the car and hadn’t said a word. The girl didn’t look at her; she simply continued to stare out the window.

“No talking,” said the fat lady, returning to glare at her again.

Maricella lowered her eyes and nodded. She glanced momentarily at the other girl who hadn’t moved, and then turned to stare out her own window at the leafless trees.

Thursday, 10 November 2016

Dying to Dance by Jamie Cortland

Weslynn McCallister, pseudonym, Jamie Cortland was born in Evansville, Indiana and raised in Roswell, New Mexico. Today, she lives in the southwest.

A published novelist and an award winning poet, she is a member of Sisters in Crime, the Mystery Writers of America, and is a founding member of the Florida Writers Association.

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About the Book

Char and Diana Mansville, two sisters in their early twenties, lose their parents in a tragic accident. Finding themselves on the brink of financial disaster, they re-locate to southwest Florida to live with their aunt, a beautiful and wealthy ballroom dancer. Once there, they meet handsome and charismatic Roland Donovan, who is a sociopath and involved in a deadly insurance scheme. Stricken by Diana's beauty and charm, he sets his focus upon her and relentlessly begins his pursuit of her.

Get it today on Amazon!

Keep reading for an excerpt:

Daniel came home late—later than he should have. Molly had already left for work. Before leaving, she’d fed the kids and sat them down in front of the TV. Normally, Daniel would have been home hours ago, but today he’d stopped for a beer, something he hadn’t done for months. Even though he knew she’d be mad at him, especially when he told her he’d been fired, he’d needed some time to himself.

Daniel suffered from schizoaffective mental disorder, and until recently had been taking his meds regularly. But a couple of months ago, he’d gone off them when he started to hear the voices, and began to self-medicate with alcohol. On a positive note, his sex drive had come back, and he’d even lost weight. Molly had liked that. But what she didn’t like were his mood swings—his highs and lows. Sometimes he could be mean, bordering on destructive.

He knew he should go back on his meds, but he felt that if he did, Molly would complain about their lack of a sex life and that he was getting fat again. There was, he felt, just no way of pleasing that woman.

That afternoon at work, he’d decked his boss for something he’d been asked to do and that he felt was personally demeaning. What did his boss think he was, his personal slave? Shortly after the incident, Ed had told him to leave, never to come back. Fine, he’d thought. He’d stomped out to his car, opened the trunk, and proceeded to smash the boss’s car with a tire iron he’d retrieved.

Following that, he’d stopped at a bar, and as soon as he got home, he went to the fridge in search of a beer. Usually, Molly would keep one or two in the fridge for herself, but tonight there were none.

“That does it!” he exclaimed. “The kids are going to bed right now and I’m going out.”

After putting the kids to bed, Daniel abruptly left the house, got into his old Ford sedan, and headed for the bar near Pinnacle Peak.

Chapter 2
The Accident

Today was David and Jocelyn’s thirtieth wedding anniversary. Their children, Diana and Char, had originally planned on giving their parents a huge party to celebrate the occasion. But those plans were cancelled when their parents had told them that they preferred to dine alone with each other that night, at the restaurant where they had first met.

The restaurant, rustic and just as western as Scottsdale had once been, was just a short drive from their house. Knowing that if David wore a tie the waiters would cut it off—which was the custom of the restaurant—they both dressed casually in their western wear. David wore his black denims, boots, shirt, and cowboy hat, while Jocelyn wore her black denims, boots, and frilly white western shirt. She’d always hated hats and never wore them. A good-looking couple in their early fifties, they’d always attracted attention when they went out. Tonight would be no exception.

David had once suffered from a drinking problem, but after nearly losing his family and his business to this addiction, he had since joined a support group. A successful recovering alcoholic, he was now a sponsor to several younger men who suffered from this same addiction. Tonight at dinner, he retained his usual sobriety. However, knowing Jocelyn would on occasion enjoy a glass of red wine with dinner, he offered to order a glass for her. She politely declined, saying that she preferred coffee instead. After dinner, as they walked across the parking lot to their car, they noticed it had begun to rain, something that seldom happened outside of the monsoon season.

“I don’t remember where we parked our car, and it’s dark tonight.”

“Very. It’s a new moon and raining on top of that. I’ll certainly be glad when we get back home.”

“Me too.”

Hearing a screech of brakes, David quickly looked to his side to see a dark car that had just pulled into the parking lot and was rapidly bearing down upon them. The driver of the car braked, but it was too late.


Daniel had pulled into the parking lot too fast and was unable to control his vehicle. It was dark, raining, and he couldn’t see clearly in his inebriated condition. He thought he saw two people ahead of him and he braked, but he skidded and felt the car hit something. Afraid to stop for fear of what he might have done, he raced out of the parking lot and sped back down the road the way he had come. He still wasn’t able to see well; the rain was coming down harder and his vision had grown more blurry. Thinking he knew where the shoulder was, he attempted to pull the car over, but the shoulder wasn’t there and his car went over and rolled down the hillside. Everything went black, and Daniel never woke up again.

Monday, 7 November 2016

Dead Down East by Carl Schmidt

Carl Schmidt graduated from Denver University with a degree in mathematics and physics. As a Woodrow Wilson Fellow he studied mathematics at Brown University.

Carl lived and traveled widely throughout Asia for seven years, including two years as a Peace Corps volunteer in the Philippines and five years in Japan, where he taught English.

Carl has spent dozens of summers in Maine, on lakes and in the woods. He chose it as the setting for this novel because he loves its rugged natural beauty and the charming idiosyncrasies of Mainers. He has also written and recorded three musical albums. This, along with his formal education, proved invaluable when molding the persona and voice of Jesse Thorpe, the narrator of Dead Down East, and endowing him with both a creative eye for detail and a sense of humor.

Dead Down East is the first novel in the Jesse Thorpe Mystery Series, which includes A Priestly Affair and Redbone. In 2001, New Falcon Press published his non-fictional book, A Recipe for Bliss: Kriya Yoga for a New Millennium.

Currently, he is a freelance writer living in Sedona, Arizona with his lovely wife, Holly, and their faithful German shorthaired pointer, Alize.

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About the Book

Dead Down East, a fictional murder mystery, is both detective noir and smart screwball comedy rolled into one. Jesse Thorpe, a young private investigator operating out of Augusta, Maine, receives a mysterious phone call from a former client, Cynthia Dumais. She begs to be rescued from an island south of Brunswick, within a mile of where William Lavoilette, the governor or Maine, was assassinated the night before. She insists that her life is in danger, but is unwilling to provide any further information. Reluctantly, Jesse goes to fetch her.

Within a week, Jesse has three separate clients, each with his, or her, own desperate need to have the murder solved. He assembles a motley team of compadres, including rock band members, a tie-dye psychic and his rousing girlfriend, Angele Boucher, to help him with the case. While the FBI and the Maine State Police investigate political motives, Jesse looks for the woman—Cherchez la Femme—as the trail draws him through the lives, and DNA, of the governor’s former mistresses.

Fresh, witty and loaded with eccentric characters, this first novel in the Jesse Thorpe Mystery Series is both clever and stylish. It’s an old-school private eye tale with inventive twists and local charm. If you enjoy a well-crafted and zesty narrative, lively banter, or take pleasure in the company of Mainers, you’ll love Dead Down East.

Get it today on Amazon!

Keep reading for an excerpt:

I called information and got his phone number. It was still early, but I decided to call anyway.


“Hello, is this Frank Hayden?” I asked.


“Mr. Hayden, my name is Jesse Thorpe. I am sorry to call you this early in the morning, but I am investigating a minor automobile accident. A vehicle with the license plate, ‘GOFURS,’ was seen leaving the accident. That plate belongs to you. Is that plate on your 2008 Ford F-150?”

“Ah-yuh, that it tis, but there’s been no accident.”

“I see,” I said. “It’s possible someone misread the plate. Is your plate still on your truck?”

“Hahd tellin’, without lookin’.”

“Would you be kind enough to check?”

“Shuwah,” he said.

I heard his footsteps, so he must have carried his phone with him. About a half minute later he bemoaned, “By thundah, mah plate’s missin’. That’s damn wicked, it is. It didn’t fall off. Some pissant mustah stole it.”

“Can you possibly recall the last time you actually saw your license plate?” I asked.

“Ah-yuh. Washed mah truck Wednesday mawnin’ last, after haulin’ a load of chicken dressing to the gahden. I remembah washin’ off the plate. Coated with mud, it was. That’s the last I saw it.”

“We figured the plate had been stolen, because it was on a totally different vehicle. I’m sorry to disturb you about this. I guess you’ll have to contact the Maine DMV and report that your plate is missing.”

“I guess prob’ly.”

“Tell me something, Frank,” I said. “I was wondering what ‘GOFURS’ stands for?”

“Gotta nephew plays football up to the University of Minnesota.”

“Oh, yes. They are the Golden Gophers, aren’t they?” I said.


“I suppose the license plate ‘G-O-P-H-E-R-S’ was already taken at the DMV.”

“Don’t know. Didn’t check that one.” Frank paused a moment and then said, “Nevah been good at spellin’.”

That took me a little by surprise. I wondered how long Frank had been down on the farm. I hemmed and hawed long enough to create an uncomfortable pause in our conversation. Then Frank added, “Gotchah!”

“That you did, Frank. That you did.”

“Nice talkin’ to yah, Mistah Thawpe.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Frank.”

City slickers are fair game for Mainers like Frank Hayden.

Friday, 4 November 2016

Legends of Perilisc by Jesse Teller

Jesse Teller fell in love with fantasy when he was five years old and played his first game of Dungeons & Dragons. The game gave him the ability to create stories and characters from a young age. He started consuming fantasy in every form and, by nine, was obsessed with the genre. As a young adult, he knew he wanted to make his life about fantasy. From exploring the relationship between man and woman, to studying the qualities of a leader or a tyrant, Jesse Teller uses his stories and settings to study real-world themes and issues.

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About the Book

This collection of short stories features myths and lore from Perilisc, a unique fantasy setting. Journey deeper into its history. Struggles of royalty, immortal love, unruly wizards, lost heroes, blistering vendettas and more, provide gripping insight into the scope of this realm.

Get it today on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo and Smashwords!

Keep reading for an interview with Simon Bard from Legends of Perilisc:

Where were you born, and what was it like growing up there?

Born, not so much. I was fashioned, fit together and bent in place like wire or wicker. I was stretched over my bones and my father shaved off the jagged pieces. I never asked what I was made from. I know he gave me a bit of himself. There is a yearning that comprises me, a deep-seeded desire to create. He was of inspiration and craftsmanship, and I guess I’m the same way. As far as a childhood, I never really was able to experience one. I was created whole and fully formed. I remember a bird he gave me. I rode it from the heavens to the land. When I first found the land that would be man’s, I was scared. The first few years walking the planet alone were terrifying. The bird stayed with me. It protected me, kept me safe, fed me. It was my only friend for the first couple of years, until I crafted Andre. Then it left. I found its skull a few thousand years later in a cave on the side of a cliff. Man, I haven’t thought about that in a long time.

Do you have a close relationship with your family?

I have a few creations I have called children and they call me father. They love and respect me, but I am not a great father. I keep to the road and I don’t go visit very often. I got used to Andre when I was young. He was not affectionate. We spent tens of thousands of years together. In that time, I never really received loving attention. Great amounts of love and adoration make me uncomfortable. I stay away from my children. That makes me a bad father. One day I will regret the time I have lost with them. I know that.

Who was your best friend growing up?

The first few years with Andre were pretty great. He had this way about him—dry humor, quiet. He never ate, but he liked to watch me eat. He was powerful, humble. Andre was a perfectionist, and it was the only thing we argued about. He hummed while we worked, and with him being so big, the sound of it filled the cave or the cliff we worked on. Been thousands of years since I saw him. Need to look him up.

Who do you most admire in your world? Why?

There is a man who works in the town Manbo, in a nation in northern Perilisc called Tragon. His name is Bendus Begot. When he was young, he fell in love with a girl who lived down the road from him. He said nothing, had not the power to summon enough to go and talk to her. She married his brother. But after she promised herself to him, she started spending time with Bendus, and she fell in love with him. He knew it, too, but he refused to do anything about it. His brother loved her and he would have nothing to do with hurting him. He never let on he had feelings for her, and let her love for him fade. Bendus lives right down the road from her and has all his life. He watches her grow old and keeps his feelings hid. Her kids, his nephews, call him Nuncky Bendy. He has never loved another, and never will, would be my guess. He works alongside his brother every day. He holds no animosity for him. He sees the love of his life every day, and he does not let his need for her chew at him. Bendy is a man of true virtue. He is a man of true love. Nothing grand has ever happened to him. No great events have tested him, save his deep love for his brother’s wife. Every few years, I stop in to see him. He has not let bitterness into his heart. He is a good man with a terrible burden. When I think of the troubles I have, I think of him silently pining for a woman he will never possess, and I realize my plight could be worse. For in my opinion, there is no pain like unrequited love.

Tell us a little about your world, and where you fit in?

Well, after my body of work was complete, I started walking and I never stopped. At first, I went as far as the borders of the nation my favorite creations were carving out for themselves. It wasn’t until that nation was put together that I really got started. Hecatomb, the god of sacrifice and strength, came to me one day and asked me how he could reward me for crafting the humans. I told him I wanted to be able to see what was going on around the world so I could aid the men and women of the righteous races. He plucked out his eye and gave it to me. It shrank down in my hands to the size of my head. It gave me the power to see everything that was happening in the world, and everything that had happened. I had to hide it, but it is tied to me. I can see the lives of the people of the world. I go from place to place, telling stories and giving information to people who vie against dark forces. My stories give them power and knowledge to combat the dark and terrible things of the world.

What was the most embarrassing moment in your life?

When I was younger, I was in a bar, and I thought I saw a guy pick his nose and eat it—not as uncommon as you would think. I have the Eye; I see it happen all the time. I walked up to him and clapped him on the back and said I do it, too. He looked at me like I was an idiot, and asked what. I told him what I saw him do, and he laughed and told me he hadn’t. I looked in on the Eye and, sure enough, I was wrong. He went around the entire bar telling everyone what I had said. I left. I know every one of those people is dead by now, but I still can’t go back to that town.

What is the most important lesson you've learned about life?

The most important lesson I have learned in my hundreds of thousands of years of living is not to get too attached to people. All the descendants of the ones I have created are too dear to me to ever live with for long. If I stay in one place, if I allow myself to touch for too long the lives of the people I love, then their tragedy will break me. Their lives are so fragile, so brief. I think any immortal that really wants to live has to keep a bit of distance. I have learned this lesson, but I can’t keep to it. I still love too deeply. I still care too much. I give too much of myself away and I suffer for it.

Where is the best place to visit in your world? What places should visitors avoid?

There is a place that makes stew in Konith called Beaver’s Sip and Sup. They do wondrous things with barley and mutton. You gotta stop in there. Don’t mention my name to the barmaid. She and I don’t see things the same. Order the stew, but don’t drink that swill Beaver ladles out of his still. In all of Perilisc, there is one view that you can’t live without seeing. It is from a cliff outside a town called Wadts. Skip the sunset and sunrise. They are overrated. Go there when you smell a storm. Stand in the notch of stone on the western breast of the cliff, and watch the things Bluxo does with lightning. The first time I saw it, I swore she was tearing down the world. It is her best work. She creates with fire and light out there things that cannot be seen anywhere else. Her lover died in the god war. When she gets in a mood, she puts on a show for him. Do I have time for one more? There is a valley up in the mountains of Jamoid called the Mudflats. Long ago, a landslide flooded the entire area with mud and rock. When it all leveled out, the ground went brown and soppy. I’m not sure what was covered up. I have a guy I could ask, a cartographer I knew a few thousands years ago. I can’t ask him, though, because I owe him a few gold. And there was an interest thing, and now I just have to avoid him. But anyway, when that landslide hit, it covered up something strange. The ground is always wet there. Nothing grows, and every now and then, the ground burps. There really is no other word for it. A great belch of air will erupt from the ground and a colored gas will fill the air. It doesn’t smell, well not real bad, but it does give off a great sound and a pretty dazzling show. If you have a little boy, take him there. Girls are never as amused by it as they should be.

Do you have any hobbies? What are they?

When I am tired of storytelling and wandering, I like to write. Not much, not as much as most people, but I have penned a tale before. It’s not as alive as telling it out loud, but it is immortal, or damn close to it. I have written about five hundred books in 120,000 years since the god war ended. That is not really that many. Most of them are lost. I can see the remnants of the few that have survived. It is discouraging to know you spent six years of your life illustrating and writing a tome on the patterns of racial migration over the War of the Yern, and when you look in on it, it’s holding up the end of a tilting bookcase filled with books about the sexual exploits of a deviant mind. It has been there in that library holding up that bookcase for a decade. Every time I’m in that country, I tell myself I am going to march into that house, grab that book, jerk it out of that library, and watch that lecherous old man spit and sputter as his bookcase topples. But I never seem to have the time.

If you could meet someone from another novel, who would it be? Why?

That is easy. Without a doubt it would be Roland Deschain of Gilead from Stephen King’s Dark Tower series. Roland is a magnificent storyteller; I am captivated by a well-told story. Roland has a sharp and dangerous mind and cannot be outdone in riddles and mind puzzles. If I could share a campfire with him, I would walk away happy. He is one of the most dangerous men that ever lived. I would love to watch him shoot. He is intense and powerful and everything I am obsessed with. A fire with Roland would be a thing to experience.

Do you have a secret you've never told anyone? Would you tell us?

I just met you. I don’t even know anything about you. But I know what it took to get me here, and I know there is no way for you to get back to my land, so I will tell you, I guess. But this is kind of a rude way to start a relationship. After this, I want to hear your greatest secret. If we have a pact, then I will begin. I met a woman. This was about two decades ago. She was fun and cute and smart. An artist, and a better one than me. Her name was Rebekah, and she stole me fast. I talked to her for hours one night over a tankard of ale, and she kissed me as she left, on this scar here by my cheek. Fell in love with her then. I let her go and I ran. I went to the other side of the continent and stayed away. But you don’t forget a woman like that. She saw a few friends of mine in the time I was gone, but no one knew how to treat her right. I was able to keep track of her through the Eye, and I just watched as she went about her life. She had a penchant for falling in love with losers that would hurt her. I went to her after five years was up, because I just couldn’t live without talking to her. I was able to keep it together for a few years, but life with a house and a village, life in a sedentary state—not what I was built for. I left, and I missed her every day. Still do, but my boots can't stay off the road, no matter how much I want them to. There was a son. She gave me a boy. I didn’t know until he was gone. See, Hecatomb’s Eye won’t show me my family. He grew up and left the house and I never met him. My only true born son is out there somewhere. She said he inherited the power of the Eye. She said he was an artist, and he worked in stone.

What kind of clothing do you prefer to wear?

I like anything durable, anything easy to travel in. For the most part, that is leather, but not just any leather. There is an animal, you would think is a terrible beast, known in the mountains of Drine. They are carrion eaters, and they must consume the corpse of a man-sized creature every week. They are gross in every way, let out a smell, foul beyond your understanding of the word. The elite in the nation use them as mounts. Well, when they die, their skins are harvested for their hides. The leather made from them has a stench that sticks to the vestment for years. The true horrors of the Drine army wear these wretched-smelling skins as a way of scaring enemies. Well, if you let that smell play out for a few years, then it finally dies and you can wear it with no harsh effects. It is the most durable leather known to exist on my planet. It cannot be punctured. It cannot be crushed. It is lightweight and easy to sew. It is the perfect material for boots, coats, and belts. The coat I am wearing right now is made from these beasts. See this cuff right here? It is just now starting to show signs of aging. No other place has even a scuff. Do you see it, right there? That little burr of the leather. That is the only mar I wear. This jacket is 2,000 years old. Do you see? This is the greatest leather you can get.

No, the hat is a different kind of leather. No, I can’t talk about it. Next question.

Name some of your bad habits.

I don’t bathe as much as I should. I’m on the road a lot, and I have to travel light. There is a smell. I’m aware of it. Rivers and lakes are cold and not suited for bathing, no matter what the progetten of the mountain tell you. I carry soap on me, but I can never find it. It seems like every time I use it, I forget to pick it back up after the bath. I have left a trail of soap bars across this land and back many times. I sleep with my boots on. I get sores. I have asked my father if there is any way he can make me odorless. He is a god; he could do it. But he refuses. It’s a tiny thing, but I get looks. I don’t care. They will just have to deal with it.

If you could change something about yourself, what would it be? Why?

I talk too much. It is a problem. I’m almost offended when someone else is telling a story in front of me. I could tell it better. I have over a hundred thousand years of storytelling experience on almost every man alive. I’m a bit of a snob about it, but it is a fact. I dominate every conversation I am in. It’s obnoxious, but no matter how many times I try to rein it in, I can’t stop. As soon as someone starts telling a story, I already know the end. The Eye shows it to me. Then I’m just sitting, listening to a buffoon butcher a story. I know it’s annoying. You are a bit annoyed, I can see. I will try to do better and stop interrupting between your questions.

If you had one day left to live, what would you do with your last day?

If I had one day left to live, I’m assuming I knew this was coming and have carved my sarcophagus. I’ve built my tomb and I have—what am I saying? I’ll be buried on the side of the road in a ditch, probably in a town I hate. But let’s say that I knew I had one more day to live. I think I would get drunk. I would go to the Drunken River in the nation of Ganamaia. I would sit in the chair of honor there, and I would drink. People will tell you the Tragonians brew the greatest ales know to the world. And on most days, they would be right. But the Ganamaians have a lager called Days End that cannot compare to any other drink the world knows. It is only given to the men or women who are on their deathbeds. I once sat at the hand of the king as he died, and he gave me a sip. If I had one more day to live, I would be in that pub, drinking that ale. It’s a great way to go.

Tuesday, 1 November 2016

Nisei by J.J. White

J. J. White is an award winning novelist and short story writer who has been published in several anthologies and magazines including, Wordsmith, The Homestead Review, The Seven Hills Review, Bacopa Review, and The Grey Sparrow Journal. His story, The Adventures of the Nine Hole League, was recently published in The Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, #13. He has won awards and honors from the Alabama Writers Conclave, Writers-Editors International, Maryland Writers Association, The Royal Palm Literary Awards, Professional Writers of Prescott, and Writer’s Digest.

His crime fiction book, Deviant Acts, was released by Black Opal books in November, and was followed by his Historical Fiction book, Nisei, in 2016. He was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize for his short piece, Tour Bus. He lives in Merritt Island, Florida with his understanding wife and editor, Pamela.

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About the Book

Local award winning author brings history to life on the pages of Nisei, a passionate tale of life after a pearl Harbor for a Japanese American man.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, the United States government encouraged all eligible young men to enlist immediately in the fight against its enemies overseas. All eligible young men except Japanese-Americans. Nisei is the story of Hideo Bobby Takahashi, a Hawaiian-born Japanese-American who must overcome prejudice, internment, and the policies of his own government to prove his loyalty to his country. Narrated by Bobby Takahashi and read by his son, Robert, 46 years after Bobby’s death, the story details the young Nisei’s determination to fight honorably for his country and return to the young love he was forced to leave, a girl he cannot have because she is white.

Get it today on Amazon!

Keep reading for an excerpt:

Mrs. Yamamoto walked into the room with a very large revolver that she seemed to have difficulty holding. Hoo boy, my heart raced. I glanced over to Fatso who was fumbling with the leather latch on his holster. Just as he got his gun out, Mrs. Yamamoto lifted the pistol and fired. A huge roar filled the room, so I covered my ears to try to stop the ringing.

Tillman fell back against a bloody wall, his jaw and right eye blown off his face and pasted across his hair. He looked pretty dead as he slid down the corner of the wall and onto the floor.

“Jesus! Jesus!” Rodgers said and unlatched his holster. Mrs. Yamamoto aimed the barrel at Rodgers and he stopped.

“Tell him to put his hand down, Hideo,” she said to me in Japanese, but I barely heard her over the ringing in my ears. I told Rodgers and he did. Mrs. Yamamoto sat in the chair across from us and kept the gun on him. I was plenty scared. She spoke slowly, for me, I think.

“This was my husband’s pistol,” she began. “When he died in the Russian war, the generals gave me his gun. It was much like the samurai many years before; the widow receives the sword of the fallen warrior.” She stopped to sip some tea. She looked at Agent Rodgers. “Japan has existed for thousands of years. Do you think we would let a bully like America tell us what we can and cannot have? Who do you think you are? You do not deserve to rule beside the Emperor. You do not deserve to drink his piss!”

Mrs. Yamamoto stood, pointed the gun at herself, and then placed her thumb on the trigger. She bowed slightly to me and placed her mouth over the end of the barrel. Agent Rodgers reached out for the revolver, but too late. Mrs. Yamamoto pushed the trigger and her head exploded. I cried out from the pain in my ears, it hurt so badly. Blood and brain matter covered the drapes hanging behind her. I leaned over the side of the futon and vomited on Fatso Tillman’s leg.