Born and raised on a farm near Brockville, Ontario, Mark Bierman's childhood consisted of chores, riding horses, snowmobile races across open fields, fishing trips to a local lake, and many other outdoor adventures. He was also an avid reader of both fiction and non.
Transitioning towards adulthood also meant moving from the farm and into large urban areas that introduced this "country boy" to life in the big cities.
Drawing on his many experiences as a private investigator and later a Correctional Officer, Mark combines his unique experiences and imagination to create his stories and characters.
Tragedy... heartache... how much more can Tyler Montgomery and John Webster take? This missions trip, the “healing” one, has only added fresh layers of pain. Construction of an orphanage in Haiti’s northwest... yes. But a doomed rescue operation, human traffickers, human anomalies, extreme personal danger... risk of death? They hadn't signed up for those.
Turning their backs on the crisis, however, is unthinkable, it’s just not who they are.
An active member of Western Writers of America, Gary lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, with his wife Paula (an author of cozy mysteries) and their canine companion Rocky. He has written a three-book series, An Adventure of the Old West, and is currently at work on the first book of his new series. He also writes a newsletter, The Wild West Telegraph, and maintains a Westerns blog of the same title. He LOVES honest reviews of his books and welcomes newsletter subscribers through his author's website.
Bounty hunter Bane Messenger is good with a gun, but he wants more out of life than hunting down fugitives from the law. He wants a family: a wife and children. He wants a home of his own. He wants to know why his father abandoned his mother and him. But all he knows is how to track and capture or kill the worst sort of men who roam the West, taking what they want, whether money, property, or women, at the point of a gun. When he meets the right woman, though, he vows his life will change; he will change.
Mason recently relocated his family to the Gulf Coast where they are enjoying a happy, healthy and active lifestyle. Who isn’t happy by the beach? He is also wondering why he didn’t do this a heck of a lot sooner!
With the new locale, comes new interests and hobbies. Mason is exploring the coastal marshes and parks by bicycle and learning all he can about surf fishing so he can start catching dinner. Updates on Mason’s newest endeavors will be posted on his “What’s New’ page as well as news about his books.
Oh yeah, and Mason has been writing! Following a six-month hiatus for this move to paradise, he is busy researching and writing his next novel. Wish him luck!
To those who study plants, the Chamala represents the Holy Grail. Finding it would be the discovery of a lifetime—make that a dozen lifetimes. It produces a berry with phytochemistry possessing the unique ability to hyperstimulate nerve cell reproduction. It will be instrumental in the development of the next generation of biopharmaceuticals capable of curing blindness, deafness, dementia and paralysis.
Ben Langdon’s stories reflect the collision between the ordinary and the extraordinary.
He has written for adults (Forget, to Live and The Scoundrel’s Wife) and for Young Adults (The Miranda Contract and The Adventures of Charlie Conti), as well as editing a couple of short story anthologies (This Mutant Life and Bad Company).
He teaches at a local high school and has presented at conferences such as OzComic Con, the Hero Round Table, Hero Town and the Kang O Meerteek Writers Panel. When he’s speaking, he usually tackles issues such as reflecting diversity in superhero fiction, the power of empathy, representing the local and universal in writing about place, the importance of identifying self in characters and the positive effects of reading for young readers and adults.
“...it’s about Mount Olympus-sized family expectations. But it’s also about love and respect and profound human connections.”
— Superhero Novels ("Twilight of the Gods")
“Gritty, bloody and altogether emotionally charged.”
— Amazon Review
Supervillain. Popstar.
Sometimes the life we’re given isn’t the life we’d choose for ourselves.
For the past five years, Dan Galkin has been lying to everyone about just how ordinary he is. But Dan’s the grandson of The Mad Russian: one of the world’s most powerful (and insane) supervillains. And Dan has powers too. He’s a living battery, able to absorb and discharge electricity with his mind. Normally he keeps his powers hidden, but when the old man returns with an offer to make his grandson heir apparent, any chance at an ordinary life is blown apart.
Miranda Brody thought she wanted to be a pop star, but now she’s got the international profile and the entourage, she doesn’t recognise the Miranda she has become. After getting caught up in the cross-fire between Dan and his grandfather, Miranda realises there’s more to life than being famous. Staying alive, for example, becomes a high priority. And not falling in love with the pizza boy comes a close second.
Labelled by society, trapped by expectation.
Dan and Miranda might actually be able to change everything.
Richard has been writing in one form or another since 1983, starting out as a freelance writer in Texas. He then embarked upon a near 30-year career as a sportswriter from Texas to New Mexico and California. After retiring in 2011 he began writing fiction and has published several novels and short stories.
Who – or what – is killing members of the Navajo tribe? RESERVATIONS, the first book of the Jack Del Rio political mystery/thriller series, is set near Gallup, New Mexico, where the Navajo, Hopi and Zuni reservations lie adjacent. Three tribal leaders have been murdered - murdered in a fashion that suggests the deeds were carried out by COYOTE, a legendary supernatural evil trickster feared by many Native Americans.
The tribal president contacts an old friend in the FBI for assistance in solving the crimes and preventing more murders. Star agent, Jack Del Rio, is dispatched to New Mexico where he finds a situation tangled in political intrigue. Jack must work his way through those issues on his way to solving the mystery. Sparks fly as Navajo police officer Lucy Chee is assigned to assist him in his quest.
Question is can Del Rio and Chee solve the mystery and find the killer before he strikes again? Because the killer is on the hunt and he has his sights on Del Rio himself.
Today, I had a very interesting conversation come up when I was talking to someone who I consider a good friend. "What is your dream?" I think as we live and grow, those change and, that's OK. We're all following what I think we all consider sometimes to be "clumsy dreams"
My dream, might sound a bit clechè and just like words but here it is.
When I was about 16, and just beginning to appreciate anime. My cousin introduced me to "Bleach" those who have heard of it will think what you will but the thing I got most from it was perseverance.
Later, although I liked anime like that still, I found I was looking for something else. That's when I found "Kanon" What an incredible and interesting story.
It laid out some things very clearly
death
disease
depression
loss
malice
But it also showed something else
perseverance
joy
living each day happy even if you had no idea if tomorrow would come
family
comfort
never EVER giving up on those who matter to you, even if you're not sure sometimes why they matter
miracles (big and small)
I came across others with those same elements. Including. Anime from the same company as "Kanon" itself.
Here's the part that may seem a bit clichè and some might think a bit fake. I'm not afraid to say some might believe that.
I don't really care about the popularity or success of my books. Sure getting readers and likes, followers, shares, they feel good. But I don't really care if only one person reads. As long as they understand and it inspires them, like those anime did for me.
Some of my content is and will continue to be brash, harsh, hard to read but, in a world like we live in now. I believe it's necessary, putting these things in such a way that hard and stubborn hearts will understand.
Three-year-old Kai's life was changed forever when his home was attacked one fateful day.
A shadowy figure stole everything from him. Until his saviour took him in and once again gave him a family. To this day, dreams of that tragedy plague him... Besides that, he lives a pretty happy life with that woman and her daughter, Himari..
When he was 15 years old his Foster mother brought him into the ranks of the V.H.A (Vampire Hunting Association) Their job, protect the humans from the supernaturals who try to do them harm and protect the ones that simply want a better life.
Now, he's the best of the best, but secrets, lies, and a new partner might take away everything they've built.
A chuckle escaped the man's lips. "Kai, you're a daywalker correct?”
He nodded his head in response to the man's inquisition.
"That means you walk a sort of line. You live with that every day. Not one of them, but not one of the humans either."
Kai nodded. "So what's your point?"
The man simply sighed. “You really don't see it? She is a human born with the knowledge and power of a supernatural. It doesn't take much to see you both walk the tightrope along that very thin line between man and, well, something else."
Truth was, he had never thought of it like that before—all he really knew was how annoying she had been to him all these years. But hearing it like that really made him think.
Duane Simolke wrote The Acorn Stories, a collection of tales set in a fictional West Texas town. He also edited and co-wrote the fundraiser The Acorn Gathering: Writers Uniting Against Cancer. His writing appeared in nightFire, Mesquite, Caprock Sun, Beyond: Science Fiction & Fantasy, and many other publications. He lives in Lubbock, Texas.
The Taldra novels focus on gays, people of color, and powerful women.
“Edge-of-your-seat action, scenes that detail the turmoil and terror of an alien attack and an inside look at love and acceptance for humanity’s differences.” —Tome Tender
In an alternate reality, Earth is Valchondria. The one-world government consists of Leader, the Supreme Science Council, and a police force called “the Maintainers.”
Degranon: A Science Fiction Adventure introduces the Iroquois scientist Taldra. One of her sons becomes trapped on the other side of a time portal while the other loses himself to the religious cult Degranon. Can they find their way back to each other before the Degrans destroy Valchondria?
In Sons of Taldra: A Science Fiction Adventure, alien shapeshifters and the secrets of the Maintainers threaten humanity. First published in 2016 as an eBook, Sons of Taldra now appears in this collection with the revised, third edition of Degranon.
Lorfeltez stopped speaking. The audience grew still and quiet. The Maintainers had arrived. They filed through the crowd like a swarm of insects, freely pushing and shoving with all the authority their office granted them, elbowing several people, and pushing a few out the doorways.
Part of the crowd disappeared as if the weight of the entering officers forced them outside. However, many of them failed to move away in time, and the Maintainers grabbed at their collars or even punched at them, before finding the sources of the disruption.
A female Maintainer yanked the holo-projectors away, knocking them to the floor, then used the handle of her sleep rifle to destroy them, sending hot metal parts and wires everywhere. One of the wires gashed a woman’s arm, sending out a small spurt of blood. Before even noticing her, the Maintainers handcuffed all five men, even while the crowd continued to shift madly about, trying to escape. One of the Maintainers assisted the injured woman, holding his hand over the cut on her arm.
Dr. Lorfeltez saw an elderly red woman in the audience, frail to the point that she had obviously lived beyond the virus’s benefits. One of the Maintainers waved his laser pistol around to scare away the remnants of the controversial gathering. He threw the metal cylinder up in the air and let it drop glove-like around his left hand.
His barrel pointed directly at the old woman. At least the other citizens could move quickly from his senseless demonstration of power, even if some of them ran in too many different directions for everyone to escape.
As he swung around again, the barrel struck the old woman on the forehead and knocked her to the floor. The crowd almost trampled her, but the handsome stranger pulled her up and helped her escape.
Lorfeltez had wanted to intervene as well, but another Maintainer stood beside her, aiming a laser pistol at her. The Maintainer was an extremely tall black woman, but barely more than a teenager, with hair shooting out from her headband, reminding Lorfeltez of a docle flower, one of the few remaining flowers on Valchondria’s overly industrialized landscape. The absence of stripes on her uniform revealed her as a trainee, but she carried herself like a Top Maintainer.
Tonya lives in a small town in southern Kentucky with her husband and two sons. They spend most of their time outdoors, discovering the beauty of the world. If she isn't reading or writing, you will find her sitting in front of a canvas, painting the landscape around her home.
My daddy warned me to not walk down Cider Avenue after school. I thought the threat on my life was nonsense, just like the other times before... But when arms engulfed me, tugging me into a van, on that very street, I wished I had listened.
My only hope is in the motorcycle club, Night Hawks. I couldn't deny, the son of the club's president had swept me off my feet. I was drawn to the boy with rugged looks and a heart of gold.
As my world collapses into chaos, will he pull me from the clutches of my enemies or will our families be drawn into a war of blood, guns and broken promises?
When my captures threw me in here, I was afraid I would take my last breath in this dirty, smelling place. I expected to hear the hammer click back on a weapon and feel the steal against my temple. Instead, my ties were removed and a door slammed shut behind me, causing me to remove my hood and take in my surroundings. My eyes worked around the small shed. When I saw no way out, I fell to my knees and tears filled my eyes. I wanted to cry but I didn’t. To stop them, I sucked in a ragged breath and scooted back into the corner.
My heartbeat steadied as I thought about Dad. He warned me and I didn’t listen. I had to let my hormones drive me. I had to defy him for a boy. It was my entire fault.
I nestled my cheek against my knee as I closed my eyes. The whistle of a train blew as it sped by. Every few hours another train rolled along the tracks alerting me to where I was. It was the only part of town where a road crossed the train tracks. It was the southern part, the worst part of our county. If it was the first time one laid eyes on it, it would remind someone of a deserted city. Large block buildings and overgrown concrete setting in the middle of fields. Repossessed homes, broken structures and forests were everywhere around me.
Each whistle made the time speed by, my stomach ached. It wasn’t because I hadn’t eaten since lunch. It had to do with the fear that grew in the pit. Right now it was a seed but with each minute a new root took shape. A new sprout formed, taking over my strength. I was afraid what would happen if it grew into my core. I won’t let it.
Standing, I refused to let the fear take hold, to grow into more. I wanted to squash it like a bug, so I paced, making the blood flow through my body and help my limbs not feel as cold.
Turning again, I faced the door. I stared at the wooden planks and broken beams. It was old but whoever had me in here reinforced the broken pieces in case the person inside tried to escape. Premeditated, I thought.
I made my way to the door. I stared at it as if it were a stranger. Slowly I raised my hand, holding it inches from the wood as if a fire roared on the other side and the door was too hot to touch.
I gripped the handle. The cool steal felt as if it burned into my flesh. Ignoring the feeling, I took a breath and pulled. It didn’t move. Placing my other hand against the door frame, for leverage, I tugged harder. Nothing.
J.D.R. Hawkins is an award-winning author who has written for newspapers, magazines, newsletters, e-zines, and blogs. She is one of only a few female Civil War authors, and uniquely describes the front lines from a Confederate perspective. Her Renegade Series includes A Beautiful Glittering Lie, winner of the 2013 John Esten Cooke Fiction Award and the 2012 B.R.A.G. Medallion, A Beckoning Hellfire, which is also an award winner, and A Rebel Among Us, recipient of the 2017 John Esten Cooke Fiction Award. These books tell the story of a family from north Alabama who experience immeasurable pain when their lives are dramatically changed by the war. Her nonfiction book, Horses in Gray: Famous Confederate Warhorses, has recently been published. She is currently working on another sequel for the Renegade Series. Ms. Hawkins is a member of the United Daughters of the Confederacy, the International Women’s Writing Guild, Pikes Peak Writers, and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. She is also an artist and singer/songwriter. Learn more about her at http://jdrhawkins.com.
In the spring of 1861, a country once united is fractured by war. Half of America fights for the Confederate cause; the other, for unification. Rebel forces have already seized Fort Morgan and Fort Gaines, a new Confederate president has been elected, and the Constitution has been revised. In north Alabama, a farmer and father of three decides to enlist. For Hiram Summers, it is the end of everything he has ever known.
After Hiram travels to Virginia with the Fourth Alabama Infantry Regiment, he is quickly thrust into combat. His son, David, who must stay behind, searches for adventure at home by traipsing to Huntsville with his best friend, Jake Kimball, to scrutinize invading Yankees. Meanwhile, Caroline – Hiram’s wife and David’s mother – struggles to keep up with the farm as her world revolves around the letters she receives from her husband, whom she misses dearly. As Hiram and his son discover the true meaning of war, they soon realize that their choices have torn their family apart.
Word of the battle quickly spread to Huntsville, and within days, filtered down to Morgan County. Caroline had mentally prepared herself for what she anticipated would happen, but when the first battle finally did take place, she found herself ill-equipped. Doing her best to shelter her brood, she realized it was just a matter of time before they heard of the event.
A week later, she learned that a list of fatalities had been posted, and knew she had to drive to Ben Johnson’s mercantile to have a look, but all the while, her heart felt as though it was breaking. She dreaded the list, dreaded the result of the terrible fighting, dreaded what the war might be doing to her home, and especially, dreaded seeing Hiram’s name listed. Traveling alone, she reached her destination, climbed down from the wagon, hitched her draft horse, and approached the two-story wooden structure. Her ankle boots clunked up the wooden steps and across the porch’s pine slat floorboards with every step she took. She pulled the front door open, and a tiny bell above it announced her arrival. Upon entering, she saw several others gathered around a notice tacked to a wall. Ben Johnson nodded her way. He threw a glance toward the posted list. She knew what it meant.
Slowly, feeling like she was floating, she approached the others, passing by the dry goods, the glass cases displaying pottery, clothing, and sewing notions, and under farm equipment hanging from the ceiling rafters. Some of the women were sobbing, covering their faces with handkerchiefs, while others turned away, or stared at her with vacant eyes. As they drifted off, she stepped toward the ominous poster, held her breath, and forced herself to gaze upon the names. When she had reached the bottom, she breathed a sigh of relief. Hiram’s name wasn’t on the list, although she recognized one that was. Turning toward the counter, she wiped a trickling tear from her cheek, walked over, and requested a copy of the Southern Advocate.
Initially at a loss for words, Ben cleared his throat. “I reckon Hiram’s name ain’t on there,” he finally said.
The revelation started sinking in. Caroline smiled. “No, thankfully not.”
Ben returned the smile. “Right glad to hear it.” He handed her a newspaper. “The editor of this paper, Mr. William Figures, has a son who’s with your husband’s regiment.”
“Oh?” she replied cordially. “He’s all right, ain’t he? I mean, I didn’t see…”
“Yes, ma’am, far as I can tell.”
“That’s mighty fine. Well, I’ll be on my way. Good-day, Mr. Johnson.” Turning to leave, she opened the paned-glass door.
Ben called out, “When you write to that man of yours, tell him I said hello.”
“I surely will,” she replied.
Returning to the wagon, she untied Joe Boy, climbed aboard, slapped the reins, and drove out of view from the mercantile before pulling the vehicle to a stop. Uncontrollably, she burst into tears, sobbing convulsively until her heartache subsided.
J Drew Brumbaugh lives in northeast Ohio where he spends his time writing sci-fi, fantasy and suspense novels, teaching, and training at the karate dojo he and his wife founded, building a Japanese garden in his backyard, and taking walks in the local metro parks. He has five novels in print, a collection of short stories, and a co-authored children’s book. He continues to work on his next book and seems to always have several stories in various stages of completion.
A terrorist plot is underway on American soil. There are clues but the FBI remains several steps behind the sleeper cell. A determined journalist has clues too but can’t zero in on where or when the terrorists will strike. The only one who knows what is about to happen is a Native American high school boy who saw it in a vision. Who will believe him? What can he do?
Paiute Reservation, Utah, Thursday the 9th, Early Evening
Tommy Galiwee gripped the horse's ribs firmly with his knees and raised himself up high enough to scan the landscape ahead. His dark eyes burned with fire, his long black ponytail swished in the hot, dry breeze that kissed his dark cheeks, cheeks that already bore traces of weather lines. Legends of Geronimo filled his head. For the moment, Tommy envisioned himself as a proud warrior contemplating his enemy and the ensuing battle. Somewhere hiding among the rocks up the dry wash the white cavalry waited in ambush. An adrenaline rush surged through Tommy's veins. The thrill of battle seized him as it did every time he fought the enemy in Cavalry Canyon.
Glancing behind him at the imaginary war party waiting for his signal, he raised his right arm high, holding his bow proudly overhead. With a loud war whoop, he dug his heels into Chief's flanks and the dusty tan, old mustang charged down the dry riverbed. The horse still had some spunk in him and, drawing intensity from his youthful rider, was momentarily transformed into the warhorse of Tommy’s fantasies. While his body rose and fell in tune with the galloping horse, Tommy deftly brought his bow down to ready position. Expertly he pulled an arrow out of his handmade deerskin waist pouch and nocked it in his well-used Bear 60-lb compound bow. He drew back ready to fire on the first white soldier he saw.
Griping the modern bow, Tommy wondered whether the Apaches could have held off the white onslaught a bit longer if they had had bows like this.
Down the deepening draw they flew, the walls climbing up around them. Interspersed between the gray, dried scrub brush, black boulders of volcanic rock littered the dry riverbed forming a natural obstacle course. Tommy loved to race through the twists and turns on Chief’s back. The pair dashed down the center of the wash, gliding left then right as they weaved around the bigger rocks. Chief flowed over smaller rocks in the middle of their path, sailing over them as if he could fly. The faithful horse drew strength from somewhere; his old bones always seemed to grow younger when Tommy took him out for war games. Maybe the horse, too, dreamed of battle.
Warren Hately is a journalist, cultural theorist and parent coach from Margaret River, Western Australia. Amid many life interests, he writes the ongoing Amazon series Zephyr: a postmodern superhero adventure which started in the early 90s, like George RR Martin’s Wild Cards books, as a Superworld RPG inspired by the world of Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho.
Zephyr is an ongoing serial fans compare to Alan Moore’s Watchmen and other classics of the adult superhero genre. The Zephyr series, by journalist and cultural theorist Warren Hately, now runs to eight books and counting -- and the first book Zephyr I is only 99c for a limited time...
Zephyr tells the story of a cynical, smart-mouthed superhero kicking ass as the whole world goes mad around him. The place is Atlantic City: a sweeping longitudinal metropolis rebuilt following widespread devastation in 1984. Superhumans are not only real, they’re human. All too human, as Nietzsche would say…
With his daughter getting into the business and his wife showing him the door, it’s easy to wonder if Zephyr’s life might be easier without his ever-growing powers as supervillains, extradimensional invasions and city-shaking calamities derail his best efforts handling life in a celebrity-mad alternate universe where Manhattan’s a mutant-infested ruin and the Beatles were a superhero team.
Zephyr I is a sardonic, cinematic and intelligent take on the standard Marvel/DC-type superhero genre. Imagine if American Psycho was about costumed vigilantes rather than stockbrokers and you have half the idea.
In Volume 1, Zephyr faces financial pressure to reform his old superhero team, saves his best friend Twilight, endures sexual blackmail, reconciles his daughter’s expulsion from high school, and deals with a close betrayal at the same time the star-god Hariss as-Sama prepares for its assault on Atlantic City.
I didn't feel I had much choice. I've been writing compulsively since I was a kid and a lifelong interest in narrative, meaning and language has only compelled me further.
Do you have a "day job"?
I'm a newspaper journalist and editor in daily life and used to be an academic working in post-structuralist language theory at the interface between semiotic and psychoanalytic language theory.
What genres do you write?
Cross-genre is my favorite thing, with the (so far) seven-book Zephyr series a grab-bag, the superhero genre letting me bring in a wide and varied array of influences wrapped up in a cinematic action-storytelling kind of narrative.
How often do you write?
I write pretty much every day, though it's not always fiction because of work. Apart from newspaper reporting I've also been an essayist. Real life intrudes on my ideal writing structure, but it's generally good practice for writers to write every day, even if it's just a small burst to add to the word count. Writing's a lot like bricklaying and these things don't write themselves, so there's not much choice but to roll up the sleeves and get cracking.
Do you have a daily word or page count goal?
If I get an open run, the vomit draft of any manuscript has a daily word count of anywhere between 4k and 9k. I recommend writers get down at least 500 words per day, which is a nice ideal that doesn't always match up with the practicalities of daily life.
What is the quirkiest thing you've ever done while writing?
My Achilles heel seems to be putting headphones on and getting distracted by the work before I actually select any music.
What is the oddest thing you've ever researched for one of your books?
Let's just say there's a few Google searches I'd prefer not to have to explain, ever.
What is the most difficult thing you've ever researched?
I like to push the envelope in terms of transgressive fiction, but that doesn't necessarily mean I find some of those topics palatable. Once I start link-surfing it can lead almost anywhere. Complex historical matters (especially ones I plan to subvert through writing about parallel history) are always challenging, particularly coming from an outsider's perspective/knowledge about any given events. I find the level of gun violence oversees these days quite shocking and upsetting, and in general I struggle to comprehend the weird inversions we experience as a global culture, where talk of compassion quickly gives way to base tribalism the moment things turn difficult.
If you could choose an author to be your mentor, who would it be?
I'd like to have a seance with Stieg Larsson.
What is the biggest obstacle you face as an author and what do you do to overcome it?
These days, the saturation of the ebook market with so much rubbish is the biggest challenge to competent authors. Breaking through the white noise, while at the same time sometimes being shocked at the relatively low level of standards even readers demand from writers, is quite dispiriting. More than anything else though it's the question of visibility, which author interview sites such as yours really help address.
Does your family support you in your writing, or are you on your own?
It's a solitary game.
What is the best compliment you've ever received as an author?
Just read the reviews on Zephyr I and subsequent books. It's incredibly heartening to read reviews from readers who really "get it", especially when my work isn't always as easy to grok as some of the slightly more commercial books technically in the same genre.
What is the best writing advice you've ever received?
Make a list and prioritize.
What is the worst writing advice you've ever received?
Again with the saturation of people buying into the "hope machine" and believing they can retire and write for a living, the growing push towards "writing for market" is pretty awful. On the one hand it's good advice. You can't be hoping for commercial success without at least aiming at the target. On the other hand, it encourages a lot of writers to invest time and energy into soulless projects. The best books and the books which make the biggest impact on the market (in terms of forging new trends) always come from a place of passion, which is the integral and often missing ingredient that push books that 10% further into the realm of excellence. if you look at books like the Twilight series (I have to find a better example, since I am not much of a fan), or maybe The Walking Dead (better) they started as passion projects aimed first at pleasing their writers, and that kind of passion is vital to pushing work.
If you were stranded on a deserted island, and you could only have five books with you, what would they be?
I really only read non-fiction these days. I'd probably choose books by Jung, Nietzsche and Alexander Lowen because these are tools for daily life.
Dan Sofer won the 2016 Best Book Award (American Book Fest, category: religious fiction) for his novel, "A Love and Beyond" ("A mysterious crime. A ruthless secret society. And a desperate bachelor...")
His novels blend romance, adventure and magical realism, sprinkled with humor and insights into Jewish life and legend - entertainment for the heart and soul.
Dan lives in Israel with his family.
His second novel, "An Unexpected Afterlife" ("You only live twice?"), hit the shelves in March 2017 and the sequel, "An Accidental Messiah" will follow in late October 2017.
When he wakes up naked and alone in the Mount of Olives Cemetery, Moshe Karlin doesn't remember dying two years ago, nor does he realize how hard he'll have to work to win back his perfect old life... and his wife. In fact, he'll be lucky to survive his first week on the streets of Jerusalem.
Meanwhile, other changes are afoot in the Holy Land. A reluctant prophet prepares to deliver a message of redemption--and the end of life as we know it--when a freak accident changes the course of history.
An Unexpected Afterlife is the first "highly original" novel in the new fantasy adventure series of biblical proportions, The Dry Bones Society. If you enjoy romance and adventure, humor and heartbreak, engaging characters and non-stop surprises, then you'll love this romp in legends of the Resurrection and the World to Come.
"An amazing read... a masterful storyteller."(Readers' Favorite, 5-Star Medal)
"Fascinating... You've got to read it."(Esra Magazine)
"A mind-opener... a tour de force." (Federation Star)
"One of the best books I have read in a long time."(EM, Amazon Reviewer)
Moshe Karlin emerged from a deep and dreamless sleep with a premonition of impending doom. The world seemed out of place. The dawn chorus of summer birds filled his ears, but louder than usual, as though an entire flock had perched on the windowsill above his bed. The mattress pressed against his back, hard and coarse. A chill breeze tickled the hair on his bare chest.
Bare chest?
His eyelids snapped open. The endless blue velvet cano-py of heaven stretched overhead, and as he gazed, a star winked out. His heart thumped in his rib cage. He was not in his bed. Or his bedroom. Or even his house.
He craned his neck forward. He lay on his back in a stony field, as naked as the day he was born.
His head slumped to the ground.
Moshe Karlin, you are in deep trouble.
Galit would kill him when he got home. That is, if she ever found out.
As his bold plan for sneaking home unnoticed grew flesh and sinew, the crackle of a loudspeaker jarred his thoughts, and a nasal voice boomed: Allahu akba-a-ar! Allahu akba-a-ar!
Moshe heard the East Jerusalem muezzin most mornings but always from a safe distance. This morning, however, the blaring call to morning prayers seemed to issue from only a stone’s throw away.
Shaun wrote his first story, entitled "The Stagecoach Robbery", at the age of six, and has been making stories ever since.
After working in education with children of all ages for many years, Shaun turned his passion into his profession, and is now a freelance writer and photographer.
Ewan Pendle was weird. Really weird. At least, that's what everyone told him. Then again, being able to see monsters that no one else could wasn't exactly normal ...
Thinking he has been moved off to live with his eleventh foster family, Ewan is instead told he is a Lenitnes, one of an ancient race of peoples who can alone see the real 'Creatures' which inhabit the earth. He is taken in by Enola, the mysterious sword carrying Grand Master of Firedrake Lyceum, a labyrinth of halls and rooms in the middle of London where other children, just like Ewan, go to learn the ways of the Creatures.
Sleep was a restless affair for Ewan. The thought that he had to get up extra early and, therefore, had to fall asleep as quickly as possible in order to get a decent amount of shuteye, only kept him awake for longer. When Max’s snoring started, he didn’t think he would get any rest at all.
In the early hours of the morning, when sleep finally did come, it was anything but peaceful. Ewan was visited by dreams of wide open green fields with a singular white blurry figure set on the pristine horizon. Every time Ewan tried to get closer to the figure and see who, or indeed what, it was, it would only get blurrier until it finally disappeared altogether and turned into a wisp of smoke that then became a massive and monstrous pale cloud, dominating the sky above him.
‘Ewan … Ewan.’ Blown over by a mighty gust of wind, Ewan tumbled to the ground. A voice was demanding he get up and follow the cloud as it shot across the sky like a floating city.
‘Ewan – Pendle!’ Ewan woke suddenly to see a wide and shimmering head glaring down at him through the darkness. It was Moham. ‘On your feet,’ he said in the quietest voice Ewan had ever heard him utter. Although his voice was dim, it carried with it no less foreboding of what the result would be if its request was not immediately carried out.
‘Pain Yard – five minutes,’ said Moham, then turning and walking away.
Ewan dressed as quickly as he could and then tiptoed past all of the other snoozing cadets and out of the dormitory. A few smouldering embers in the gigantic fireplace puffed sympathetically as he crossed the darkened common room. The empty corridors of Firedrake were still asleep too, and Ewan did his best not to wake them as he tried to achieve a balance between speed and silence. He thought with a little shudder that right now Betony could have probably sneaked up on him and snapped his neck before he had even known that he was no longer alone.
As he stepped outside a few minutes later, the chill early morning air bit at Ewan’s face and neck like a million tiny flies, all of them trying to take the largest chunk or leave the most painful mark as they nibbled at his skin. Moham was standing in the centre of Pain Yard, curiously staring up at the peach coloured sky. Ewan approached him slowly, but the tall Master did not unclench the grip his singular visible dark eye had on the brightening sky until Ewan was close enough to touch him.
‘Laps,’ said Moham in a low voice. Ewan complied immediately.
As Ewan set out on his first lap of the long and wide rectangular Pain Yard, he bent his eyes towards the high walls of the Lyceum, there being nothing else but sand and Moham in the Yard itself to look at. For the first half a dozen floors or so, all four walls that frowned down onto the Yard were the same height. But after this the roofs were mismatched and the tiles and gutters chased each other up and down and in all directions.
Firedrake Lyceum was slowly waking, the tips of its highest flat glass eyes blinking and glinting in the sun.
Ewan knew that the widows in the boy’s Grade One dormitory looked down onto the Yard, but he had no idea that the girl’s did too. Casting a wistful look up in the direction of his bed and the beds of the other sleeping Grade One cadets, Ewan spotted someone waving to him from a long and thin window set into the honey coloured stone of the Lyceum, like a shiny welt on rough skin.
Ewan focused his sharp hazel eyes.
Mathilde was sitting on what must have been the wide inside sill of one of the windows of the girl’s dormitory. Still in her pyjamas and cross legged, she offered a vehement wave and a wide smile that Ewan couldn’t quite make out but was still sure was there. Suddenly the wind didn’t seem so fierce, the barked instructions from Moham for him to lift his knees didn’t thump against his eardrums so thickly, and Ewan picked up his pace.
For a whole hour Moham made Ewan run, and for that whole hour Mathilde sat and watched, offering another short wave every time he looked up. It was strange that the thought which came to Ewan so clearly now had only just arrived, because he had been through a lot already with Mathilde and Enid. But as he lifted his head back up for his regular once-every-five-minute look towards the high windows of the dormitories, something warm trickled down Ewan’s throat, settling itself in his stomach and welling up like a bowl being slowly filled with warm soup.
This, Ewan thought, must be what it feels like to have friends.
A citizen of Bellingham, WA by way of Southern California, Thomas Duder is a firm believer that a writer should write. "Forget the drama of writing, forget the politics of writing, forget even the rest of the industry. Writers should write, period."
An independent publisher and author, working in close collaboration with a fierce team assembled and hand-picked by he himself, Thomas Duder is a seasoned general of various projects beforehand, bringing those skills to the fore as The Crew plunges directly into the world of action-adventure literature!
His vanguard series, "The Generalist," is an action-adventure extravaganza, a veritable rollercoaster ride through a Neo-Los Angeles of the near future. Loaded with witty dialogue, fast-paced action and sequences of brilliant violence, you're sure to find plenty to keep you entertained for hours on end.
Action. Adventure. Fist to face. The Generalist is a hard-hitting ride through the Los Angeles of tomorrow, stuffed to the brim with monster-gene humans turned cannibal, Artifacts of enormous strength warping the very fabric of reality itself, secret organizations seeking to out-maneuver each other for ultimate power, and every day a simple miracle just to survive.
And who's standing between the rest of us "mundane citizens" and the myriad forces that seek to devour and conquer this world and those beyond?
The two violence-prone action junkies of the Shop: Frank Todd, the Generalist, and Daniel "Dash" Hopkins, his troll-gened companion and partner-in-crime.
Taking on all foes and challenges no matter how great or small, the Shop will do the job, get the pay, and woe betide any and all who dare to thwart their will!
The Generalist! Because you simply cannot read about people getting punched in the face ENOUGH!
Tapping on his desk with a gloved finger, he growled, "No. By all means. I had a wonderful night and a delicious breakfast. Why would I want to not cap it off with this equally amazing cup of coffee? No, go ahead and regale me with your findings whythehellareyouhere?!"
Dawn looked about herself and drew a chair to the desk, setting down a series of notes and pouring over them as she spoke, "Oh, good! Thank you, Magus Todd. No, I was merely pondering the ramifications of how Obtenebration Magia specialists never seem to cast a Magic Circle. When a magic spell of exceptional quality or level is cast, known as Higher Works, then a Magic Circle is inscribed in base reality, one formed of naturally-formed energies - the proof of a magus' work spanning the Magical Realm and our own physical plane. Yes? Yet when an Obtenebration Specialist performs a Higher Work, the chance that they cast forth a circle is completely random, yet the Higher Work will still activate as if they had~! It seems to be a pattern amongst Shadow Magic users of the past, that even when performing a Higher Work they cast no Magic Circle upon activating the spell, thus it's harder to tell if they're casting a Higher Work and increasing their effectiveness in a duel or casting during combat. Magus Todd, can you tell me if there IS a pattern or not?"
Frank frowned deeply, pointing at her, "I know. Shut up," then swung his thick finger towards the door, "And get ou-huh?! Now what?!"
Filling the doorway with his mystical armor engaged, plate armor glowing and pauldrons large and bulky, Legatus Valken growled through the eldritch helmet adorning his head, "I have received your challenge. Outside. Now."
Frank grinned and stood up, going out of his way to push his chair in slowly as Dawn openly gawked at him, sputtering question after question at him concerning the challenge. Spinning at the doorway, he gently placed a finger against her lips and lifted his eyebrows.
"SHUUUUUUSH! Freakin' silence, just a little. This is part of today's plan, and I'm gonna want you to watch especially close, Miss Magicker. C'mon."
Turning, he stalked down the hallway, hands in his pockets as a wave of students gathered in his wake, Dawn at his side the entire time, attempting to appeal to his more civilized side.
Stopping at a clear-windowed quad, the outside world shining into the makeshift arena formed by the press of student bodies, Frank turned to her with an exaggerated grin and retorted, "In case you didn't notice, Officer-Magus Tanelin of the Special Jurisdiction Branch of the Order of Magi, I lack a civilized side to appeal to."
Tim Baker was born and raised in Warwick, Rhode Island.
He enjoys a wide variety of activities including sports of all kinds, music, motorcycles, scuba diving and, of course, writing.
An avid dog lover, Tim was a volunteer puppy raiser for Guiding Eyes for the Blind, raising and socializing potential guide dogs.
He has also studied and taught martial arts.
Tim writes fast-paced, off-beat crime stories full of colorful characters and loaded with unexpected and often humorous twists and turns, set in Flagler Beach and St. Augustine, Florida.
Currently, Tim is enjoying life in Palm Coast, Florida.
It’s an indisputable law of the universe, but Joe Moretti Jr lives his life as if it doesn’t apply to him.
When Joe’s mistress gives him some unwelcome news, he decides to take drastic action, which starts a chain reaction of events that will affect the lives of thirteen strangers in the quiet seaside town of Flagler Beach.
It’s a bizarre ripple effect, but will it be enough to teach Joe that his money and influence can’t protect him from the power of Karma.
There was no way she could possibly know what she was talking about. She was a store-front gypsy trying to scare him in the hope of drumming up some business. Next she’d be telling him to come in for a reading. Then the real con was on.
Joe wasn’t biting.
“Okay,” he said. “I got it. Be careful…don’t mess with the spirit world…the universe has power and all that happy horseshit.” He held the card out to her. “Here you go. Thanks for the tip.”
Anya Yaroshenko still made no move to take the card. Joe’s hand defied his brain’s instruction to drop it and walk away.
“You remember movie A Christmas Carol?” she asked.
“Scrooge, Tiny Tim, yeah, sure. What about it?”
“Remember when Scrooge’s dead partner, Jacob Marley, show up to warn him about spirits?”
“Yeah?”
“He was wearing long, heavy chain.”
“Yeah, very ghostly.”
“Chain was not there to make it ghostly. It was…” she searched for the word, “…symbol.”
“Symbol of what?”
She paused to formulate her answer. “Everything we do in life, every thought, every action, every reaction is like link in chain. Our fate is determined by the links we put on our chains.”
“So what I’m getting from this is, it’s my life. My chain.”
Anya shook her head No and grinned. “It is mistake to think that way.”
“And why is that? You just told me it was my chain.”
“Actually, you said it was your chain. I wasn’t finished.”
Joe exhaled slowly through his nose, re-crossed his arms and shifted his weight to the other leg. “Okay, so finish, but speed it up, I got things to do.”
“You are putting links on your chain every minute of every day, as am I. The woman getting into that car, she is doing it as well.”
“Is there a point hidden here somewhere?”
Producing a pad and a pen from her satchel, she began sketching.
“You see this?” She showed him a drawing of several small, interconnected circles running from one end of the page to the other.
“Yeah.”
“If your chain was just your chain it would look like this. A straight line.”
More sketching, taking longer than the first. “But look at this…”
Now the page was filled with chains randomly running from place to place, some connected, some not.
“This is what it really is.”
“Looks like a tangled mess.”
“Sort of. This chain is your life, this one is mine. They became connected the moment you picked up your card. This one coming in here is the woman who just walked by us. This one is the man whose car you were standing behind a minute ago.”
“And?”
“Notice how every time your chain connects with somebody else’s, it changes direction little bit.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s because that person’s link is now attached to your chain, affecting everything that happens to you afterward. Some more than others.”
“This is all very interesting.” Joe checked his watch. Hopefully Mark would be here any minute to rescue him. “But you still haven’t gotten to the point.”
God looks down on Earth and is disgusted with what he sees his creation has become. He decides that humanity is a failed experiment, and he orders Earth and all of humanity destroyed. He will start again from scratch. Jesus, however, intervenes and requests one more opportunity to turn mankind around. He is given one year to see if he can make a significant difference.
If you are a fan of the "Left Behind" series, this is your type of book. Asking the big; What If? question and following it through with a story interwoven with Christian symbolism.
"The Second Coming" begins with Jesus (JC to his friends) in an induced coma in a Manila hospital after having been hit by a bus, losing his memory in the process. The book follows the exploits of Jesus and his "disciples" as they seek to firstly recover his memory and then embarking on a mission of saving humanity from the brink.
There is interwoven into the story a romance between Jesus (Jose Christian Castillo or JC for short) and his number one "Disciple" Maria Lyn Manyanan (Ma for short).
The sequel to The Second Coming; Rise of the AntiChrist will be published in December 2015.
I told my Mum when I was eight years old that I wanted to write books, when I grew up; books that would excite people, like I was excited by the books I read. She smiled sweetly, as all mothers do and told me I could be anything I wanted.
It just took me 45 more years to grow up. When I moved to The Philippines, I had to find something to do - I was too young to retire, so I rediscovered my boyhood promise and hopefully made my late mother smile down on me from heaven and say; "I knew you would make it".
Simply put - writing is my bliss and it's what makes me happy and fulfilled.
What genres do you write?
I like to try and answer the what if? questions.
My books tend to transcend genres and ask and hopefully answer moral and ethical dilemmas. If you were to try to categorise me, I would say the following genres: Romance, Action/Adventure, Spiritual Fiction and Christian Fiction
Is there a genre that you've been wanting to experiment with? If so, what is it and what attracts you to it?
Absolutely - two actually
I want to write an historical romance, because I love history with a passion and would love to do the research necessary to facilitate an accurate portrayal of a period.
Science Fiction, because since I was a child I have been in awe of the imagination and genius of science fiction writers like Herbert, Heinlen, Arthur C Clarke et al. I want to see if I can actually stretch my mind to that genre,
What inspires you to write?
My wife. She is my muse, my inspiration and my biggest fan.
My other inspiration is my burning desire to do so - to write. I don't care if I'm not a best-seller (although that would be nice). My books will be my legacy to this life. Nothing I have done before compares to the sheer joy and excitement of a completed novel.
If you could choose an author to be your mentor, who would it be?
That's easy - it would be Paolo Cohelo. The Alchemist is by far and away my book of a lifetime.
I love the way he is prepared to interact personally with his readers and has no airs or pretensions. If I had a role model, it would definitely be him.
When did you first consider yourself an author?
I've had this discussion before with a number of people. I WAS an author the moment I typed the first word on my first manuscript. I might be a published author now, but I was an author at that point.
I would even argue that I was always an author....just undiscovered in my own mind.
What are your goals as an author? Where do you see yourself in five years?
My goals are fairly simple and straightforward and have nothing to do with sales or money.
My goals are to write three books a year for the rest of my life. In five year's time that should mean I have fifteen books to my name.
I want people to read them and enjoy them, but I don't need that to validate myself as a success. I am a success because I am an author.
What is the best writing advice you've ever received?
This was a quote I read somewhere on Pinterest I think. I can't even remember who said it - maybe Stephen King.
"The worst writing you ever did, is still better than the best writing you never did."
What is the worst writing advice you've ever received?
Follow the rules!
Following the rules if for formulaic, legacy authors who want to be rich and successful. I don't begrudge the Clive Cussler's, the John Grisham's and the Tom Clancy's of this world, their success, fame and wealth, but I cannot abide formulaic, plots and characters. Yes, they make money, if they're successful, but really what difference is writing that to working on a factory production line? Not a lot in my opinion.
What do you enjoy doing aside from writing?
Reading. I read voraciously.
Before I became an author I read all the legacy published superstars. These days you couldn't pay me to buy their books.
I read only "indie" authors now and there are some truly fabulous ones out there, ever bit as good as the legacy published authors.
If you were stranded on a deserted island, and you could only have five books with you, what would they be?
Swiss Family Robinson
The Alchemist
The Hero
Dune
1984
How many books do you have on your "to read" list? What are some of them?
About 20: They're all "indie" authors: A few are
There Was No Body; by Colin Griffiths
The Road to Dar Rodon: by Nat Russo
Rampant Damsels: by Michael H Kelly
Mud on Your Face: by Rachel McGrath
The Caravan of Love: by Annie Lancaster
I will never run out of the awesome number of "indie" books available.
Are you a pantser or outliner?
Absolutely a pantser.
When I come up with an idea, I usually have a beginning and an end......it's that pesky bit in the middle that is the problem.
In general terms I write chapter by chapter. It is usually while I am taking a break in the middle of a chapter, the idea for the next development and chapter, will hit me.
How long does it take you to write a book?
I try to make my novels a minimum of 100K words. It usually takes me about two months to write the draft and then two months to edit the draft.
There are times I long for a professional editor, but the reality is that self-editing, painful that it is, is actually very elemental to becoming a better writer. I learn so much about my writing through self-editing.
Do you ever base your characters on people you know?
My latest book, Just A Drop in the Ocean, although fictional is based on real people and their characters certainly show through.
I think every character I've ever written has some basis in a person I've met or known. It is often hard to divorce reality from fantasy.
What are you working on now?
I am working on an anthology of short stories, in collaboration with my son, who realised earlier than me where his true talents lie. I'm incredibly excited to be doing something in tandem with my son.
The genre is horror, which is his forte, but definitely not mine, so I'm looking forward to seeing what I can squeeze out of my fevered mind in that genre.
