A Hidden Fire by Elizabeth Hunter

Amazon

   No secret stays hidden forever.

   A phone call from an old friend sets mysterious book researcher Giovanni Vecchio back on the path of a mystery that has eluded him for centuries.  Little does he suspect a young librarian holds the key to an ancient secret, nor could he expect the danger Beatrice De Novo would attract.  

   Now both will follow a twisted maze leading from the archives of a university library, through the fires of Renaissance Florence, and toward a passion that could destroy them both.

Peter

Chapter 4

Portland, Oregon

October 22nd

Afternoon Hours

I sauntered out of the school building with my friends in tow and pulled on a thickly woven hat to cover my fluffy flaxen hair, which was bound to be frolic even in the mildest of breezes. I took a deep breath and scrutinized my immediate surroundings, noticing an armada of clouds scudding across the sky. It was a rather blustery day. The shrewd, trilling wind had all but divested the converging trees off their multicolored leaves, pasting them on the glossy asphalt and graffiti adorned walls across the road. My spirits were quickly heightened by this observation, and I suddenly felt rejuvenated after a long and taxing day at school. I didn’t know why, but the afternoon’s indolent weather appealed to me very much. I found it to be a congenial environment. For unexplainable reasons, I felt like I was caught amidst a fairytale. It was this eerie feeling which came and went on a whim. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it was triggered by the subconscious mind brushing against a collage of subliminal memories, which stopped resurfacing partway through the process.

Anyhow, there I was, enjoying the warm and soporific touch of the autumn sun on my face, engaging in introspective thoughts of adolescent nature when Max Cornwell, a close, meddlesome friend of mine, called me from my rhapsodic dream with a sharp nudge in the ribs.

‘Hey, man! You daydreaming?’

I closed my eyes; feeling a little peeved, took a long drag of the wakening fresh air and gave him a negative response by shaking my head.

‘Feel sick or something?’ he persisted.

I wished he would stop harping on me, but it looked like Max had no intention of letting me enjoy my moment of glee, so I withdrew by tartly saying, ‘No, I’m all right.’

‘Hey, check this out,’ said George Whitmore,–who was another pal of mine–wedging himself between me and Max. He held a folded twenty dollar bill in his hand, and his ecstatic facial expression suggested that he had just chanced upon the find by sheer luck.

‘Is that yours?’ I asked, knowing very well that it wasn’t.

‘No, I found it on the floor of the auditorium. Just seconds before the last period ended.’

‘Then perhaps you should report your discovery to the lost and found. I’m sure they’ll know what to do with it there.’

‘Yeah, right. That’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ he said, snorting derisively. He then added in a somewhat defensive tone, as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else, ‘I found it, so it’s mine–right?’

I considered pointing out that his intentions were tantamount to theft, but shrugged it off instead, and followed the wrought-iron fence verging the school grounds before exiting by the small postern. I was in no mood for an argument, feeling too tired to do anything other than run a bath and soak in it. Therefore, I expunged the matter from my mind, bid goodbye to both George and Max and plunged into the small gathering of trees and brush which we, the kids, had dubbed the Mini Forest. It was seldom traveled by anyone, but we called it that because of its size, which was way too small to be an actual forest, and a trifle too large to be called otherwise.

I was whistling a merry tune, and wending my way home with a spring in my step, when my ears abruptly pulled back in fright. All of a sudden, I couldn’t help but feel as if I was being watched. But that wasn’t all. I felt like someone was trying to look inside of me. Right into me. As if they were rummaging in my soul, searching its every nook and cranny, trying to fish up my deepest fears and darkest secrets. It was equivalent to being stripped naked in front of a large audience. Steeling myself for something ugly, I felt the first stirrings of unease.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Young-adult, Action and Adventure, Coming of Age, Sci-fi

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with  Ramz Artso on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://ramzartso.blogspot.com/

The Silo Archipelago by Michael Bunker

Amazon

Leah is a picker. Her job is to sift through the refuse and waste of the silo and sort it for recycling. She enjoys making homemade paper and writing stories, but she just happens to live in an underground silo full of mysteries, and in a dystopian world that has been destroyed by mankind. The two things that she loves to do most in the world are both illegal. After being arrested for illegally producing paper for the distribution of banned materials, she is thrust into the shadowy world of SAMIZDAT -- a league of dissident literary rebels who publish illegal books in the silo.
THE SILO ARCHIPELAGO is a thrilling short novel that takes place in the world of Hugh Howey's bestselling WOOL saga. Written with Hugh's permission, The Silo Archipelago examines the issues of control, tyranny, and censorship through the lens of history. Throughout time, dissident writers have used paper and words as weapons of war against both governments and really bad ideas. The Silo Archipelago, in the spirit of A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch and The Gulag Archipelago, examines what would happen if there were literary dissidents in the silos of Hugh Howey's WOOL.

Beverly Hills Book Award winner, USA Best Book Award finalist, ForeWord Reviews Book of the Year Award bronze winner, International Book Award finalist, ForeWord Firsts debut literary competition finalist.

The story opens with Noah Hartman, eighty years old, lying on his deathbed recounting his life of love and loss to Josh, a compassionate orderly at the hospital. As Noah’s loved ones arrive one by one, they listen in on his story, and we’re transported back in time to Noah’s younger years.

Though outwardly seeming to have it all, Noah, now thirty-five, is actually an empty, lost, and broken man running on automatic pilot. He has no true identity due to having allowed his powerful, wealthy parents to manipulate, control, and brainwash him from a young age. With the threat of disinheritance and withholding love and approval if he doesn’t comply with the plan they have for his life, Noah is lured in by the reward of great wealth and the illusion of running the family business empire some day.

Enter Robin, twenty-five years old, who — in direct contrast to Noah — is a vivacious, free spirit. Full of life and always living in the moment, Robin’s love saves Noah by inspiring him to stand up to his parents and live his own life at all costs, reclaiming his true self.

They get married, and while snorkeling in the Caribbean, the captain of the boat warns them not to disturb anything in the sea. Ignoring the exhortation, Noah dives down and snags a sand dollar from the ocean floor, whereupon it explodes in his hand. With the fragile sand dollar taking on new significance, Robin inexplicably leaves Noah shortly after returning from their honeymoon. Like a passing breeze, she disappears out of his life without a trace, seemingly forever.

Years pass, and Noah still can’t get Robin out of his mind and out of his heart. After all, the one he loved the most would forever be the one who got away. That’s when he finds out about her hidden secret, the underlying condition responsible for her leaving. Noah has no choice but to move on with his life without her, meeting Sarah at the premiere of SAND DOLLAR, the movie he wrote about his time with Robin.

Years later, it’s Noah and Sarah’s wedding day, and Robin discovers a clue that Noah had surreptitiously inserted into the movie, inspiring her to race to the wedding to try to stop it. With the wedding in shambles, the scene jumps back to present day, with both Robin and Sarah placed in Noah’s hospital room. But which one did he choose?

As Noah wraps up his story, he discovers a far greater truth about the past, present, and future. Things are definitely not as they appear as the pieces of a shattered love are put back together in the remarkable final chapter of Noah’s life.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG 13

More details about the author

Connect with Sebastian Cole on Facebook & Twitter

Blog http://www.sebastiancoleauthor.com

*

Jez listened to his heart pound as he made his way to the militarized airplane. The propellers of the Lisunov Li-2T whumped as they waited patiently for heavier work, but patience wasn’t a condition he suffered from. The blood had raced through his veins non-stop since he’d been reassigned.

Only a handful of passengers crossed the airstrip; and boarding the right-hand side of the aircraft revealed why: cargo took up ten of the twenty seats. Probably it was munitions for the KKE, or Soviet personnel. He found an empty window seat behind the wing, stowed his kitbag and sat.

A regular army captain flustered along the aisle and bundled awkwardly into the seat next to him. He was a short, thickset man with a kindly, but weathered face.

“Ah, the uniform, you’re with Spetsnaz.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re very young. Are you new to the group?”

“Yes, I am, sir.”

Conversation over, the captain nodded, settled his briefcase onto his lap and busied himself with its contents. He hummed so tunelessly that Jez reckoned the composer would have trouble recognizing it.

Not long after the last passenger had boarded, the beat of the aircraft’s engines increased and the vehicle started to move slowly, turned a quarter circle, stopped and then turned a bit more before beginning its journey up the runway. Jez tingled as he felt the bulk of the machine try to get airborne. Several times it lifted from the blacktop only to bounce back to earth and waft small clouds of blue smoke from the tires.

Jez kept vigil out of the window until the plane had enough power to keep the wheels in the air. He knew that this, his first flight, would be the most exciting of all flights. The drone of the engines increased. The plane rose up to the clouds, reached its desired height and changed the angle of elevation towards horizontal. They hit turbulence and the passengers bounced fiercely in their seats.

“Is this the start of a long tour of duty, Private?” the captain asked.

“The truth is, sir, I don’t know.” Even if he had, he wouldn’t have been willing to discuss his remit.

The captain seemed to sense what Jez thought of the question, smiled graciously and returned his attention to the briefcase. The aircraft rode through every available air pocket and Jez enjoyed each twist and turn, until at last they arrived at the KKE landing strip.

In 1948, with two-thirds of the country in communist hands, coming down in a safe region wasn’t difficult. This strip was north of the Balkan Peninsula in a southern area of Macedonia. Historically, the Greek right-wing conservatives had used tyranny to subjugate the Macedonians, which made for an easy alliance with the KKE.

Jez was last off the plane, because the captain took forever to repack his case. When he did leave his seat, another officer rushed by and Jez was held up further. By the time he reached the bottom of the gangway, his travel companion had met his contact and most of the other passengers had left the strip. Workers were unloading the cargo from a rear hatch, and beyond that a young KKE soldier stood by a UAZ-469 Soviet jeep.

The soldier looked too young to be there. His long unkempt hair hung straight, stuck untidily out from under a weather-beaten beret. His features typically Greek, his dusty olive uniform was an exact match for the color of his skin; and his large brown eyes, should he live long enough, would draw the girls like flies to sugar.

He held out a hand to halt Jez. “You Kornfeld?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m Private Kornfeld.”

The boy remained solemn-faced and nodded towards the jeep.

“Good luck, Private,” the captain bid, as he and his associate passed. “I hope the ride you have here is not as bumpy as the one we’ve just shared.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jez forced a friendly grin, but found the lackluster in the KKE boy’s gaze had unnerved him. A face without expression and eyes without life. Jez wondered what lay ahead.

The young soldier crunched into gear and pulled away at breakneck speed, while Jez jerked backwards as they flew from the dirt runway. The jeep formed a sand cloud that trailed their movements. After fifteen minutes of dusty roads they reached mountainous ground, and Jez hung on as the jeep danced over the rough terrain. Rocks jutted dangerously from the track or the road hung precariously over precipices, and he bit his lower lip at the boy’s avant-garde attitude to driving.

“You must have seen a lot of action here?” he said, and hoped he hadn’t interfered with the boy’s concentration.

He looked only around fourteen, but his character seemed a lifetime older. His eyes left the road to give Jez a cursory glance. In the meantime, the jeep took the twists and curves as if on automatic pilot. “No Russian speak,” he replied, and without a line of expression he returned focus to the job.

Jez wished Anna had been by his side. He was sure she’d have something to say about the boy’s erratic driving and stone-faced comments. Whatever, he concluded a great friendship wasn’t about to be forged with his Greek driver, and he turned his attention to the elevations around them. The journey took them south, nearer enemy territory, and finally to an open stockade in a dustbowl nestled at the foot of a line of low-rise mountains.

The jeep raced to the center of the compound, the wheels locked up and they skidded to an emergency stop. The dust cloud didn’t follow suit and Jez learned what it was to be enveloped by a sandstorm. The powdered dirt settled, and without a word the young Greek soldier shut off the engine, nodded and left. Jez threw his kitbag over his shoulder and turned full circle in the hope there might be someone more companionable.

Soviet soldiers had gathered in a group near a cluster of tents and a sergeant held center stage. “Excuse me, if you’re Sergeant Viktor Sharansky,” Jez said, breaking the loop, “I believe you’re expecting me. I’m Private Kornfeld.”

The sergeant looked him over derisively. “What’s this? Now they send me little boys to take care of in the middle of a war. Maybe I should stick a broom up my ass and sweep up as I go, because I’m not doing enough already. What say you – err – Private Kooornfeld?” He stretched the name sarcastically, and the others laughed.

Around forty years old, Sharansky was medium to tall with square shoulders that tapered to slim hips. Muscles fought to burst the confines of his short-sleeved combat shirt, and he looked every centimeter the definition of a boyhood hero. A cubed head with rough features on the front of it, creases that denoted laughter and eyes displaying a cheeky twinkle – Jez wasn’t put off by his words.

“You’ll find I’m able to look after myself, Sergeant. I’ll give you no cause for concern.”

The sergeant laughed. “Don’t let that distress you, little one, I have no intention of offering any such thing. What happens to you is down to you. What’s your first name? I’m not giving you Private Kooornfeld every time I’m ordering you around.”

“My name is Jez, Sergeant.”

“Right, Jez Sergeant, I’m busy. Find somewhere for your kit and we’ll see what we can do with you later.”

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.

Buy Now @ Amazon, B&N, Kobo & Waterstones

Genre - Thriller, Crime, Suspense

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Rik Stone on Facebook & Twitter

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

Who designed the cover?

I design all my covers, but my graphic artists, helps me tweak them.

If you could leave your readers with one bit of wisdom, what would you want it to be?

You can be anything you want to be. Just think, dream, daydream it and it will come true. But it’s easier to hit a target when you can see it. Therefore get yourself a visionary board. I have one.

When you wish to end your career, stop writing, and look back on your life, what thoughts would you like to have?

I doubt I will ever stop writing because when I don’t write, I am antsy and frustrated. I love writing and just wish I had discovered my talent earlier on in life.

If you could do any job in the world what would you do?

I would love to direct Gringa. I think I would be great at it.

This is the complete Gringa Series, books 1-4 being offered at a discounted price.

SERIES DESCRIPTION:

I was twenty-one, a sassy college student who took crap from no one. While holidaying in Mexico, I was accosted by Diablo and shot, because the motherfucker mistook me for a spy.

I survived, only to encounter him again months later. How’s that for luck?
Furious and sick of all that I’d been through because of him, I slapped him, told him to go fuck himself and braced myself for the bullet. He could shoot me – I no longer cared.
But, to my surprise, the fucker became fascinated with me and blackmailed me into becoming his woman. He’d slay the entire village that sheltered me, if I rejected his proposal.
He was Kong, hairy, tattooed from fingertips to face, with scary ass piercings, blood-shot snake eyes, a ruthless killer and above all, he was my murderer – how could anyone expect me to say yes?
To save the village I had to.
He took me by force, terrorized me into submission and made me his. To make matters worse, I had to put up with his ruthless, backstabbing family who hated me and wanted to kill me.
I despised the bastard and I told him that. Spark flew. Fists too.
When the FBI came on the scene and secretly recruited me to help put Diablo behind bars, I was thrilled. I wanted them to throw his ass behind bars, then torment him for the rest of his life like he was doing to me. I was willing to do whatever it took to get him there.
But, the more I rejected Diablo, the more he wanted me.
At times he wanted to kill me because of my insolence, but other times he just wanted me to love him.
I was his Gringa and in an attempt to get my love, he began to change for me. Drastic changes that made me laugh at him at first, then made me curious and even intrigued me.
After all, I was an ignored child and as an adult, nobody gave a rat’s ass about me. Here was a man who actually wanted me and was willing to do whatever it took to get me – how the hell could I not be flattered?
As the days went by, I found myself drawn to him and I began seeing him differently. When I found out about his past, everything changed.
I now wanted to protect my murderer, my tormentor, The Devil of Mexico from the FBI and I was prepared to lie to the Feds, if it meant saving him from them.
I was even prepared to go to jail for him.
And I did.
My days in Mexico were filled with violence, hate, lust and sorrow.
It was also filled with laughter, love and passion and most importantly, it taught me that love conquers all.

Gringa – a modern–day, love story that will have you laughing, crying and wanting more!

WARNING: This book contains sexual violence, sex scenes, graphic language, drug references, violence and is suitable for mature readers

REVIEWS FROM READERS:

“A crude rendition of Beauty and the beast”

“IMO, It is one of the best romance books ive read in some time. I read it all in one sitting. I couldnt peel my eyes away even for a minute. The story had it all from action to romance.”

“Some scenes had me giggling out loud, but there was one scene that had me laughing out loud for a couple minutes.”

“This book is not for the faint of heart. It’s horrible, dirty, raw, passionate, hilarious, sweet, sad, addictive, and so much more.”

‘One thing that I like from this author now that I have read all her books is that she takes time to develop her characters as well as develop the romance. There is no zero to 60 in 3 seconds here. Her characters are flawed and multi-dimentional. They also experience growth throughout the book. There are plenty of twists and turns in ths book to keep you guessing.’

“A college student, an alpha male. Nuff said. The author has woven such intricate characters in this tale and I will be hard pressed to find another book which was so well rounded and beautifully written.”

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Fiction

Rating – PG 13

More details about the author

Connect with Eve Rabi on Facebook & Twitter

Blog http://everabi.wordpress.com/

Tackling the Time Factor

by Jessica Bell

The biggest problem I had with deciding to go indie was the time factor.

With a stressful full-time job as a project manager for the Academic Research & Development department at Education First, it was difficult for me to see how I could possibly work, write, blog, edit, publish, market, run a literary journal, direct a writer’s retreat, and live my life all at once. It doesn’t help that I’m a bit of a stickler. I like to get everything done myself because I have a hard time waiting on others to do things I know I can get done more quickly and efficiently. I outsource if I really have to, but I do enjoy doing the work, such as designing covers, learning new skills and navigating social media. So when I say, DIY, I really mean DIY. Where on Earth, I wondered, would I find the time to be an editor for an educational publisher and literary magazine, an author, a typesetter, a designer, and a marketer? And what about walking the dog? Making dinner? Sleeping? (Forget the laundry. I have months of unfolded washed clothes in a heap on the couch that will soon need to go straight back into the machine from the dog rubbing herself all over them.)

The time factor is a logical fear. But once I finally made the decision to do this on my own, I realized that it wasn’t as daunting as it seemed. Do you know how much more you actually get done when you think something is impossible?

I don’t want to tell you how to schedule your day, but I’m going to give you a run down on how to approach this time management malarkey mentally. The key for me is not to focus on one thing all day. When you do this, you burn out. Your brain starts to lag from the monotony of the same information. You need to mix it up. If you mix it up, you get more done, because your mind is consistently stimulated with fresh information.

Let’s start with the actual writing of your books. Because this is what it all boils down to, yes? But first, I have to say, everyone is different. Everyone writes at different speeds, deals with stress in different ways, has different expectations of themselves. So you need to figure out what you want and works for you.

1. Stop thinking about what other people will think of your work. And write honestly. The first version of my debut novel was written for an audience. It was rejected again and again—for five years. And then, I found a small press who saw something in me and made an effort to get to know me. (Unfortunately that publisher liquidated only six months after its release, but that’s another story which you can read about here.) The publisher said my book was good, but that it felt like she was watching the characters through a window. She said: “Go deeper.” So I dug deeper and dragged the truth from my heart and soul. A truth I was afraid to admit was there. But it resulted in an honest book—a book I didn’t know I had in me. And one I hope women will be able to relate to. It’s glory-less, but real. And real steals hearts. What does this have to do with time management you ask? A lot. When you believe in your work, when you love your work, the words get written faster.

2. Focus on one paragraph at a time. I will never forget Anne Lamott’s advice from Bird by Bird (most accessible and nonsense-less book on writing I’ve ever read): write what you can see through a one-inch frame.

The reason I say this, is because knowing how much you have to revise can sometimes be daunting and overwhelming, and you might try to get through as much as possible and forget to focus your attention on the quality of your work. If you make each paragraph the best it can be before you move on, you won’t have to do any major rewrites (unless there’s a snag in your plot that you’ve overlooked and it’s related to a pertinent turning point). I’m talking revision here, not first draft.

3. Divide your writing time into short bursts. I find that if I give myself only one hour to write every morning before work, sometimes even shorter periods of time (especially when I accidentally sleep in), I’m forced to come up with things I wouldn’t normally think of.

The brain works in mysterious ways when it’s under pressure, and sometimes a little self-inflicted pressure can push you to great heights. Can you believe I wrote the first draft of The Book over a three-day long weekend? I did this because I experimented with the self-inflicted pressure idea. It worked. But be careful not to expect too much from yourself. There is nothing worse than becoming unmotivated due to not reaching personal goals. Which brings me to my fourth point ...

4. To start with, set your goals low. Set goals you know for a fact you can reach. If you set them too high, and continuously fail to meet them, you are going to feel really bad about yourself. This may result in neglecting your goals altogether. I know this from personal experience. If you later realize that you are meeting your goals with ease, gradually make them more challenging. But I strongly urge you to start small. It’s better for you, psychologically, to meet easy goals, than to struggle meeting difficult goals. Not achieving goals is a major hazard for self-esteem, motivation, and creativity.

So what about the rest?

Let’s see. These are the things I continuously have on the go that are not part of my day job or writing books, and I still find time to walk the dog and make dinner (sorry, the washing is still on the couch):

—Vine Leaves Literary Journal (reading submissions, sending rejection/acceptance letters, designing the magazine, promoting the magazine)

—Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop (organizing the event and handling finances)

—Typesetting, designing, and marketing my books (which includes, what seems, a never-ending thread of guest posts and interviews)

—Blogging (including keeping up to speed with my weekly guest feature, The Artist Unleashed)

—Maintaining my online presence (Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, etc.)

I do all this stuff on top of the day job. On top of my writing. Because I do it all in scheduled, short bursts. I get up early to make sure I have one hour to write and one hour to do something else from the list above. I pick and choose depending on priority. During my lunch break, I blog and spend about half an hour to an hour (depends on how long I can take from work) on social media. After work, I walk the dog, make dinner, maybe go to yoga. Once that’s done, I’ll spend another hour or so doing something else from the list above. Then I have a shower, relax in front of the TV, or do something else away from the computer before I go to bed. Then in bed, I’ll read a chapter or two of the book on my bedside table. Reading to me is relaxing and not a chore.

So what have I accomplished in this average day of mine?

Here’s an example:

—My job (at least 7 hours worth)

—500-1000 words on my WIP

—I read 30 Vine Leaves submissions and sent a few responses, maybe even set up a classified ad on NewPages.com.

—I wrote/scheduled a blog post, commented on other blogs.

—I connected with everyone I wanted to online. I may have worked on my latest book cover for a bit.

—I made dinner.

—I walked the dog.

—I relaxed.

—Look ... I’ll deal with those clothes tomorrow, okay?

I know people with kids who have just as much, and more, on their plate, and they’re still finding the time to self-publish. You can too.

My point is, it can all be done. And it doesn’t have to freak you out, or overwhelm you. Just pace yourself. And if you don’t have a full-time job like me, imagine how much more you can get done.

Nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it.

Nothing is impossible if you truly want it.

Nothing is impossible. Full stop.

Bio:

If Jessica Bell could choose only one creative mentor, she’d give the role to Euterpe, the Greek muse of music and lyrics. This is not only because she currently resides in Athens, Greece, but because of her life as a thirty-something Australian-native contemporary fiction author, poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist, whose literary inspiration often stems from songs she’s written.

In addition to her novels, poetry collections, (one of which was nominated for the Goodreads Choice Awards in 2012), and her Writing in a Nutshell series, she has published a variety of works in online and print literary journals and anthologies, including Australia’s Cordite Review, and the anthologies 100 STORIES FOR QUEENSLAND and FROM STAGE DOOR SHADOWS, both released through Australia’s, eMergent Publishing.

Jessica is the Co-Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal and annually runs the Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop on the Greek island of Ithaca. She makes a living as a writer/editor for English Language Teaching Publishers worldwide, such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, MacMillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning.

Keep an eye out for her forthcoming novel, BITTER LIKE ORANGE PEEL, slated for release, November 1, 2013.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre –  Non-fiction

Rating – G

More details about the author

Connect with Jessica Bell on Facebook &  Twitter

Blog http://thealliterativeallomorph.blogspot.com/

ONE
BREATHING LESSONS

IN the freshman year of my anesthesia residency, I was given a lesson in breathing by a patient whom I’ll call Otto. Anesthesia residencies come replete with breathing lessons, but Otto was also teaching humility that day, a subject absent from the formal anesthesia curriculum.
A doctor gets humility not from curricula but from his patients. I acquired a truckload of humility the day I met Otto, and the truck has only gotten larger since.
Otto was undergoing a cystoscopy, a look inside the bladder performed by passing a thin viewing scope through the urethra. There is no incision in such a procedure.
Generally, you don’t need anything fancy to support a patient’s breathing while giving anesthesia during a cystoscopy. As the patient passes from wakefulness into unconsciousness you can let him continue to breathe for himself.
In Otto’s case, I strapped a rubber anesthesia mask over his mouth and nose to make an airtight seal against his skin, and delivered through the mask an appropriate combination of oxygen and anesthetic gas. In principle, what I did was essentially what the Boston dentist, William Thomas Green Morton, had done during the first public demonstration of ether anesthesia in 1846.
The modern anesthesia face mask is a hollow cone of rubber or plastic. It’s like the oxygen mask that drops down from above a passenger’s head on an airplane, though it’s more substantially built. The base is malleable and cushioned by a ring of air, a sort of inner tube. The mask is shaped to fit around the nose and mouth; with a bit of pressure, it seals against the skin. The top of the mask connects to a source of anesthetic vapor and oxygen.
Readers of a certain age may remember the TV series, Marcus Welby, M.D., which began each week with Dr. Welby lowering a black anesthesia mask down over the camera lens. In those days, apparently, the family doctor did everything.
The anesthesia machine—the “cascade of glass columns, porcelain knobs and metal conduits” I described previously—is the gas delivery system. The machine connects to an oxygen tank and directs the flow of oxygen from the tank through a vaporizer where the oxygen mixes with anesthesia gas. The mixture passes out of the machine through plastic tubing (“anesthesia hose”) that connects to the face mask.
The patient breathes the mixture.
Gas leaving the anesthesia machine actually flows through the anesthesia tubing in a circle—in fact it’s called the circle system. One limb of the circle travels from the machine to the anesthesia mask, where the patient inhales it. The other limb, carrying exhaled gas, travels from the mask back to the machine, where excess carbon dioxide from the patient is filtered out. The filtered gas is mixed with fresh gas and travels back to the patient.
The same gases, minus the carbon dioxide, keep going round and round. The system is airtight, except for a pop-off valve that relieves excess pressure.
Otto was a large man with a thickly muscled neck, but by extending his head I could keep his airway clear, allowing him to continue breathing while the urologist worked. Instead of using an anesthesia mask to deliver my mix of gases, I could have assured Otto’s airway by using an endotracheal tube. This is a long breathing tube (about a centimeter in diameter) inserted through the mouth all the way into the trachea.
But getting an endotracheal tube in isn’t always easy, and it’s usually not necessary during a cystoscopy. Most often an anesthesia mask will do.
One side effect of anesthesia is the loss of normal muscle tone. This happened to Otto. A few minutes into the case, his flaccid tongue fell back in his throat. His diaphragm continued to contract, but air couldn’t get through to the lungs—his airway was obstructed. Otto was, of course, completely unconscious at this point.
Everyone loses some muscle tone during sleep—this is the cause of snoring, and of the more serious condition of sleep apnea. But the loss of tone is even greater under anesthesia, and the anesthetized patient cannot rouse herself to find a better breathing position.
I managed the problem by putting a short plastic tube called an airway into Otto’s mouth. The airway depressed the tongue and cleared a passage for air. It wasn’t as good as an endotracheal tube, which would have extended all the way into Otto’s trachea, but it seemed to do the trick.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Non-fiction / Memoir

Rating – G

More details about the author and the book

Connect with Wolf Pascoe on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://wolfpascoe.com

The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert

Amazon

A glorious, sweeping novel of desire, ambition, and the thirst for knowledge, from the # 1 New York Times bestselling author of Eat, Pray, Love and Committed
In The Signature of All Things, Elizabeth Gilbert returns to fiction, inserting her inimitable voice into an enthralling story of love, adventure and discovery. Spanning much of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the novel follows the fortunes of the extraordinary Whittaker family as led by the enterprising Henry Whittaker—a poor-born Englishman who makes a great fortune in the South American quinine trade, eventually becoming the richest man in Philadelphia. Born in 1800, Henry’s brilliant daughter, Alma (who inherits both her father’s money and his mind), ultimately becomes a botanist of considerable gifts herself. As Alma’s research takes her deeper into the mysteries of evolution, she falls in love with a man named Ambrose Pike who makes incomparable paintings of orchids and who draws her in the exact opposite direction—into the realm of the spiritual, the divine, and the magical. Alma is a clear-minded scientist; Ambrose a utopian artist—but what unites this unlikely couple is a desperate need to understand the workings of this world and the mechanisms behind all life.
Exquisitely researched and told at a galloping pace, The Signature of All Things soars across the globe—from London to Peru to Philadelphia to Tahiti to Amsterdam, and beyond. Along the way, the story is peopled with unforgettable characters: missionaries, abolitionists, adventurers, astronomers, sea captains, geniuses, and the quite mad. But most memorable of all, it is the story of Alma Whittaker, who—born in the Age of Enlightenment, but living well into the Industrial Revolution—bears witness to that extraordinary moment in human history when all the old assumptions about science, religion, commerce, and class were exploding into dangerous new ideas. Written in the bold, questing spirit of that singular time, Gilbert’s wise, deep, and spellbinding tale is certain to capture the hearts and minds of readers.

Why do you write?

I write as therapy.  I have an intense high stress job as a litigation attorney, writing helps me escape and relax.

Have you always enjoyed writing?

Not when I was an infant.

What motivates you to write?

I love sharing my passion for history with others.

What writing are you most proud of? (Add a link if you like)

In hopes of not sounding ridiculously contrived, my new book Constantinopolis is the writing I am most proud of.  I have always loved the story of the fall of Constantinople, and it’s impact on history and the world.  I loved writing all about it and getting inside the head of the primary characters.

What are you most proud of in your personal life?

I’m proudest of my kids and my family.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Historical Fiction

Rating – PG

More details about the author and the book

Connect with  James Shipman on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://james-shipman.com

* * * *

Three days after my father’s funeral, I landed at the airport in Denver. I rented a Jeep Wrangler, because I needed a four-wheel-drive vehicle to get up the mountain. The July weather was mild, so I wore khaki shorts, a plain white tee, and beige Vans sneakers.

One of the odd things about finding our cabin was you had to find the nearby town first. I remembered we got lost during our vacation, which caused an argument between my parents. Finding the road that led to the town was tricky, because there was only one accessible by vehicle, and there was no road sign. My father knew how to get there, because the person who sold him the cabin gave him a landmark. Luckily, he passed that information onto me during one of our conversations. Once you found the road, the town was so small that if you blinked, you’d drive right by it. When my mother said it was remote, she wasn’t being facetious.

I drove on the interstate for over an hour before I realized I missed my turn. I had to find a tree shaped like a wishbone—it was struck by lightning — but all the trees looked alike to me. It took another half-hour for me to turn around and make another attempt.

I found my landmark, but a tangle of fallen branches blocked the entrance. My hands gripped the steering wheel. I knew I was in for a bumpy ride. I floored the accelerator, and the Jeep broke through the roadblock. The road was narrow, and the terrain was rough. Whoever constructed it didn’t want people to travel on it. I screamed when tree branches appeared out of nowhere and banged against the windshield. The forest surrounded me on both sides, and I wondered if I’d ever reach the town.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Paranormal Romance

Rating – Adult

More details about the author & the book

Connect with April Bostic on Goodreads

Website http://www.aprilbostic.com/

Location and life experiences can really influence writing, tell us where you grew up and where you now live? I grew up in Mandeville, a hillside community in Jamaica. As a little boy, I spoke Patwa and ate sugarcane and was the only little red-headed white boy in town. From there, my family moved to Manila, in the Philippines, which is as far from a small, hillside community as you can get. We moved there in the wake of a military coup, survived earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and the social heirarchy between indigenous Filipinos and the remnants of old Spanish gentry. We escaped kidnapping attempts and terrorist attacks by the Communist NPA and the Islamic radical Abu Sayaaf.  We also lived among beautiful, open-hearted people and ate their delicious food and shared in their warm hospitality. I’ve also lived in the Czech Republic and Australia and, now, Thailand, and maybe I’ll tell you a few stories from those places another time. I’m afraid this answer is getting quite long.

How did you develop your writing? From a combination of reading Romantic poetry, Stephen King, and Marvel Comic Books, writing rock lyrics, getting a Masters in Rhetoric, and living with and engaging people from cultures all over the world in conversation.

Where do you get your inspiration from? Struggle. I find the difficult questions, morally complicated decisions, and challenging life situations that we each deal with to be a major source of what keeps me writing. I want my readers to see themselves in my characters and ask themselves what they would have done in that situation or whether the essential question that Shirley is battling is something that resonates with them.

What is hardest – getting published, writing or marketing? I think it depends on who you are. If you’re a marketer by nature, then writing might be difficult, because it requires solitude, taking you away from people. If you’re a writer, then marketing is going to be the hardest, because you just want to spend all your time writing and marketing feels like a distraction.

Do you plan to publish more books? Definitely. I have 7 projects on the backburners right now. At present, I am working on a novel that is closely connected to Hindsight. I can’t say much more, though. You’ll have to read Hindsight and tune into the blog to find out why.

What else do you do to make money, other than write? It is rare today for writers to be full time… I’m an exotic dancer. Just kidding, though some have called my dancing very exotic (okay, the word was “strange”, but it’s close enough). I actually work for a non-profit in Thailand.

If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be? Oh, that’s hard. The Philippines, Thailand, Ireland, Maine or Oregon, I could do any of those places. I once spent a few weeks on an island in Greece. Islands, beaches, ruins, warm people, good food–its got a lot that I’m looking for in a home.

How do you write – lap top, pen, paper, in bed, at a desk? I wrote Hindsight with pen and paper. I prefer it, because I feel more connected with the words. But now I have a permanent knot just above my knuckle from gripping the pen so hard in all those adrenaline fueled scenes. It also took me a lot longer, because I had to retype everything that I wrote. So, this time around, I’ve taken to writing it on the computer. I’ve bought this brilliant program called Scrivener, designed specifically for writing. It lets you create index cards for your characters, store research, and go into a composition mode which allows you to pick whatever background you want to write against. Those are just a few of the features. Anybody who does a lot of writing will tell you how blinding that white screen can get after an hour. So far, it’s been working beautifully.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Thriller

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Owen Banner on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.owenbanner.com/

Chapter One

Faith Leary had kicked off the holiday season the same way every year since she’d reached adulthood—standing in the express checkout line at Carlucci’s Market the day before Thanksgiving. 'Cause nothing said “Happy Holidays” better than a dented can of cranberry sauce. 

Though this year was a little different. She’d made a major score. Only one of the two cans of cranberry sauce she held was dented. Her mother would have only half as much to complain about. 

And speaking of things to complain about…she tapped out a sharp beat with her toe on the dingy linoleum floor. She stretched up onto her toes and leaned sideways in an attempt to see around the man in front of her. The customer at the register pulled out a wad of coupons and Faith bit back a groan. With a quick huff to blow the fringe of bangs out of her eyes, she shuffled both cans of cranberry sauce into one hand and dug into her over-sized bag with the other. She stirred through the debris living in the bottom of her purse until her fingers wrapped around her phone. 

The line didn’t move an inch. 

Faith checked the time. 2:10. She’d promised Mrs. Marshall she’d arrive no later than 2:30. If she didn’t make it, she’d have to wait until after the Thanksgiving weekend to get paid for walking Mrs. Marshall’s ancient Lhasa Apsos. She had a few bills to pay, and in another week her rent was due. Her negative bank balance meant she couldn’t afford to hold off on getting her paycheck. 

That’s what you get for waiting until the day before Thanksgiving to buy cranberry sauce. Honestly, Faith. She cringed and almost turned to see if her mother stood behind her in the grocery line. She stopped at the last minute. That voice was all in her head. 

Decisions, decisions.  Stay in line and miss any chance of making rent on time this month or put down her only contribution to Thanksgiving dinner and risk her mother’s anger? Eviction was the worst that could happen if she paid her rent late. And that was a lengthy process. Her landlord worked with her in the past. Maybe he’d do it again. 

There would be no working things out with her mother. For the rest of her life she’d hear about the Thanksgiving she’d completely ruined by waiting until the last minute to get cranberries. Sighing again, Faith dialed Mrs. Marshall and told her she wouldn’t make it. 

Faith checked her phone again when she reached the head of the checkout line. 2:20. Was it possible only fifteen minutes passed? 

“That’s $3.58,” the cashier said around a huge gob of gum. 

Faith once again plumbed the depths of her bag, this time in search of her wallet. Opening it, she found two crumpled dollar bills. Wasn’t there a five in there yesterday?

Oh, wait. She gave it to the bartender when she bought a Coke at the place her band played last night. What remained in her wallet was the change he gave her. She offered the cashier a weak smile as she dived back into her bag. Surely she’d stuck a few singles in a pocket here or there. 

Dragging her fingers across the crumb-coated bottom, they closed around some change. Snatching it up, she counted out seventy-two cents. 

She squinted at the price glowing green on top of the cash register, mentally cursing any store for having a cash only line in this day and age. “How much is it again?” 

“$3.58,” the cashier repeated in a bored tone. 

Faith went in once more, this time coming up empty-handed. She pulled items out, piling her sunglasses, lip gloss, tissues, and a half-eaten Hershey bar on the conveyor belt. The toe of the man in line behind her started tapping and she ground her back teeth together. 

“Let me get that for you.” 

Faith turned toward the end of the checkout lane.  A pair of sky blue eyes met hers, their color enhanced by the dark hair dipping over his forehead. He offered her a friendly grin and her lips curled in response. Her gaze drifted down, admiring his strong jaw and then roaming even lower…locking on the spot under his chin. 

She blinked once, then again. The vision in front of her didn’t change. His black shirt and white tab collar were still there. 

Holy crap. How fast does a person get sent to hell for checking out a priest?

Faith turned back to the cashier and forced down all thoughts of what she had almost done. She had absolutely not been about to start batting her eyelashes at a priest. Nope, not her. 

At least there was one good thing about all this—with a priest bearing witness to this whole mess, the people behind her would probably refrain from showering her with stinging insults and settle for dirty looks. 

Faith dug in her purse again, avoiding eye contact with the priest. “Thanks, but it’s okay. I’m sure I have–” 

“Lady,” the man waiting in line behind her said, “take the money so the rest of us have a chance to make it home before Thanksgiving.” 

Faith’s shoulders dropped and she turned to the priest. “I can pay you back.” 

“Don’t worry about it. Consider it my good deed for the day.” He flashed another grin that made her want to melt into a puddle at his feet. You know, before she remembered the whole priest thing. He handed her the two dollars and she paid for her cranberries and stuffed her belongings back in her purse.

She turned back towards the priest to offer her thanks, but he’d already disappeared. 

She grabbed her bag and hurried outside before the other patrons had a chance to grab their torches and pitchforks.

Holidays sure did seem to bring out the best in people. 

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Contemporary Holiday Romance

Rating – PG

More details about the author

Connect with Amy Lamont on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://amylamont.com

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Why Book Covers Are So Vital
by Brian Cormack Carr 
I recently self-published my first book How To Find Your Vital Vocation: A Practical Guide To Discovering Your Career Purpose And Getting A Job You Love, and I asked my blog readers to help me choose the book’s cover.  I knew the cover would be a vitally important factor in the book’s success, so I wanted to get it right.
It’s important to bear in mind that the cover is likely to be the first thing a potential reader of your book will encounter.  In today’s online world, that cover has to stand out even when it’s in thumbnail size on a computer screen.  You want your cover to attract the reader, not repel them.
Get Professional Help
For that reason, I strongly recommend that all self-published authors hire a professional cover designer (unless they themselves have very professional graphic design skills).  Professional cover design doesn’t have to cost the earth, and it really will help your book to hold its own against the competition from traditional publishing houses.  After all the hard work you put into writing your book, you don’t want to stop it in its tracks with an amateurish cover.
Don’t worry that hiring a professional designer will take away from your influence on the book.  Far from it – a good cover designer will work with you to ensure you get the cover you want.
My cover designer and I sifted through a range of different images that we felt might suit the topic of my book – job hunting and career change – and then I chose three or four images I particularly liked. Using these images, she mocked up a range of potential covers for me to have a look at.  I whittled the choices down to two, but discovered at that point I was stuck!  I just couldn’t choose, because they were both great options.

How I Chose My Cover – and Got Readers To Help
I turned the choice (which was between a cover featuring some cartoon people and one featuring an elephant on a tightrope) over to my blog readers, mailing list subscribers and social media followers. Effectively,  I “crowd sourced” opinions on which cover would most attract them.  I made this a competition – everyone who participated was in with a chance of winning a signed copy of the paperback version of the book.
This was useful in a couple of ways.  It helped me assess which cover would be most attractive to a potential reader, and it also served as a “trailer” to my audience for the book’s imminent release.
As you can see, my audience chose the cover featuring the elephant.  The choice wasn’t unanimous, but the elephant was a very clear winner, and it turns out that the people who like it do so for many different reasons.
Some see this amazing creature as a symbol of strength, wisdom and purpose. Some see the tightrope as a sign of the balancing act we all must perform on the journey to our ideal work. Some feel the umbrella indicates hope and is representative of the tools we need to help us along the way (especially if we fall). One person told me the image made him think of the precarious nature of the job market nowadays, while another said it made her feel like anything was possible if we’re really using our inborn talents. Some people see the elephant as unhappy and in desperate need of careers advice, while others feel this as an elephant that has clearly found its Vital Vocation!
I love the image because it seems to say something relevant to every eye that sees it, and that feels right for a book that’s all about charting your own individual path to the work you love.
So – what does the elephant on my cover say to you?
BIOGRAPHY:
Brian Cormack Carr is a writer, certified career coach and chief executive of BVSC The Centre for Voluntary Action, one of the UK’s leading local charities.  He trained in personnel management with Marks & Spencer plc and gained an MA (Hons) in English Literature and Language from the University of Aberdeen.  Brian has nearly 20 years of experience in the fields of personal development and leadership, and has helped hundreds of clients, readers and workshop participants to find fulfilling work and a renewed sense of purpose.
Websites: www.cormackcarr.com ; www.vitalvocation.com

Twitter: @cormackcarr

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre –  NonFiction / Careers

Rating – G

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Brian Cormack Carr on Facebook  & Twitter

Website http://vitalvocation.com/

Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

Chapter 4

For four days, Mel drifted in and out of consciousness. When she was able to swim up from the tendrils of death that held her, she dreamed vivid and horrifying dreams.

Once, she sat up with a start and saw a scene from Dante’s Inferno. She saw a huge hairy man being flogged by a branchless tree trunk. The tree was very large and the branches on it had been cut crudely so that long splinters sprouted from its surface like jagged teeth. The man was held in place by long ropes of vine that were hung from stalactites so that his feet barely touched the floor. He was screaming while others of his kind either cheered in triumph or wept with sympathy.

Another time Mel awoke in a hospital room with nurses all around her. She felt like she was in familiar territory, but wondered how she had changed places with her mother. Her mom held her wrist in one large hand and peered into her eyes with concern.

“Mama…,” she croaked, and drew back in alarm when her mother’s face disappeared. Now she was surrounded by monsters. Their giant hairy faces leered down at her. Their mouths sang an eerie chorus Mel couldn’t hear, but understood. The hospital room dissolved into a small cave and her crisp, white sheets were replaced by a scruffy fur blanket. She shrugged it off, screaming, before succumbing to the healing darkness once again.

Finally Mel awoke to voices. She felt a little better and her head no longer felt like it might explode. She looked over to the far side of the cave and saw Onio being tended to by the old sasquatch female. He looked pale and shaken. The old one, whose name was Rain, rubbed some sort of ointment on Onio’s back. Although their lips didn’t move, they were talking. Mel closed her eyes and listened.

“Onio, what he did was just,” she murmured.

“Just!” Onio snarled. “The test is designed to punish the worst criminals…murderers, and rapines! What I did was not even a crime! Why did he bring his grandson, who would be king, to his knees?”

Mel peeked at the two sasquatches through her eyelashes. She saw that Onio’s head was bowed and that his shoulders heaved with sobs. Rain stood some distance away and wiped her hands clean with a rag. She regarded her grandson with an eyebrow raised in equal parts exasperation and love.

She brought Onio a mug of something to drink and Mel’s throat ached with thirst. She watched as he set the mug down, staring at the floor in anger. Rain sat next to him on the shelf of rock that served as a bed.

“Onio, what you did was akin to murder. I know you know this, because I have taught you these things myself!” She placed a hand on the male’s thigh. “I will teach it again, Grandson,” she continued. “Maybe this time you will listen and truly understand.”

Rain slapped the young sasquatch sharply and stood up. Onio hunched his shoulders at the reprimand, glaring at his own toes.

“The small humans have small brains, Grandson. Also, their brains work differently than ours. We are intuitive, telepathic and sensitive to the ways of nature and the planet around us. They are none of these things, but they are creatures of intellect. Look at the marvelous machines they construct, the technology they have invented! In many ways their workings are like magic to us. Just as, I think, our ways are magical to them.” Rain sighed.

“That is why we hide from them, Onio. They are a covetous race, and would take from us, by any means necessary, that which they desire. For many generations the humans have tried to unlock the mysteries of our brains. They want to know how to use the soul song, and would steal it from us if they could. Many times they have tried…this you know, first-hand!”

Tears were dripping out of Onio’s eyes and falling to the floor. He murmured, “I am sorry, Grandmother. I wasn’t thinking properly.”

Mel saw the old female smile as she fussed with some things in a bag, then walked over to cook something on a fire set in the middle of the floor.

“Now, finally, First Son admits to not thinking before acting.” Although the sasquatches lips didn’t move, Mel could hear the sarcasm dripping from Rain’s voice, as the smell of meat cooking filled the air.

“Onio, listen and hear my words.” Rain’s voice was urgent. “There are as many reasons as birds in the sky why we do not co-mingle with the little humans. Most importantly, they will hunt us down and kill us for the gifts we possess. They would experiment on us and dissect our brains, and all for nothing! Even if they knew how to extract our abilities, their brains do not have the means, or the capacity, for soul song. It is called neural pathways…or some such. I have forgotten the exact words.” Now she glared at her grandson again. “We think that this little human will survive what you did to her, Onio.”

Mel slammed her eyes shut as she saw the big male glance her way. Guilt was written all over his face.

“You were lucky, I think, that this creature survived at all. Your gift opened pathways in her brain…neural connections most humans are not equipped to deal with, or understand. We believe that the only reason the girl hasn’t died is because her ear canals are damaged. Our gifts are sense, rather than thought, oriented. Hearing is a sense, so her brain was able to withstand the new impulses. She is very ill, though, and will be frail for a long while to come. She may not survive the change…someday her brain might break from the strain you yourself put on it!”

Mel saw Onio put his hands over his face and shudder. “Oh Grandmother,” he moaned. “Truly, I did not think to kill this little human…I did not think at all!”

Rain nodded, filled a wooden bowl with meat, and handed it to him. She glanced over at Mel and sat down next to Onio again.

“You are young yet, Onio, and perhaps foolish, but you will be a fine leader someday. To lead well, though, you must learn to listen to the world around you. Drak, your uncle, is also a fine man, but he suffers from jealousy. He never thought that you would be declared king after Bouldar is gone…not with the small human blood that flows in your veins. That he himself told you this only serves to prove that he hasn’t the wisdom to lead the tribe.”

She chuckled. “There is a thing the small humans call irony. It took me many, many years of study to understand this concept, but I find it ironic that the very thing Drak used to wound you with actually ensures your ascension to the seat of leadership.”

She stood again and moved around behind Onio to apply more salve to his wounded back. “My husband believes that the human soldiers are renewing their efforts to find us, and hunt us down. He believes that these soldiers want to use the soul song as some sort of weapon. They are a warrior species who will use even the most benign gift as a tool for destruction!” The old female apparently forgot to be gentle in her application of the medicine on his wounds. Onio winced with pain.

“He thinks that the tribe needs a leader who can both sympathize with and out-maneuver the humans who want to conquer us. The blood in your veins has made you smarter than the rest of us…especially Drak. You still possess the tribe’s gifts, like telepathy and camouflage, but your intellect will be the thing that can save the tribe from the small humans’ greed.” She gave her grandson’s shoulders a shake, not caring that he cried out in pain.

“That leader will be you, Grandson!” she shouted. “But only if this little human woman survives and you learn to think before you act!”

Rain’s voice was pensive when she spoke again. “Before Bouldar became my husband he was much like you; curious and compelled to seek out the small humans’ company, despite the risks.” She threw her arms up with a growl of rage.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Fantasy/Romance

Rating – PG13

More details about the author

Connect with Linell Jeppsen on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://neljeppsen.weebly.com/

PROMOTION: Now you can switch back and forth between reading the Kindle book and listening to the Audible audiobook. Add the professional narration of Sub-Human (Book 1) for a reduced price of $2.99 after you buy the Kindle book of Sub-Human. Listen to Sub-Human Chapter 3's sample here goo.gl/kdxS8i. Also, Post-Human (Book 2), Trans-Human (Book 3) and Human Plus(Book 4) are all $0.99 each for a LIMITED TIME as well!
And their audiobooks are coming soon!

Age Range: 12 years and up

The future should have been perfect. Microscopic robots known as nans could repair any damage to your body, keep you young by resetting your cellular clocks, and allow you to download upgrades like intelligence, muscle strength, and eyesight. You were supposed to be able to have anything you wanted with a simple thought, to be able to fly without the aid of a machine, to be able to live forever. But when a small group of five terraformers working on Venus return to Earth, they discover that every other human in the solar system has been gruesomely murdered. Now, James Keats and his four companions must discover what happened to the rest of humanity and fight back if they wish to avoid the same, horrifying fate. Welcome to the post-human era.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Science Fiction

Rating – PG

More details about the author

Connect with David Simpson on Facebook & Twitter

Chapter 6

NOT TWENTY MINUTES after leaving the motel, young Ruby fell asleep upon her bag in the back seat. As the BMW crossed the border into Colorado just before lunch, Ruby had still not awoken.

“When did you know?” Ray asked Duncan. He put down his book and looked over to the driver.

“Know what?”

“Did you just decide it one day or did you always think it?”

“This again?”

“Maybe it’s just a feeling,” Ray surmised. “Like people who think that everything happens for a reason. But you don’t think that, do you?”

“I think some things happen for a reason, sure,” Duncan said.

“Really?”

“Why would there be a word for fate if it didn’t exist?”

“There’s a word for unicorns, isn’t there?”

“I think there has to be some kind of plan,” Duncan said. “You can fall off the path or change direction, but you can’t run from who you are.”

“What’re you guys talking about?” a voice said from the back seat.

Ray curled his head around the over-sized headrest.

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Just something we started a long time ago.”

“Unicorns?”

“No. Not unicorns.”

“It sounds like you’re talking about unicorns.”

“Ray’s been trying to understand how I can believe in God,” Duncan said.

Duncan looked in the rear view mirror to see if he could catch Ruby’s reaction. He couldn’t even see the top of her head. Though awake, Ruby had slouched down even further and curled across the entire back seat. She rested her head on her bag and shut her eyes once more.

“Arguing whether there is or isn’t a God is like arguing whether or not a song is good,” she said. “You can never be right and you can never be wrong.”

“You believe in God?” Ray asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m assuming you don’t?”

“Not for a second.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The evidence against it is overwhelming.”

“So then what happens to you when you die?” Ruby asked.

“You die,” Ray said. “You’re dead. End. Over. Bye bye.”

“I think I believe in reincarnation,” Ruby said, her eyes still closed. “Haven’t you ever met someone that you feel you’ve met before, or that you know from somewhere else? And what about all those people that just seem so new?”

“Well, if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I’d come back as a cat,” Ray said.

“A cat?” Duncan said. “You hate cats.”

“For the same reasons I’d want to be one.”

“A cat?”

“A housecat, yeah. I’d lie around all day. Someone else would get my food, rub me down, and no one would give a shit if I ever paid any attention to them.”

“Pray on it,” Duncan said.

“Don’t you want to be in heaven?” Ruby asked. “Don’t you want to think that once you die you’ll get to be with the people you love? The people you’ve lost?”

“I think it sounds like a pretty crowded place,” Ray said. “And no, I don’t think I’d want to be anywhere where I had no purpose.”

Duncan shook his head.

“Can we stop?” Ruby asked.

“Yes, please,” Duncan said. “We’ve been talking about it forever and we never get anywhere.”

“No, can we stop. I’m a girl, small bladder.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Duncan answered. “I’m hungry, anyway.”

“Yeah, a cat.” Ray said. “That’s the life.” He nodded as he looked out the window at the grass whizzing by.

Duncan pulled off Interstate 70 at the outskirts of Grand Junction, Colorado. He screeched into a gas station and Ruby sprung from the car and scurried to the washroom. Ray got out to stretch his legs; Duncan began refueling.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Contemporary Fiction/Literary Fiction

Rating – R

More details about the author and the book

Connect with Brad Cotton on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.bradcotton.com/

*

The next day, after a sleepless night, Jez worried that he was about to be kicked out of the army – maybe after serving a prison term. His life’s dream had ended before it began. He wouldn’t mind, except ever since he’d arrived he’d steeled himself against Nikolas’s verbal abuse, constantly put up with being picked on, and obeyed orders like a toy soldier who’d been wound up and pointed. How could he have been so stupid as to react like that? The trainer was worn out and Jez knew it. He could have walked away, but no…

Now was the day after he’d broken the man’s arm and no one had mentioned it yet; but a new NCO had assembled the squad outside the hut and Jez was standing at attention in line with the others. He knew there was no way out of this one.

“Kornfeld, one step forward at the double,” the man shouted.

Shit, here it comes. He stepped from the line.

The NCO stared at him blankly and then grinned derisively. “Are you sure you’re the only Kornfeld?”

“As far as I know I am, Sergeant.”

He shook his head with a bemused expression. “Right, back into the ranks.”

Several weeks passed without incident, other than that his fascination for Anna grew out of all proportion. The military preparation had finished and he was ordered to return to Lubyanka. He’d got through the first stages, but his heart ached. For some stupid reason Anna had become as important to him as the army itself and he’d probably never see her again.

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.

Buy Now @ Amazon, B&N, Kobo & Waterstones

Genre - Thriller, Crime, Suspense

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Rik Stone on Facebook & Twitter

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

Pinned Up by C. Michelle

Amazon

**WARNING** Pinned Up contains explicit language and strong sexual content...reader discretion is advised.
I posed next to a 1947 Bentley Franay Mark VI Cabriolet. This masterpiece belongs to a billionaire tycoon who possesses a lavish compilation of elite cars…I’m wearing a satin form fitting, structured wiggle dress with black straps and belt that enriches my bust line. The pumps are red satin with a peep toe, a shiny black contrast heel, and a ruffle detail at the vamp. The cat eyeliner with exaggerated lashes and the red lipstick on my porcelain face make the forties inspired look reach perfection. My long brown hair has pin curls that slightly drape the left side of my face making the overall look Hollywood glamorous. I enjoy being a pin-up model…
Readers in search of something fresh in the adult contemporary romance department will celebrate the arrival of C. Michelle’s vibrant debut novel, Pinned Up. Full of snappy dialogue, edgy humor, and a lot of heart, this fun look into the world of a modern-day pin-up model is one hell of a journey. Are you ready to embark on a wild ride?
Twenty-five-year-old Nina Moretti lives a double life of sorts. She’s a victim advocate during the day and as a side gig, lives out her 1940s fetish as a pin-up model. This arrangement suits her well, as does never having a steady boyfriend. Trust is an issue that was ruined for Nina at a young age and has yet to be recovered. While she may not “do” serious relationships, she has found fulfillment in her work and hanging out with her best friend, Kade—the greatest sidekick any woman could possibly want. All is well in Nina’s hectic, but satisfying life…
That is, until she meets Josh, a stunningly handsome man who has a notorious reputation as a ladies’ man. Living in San Francisco, California, Nina has met her fair share of eligible bachelors. But there is something different about Josh, something that compels her to try and get to know him better. For his part, Josh has always been reluctant to commit to any woman, largely as a way to spite his well-meaning, but rather overbearing mother. Nina, however, sparks his interest in a way that no other woman has before. What are two people, both scared of commitment, supposed to do?
Readers will feel an array of emotions as Nina and Josh do the unthinkable—embark on a relationship together. As they navigate the pitfalls of romantic entanglement, both come to realize that their pasts are intertwined in ways that they could never imagine. Perhaps they have more in common than just their fear of relationships.
With events taking place during the 2012 World Series, Pinned Up represents the San Francisco party scene practically as a character unto itself, with C. Michelle’s spot-on depictions of San Francisco’s hopping nightlife transporting readers to the trendiest and most notorious sections of the city. A heartfelt novel depicting modern love with a refreshing twist, Pinned Up is a must-read.

Chapter 5: The Renegade Priest

Ryder stared at the sword enshrined in the glass case. The blue shimmer of its blade lit the room. Named Koldis, a single ruby crowned its hilt.

It was well past midnight. The halls of the library—famous throughout the Enchanted World and the purpose of the Order of the Idonnai’s existence—stood silent.

The young priest’s ragged breathing filled the room.

The first time Anton had brought him here as a seven-year-old boy, Ryder had wanted the sword. When he’d asked if he could have it, his mentor had boxed his ears and said, ‘Idonnic priests do not fight.’

It had been the first and last time he’d kicked Anton in the shin. His pious mentor hadn’t administered the whipping that had left three thin white lines across his back, but he’d watched until the young boy had stopped calling out for Garrick.

Ryder had been abandoned at the priesthood’s gates as an infant. Garrick, the baker who supplied the order with loaves of bread every morning before the sun rose, had been the one to find him. In the emotionally remote world of the priesthood, Garrick, and his wife, Shilda, were Ryder’s only source of affection.

Now, Anton was the head of the order. He’d never forbidden his protege’s visits to Garrick and Shilda’s home, but he’d made it clear he didn’t approve of Ryder’s fondness for them. He’d also contracted with another baker for his services, as soon as it had been in his power to do so.

Ryder tightened his grip around the large rock in his hand. He’d scoured Idonne’s rocky seashore for months searching for the perfect stone. The first rock he’d brought back to his austere quarters had had a single sharp plane. He’d traded it out with four more before he’d settled on the one he held tonight. One of the rock’s edges sharpened into a jagged point. For weeks, night after night, lying awake on his pallet, he’d practiced shifting it into the right position. He didn’t need to look down now to know the stone’s point was centered.

Garrick and Shilda would be disappointed with his decision to become a common thief. As far as he could see, that was the only flaw in his plan. But there was no way around it.

For twelve long years, Ryder, now nineteen, had been trained in the rigors of Idonnic research and documentation. Despite his lack of passion for the work, he had a talent. As Anton’s favorite, he’d been assigned to a closely guarded branch of Idonnic knowledge: The study of Umbra.

He’d read and reread every scrap of information the priests had collected about the mass of psychic ash accumulating in the Void. A product of mortal impotence, frustration, and failure, Umbra had formed a discrete identity and become self-aware over the eons. He intended to enter the realm of the material plane. He’d discovered a means to do so. He meant to destroy the Whole.

The priesthood was wrong to do nothing, and the Oath of Non-Interference Anton had tricked Ryder into taking a year ago—to the day—choked him. Vowing to chronicle and observe, never to act, violated every fiber of his being.

There was also the ill-defined thing the young priest could not name that called him. It radiated from deep within his heart, and of late, it left him sleepless most nights. As the summons grew more insistent, the need to leave Idonne dominated his thoughts. But he couldn’t leave without the sword.

He understood the consequences. If he took one step closer to the case, if he raised his left arm to shatter the glass with the rock, if he took the sword and fled Idonne, he’d be a fugitive throughout the Enchanted World for the rest of his life.

He looked around the room. There were no guards, no spells of enchanted protection. Only the library’s labyrinth of marble halls hid Koldis from the rest of the Enchanted World. The sword wasn’t safe. Rumors had already reached his ears. Sorcerers and witches from Kyrakkos sought the blade and its counterpart, the bejeweled basin Ormrun.

The magical sword and basin opened a portal in the veils between the worlds. Plunged into Ormrun, Koldis became the key to unlock the ancient door. Umbra could leave the Void and travel through the Parallel of Shadows. He could incarnate his consciousness into a vessel of his choosing.

Last week a war captain from Huros had dined with Anton. He’d asked about Koldis. His tone had been casual, but Ryder was convinced the pretense for the visit had been a charade. The captain sought the sword.

Ryder raised his left arm. No one who wanted Umbra’s power for themselves was going to get it.

He would sail to Faerie with Koldis.

Although there had been no sightings of Ormrun in more than a hundred years, there was no evidence the bowl had ever left the Realm of Faerie’s shores. The dwarves, Haff and Gweff, had forged the sword and the basin in the bowels of the Ruadain Mountains for the water elemental, Isolt. But Umbra had appropriated the basin’s power.

Ryder believed he could find Ormrun and take it, with Koldis, to the Grey Council on the Isle of Minnanon. The grey faeries who sat on the council were the only creatures in the Whole immune to the siren call of Umbra’s power. They were the ones to safeguard the sword and the basin.

Yes, his heart said, sailing to Faerie is the right thing to do.

He brought his arm down with all the force he could summon. A line appeared in the glass casing. The shield was stronger than it looked. He raised his arm and smashed the case a second time. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface, but the glass remained intact. The third time, he aimed the rock’s sharpest point at the web of cracks. When his hand crashed through the glass, he dropped the rock and grabbed the sword’s hilt.

He wrestled the blade through the jagged hole. A sharp edge sliced the back of his hand. He didn’t feel any pain, but he saw the dark line of blood. The blade was lighter than he’d imagined. He ripped a strip from the length of cloth he’d thought to bring to make a rough bandage for his hand and then wrapped the remainder around the blade. He shoved the whole thing into his belt.

He eased opened the door and slipped into the hall where a few oil lamps cast a dim light. Although his impulse was to run, he forced himself to walk and catch his breath. On occasion a zealous novice studied through the night. If there were any around, running would bring unwanted attention.

By the time Ryder reached the library’s exterior stairs, sweat gathered on his brow. He’d made no specific arrangements to cross Idonne, but if he walked towards the mountains—and Garrick and Shilda’s home—there would be traffic on the road when the sun rose. He looked down at the plain brown pants Shilda had patched the last time he’d visited. His work shirt and bare feet would help. Although Ryder—with his dark hair and muscular build—stood out among the tall, slim, fair-haired Idonnai, without his robes, he could pass as a foreigner traveling to Typhos.

*~*~*~*

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Fantasy

Rating – PG

More details about the author

Connect with Heidi Garrett on Facebook & Twitter

Blog http://www.heidigwrites.blogspot.com/