How long did it take you to write the book?

It took me six months from start to finish to write the first draft of Jack Canon’s American Destiny.

What is your favorite drink? I love Ice Tea, especially with lemonade in it.

Who is your publisher? Itoh Press is my publisher

Are you reading any interesting books at the moment? The untethered soul.

What is your least favorite quality about yourself? I tend towards impatience.

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Genre – Political Thriller

Rating – PG

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Connect with Greg Sandora on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.gregsandora.com/

What’s your greatest character strength?

1.  I believe being creative is my best strength.  I have always thought “outside the box,” and this has led me to my life-long interest in journalism and writing.  Making connections with the right hemisphere of the brain is a developed skill, and this is my forte.  I now understand I need to develop a public “image,” and this will be useful to my progress as a genre writer.

2.  I write fiction better than a lot of independent authors.  Once again, I think it’s my almost shamanistic approach to creative endeavors.  I like to follow a formula for the mystery, but I don’t like to plot out each action in every chapter.  I let my character find his/her own way.  I like the image of all fiction being conflict, and the protagonist the main magnate for all the conflicted characters.

I can also find my way around computers a lot better than other writers.  I wrote a book in the late 90s called The Digital Scribe:  A Writer’s Guide to Electronic Media, and it was a great experience in focus and research.  I worked with an editor, and I grew a lot.  I have also won a few grants as a college teacher to develop tools for teachers and students in the computer area and for online education.

3.  I can do interviews with a focus on what the publication and/or journalist needs to pursue.  I like working with other people to develop the best interest in both the topic of the program and my book.

I have also worked as an editor, so I can catch a lot of my own mistakes, but my wife, Ellen, is my editor par excellence.  Together, we make an excellent indie team.  I see many indie writers who don’t take this extra step to achieve grammatical excellence, and it shows.  I’ve even noticed that Cormac McCarthy, a guy I love, has a lot of grammatical problems, but who’s going to argue with him?  He tells such a damned good story!

I still believe in the “Amazon model” of allowing the public to judge the excellence of the story, however, and one must maintain a professional image on the page.  I love to do this.

4.  Others see me as a creative and hard worker who, as a professor, has high standards.  This is something that is being lost (editorial opinion) in community colleges today because of a lot of factors.  I am respected for my quality standards by students who understand what they need to transfer to university.

What’s your weakest character trait?

1.  Sometimes I expect too much of my reader and others.  I must understand and empathize more with the reader and be a good guide.  I think I’ve overcome this weakness, especially with my latest mystery writing endeavor.

2.  Competitors sell themselves better than I do.  This is the main reason I hired a Publicity expert.  Once I learn what to do, however, I think I can perform well enough to compete.

3.  I am working on it.  Using the technology in interesting ways to increase traffic to my site and to market my writer “image” better is my goal right now.

4.  I am so dedicated that others often see me as too much of a loner.  I do a lot of research in my work and even in my fiction, and others don’t respect that if they have a more “seat of the pants” approach to writing.

Why do you write?

To discover what I think about something.  I believe Flannery O’Connor said that.  I agree.  I was inspired by an inner need to create with words, and I was an autodidact, as my immediate family did not have a writer in its midst.  In high school, I was on the school newspaper and year book, and in college I majored in Radio and TV Communications.  My Master’s Degree was in Creative Writing from San Diego State University.  I write both genre and literary work, as well as non-fiction.

Have you always enjoyed writing?

When I have been “self-actualizing,” yes.  When I have been “ego-tripping,” no.  The mechanical aspect of composition is a literal “pain in the ass.”  I can now understand why Philip Roth wrote while standing up.

By the way, I like this definition of “self-actualizing” best:  the achievement of one’s full potential through creativity, independence, spontaneity, and a grasp of the real world.  That last little phrase, “grasp of the real world” always kicks my butt the most.

What motivates you to write?

Breathing.  Oh boy, I suppose as long as I can think and breathe (like chewing gum, tapping your head, and rubbing your tummy) I will write.  I just read the other day that one of my favorite, all-time, writers, Mr. Elmore Leonard, had a stroke at 86, and now he’s back at “it.”  See what I mean?

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Genre – Historical Steampunk Mystery

Rating – PG13

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Website http://contempinstruct.com/Forevermore/

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Chapter Three

Morning came way too early as far as I was concerned.  I laid in bed for a couple minutes after the alarm on my cell sounded, snuggling against the comforter.  Sunlight poured through the window, casting its warm glow over the apartment.  Everything pointed to it being a wonderful day for a drive.  A beautiful day to begin a new adventure.

Yawning, I threw back the bedspread and swung my feet to the floor.  I padded past the boxes that held most of my kitchenware in my bare feet on my way to the coffeemaker.  I still had about an hour to get ready before I needed to leave.

The appointment to look at my potential new home was thankfully not until one in the afternoon.  That had been good thinking on my part.  Of course, when I had answered the ad online, I had no way of knowing how the previous night would have ended up unfolding.  I had been thinking more logically at that moment.  Never a real early riser on the weekends, I didn’t expect myself to spring out of bed for a two hour drive to Fort Wayne, no matter how good a deal the rent seemed.  Fortunately, my potential landlord hadn’t balked at my suggested time.  In fact, she’d also seemed relieved.

As I drank my coffee, I studied the map I had printed out at work.  I smoothed the creases out of the paper and committed as much as possible to memory.  The route seemed easy enough, if rather boring.  I really didn’t need direction until I reached my exit. Before today, Fort Wayne hadn’t been a destination spot; merely a pass-through on the way to Michigan.

True to form, I had done my due diligence prior to selecting an area of the city in which to look for rentals.  I had mapped the location of my new office, looking in a radius of about ten miles either way.  This would make for a reasonable commute.  I had searched for information on demographics, school systems and property values.  My research had led me to select the southwest side of the city.  Of course, I checked into apartment complexes, finding several worthy contenders.  If today didn’t go well, those would be my back-up plan.

I had been inexplicably drawn to an online posting seeking a female to rent a room.  Normally I would have passed, preferring something of my own.  However, it seemed like an opportunity to find a comrade in a new place.  We didn’t have to end up best friends, but if we could tolerate each other it would be helpful to have someone local around until I gathered my bearings.  I didn’t want to depend on maps or GPS for an extended period of time.

With a cup of coffee in me, I was motivated enough to hop in the shower.  I let the water trickle over me until it ran cold, closing my eyes.  Relaxed, I wrapped myself in my plush bathrobe and set to work picking out my clothes.  For whatever reason, I wanted to take time with my appearance today.  Probably something to do with the fact that I didn’t want to make a bad first impression.

I settled on my favorite pair of jeans and a tight, long sleeved black and white striped cotton shirt.  A fairly classic look: stylish, but not trying too hard.  Plus, it wouldn’t wrinkle too badly during the drive and end up looking like I had slept in it.  I slipped on my worn black boots and set to work on hair and makeup.

As I blow-dried my short, choppy cut I smiled to myself.  Eric hated my hair.  I loved it.  All throughout high school I had worn my hair past my shoulders, nearly to my waist.  During college I had cut it all off on a whim.  When he had first seen it, the disappointment in his eyes was apparent.  Since then, it had always been various lengths of short, though it never again reached my shoulders. 

Quite contrary to the usual stereotype of an accounting major, I was fascinated by hair and makeup.  If I hadn’t have been on the fast track to graduating with honors, I might have considered beauty school instead of traditional college.  Unfortunately, I had been too concerned with what other people thought to choose my own destiny.  Smart people weren’t supposed to be creative, right?

So I lived vicariously through experimentation on myself with various beauty products.  My arsenal of hair care items and makeup would rival that of a professional.  Getting ready in the morning for me was a release.  It was pretty fun.

Today, I settled for my favorite look:  an understated smoky eye with pale lips.  Framed by my dark tousled locks, I was a friendlier version of Goth.  A little dark and mysterious, though not unapproachable.  My short gray nails completed the look.  Perfect.

“Here goes nothing,” I whispered to myself as I grabbed my map and purse and headed out the door.

Nervousness entered my stomach as I climbed into the Honda and started it up.  I took a deep breath and clutched the steering wheel, trying to will it away.  What if this didn’t work out?  I shook my head, reminding myself of the back-up plan.  No matter what happened, I would be okay.

My new job didn’t start for another two weeks.  I had cashed in vacation time so that I could give myself ample opportunity to search for a new residence and tie up loose ends in Indy.  Hopefully, I could get everything accomplished quickly and have some free time as well.  I had no indication of when I would be able to sneak away and take time off again, so I wanted to enjoy the freedom while I could.

As expected, the weather was perfect for a drive.  I cranked up the CD player and sang along as I cruised down the interstate.  My singing left much to be desired, but it kept my mind in the present and off of what I was leaving behind.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t upset at the argument that had occurred between myself and Eric hours before.  The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.  He played recklessly with my emotions and typically got what he wanted as a result.  I was sick of it.

Gracie would be proud of me and how I had stood up to him.  I made a note to give her a call tonight and recap the fight.  Though it had been brief, and I was sure we would kiss and make up later, for now it was liberating.  I still hadn’t heard a peep out of him since he left.  He was probably licking his wounds.  I vowed not to make the first contact.  It would be his turn to come crawling back with an apology.  I deserved that much, bare minimum.

Traffic was light and I made excellent time to my exit.  I pulled off the interstate, glancing at the clock on the dashboard.  Thirty minutes until my appointment.  Per the directions on the printout, my destination was about ten minutes away.  Just enough time to do a little exploring and still be punctual.

I had choices.  Turning right at the light would take me to my new office and the downtown area.  Left would lead to my potential rental home and who knew what else.  I signaled left, deciding to get a feel for the neighborhood.

The usual fast food places and retail storefronts greeted me immediately past the interstate.  Very typical and expected.  A drugstore, a grocery store, two gas stations-one on each side of the road, surely for convenience.  Nice.  As a life-long city girl, this I appreciated.

I continued driving.  Once I drove through the next light, the landscape quickly changed from retail to residential.  Housing additions surrounded me.  As I drove further, the houses on either side appeared to me to get even more spacious and impressive.  I wondered what the house that I was going to view looked like.  I realized I had no idea.

I had committed the remainder of the driving directions to heart.  I quickly found the street that I was to turn on and continued in the path that the mapping program had spelled out.  The addition that I turned into was marked by two large brick signs on either side of the entrance, proudly displaying the community name.  I let out a sigh of relief as I realized that though the neighborhood was decidedly middle to upper-middle class, I doubted that anyone would look down their nose at my car and tell me I didn’t belong.  No gates or security guards here.  Just lot after lot of homes that practically screamed pride of ownership.

Once I pulled in, I slowed the car to a stop and consulted my map for the exact address.  The home wasn’t on the main street that led into the addition, and I had to make a series of turns that I would have problems remembering later.  I would probably get turned around and hopelessly lost on my way back out of here.  I wasn’t used to living in the suburbs, that was for sure.

The home was nestled on a cul-de-sac lot toward the back of the addition.  It, like all the others, was well-maintained on the outside and impeccably landscaped.  It appeared from a quick onceover to be a one and a half story, probably with a loft on the second floor.  The siding was a soft yellow, the trim a crisp white.  I smiled just looking at it.

I parked the Honda in the driveway, wondering briefly if I would be allowed one of the spots in the two car garage.  Nothing like getting ahead of myself.  I grabbed my purse, my list of references and my confidence and exited the vehicle.  I was about ten minutes early.  Hopefully not a problem.

I strode up the winding sidewalk to the front porch, then rang the doorbell.  I heard the happy melody of the chimes inside the home announce my presence.  Seconds later, the deadbolt lock clicked open.  The lock on the actual doorknob followed suit, and the front door opened.

“Damn it,” the blonde on the other side of the door whispered under her breath.

 

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Genre – Romance / Chick Lit

Rating – PG13

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Website http://aliciareneekline.com/

Animate Me by Ruth Clampett

Amazon

She seemed far beyond his reach…could love draw them together?
For years shy animator Nathan has carried a torch for Brooke, the beautiful and dynamic Director of Development at their animation studio, even creating B-Girl, a comic-book heroine in her likeness. When a new project throws the two of them together, lovestruck Nathan finally seizes his moment – only to find Arnauld, head of the animation studio, claiming exclusive rights to Brooke’s affections.
But Nathan, it turns out, is not giving up on his dreams so easily. With inspired determination, he sets out to be the super hero of wooing his girl. Threatened by his persistence, Arnauld plays dirty – only to spark an uprising at the studio that unleashes the sort of havoc only a building full of frustrated animators can create. While Nathan pulls out all the stops to win his B-girl, Brooke has to choose. Should she pursue the sparkling career that has taken her years to build…or follow her heart?

His father! Mehmet stewed when he thought of him. His father had never shown him any real affection or spent significant time with him. He was not, after all, originally the heir to the Sultanate. He was a second son and only became heir when his older brother died. Mehmet had been forced from then on to endure a frantic and often harsh tutoring process. He was just beginning to grasp his responsibilities when at the age of 12 his father had retired and named him Sultan. He had done the best he could to govern, but in short order Grand Vizier Halil had called his father back to take over the throne. The Sultan felt Halil should have helped him, should have supported him. Instead he had watched and reported Mehmet’s shortcomings to his father, betraying him and leading to his humiliation.

From then on Mehmet had bided his time. He had learned to keep his thoughts and emotions to himself, to trust no one. He had studied everything: military art, languages, administration, and the arts. He had worked tirelessly so that when he next ruled he would not only equal his father but also exceed him. He would be the greatest Sultan in the history of his people, Allah willing.

His chance came when Murad finally died only two years before, as Mehmet turned 19. Mehmet quickly took power, ordering his baby half brother strangled to assure there would be no succession disputes, and set to organizing his empire. He had learned to be cautious and measured, leaving his father’s counselors and even Halil in power to assist him. From there he had slowly built up a group of supporters. They were young and exclusively Christian converts to Islam. These followers, many of whom now held council positions, were not nearly as powerful as the old guard, but they were gaining ground. They were the future, if Halil did not interfere.

Halil. His father’s Grand Vizier and now his own. He had always treated Mehmet with condescending politeness. He was powerful, so powerful that Mehmet could not easily remove him. So powerful it was possible he could remove Mehmet in favor of a cousin or other relative. Mehmet hated him above all people in the world, but he could not simply replace him. He needed Halil, at least for now, and Halil knew it.

This dilemma was the primary reason for Mehmet’s nighttime wanderings. He needed time away from the palace. Time to think and work out a solution to the problem. How could he free himself from Halil without losing power in the process? He could simply order Halil executed, but would the order be followed or would it be his own head sitting on a pole? The elders and religious leaders all respected and listened to Halil. Only the young renegades, the Christian converts who owed their positions to Mehmet were loyal to him. If Halil was able to rally the old guard to him, Mehmet had no doubt that the result would be a life or death dispute.

Mehmet needed to find a cause that could rally the people to him. The conversations he had heard night after night told him this same thing. The people felt that his father was a great leader, and that he was not. If he could gain the people’s confidence, then he would not need Halil, and the other elders would follow his lead.

Mehmet knew the solution. He knew exactly what would bring the people to his side, and what would indeed make him the greatest Sultan in the history of the Ottoman people.

The solution however was a great gamble. His father and father’s fathers had conquered huge tracts of territory in Anatolia and then in Europe, primarily at the expense of the Greeks. Mehmet intended to propose something even more audacious, to conquer the one place that his ancestors had failed to take. If he succeeded he would win the adoration of his people and would be able to deal with Halil and any others who might oppose him. If he failed . . .

The Sultan eventually made his way back near the palace, to the home of his closest friend, Zaganos Pasha. Zaganos, the youngest brother of Mehmet’s father in law, had converted to Islam at age 13, and was Mehmet’s trusted general and friend. He was the most prominent member of the upstart Christian converts that made up the Sultan’s support base.

Zaganos was up, even at this late hour, and embraced his friend, showing him in and ordering apple tea from his servants. Zaganos was shorter and stockier than Mehmet, a powerful middle-aged man in the prime of his life. He had receding dark brown hair. A long scar cut across his forehead and down over his left eye. He looked on Mehmet with smiling eyes extending in to crow’s feet. He smiled like a proud uncle or father.

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Genre – Historical Fiction

Rating – PG

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Website http://james-shipman.com

Nobody Has To Know, Frank Nappi’s dark and daring new thriller, tells the story of Cameron Baldridge, a popular high school teacher whose relationship with one of his students leads him down an unfortunate and self-destructive path. Stalked through text-messages, Baldridge fights for his life against a terrifying extortion plot and the forces that threaten to expose him. NHTK is a sobering look into a world of secrets, lies, and shocking revelations, and will leave the reader wondering many things, including whether or not you can ever really know the person you love.

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Genre - Thriller

Rating – PG-13

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Website http://www.franknappi.com

What genre are you most comfortable writing? Contemporary fiction. That’s the only genre I’ve touched.

What inspired you to write your first book? My now ex-husband was always dragging me to look at dilapidated old houses in very remote, miniscule towns, and insisting we live there. As we were having our share of problems at the time, I became suspicious that he was plotting to dump me in one of these places. That started Running Against Traffic, and then the characters took over.

Who or what influenced your writing once you began? I never write about something I know nothing about. It has to be real to me, so I often draw on my own emotions, like a method actor. I am also very curious and pay close attention to people, their motivations, relationships, how they hurt and save one another, and why. I find it all fascinating, and it is what I like to write about. Earlier writing pulled more from direct experiences, and these novels will come out eventually.

What made you want to be a writer? I think when you are a creative person, it’s impossible to live a fulfilled life without a creative outlet. I would have to do something. I read, I play violin, but I have to create. My mind would melt down if I didn’t. My soul would wither.

What do you consider the most challenging about writing a novel, or about writing in general? I believe I have undiagnosed ADD, so it’s very hard for me to stay on one project long and finish it. While all of my projects are vividly alive in my head, wrangling one project into a finished novel has been a true challenge. I’m too flighty.

Did writing this book teach you anything and what was it? It is my first finished and published novel, and I made a decision to be honest in it about my characters and their flaws. It taught me to risk writing about the good, the bad, the ugly, and not tie everything up in a pretty bow. This is life.

Do you intend to make writing a career? Absolutely. I always did, but I have been sidetracked frequently, forced to labor in office jobs to pay bills. Stupid mortgage.

What is your greatest strength as a writer? I take risks. I break rules. Or rather, I don’t know what the rules are?

I unintentionally break rules. Which still makes me a rebel, mind you.

Have you ever had writer’s block? If so, what do you do about it? My most effective cure for writer’s block is to go for a nice long run, without a pen, or smart phone. My brain inevitably will start churning out scenes, and I have no way to write them down. It gets me through fitness ruts, as well, because I have to sprint home.

Can you share a little of your current work with us? Running Against Traffic is a dark comedy about a woman named Paige who, for many reasons, has given up on life. Then her husband gives up on her, dumping her in a small town where she knows no one and has nothing, and she has to figure out why she got there, and how to live her life. This is done with the help of unexpected friendships, facing her past, and a pair of running shoes.

Paige Scott is done in. Done for. Done with it. Having spent her childhood shuffled between relatives who ignored her, and her adult life hiding within the walls of her relationships with men, she is prepared to live out her empty days in her crumbling marriage to David Davenport. David has other plans, however, and flings her into a remote, impoverished world, in stark contrast to the wealthy cosmopolitan one that was all she knew. Here she is forced to face the betrayals of her past and learn, for the first time, how to care for herself, and for others.

Hilarity and tragedy, addictions, unexpected friendships, and Paige’s discovery of running and the relief it brings propel her on her journey toward the mending of a broken spirit, and learning how to truly live. Step by step, mile by mile.

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For a limited only, $2.99

Genre – Contemporary Fiction

Rating – PG13

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Website http://gaelenvandenbergh.com/home/

1

Camille

How did my life get so complicated? One minute, I, Camille Anderson, was living a pretty normal life in which nothing ever happened to me, and the next I'm practically being hauled away from the premier wedding venue in Houston, The Corinthian, by security because of my sudden outburst to the groom.

I should have known I was setting myself up for disaster, but I had to do it. I had to tell my best friend that I'd been in love with him since I was thirteen.

I really didn't expect the scene to unfold the way it did, especially while Trevor was getting married, but I couldn't hold my feelings in much longer. I felt he was making a terrible mistake, because he was marrying the wrong woman. He should have been marrying me.

I guess I should backtrack to when Trevor and I first met. It was seventeen years ago, when the Williams family first moved into the house next to ours. I was outside waiting for my friend Tia Simmons to come by when I first noticed Trevor. He was absolutely gorgeous as he stepped out of his family's SUV. He had that "boy next door" look, with wavy black hair and smooth ivory skin. He looked over at me and gave me a huge grin, which I greatly returned.

After that day, not only did we become friends, but our parents became great friends as well. We always went by each other's homes for dinner or for game night (until we were too old to appreciate hanging out with our parents on a Friday night).

We were practically inseparable during our high school years, and many of our friends thought we would eventually get married and have lots of kids. When anyone mentioned that to Trevor, he would shrug it off and say, "We're just friends, and it will stay that way until the day we die." Usually those words would tug at my heartstrings, but being the shy person I am, I never let my feelings show.

As we went to college, Trevor and I went into the same major, public relations. That was when he met Chelsea Parker, who was also my roommate. At first I liked Chelsea because she was basically a sweet person, but when she set her sights on Trevor, I quickly disliked her. Not because she took Trevor away from me, but because she became a different person.

If only I could go back to four weeks ago, or even seventeen years ago, I would be with the man I loved...

~

Four weeks ago....

"I don't know why you dragged me to this," I said as I looked at my friend Tia. The two of us were inside the Aventine Ballroom of Hotel Icon waiting for our friend Trevor and his fiancée, Chelsea, to arrive for their engagement and welcome home party. The two had announced their engagement to everyone a while back when Trevor was visiting his parents before going back to Dallas. Not only did he announce his engagement, but he also said that he had accepted a new position at a prestigious PR firm and was moving back to Houston. Although I was happy that my best friend was moving back, I was not thrilled that he was getting married.

"For once, why can't you be happy for Tre? He and Chelsea are finally getting married."

I gave Tia an evil stare as I looked toward the revolving door to the ballroom.

"You know how I feel about Trevor and Chelsea getting married."

"Oh please, Cam, when are you going to get past the fact that Trevor found someone? I told you to admit your feelings to him, but being the person you are, you decided not to."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You felt you would have been rejected if you told Trevor your true feelings."

"If I remember correctly, in high school when Charles asked him why we never hooked up, he said, and I quote, 'We're just friends.'"

Tia rolled her eyes at me and started to stare at the door as well. This was not the first time we'd had this conversation about my feelings for Trevor, so I'm pretty sure Tia was tired of hearing it.

Tia was my other best friend and the complete opposite of me. While I was quiet and reserved, Tia was wild and carefree. She always did what she wanted and didn't care about the consequences. People always thought we were sisters, with our caramel-colored complexion and long, dark-brown hair. But that was where the similarities ended. I looked down at my black sequin dress that went above my knees, wondering if I was dressed appropriately for the occasion; but as I looked at the hot-pink dress Tia was sporting, I figured my outfit was perfect.

"So how are things between you and Eric?"

"Finished; I broke up with him a couple of days ago."

"I'm assuming because he's not Trevor? Cam, you have got to move on."

I sighed as I noticed two figures coming through the door. I started to breathe slowly as I watched my friend walk in with his fiancée. Trevor always was attractive, but tonight he looked really handsome in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and blue and white striped tie. His black, wavy hair was cut short, bringing out his beautiful brown eyes. He walked hand in hand with Chelsea, the woman I wish I'd never met, who was positively glowing in an ivory-colored empire dress. Her reddish brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and her makeup was flaw- less. Although I was completely jealous of Chelsea, I had to admit the two made a stunning couple.

Tia gave me a frown.

"You OK?"

"I'm cool. Let's just get this over with."

While the crowd of family and friends were clapping and whistling for the happy couple, all I could do was just stand in my place, looking at Trevor as if he was the only person in the room. He gave me a smile that showed the deep dimples on each of his cheeks. As he went to greet a couple of his family members, I took a deep breath to control any tears from flowing.

I shouldn't have come tonight.

~

Trevor

"Why did we plan a huge engagement party? Everyone knows we're engaged," I asked my fiancée, Chelsea, as we were walking hand in hand down the corridor inside Hotel Icon.

"Sweetie, I just wanted everyone to celebrate in our happiness and what better way than a huge party?"

I sighed as I continued to walk, not realizing how frustrated I was becoming.

Chelsea was the love of my life. I instantly knew I wanted to marry her when I first laid eyes on her in Camille's dorm room. The two were roommates their junior year at University of Houston, which was great for me, considering I was able to see my best friend and my girlfriend at the same time. Although Camille and I were really good friends, I got the sense that something had been bothering her since I'd been dating Chelsea. Call me crazy, but it seemed as if Camille was jealous of our relationship. I hope not, because Chelsea loves Camille and considers her a good friend.

As we walked into the ballroom, everyone from our family and our friends were clapping and cheering for our arrival. We started to wave at everyone as we entered. Once I turned my head toward the center of the room, I had to stop and admire the person staring straight at me. My heart jolted several beats at the beauty who was giving me a dazzling smile. Camille Anderson had always been a beautiful woman, from her caramel-colored skin to her deep chocolate eyes; she definitely stood out in a crowd.

Just looking at her long hair flowing around her face and the black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places made me feel sort of embarrassed, because I shouldn't have been looking at her in that way. I always considered her my best friend and nothing more, so why was I looking at her differently now?

Chelsea turned her attention to me, wondering what was wrong.

"Is everything OK?"

I suddenly realized I was staring a little too long as I turned to Chelsea.

"I'm fine," I said as I squeezed her hand.

I gave Camille a huge grin as I walked over to talk to a nearby guest. I snuck another peek at her; she was talking to our friend Tia near the bar. I don't know what was going on with me, but hopefully this feeling I was having about my best friend would go away soon.

That's if I want it to.

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Genre - Contemporary Fiction

Rating – PG13

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Connect with Sheena Binkley on Twitter

Website http://sheenabinkley.wordpress.com/

Jez turned his head and saw jeeps stacked up one behind the other, coming at him. They were equipped for combat with mounted mortar cannon and sub-machine guns rigged on the integral bases behind the front seats. The heads of soldiers bobbed behind mortar blast protectors as the vehicles maneuvered over snowdrifts. He couldn’t tell how many vehicles, but seeing them fan out and fire, the number no longer seemed relevant.

He ran. He wanted to drop the ski jacket to quicken his pace, but he’d lose his weapons. The only thing he could do was wind in his head and race flat out. WHUMP! A mortar shell exploded 50 meters forward and to the right of his position. Shrapnel whizzed by, and though he could hear it, he felt nothing. He hadn’t been hit. He crouched lower, but the rabbit-skin hat fell off. No time to pick it up. Stop for nothing. With the rifles set to automatic, they traced straight black lines in the snow on either side of him and then swept horizontally across his horizon – Kalashnikov AKMs. They didn’t quite have him in their sights, but they would get there soon enough.

Not safe running in a straight line, he zigzagged, sacrificing distance for evasive tactics. Even so, it wouldn’t take them long to get a bead on him. He looked ahead for anything that might impede his progress, and saw a murder of crows take to the air on the opposite side of the nearest hill. If only he could join them, he thought. Instead, he ran a short distance to the left and then a longer distance to the right, on occasion reversing the strategy so as not to reveal a pattern.

WHUMP! WHUMP! One after another, mortar shells exploded; and while Jez’s evasive actions proved successful, progress slowed. The jeeps occasionally stopped to drop-blast their mortar shells more accurately, but it didn’t stop them gaining ground.

Clearly, while the snow slowed him, it had no such effect on the pursuit vehicles. They would catch him before he could get to the hills. He had to make a stand. WHUMP! A shell exploded 30 meters ahead. That would do, fight from the mortar’s footprint, die like a soldier. He ran towards it. The jeeps closed in. WHUMP! Another explosion – and it was in the same hollow he was headed for. He ran in the opposite direction to make them realign their weapons.

The aim moved. Shells exploded away from the crater, so he veered back and got close enough to jump. Any other time of year the landing would have been soft, but now solid ground jarred his bones as he made contact with the fissure’s base. The earth moved and rumbled, feet banged against brittle crust that cracked and broke beneath him. A thin layer of earth had been all that remained after the two explosions and Jez crashed through the crater into another hole.

He dropped the depth of the first hollow and through into the hole below. But he couldn’t see out to shoot. If his life hadn’t been about to end he might have laughed. Too low to make a stand, he would have to… but just a minute, what was that? He wasn’t in a hole, but a pothole, a chance, a slim chance, but a chance.

He pulled the landfall aside, squeezed through and scrambled along the tunnel in a direction in line with the hills. The cave got bigger. He could stand up straight. He started running again, and half a minute carried him 100 meters in. WHUMP! Grit and soil blasted along the chasm behind him, stung his legs, back and buttocks as fragments struck. They’d realigned a fix on the crater too soon. It had to be Mitrokhin up there. The regular army weren’t that good.

With adrenalin pumping, he gave that extra push, but the channel narrowed and lowered. Lack of headroom forced him to his hands and knees. Movement slowed. The ground shook. Tremors shuddered through his arms and legs, and then a blast was followed by a rumble.

The channel collapsed and fallen earth charged towards him. Rapid breathing, his heart raced, but he had to steady his thoughts. He couldn’t lose control, but the ground rumbled, ever closer.

Still on his hands and knees, he pushed his back hard against the roof. Earth fell around his feet and legs as the miniature cave fell in. But his body remained rigid, acting as a stanchion. His part of the crown hadn’t fallen, but ahead and behind, the rumble continued and the fragile earth crashed down. The structure of the hollow folded, and when it stopped he’d become entombed. Panic engulfed him. There was no way out.

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Genre – Thriller, Crime, Suspense

Rating – R

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Connect with Rik Stone on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://rik-stone.simdif.com

Can wearing the color pink attract true love?

That is the question Summer Jones intends to answer.

In her early thirties, Summer Jones thought that she had found the perfect man, the man she planned to marry until she learned that he still had feelings for his first love. Now, at age thirty-five, Summer is ready to fall in love again. After she hears that wearing the color pink can attract true love, she sets out to do just that–and finds more than just true love.

Follow Summer as she journeys into the world of color magic and find out how she uses that magic to help her choose between one man from her past and another man who is destined to become her future.

This romantic drama serves up something fun and sexy, proving that the road to love can be paved with many painful lessons and memorable moments. It’s a story about paying attention to your past so that you don’t always have to repeat it.

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Genre - Romance

Rating – PG-13

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Connect with Parker Paige on Twitter

Website parkerpaige.wordpress.com

Set against the backdrop of Soviet, post-war Russia, Birth of an Assassin follows the transformation of Jez Kornfeld from wide-eyed recruit to avenging outlaw. Amidst a murky underworld of flesh-trafficking, prostitution and institutionalized corruption, the elite Jewish soldier is thrown into a world where nothing is what it seems, nobody can be trusted, and everything can be violently torn from him.

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Genre - Thriller, Crime, Suspense

Rating – R

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Website http://rik-stone.simdif.com

CHAPTER ONE

I can’t ask for a better day to be out shooting. Man, what a view. Something about how the sun’s rays press against the faint distant outline of the mountains. Sick! If it can seem so dominating from all the way over here, I can only imagine what it must feel like up close. I don’t know. It just always kind of does something to me.

I know, I know. Lame, right? But trust me, if you lived in the hellhole I live in, anytime alone is sacred. You start to appreciate all these little not-so-particular things. Yeah—even the outline of the mountains.

Carefully, I focus the lens on my Canon 7D to capture the effect of the clouds drifting across the peaks of Mt. Rose and get my shot. A few seconds later, the sunlight dims. I hadn’t realized it was so late. I glance at my watch, wondering what’s taking Melinda so long. She promised to pick me up by five, even though I knew that would mean five-thirty. It’s five-forty-five.

I call her on my cell. It rings four times, then goes to voicemail. “Come on, Mel!” I mutter. “It’s getting late!”

I’ve had a good day so far, probably because I’ve been alone for most of it, and I really don’t want another confrontation with Jet. I can still taste the faint copper tinge of blood at the corner of my mouth where he split my lip the last time around. Two days ago.

I hit redial. Straight to voicemail. “Dammit, Mel!”

I tell myself to breathe, but my anxiety is really starting to kick in. Sweat is beading on my forehead and my heart is jolting in my chest. Why does she always have to be so impossible? I don’t get it.

The moment I hear the loud thrum of an engine roaring up the dirt road, I jump up from the boulder I’ve been perched on. It’s about damn time!

She screeches up to me in her new, cherry-red Mini Cooper and slams on the brakes. I dodge around to the passenger side. Grab the door handle. It’s locked.

“Mel!” I shout. “Open up!”

But she’s sitting behind the wheel pretending not to hear me. Eyes glued to her phone, purple nails tapping out a text message. With a tiny smirk on her glossed-up lips.

I hit the window with my fist. “Stop messing around! Jet’s gonna be pissed!”

She finishes her text, sends it … and adjusts the rearview mirror so she can check out the jet-black curls at her temples. She still hasn’t given me one look. Is she really serious right now?

I pound at the window again, as hard as I can. “Open up, dammit!” My anxiety is turning into rage. And rage is something Jet’s modeled for me only too well over the years, ever since he and his first wife, Leyla, took me in as a foster kid. Mel was just six at the time, but “my sister,” which she became after they finally adopted me, was a full-fledged brat from Day One, and she’s only gotten worse.

My fist hurts. I’m afraid of what Jet will do when we get back, since he ordered me to be home by six so I can start dinner.

But as far as Mel’s concerned, I might as well not be there. I can’t control it any longer. I take a step back, lift my knee, and kick the passenger door with all my strength. The hollow metal frame vibrates against the sole of my shoe. Mel’s prized car now has a six-inch dent right in the middle of the passenger door.

I guess that got her attention. Her mouth is hanging open. For a moment, she’s so astonished that she can’t speak. She swings her door open and charges around to the passenger side.

“MY CAR!” she screams, staring at the dent. “Are you crazy?!”

“Why couldn’t you just open up?” I yell back.

“Gavin, you’re an asshole! I was just messing with you! You’re never gonna learn to use your head, are you?”

“Go to hell!”

She goes still, then raises her eyebrows with an “Oh, really?” expression. Then she hauls off and slams her fist into the right side of my face. All I can feel is the large stone of her ring jabbing into my cheek. She stalks back to the driver’s side with a wicked smirk creasing her lips and snaps, “You can walk home!”

She slides behind the wheel, slams the door, and peels off so hard and fast that the car kicks up a stinging cloud of gravel and asphalt dust all over me.

She can’t be serious. But as the Mini disappears around the first bend in the road, I realize that she is.

* * *

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Genre - Young Adult Science Fiction

Rating – PG

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Connect with Arthur J. Gonzalez on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.arthurjgonzalez.com/

Abby, 13, is looking forward to watching the moon turn purple, unaware that deadly bacteria from a passing comet will soon kill off older teens and adults. She must help her brother and baby sister survive in this new world, but all the while she has a ticking time bomb inside of her--adolescence.

"Cramer creates a picture of our world that's both frightening and inspiring in this heartfelt story that both young adults and adults can enjoy.A heartwarming but not overly sentimental story of survival." KIRKUS REVIEWS

"Outrageous and completely 'out of the box'." MY HOME AWAY FROM HOME review blog
"Three words: Gripping. Palpable. Well-developed." WORD SPELUNKING review blog

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Genre - Science fiction

Rating – PG-13

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Connect with Scott Cramer on Facebook & Twitter

When the bacteria that killed most of world’s adults undergo a deadly mutation, 15-year-old Abby must make the dangerous journey to Colony East, an enclave of scientists and Navy personnel who are caring for a small group of children. Abby fears that time is running short for the victims, but she’s soon to learn that time is running out for everyone outside Colony East. (Parental discretion advised for readers 13 and under)

Colony East will be specially priced at $2.99, 60 percent off the regular price.

Night of the Purple Moon (Book 1 of the Toucan Trilogy) is free.

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Genre - Science fiction

Rating – PG-13

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Whill of Agora by Michael Ploof

Amazon

Influenced by the works of Robert Jordan, George R.R. Martin, R. A.Salvator and Tolkien, Whill of Agora is a classic coming of age fantasy tale of magic, mayhem, friendship and war. Set in the realm of Agora during the Draggard Wars, five centuries after the fall of the elven lands, Whill of Agora brings readers on a heart pounding epic adventure with a colorful cast of characters that are sure to become fan favorites.
Every so often, an epic adventure emerges that makes the blood surge, the spine tingle, and the heart smile page after exhilarating page. Such is Whill of Agora, Michael James Ploof’s action-packed fantasy that visits strange new lands as it unveils how one exceptional young man named Whill makes full use of fierce wits, superior skills, and relentless will to help defend the land of Agora from the monstrous Draggard. With plenty of drama and action packed battle scenes, Whill of Agora will enthrall anyone on the quest for great adventure, good times, and an infectiously optimistic outlook on even the darkest and most dangerous of days.
It is the year 5170 in the land Agora, where humans, dwarves, and elves have existed in peace for centuries. Now, however, the human King Addakon has invaded and waged war on neighboring Isladon. The once peaceful Kingdoms of Agora are on the brink of continental war. The Dark Elf Eadon, Addakon's master, and his army of Dragon-Elf crossbreeds, the Draggard, threaten to conquer all kingdoms. The final hour has arrived.
Enter young Whill, a nineteen-year-old ranger with battle savvy and untapped abilities. Having spent years roaming Agora and training with his mentor Abram, Whill has become a bright intellectual and a master of combat. What he seeks most, however, is the identity of his birth parents. Instead, he finds a tumultuous terrain and a prophecy placing him in the center of the struggle.
Along the way, Whill encounters an equally inspired group of companions that are matched in skill and mission. These include Rhunis the Dragon Slayer, the young Tarren, the fearless Dwarf Roakore, the beguiling warrior Elf Avriel, and the powerful Zerafin. As Whill joins forces, he forges bonds far mightier than their escalating travails. With high adventure and fierce friendship, Whill of Agora will capture your imagination and grip your heart during every super-charged escapade that Agora’s bold and grinning brotherhood embraces.
What fantasy adventure would be complete without a decent map, worn at the edges of course. Whill of Agora features a complete map of Agora so that you can easily manuever through the wilds and bustling cities alike. Click the "Look inside" feature to view map.
If you enjoy a good story told well, with interesting and often times hilarious characters, you will enloy Whill of Agora. With its rich history, 'page turner' pacing, unique magic system and majestic lands, the first book in the Whill of Agora series immerses the reader in a beautiful and believable world wrought with danger, war, manipulation, and mayhem.

Chapter 1

The Hunt

Guinevere stared into the shadows along the edge of the forest. She could hear Cedwyn shifting from foot to foot beside her, unable to stand still. She sighed, the bow made of sturdy pine in her hand growing heavier like her heart. Her thirteenth Birth Day was in a few days, but she wasn’t excited. Birth Days were supposed to be fun, but not this year. Not for her, not for a princess.

She frowned as Cedwyn adjusted the leather quiver of arrows on his back again. Sometimes, like today, her patience with the seven-year-old was short.

“Guin’ver?”

“Hush!”

“But ...”

“Hush!”

She stamped her boot on the ground, her displeasure clearly showing.

“Cedwyn,” she snapped. “What is so important that you can’t be quiet?”

“I’m hungry, and the bottoms of my trousers are wet. Can’t we go back to the castle?” His face showed his confusion at her tone.

Guinevere realized that she shouldn’t have directed her anger at Cedwyn. It wasn’t his fault. Glancing down at her own clothes, she saw the bottom of her green ankle-length tunic wet with the morning dew. Her stomach chose that moment to begin grumbling. It started as a low vibration but grew louder as if it hadn’t been fed in days. Cedwyn heard it and started giggling. He tried to smother the sound by covering his mouth with his small hand, but he was too late.

Trying to keep from laughing also, Guinevere shook her head. “How are we ever going to shoot a rabbit with all this noise?” She reached down and tousled his blond hair to let him know that she was not serious and to apologize for her crossness. “Let’s try for just ten minutes longer. Then if we find nothing, we’ll go back. Is that all right?”

Cedwyn shook his head, not wanting to make any further noise. She let her eyes move across the blue sky. The English summer sun had barely reached above the far hills when they had first arrived at the forest. Now, it was well on its way in its climb toward the dinner hour, and they hadn’t even had a proper breakfast yet. Cedwyn’s mum was sure to be upset that they had been gone so long.

“Come on,” he whispered. “The only creatures we’ve seen moving have been badgers and Cornish hens. We could of had five bloody hens by now.”

“I told you, it’s good luck to bag a rabbit on the eve of your thirteenth Birth Day,” Guinevere informed him.

Cedwyn studied her face, unsure if she was telling the truth or not. Then his blue eyes widened, and he grabbed her arm as she turned to continue hunting. “Wait a minute! You promised to help me bag a rabbit on the eve of my tenth Birth Day. You said that was lucky!”

She turned to him, her balled fists on her slim hips. “You need to listen closer when I talk to you. I explained the difference be- tween boys and girls. Boys have to seek luck on the eve of their tenth and fifteenth Birth Days. Since girls are naturally luckier than boys, they only have to seek luck once, on the eve of their thirteenth Birth Day.”

Cedwyn eyed her suspiciously, and then his eyes lit up.

“But I thought that the eve was the night before. Your Birth Day isn’t until the day after tomorrow.”

“That’s true, but the eve of something can also be anytime close to the day.”

“Are you sure?”

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Genre - Arthurian Legend

Rating – G

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Website http://www.beyondtodayeducator.com/

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1.3 out of 5 stars See all reviews (3 customer reviews) |

3/10

One one-thousand... Two-one thousand... Three-one thousand... "Ready or not, here I come."

• Starring: James C. Burns, Philip Hersh
• Directed by: Jamison Brandi
• Runtime: 1 hour 24 minutes
• Studio: R Squared Films Inc

 

 

 

 

Summary:

Chesterfield High School basketball practice has ended. One year later the town is still reeling from the massacre of a brutal mischief night murder, but even the statewide curfew won't stop these teens from pulling pranks on Hallow's Eve. Susie Hauser, head cheerleader along with her teenage friends are lured by a psychopath to play a revengeful game of hide and seek on this anniversary night. For a high school senior and her friends, the childhood classic becomes a deadly game of survival. Who will play? Has one of their own turned on them? Who will hide and who will seek?
- Written by Brandi

The Purelights of Ohm Totem by Brandon Ellis

Amazon Kindle

Zoey and Coda are like everyone else in their small town of Gladstone, but that's about to change - forever.
Zoey has a dream, one that feels far more real than it should. A strange wolf with a beautiful violet crystal embedded in his forehead visits her. "Please help us," the wolf implores. "Remember, Zoey, who you truly are." Zoey wakes up, dismissing it as a silly dream. However, she soon realizes that it was far more real than she could have ever imagined.
Coda is Zoey's older brother. Like many boys his age, he has a craving for adventure and a loathing for his younger sister. He can't stand it that she constantly gets in his way, joining in on all of his fun and ruining it during the process. And the worst, according to Coda, is that Zoey gets all of the attention from their parents. A big drag in his mind.
Then destiny arrives, one that Zoey and Coda must face together - if they want to survive.
Together, they journey to a place deep in the Cornell Forest, through a secret portal that leads them to an ancient world called Ohm Totem - to the place of the PureLights, the race beckoning for their help.
Caught between an age old war and finding their way back home, Zoey and Coda go on an amazing adventure, taking them beyond the veils, beyond everything they once knew and into the grasp of the unknown.

Brandon Ellis offers a captivating novel showcasing his creativity and ingenuity as a storyteller. He's an author to watch. If you enjoy the PureLights of Ohm Totem, Book 1, you won't want to miss The PureLights & the PureLight Order, Book 2.

Dead Trees by Eli Constant

Amazon

A scientist mommy battling beasties better be handy with a scalpel.
Widow Elise Swanson is trying to give her daughters a decent childhood. This should be a simple task, but the invading undergrounders make outdoor playtime a tad tricky.
Civilization is a ghost of yesterday. Great cities have been abandoned. Remaining humans just want to survive.
For six months, Elise keeps her daughters alive. Then she meets tough, nature-savvy Jason- a man who may be able to reawaken her widowed heart.
Pit stop fights with beasties define the survival-road that the companions navigate. But when survival-road ends, what follows?
Elise could hold the key- the knowledge to give humans a fighting chance. No one knows if the H2H vaccine will work, but everyone hopes that humanity will find a way to regain Earth.
Everything started with a few dead trees…
How will it end?

1 - ONE NIGHT

THE LAST THING Jules Blaze thought of before he closed his eyes was how he, how anyone, could undo the curse his people were under. He was in the middle of a dream, a nightmare as far as he was concerned, begging Grandpa Leroy and Grandma Bonnie not to leave, when someone banged on their front door, shaking their entire tree house.

Who’d be crazy enough to disturb them at this hour? He sat up on his bed and cocked his head. His mother’s soft tread tap-tapped on the wood floor.

“Who’s there?” her muffled voice asked, harsh and whispery from sleep.

The banging stopped.

“Erin, open up.” Saul’s voice, gruff and loud, jolted the last fog of sleepiness from Jules. He peered over at his brother sleeping noiselessly in the bunk below him, and quietly slipped down the ladder. On tiptoe he sneaked to the trapdoor opening that led down to the living room where Saul stood dripping from the rain.

“Is everything okay?” Erin said.

“Would I visit now if it were?” Saul said. Then in a gentler voice he added, “I’m sorry. Please, let’s take a seat, Erin.” He nodded at Jules who’d slipped down the pull-down ladder to join them. “Jules.” Jules thought about his father at the war front and swallowed a lump in his throat. Was this why Dad hadn’t sent any word to them for the last months? Because he couldn’t?

Saul held Erin by the arm. He led her to the dining room chairs behind the sofa covered with knitted shawls and afghan throws.

Jules trudged to the window and peered at the branches outside. The arm of the oak tree grew so thick they could easily live in it, although getting up there could be a problem, especially since he was afraid of heights. These days they didn’t even live in stone houses, or even wooden ones, unless living under a tree counted as a wooden home. Elfies lived in trees, or burrowed under rocks, in the forest of Reign.

“Take a seat, Jules.” Saul locked eyes on him for an instant. “I just received word from the riverfront patrol—Leroy and Bonnie’s boat capsized in the storm. They’re searching for the bodies, but it doesn’t look good.”

Erin let out a gasp and brought a fist to her mouth. “No!”

“Boat? How can they be sure it was them?” Jules leaned forward in his chair.

“Some of their belongings floated to shore, and I identified the wreck—the pieces drifted to the bank.”

Erin looked at him blankly.

Saul said, again, “The boat…was a wreck.”

“Boat?” Erin said.

“I’d loaned it to them.”

“Why?”

Saul looked at the ceiling. “They’d wanted to get across to Handover.”

“Handover? That’s preposterous. After telling us never to cross the river and saying how dangerous Handover is?” Erin’s voice sounded angry amidst her sobs.

Saul pushed his chair back and stood. He reached into the cloak of his pocket, brought out a few items and laid them on the dining table. “Some things to remember your folks by.” And with that he turned and stalked back out into the dripping night.

Jules stared at his grandpa’s pocket watch, the green felt hat the old man always wore, especially on damp days, and his grandma’s silk scarf she donned when the wind ruffled her snowy white hair. Erin sobbed more violently, and Jules stood behind his mother’s back, leaned over and hugged her trembling shoulders.

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Genre - Young Adult Adventure Fantasy  

Rating – G

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Connect with Emma Right on Facebook & Facebook (Keeper of Reign)

Website http://www.emmaright.com/Home.aspx

With her leaky powers and premature smiting problem, fourteen year-old Trotter was still just trying to get the hang of the demi-godding business when the apocalypse began. In a world where the gods have withdrawn from humanity, leaving mortals bitter toward magic, she finds herself torn between the human and the goddess in her as the world begins to fade away and she becomes the prime suspect. When her search to determine the cause and prove her innocence ends up revolving around a mysterious little girl named Alice, she discovers that not all of the gods had been as distant as they seemed… Now, with everyone against her and the gods fighting amongst themselves, Trotter is on her own to save her world and stop a spiteful god from using Alice to destroy everything.

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Genre – YA Fantasy

Rating – PG

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Connect with Ashley Chappell on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.ashleychappellbooks.com/

2

It's an Art

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” 

--Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

“Are you getting all this?” asked the stranger after the lingering pause and he straightened his legs. The cat leapt down and padded off after her own business.

“Yes, thank you,” answered the young man promptly, glad that the silence was broken at last and anxious to shift the topic a bit. “So the beginning was when George and Belle had Harry?” the host ventured, still scribbling.

“You missed it by a bit. This story began when Wang Fu Kong, George, committed himself to the journey to a new world, then the trek into the wilderness, and when he finally surrendered to the harsh beauty and rewarding wonder of the natural world in which he found himself.”

“Wait. Are you saying little Harry and his son, or daughter, or whatever, all the way down to Fred Livingson, whenever he lived, is all the same story? So, no one person had an individual beginning or end? That doesn't sound quite fair or right somehow.”

The guest stood up and walked to the door. He looked out into haze of the growing Texas day and the harvested hay fields across the pond, then he thought aloud, “You know, that's an interesting point... like 'What is the tree to the forest?' or, 'Is the story of the river in the melting ice and snow of the mountain?' or...”

“Well, yeah, or 'the chicken and the egg',” added the young man, “But how can you say: 'It begins here!' and not here, or here, or here?” Then he groaned in exasperation at his infirm grasp of what the stranger was getting at.

“The simplest way to answer that is to remind you that humans have the unique capacity to dream and to choose, which stands them in contrast to the rest of the life on this planet. Yet even with that great birthright, so few people develop the ability or make the attempt to swerve even a bit from the whims of the winds of fate or of cause and effect.” He paused, assessed the effect of this last on the young man and continued. “So when on that rare occasion someone commits to a decision made of his own understanding and aspiration, acts on that commitment, and affects the lives of others in a positive way which would not have occurred otherwise... That is a beginning.”

“And it doesn't seem to be ending...” muttered the host not so silently while sharpening his pencil for another round.

“It ends; its life however is mapped, not measured,” offered the guest, “Shall we proceed with your map?” The stranger sat down, and picked up the tale again with a conversation between George and White Feathers.

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Genre - Metaphysical/Fantasy/Action Adventure

Rating – G

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Website http://voyagerpress.org/

Where Bluebirds Fly by Brynn Chapman

Amazon

Verity Montague is a servant in 1692 Salem. Her flaming red hair and mismatched eyes make her a prime target for accusation of witchcraft. Orphaned during the Indian raids, she and her brother with Asperger's Syndrome come to live with the key historical figures of the trials-The Putnams. They keep their synesthesia secret- that days, months and years appear as color in Verity's mind, and for John, that symphonies play in a Fantasia-style performance of colors and geometric patterns.
Truman Johnstone 's ability to discern people's expressions, and decipher if they were lying- made him an outspoken child. Being different kept him from being adopted till he was fourteen. He now runs an orphanage for problem youths, and is a feeding therapist in his desire to help children deal with their peculiarities. To give them the childhood he never had.
The harvest festival corn maze Truman creates every year has an unwelcome visitor. Children hear disembodied voices skipping through the corn maze amid the backdrop of eerie orchestral music. In every year of the calendar, intermittent doors of time swing open and closed, so long as the cornfield stands.
In societies set on sameness-all are outsiders.
They learn the traits that make us outcasts, may be the very ones that make us great, and that true love may heal all, and even transcend time.

Six

Monday

1:05 pm

I was a wicked boy. And my loving uncle was going to cure me of wickedness. That's what he told me after we left Henri—right before Yesler took a whip to my back. It's worse when Yesler gives them. Three lashes feel like thirty.

But I didn't make a sound.

And I knew the lashes weren't for stealing food. They were for climbing the tower with Pike five years ago. Every punishment went back to that. I often went back to that moment. He hit the ground first; me, a fraction of a second later. I often thought back to that moment; all the thousands of little things that caused us to fall just the way we did. Marcus taught me about science. Physics. How little changes can add up to the difference between life and death.

A soft breeze. The turning of the earth. The way our bodies moved and how we changed our paths through the air without even knowing it. The result was a 4 foot distance between where we landed.

I hit a thick straw roof and went straight through into a shed filled with hay, breaking 12 bones. My leg never healed properly.

Pike wasn't so lucky.

He hit the cobblestone pavement just outside the hut I landed on. Marcus said that a body could bounce up to six feet into the air after a fall like that. He also said it's a painless way to die. I don't know if that's true, but I do know it's not painless for the ones who survive. Especially when I know that it was me who killed Pike. Even if I could forget that, my uncle Mazol was going to remind me.

That's what the lashes were really for.

Yesler wanted to leave me in the hall where they whipped me, make me walk back to the caldroen myself. But Ballard must have known I wouldn't make it. With one arm around me, he helped me limp through the castle. Ballard was like that. He might hold you down under Yesler's whip in the morning and sneak you a sip of stolen beer in the afternoon.

Under his other arm, Ballard carried one of the small chests that the roslings were found in. I don’t know where the stuff inside those chests came from or where it went when we were done. We might have been producing reams of cheap linen, doilies of spun gold or refined cow dung for all I knew. No one really cared. If, on the other hand, we discovered the clankers turned out cherry tarts, fresh bread—even moldy bread—now that would be something. 

I imaged Ballard carrying a chest of cherry tarts as we walked, smiling at the absurdity of it. My ragged shirt, tucked in my pants, lapped against my bad leg with every step; it would be a while before I could put it on again. I could hear the blood dripping off my back onto the stone floor as we walked.

We were moving too slow for my uncle and Yesler, so they went ahead to keep an eye on the roslings. Not long after they were out of sight, Ballard gestured to a bench. He seemed to sense how badly I needed to sit down, which was ironic given his role in my suffering.

"Don't run off," he said with a crooked smile and a growl, then set the chest down next to me and disappeared around a corner. I wasn't sure if he was trying to be funny or not, but when you have blood running down your back and your best friend is being punished for something you did, it's difficult to find anything funny.

I sat on the bench, careful not to touch my back to the wall. For a moment, I thought about trying to open the chest next to me, just to see what was inside. But it was impossible to open without the key. Instead, I stared blankly through a huge window into the courtyard. 

Daemanhur sat on a cliff's edge, high above the Leschi sea, which filled the northern horizon. A 40 foot wall circled the courtyard, running close to the castle by the tower on the uphill side and stretching for nearly a mile down the slopes toward the harbor where a small trade-town was built a few more miles down the road.

A creek ran under the wall on the uphill side of the courtyard and kept a large lake full year round. There were fish in the lake, but most were to bony and small to eat, not that bones stopped us from trying when we had the time to fish. Another larger river joined the creek just above the town and ran into a harbor where ships docked from time to time.

I sometimes watched the ships come into the harbor while I was working the clankers, just to give me something to think about besides work. Men from the town  traded with the ships, and sold some of the goods to Mazol. Those who dared to travel through the jungle only did during the daylight and always with armored carriages and trained guards. They also kept moving no matter what. They didn't stop for anything, not even if one of their passengers fell out of the carriage.

I heard once that traveling guards, runners they were called, the kind who protected deliveries through the jungle earned more money than the town's mayor. Even for that much money, I wouldn't take the job. Runners usually didn't live past thirty. To be a good runner you had to be strong, ruthless and talented with a spear. Intelligence, on the other hand, was not required.

When the warts ordered goods, the runners would come to the gates on the uphill side of the courtyard just outside the window I was looking through. There was a fortified sort of room that was open to the outside where the delivery men could wait in relative safety for someone to come open the gates. The runners would pull a chain which ran over the courtyard and was connected to a bronze bell in the caldroen; the bell was in the caldroen because that's where the roslings worked and someone would always hear it in there. 

My father abandoned me when I was an infant.
My friends have turned against me.
My uncle beats me.
The most powerful men in the world want me dead.
They all have one thing in common.
They think I’m turning into a monster.

I’m starting to worry they’re right.

Genre - Young Adult

Rating – PG

Connect with Justin Blaney on his website

Sabrina Larson wants her fortieth birthday to be a major milestone—the beginning of a new life. But it looks more like the end for the Boulder, Colorado nurse when she mysteriously disappears while celebrating with her women’s group in a mountain wilderness area.

Search teams comb the region for days, but find no trace of her. Close friends and family fight bitterly amongst themselves telling different stories about what happened. Is she dead? Kidnapped? A runaway?

Cleo Sims, a local grief therapist who has discovered a process that lets grieving people contact the spirits of departed loved ones, is pulled in to help by one of Sabrina’s friends who is desperate to find out the truth. Cleo is reluctant to involve herself in yet another possible murder investigation, but the friend’s brother is Cleo’s benefactor who funds her Contact Project. When he prevails on Cleo to help find out what happened to the missing woman, she can’t refuse.

As the search goes on and the mystery deepens, Cleo finds herself digging into some dangerous secrets. As usual, her persistence, curiosity, and compassion keep her enmeshed in the investigation even when new developments threaten the very core of her personal life.

Too Many Secrets is the third book in the award-winning Cleo Sims mystery series set in the mountain community of Boulder Colorado. Like the others, it can also be read as a stand-alone book.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre - Mystery

Rating – PG

More details about the author

Connect with Lynn Osterkamp on Twitter

Tell us about your family. My dad was in the military so I moved around quite a bit as a child – I lived in 10 different houses and attended 8 schools before finally graduating high school.  My dad’s father was a cotton farmer and their family moved around a lot as well, so it was kind of his nature to wander.  And it’s mine too.

How has your upbringing influence your writing? The most obvious way is that my stories take place in different cities and I know them all very well.  A less obvious way is that my stories are streamlined – they lack flowery description – and are always told from one point of view.  I think this is because I was always looking to understand my new environment as quickly as possible and did that with certain standard perceptions – the same way my characters do.

Is there a message that you would like your readers to grasp? Just considering my book, HOW YOU LEAVE TEXAS, I would say the answer to that question is that we have to bear our losses.  We don’t want to and can distract ourselves for a little while, but eventually if we want peace, we have to see things the way they truly are and not how we wish they were.  Things end.  We have to let go.  And then, we can begin a new adventure.

How much of the book [HOW YOU LEAVE TEXAS] is realistic? All of it is realistic.  People lose their best friends, marry the wrong people, have to deal with unfair family situations and health issues every day.

How much of the book is true to my life?  Let’s say that the color red represents what’s true and really happened in my life.  Then look at the American flag – that’s how much is true in the book.

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Genre –  Women’s Fiction

Rating – PG13

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Alana Cash on her

Blog http://howyoulovetexas.blogspot.com/