Blog Posts

Resurrection Girls by Ava Morgyn Blog Tour & Giveaway

10/7/2019

About the Book

Resurrection Girls
by Ava Morgyn
Genre: YA Magical Realism
Release date: October 1st 2019

Summary:

Olivia Foster hasn’t felt alive since her little brother drowned in the backyard pool three years ago. Then Kara Hallas moves in across the street with her mother and grandmother, and Olivia is immediately drawn to these three generations of women. Kara is particularly intoxicating, so much so that Olivia not only comes to accept Kara's morbid habit of writing to men on death row, she helps her do it. They sign their letters as the Resurrection Girls.

But as Kara’s friendship pulls Olivia out of the dark fog she’s been living in, Olivia realizes that a different kind of darkness taints the otherwise lively Hallas women—an impulse that is strange, magical, and possibly deadly.

Add to Goodreads

Advance Praise:

“Ava Morgyn's passion and tenderness shine like a candle, guiding readers through the darkness of Olivia's story. Her compelling characters are made all the more real by the eerie undertow of myth. A beautiful, deeply emotional debut!”
–Sarah Porter, author of VASSA IN THE NIGHT and NEVER-CONTENTED THINGS

"Resurrection Girls is a powerful examination of grief and loss, captivatingly woven with magic and ultimately hope. A compassionately rendered debut."
–Emily Duncan, NYT Bestselling author of WICKED SAINTS

"RESURRECTION GIRLS is a heartbreak of a book, where love and loss writes letters to the strange things that lurk in the darkness. It's a stunning story that blends the inexplicable and the beautiful with the bittersweet."
–Rin Chupeco, author of THE BONE WITCH and THE NEVER TILTING WORLD

"A raw, poignant, unflinching examination of grief and healing wrapped up in a compelling story. Resurrection Girls is a brilliant debut."
–CJ Redwine, NYT Bestselling author of THE SHADOW QUEEN and the RAVENSPIRE series

"The lovely, assured prose draws on ancient archetypes and a lingering sense of dread to pave the way for a strange but satisfying conclusion ... Morgyn’s supernaturally tinged debut is a heartbreaking but hopeful exploration of death and grief."
–Kirkus Reviews

Read an Excerpt

In the beginning, the dead are always with you. It’s almost as if they aren’t even gone, as though you could round any given corner and see them there, waiting. For months after Robby died, I heard his voice, his laughter catching in his throat, the sound of his footfalls down the long hall upstairs. I could feel his towheaded locks soft against the pads of my fingers still, and imagine his quiet breathing in the night. It was all there, floating around me, able to be summoned forward at any given moment. Like a balloon, I had Robby’s memory, his soul, on a string.

But that only lasts as long as the pain is fresh. You bleed memories for a while. And then one day you find you’ve bled them all out. And the sharp sting of loss has waned into a dull ache.

It’s the little things that go first. The way light would play across his face at a certain angle. The expression he made when he pouted. The smell of him in the morning. You go to summon some detail up from the depths and it’s no longer there. The dead drift away.

And then even the dull ache disappears, and only numbness holds in its place. You stop trying to recall details because the futility of it is worse than the grief. It’s no longer the loss of the person you mourn, but the loss of the haunt. And the absence is all that is left when you reach for your pain.

About the Author

Edward’s University in Austin, TX, and now lives in Houston—city with the most rain, best food, and worst traffic—with her family. When she isn’t at her laptop spinning darkly hypnotic tales, she can be found making fairy houses, talking to her crystals and plants, hunting for delicious new vegan recipes, or bothering her dog. She also blogs regularly about the devastating journey of child loss at ForLoveofEvelyn.com.

Author Links:
Website: https://www.avamorgyn.com/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16973182.Ava_Morgyn
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/avamorgyn
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/avawrites
Instagram: https://instagram.com/avamorgyn

Purchase links:
Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/Resurrection-Girls-Ava-Morgyn/dp/0807569429/ref=sr_1_2?crid=3CFK5VXKZUPBO&keywords=resurrection+girls+ava+morgyn&qid=1554000624&s=gateway&sprefix=resurrection+girls+ava%2Caps%2C189&sr=8-2-spell
Barnes & Noble:
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/resurrection-girls-ava-morgyn/1130797582?ean=9780807569429
Books-a-Million:
https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Resurrection-Girls/Ava-Morgyn/9780807569429?id=7538899766278
IndieBound: https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780807569429

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

1 Comment

Inside the Masque by R.T.W. Lipkin Sale Blitz

10/7/2019

0 Comments

photo Inside_the_Masque_Ebook_Cover__600pixel version_zpsqyh0zzru.jpg

Mystery + Science Fiction

Publisher: Eclipse Ink

Date Published: June 15, 2019

On Sale for $0.99

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

In a future where everyone wears a masque, anyone could be a killer. But a masque can’t keep you safe. Nothing can. Now it’s up to Chief Inspector McNair and his team to find that killer. They’ll uncover the secrets and lies that dwell inside every beautiful masque and stop at nothing until they find the truth—no matter how ugly it turns out to be.

Excerpt

Chapter 12

The later it got, the louder the squad room got. Well, it was a Saturday night. What else could you expect?

The officers on duty all wanted to be somewhere else. Many of them wanted to be someone else, at least for tonight. Someone who wouldn’t have to be working on a weekend night, someone who could wear any damn masque they wanted and not be limited to the meager selection that the agency afforded and that was mandatory, standard issue, part of the uniform.

McNair didn’t give a shit. The detective masque—he was wearing the No. 3 model today—fit him just fine, and he had no place else to be. Not tonight. Not any night. Not since his wife left him.

Good riddance. Off on her great life adventure with that damned legacy. Pretty stunning blow, that, but, yeah. Good fucking riddance. He had the whole apartment to himself now and more time to concentrate on his job, his one true passion.

She’d skewered that fact and driven the pike into his heart—and she’d been right.

Tonight he didn’t want to be in his office. The squad room was better. Not lonely. Alive. He liked it better out here anyway.

A group of officers were at the far corner of the room, having an arm-wrestling contest with all takers. The shouts and grunts and encouragements and disappointments and good-natured name calling filled the high-ceilinged chamber with their lusty sounds. Litz, McNair’s second-in-command—the man had biceps that could be mistaken for tree trunks—was probably winning every single round.

Behind the desk where McNair was sitting, Wieand, one of his most thorough officers, was asleep, snoring, his head on his desk, and his partner, Shey, had her feet up right beside his head and was reading off her scroll. She was the studious one of the pair.

McNair loved every single person in this room. More than he’d ever loved his ex-wife. She’d told him that once, maybe more than once, maybe more than that, and it was true.

So what? So what? He had loved her. It’s just that when you spent most of your waking hours with other people—people whose lives were at stake and who had to react to anything at any time and so did you and you all depended on one another—well, those were the people you loved. You couldn’t help yourself. You didn’t want to help yourself.

He hadn’t told her that. Why would he? He wouldn’t. But actually he hadn’t told her anything. He hadn’t had time to. Or the opportunity. Motive? Yes. More motive than necessary to order surveillance and some advanced close scrutiny, if it’d been a case. But means and opportunity? No. Not at all. Neither means nor opportunity. She’d left him a fucking note.

Good riddance. Good damn riddance. He was better off.

“Hey, Mac,” said Harata, shouting and waving to him from across the open squad room. McNair’s best friend, even before Harata had saved his life. Long before then. “Come have a go at it!”

McNair shook his head. He’d lose so fast he’d never live it down. Not a good idea for the chief inspector. Arm wrestling was hardly his forte, and Harata knew it, the bum. Litz, the sweat pouring from his forehead, was motioning to McNair to come over and take a beating. McNair laughed.

“What’s that?” said Shey.

McNair heard her voice through the cacophony of sounds in the room. He was attuned to the exact tone he was now hearing. He took his attention off the room, reached behind his left ear, and turned up the agency comm channel, listening in.

He felt the first pricks of tension at the base of his spine, where he felt everything. Where he still felt that note, which he’d pitched with the trash, yet he could see her handwriting in his mind as clearly as though he were still holding the note, as though it were being transmitted through a vid circ.

Shey had taken her feet off the desk and had her elbows on it now, leaning forward. Mac listened in. Wieand, Shey’s partner, who everyone in the squad room except Shey herself, the fool, knew was in love with her, was awake now. The man could sleep anywhere. McNair, who lately couldn’t sleep anywhere, envied him that.

“Sure,” Shey was saying. “Yes . . . They commed when . . . ? Oh, I see . . . Yes . . . How long ago? And . . . ? Yes . . . Okay . . . Yes. We’re on our way.”

She kicked Wieand, who stood up. “Ready, Chief,” he said, mocking her. The redheaded Shey was otherwise quite astute, but she never ever picked up on any of Wieand’s hints, many of them not very damned subtle. Anyone else would’ve either fallen in love or asked for a new partner by now. But not Shey.

“Homicide,” McNair said, standing up just as Wieand stood up.

Like all agency-issued masques, Shey’s had a forced neutral expression, but the waves emanating from her posture and attitude were tense, wary, and decidedly grim. McNair could read all his officers as though their masques were off, and he could recognize all of them from a distance without any help from an ID circ.

“Suspicious,” Shey said, being careful.

“I’m coming along.” McNair kicked closed the bottom drawer of his desk, where he’d been resting his feet. “Harata!”

Harata was already halfway across the room. When you work this closely with someone for this long, they don’t have to be told. They just know. You both just know. Harata had been listening in as well.

“Homicide,” Harata said. He lived on the extremes. Lived for them. But Mac thought it was homicide too.

“Suspicious,” Wieand said, siding with his partner. He’d been asleep and maybe hadn’t heard any of the conversation. He was looking at Shey with a gaze that said Come to me, my love but which she didn’t even notice.

“At the Nessard place,” Shey said, all business.

“That fabula producer?” Wieand said as he tore his gaze away from Shey, checked his sidearm, and buttoned the top button of his uniform shirt.

“Must be,” Shey said.

“I’m coming too,” said Litz, who’d given up arm wrestling, it seemed. He’d materialized at the desk where McNair had been camped out. Litz had probably heard everything. He had his hat on already.

“Sorry,” said McNair. “Something’s going on tonight. This might not be the only thing. You’ve gotta stay.” McNair would never issue an order exactly, but his word was law and no one questioned him. Litz was his second-in-command. He had to stay.

“Damn,” Litz said. He took off his hat and his curly hair sprang up comically. He rubbed at his left biceps, probably sore from all the arm wrestling. “Nessard’s,” Litz said. “Damn. I was looking forward to getting a decent snack out of this.”

“I’ll pack you a doggy bag,” Wieand said in his best deadpan as the foursome left the squad room and climbed the stairs to the rooftop landpad.

“Beautiful spring night,” Wieand said as he opened the door.

“For some,” Shey said.

About the Author

R. T. W. Lipkin lives in New York with her husband and three cats. Her genre-defying novels occur at the intersection of science fiction and fantasy, with mystery, romance, and adventure threaded throughout.

Contact Links

Website

Contact the Author

0 Comments

Betsy Blossom Brown by Kathleen M. Jacobs Book Blitz

10/5/2019

1 Comment

photo Betsy Blossom Brown_zpsxoisu1nk.jpg

Young Adult

Date Published: June 5, 2019

Publisher: Jan-Carol Publishing, Inc.

Betsy Blossom Brown is a coming-of-age story about a young girl who journeys from being an observer of life to a participant. Her seemingly idyllic life with her privileged South Carolina family is turned upside down, revealing truths and disarming pretensions. She's independent, opinionated, and brave. Uncertainty enters her life when she and her mother move to the Appalachian region until, through a series of unsettling events; she sheds her uncertainty and learns to embrace life. The graphite illustrations help to understand the depth of Betsy Blossom Brown, as she sketches her way through life recognizing her mild Asperger syndrome, without letting it curb her appetite for life.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Charleston, SC: 2007

Fourteen-year-old Betsy Blossom Brown sat on the saffron-colored, vinyl kitchen chair across from her mother, Lily. Lily’s opened palms buried her face, and Betsy’s elbows rested on the vintage, enameled, red and white kitchen table, the palms of her hands holding up each side of her chin. Betsy and her mother loved this vintage kitchen set. They loved anything vintage. But they loved this set in particular, because it was found on top of a heap of discarded furniture outside a dilapidated beach house on Sullivan’s Island. Betsy’s chestnut curls concealed her olive green eyes so that her mother would not be able to see every tear that fell from them. Betsy watched in a near hypnotic state as each teardrop seemed to disperse on the shiny, enameled tabletop. She secretly longed to go wherever they were headed—to a place where what she had just been told hadn’t yet arrived.

“But I don’t understand,” Betsy winced.

“I know, Sugar, it’s difficult. I don’t even understand it, but it is the truth. And ever since the day you entered my life, I made a promise to always tell you the truth, no matter what. Your father thought different. He believed a lie was okay if it meant that you avoided hurting someone. And while that may have a bit of merit, especially with the truth I just shared with you, it’s just not the way I see it. And in this moment, I would certainly love to be able to keep this truth under lock and key forever, but sooner or later, you would find out. And then you’d wonder why I hadn’t been the one to tell you what happened to your father.”

“But why? Why did he do it? I need to know why. I need to know the reason. It’s a quirk I’ve had ever since I was born, Mom. You know that. I always need to know why.” Betsy continued to snap at the placket of her front, periwinkle-colored, linen shirt. She loved this shirt most because it had been her mother’s when she was in college. It was a bit oversized, so Betsy sometimes belted it with her wide, brown, leather belt. Finding plackets and seams on pockets and collars was something Betsy had done since she was a small child. She seemed to look for them without even thinking, and yet, she was thinking of nothing else.

“I don’t know why, Betsy. He didn’t have a reason. All he said when I saw him was, ‘Lily, dear Lily, I’m sorry. Please tell Betsy that I’m sorry.’”

I turned each side of my hair behind my ears, wiped at my eyes, and looked to Mr. Peabody and Steve as they raced furiously around their cage, stopping briefly to hop on the plastic, multi-colored toy ferris wheel, and tumbled to the tiny pieces of torn comic strips from the newspaper and fleece bedding that lined the floor of their cage. I had begged my mother for pet rats for months before she surprised me with a trip to MacGruder’s Pets on Sullivan’s Island. My father was out of town at a business meeting (or so, at the time, we thought), and that always presented a prime opportunity for us to charge ahead with plans that he might not have approved. He pretty well knew that whenever he went out of town, my mother and I would retaliate by doing or buying something that hadn’t been mutually agreed upon. We thought it was funny; he didn’t.

Betsy Blossom Brown walked over to her mother, wrapped both arms around her neck, and picked up the morning paper that her mother had brought for her to read. The front page made her dizzy, like the time she rode the “Round Up” at the carnival. She took the newspaper with her to her room and chose the rigidity of her desk chair to read what she already knew.

LOCAL BUSINESSMAN WILLIAM BROWN

CHARGED WITH EMBEZZLEMENT OF

CLIENT FUNDS

William D. Brown of Charleston was charged on Friday with embezzlement of client funds from his management firm, Brown & Associates. According to a report released from the FBI and in conjunction with an SEC investigation, which had been conducting their own investigation into mismanagement of funds at the firm and client allegations of fraud from a number of Brown’s clients, evidence shows that Brown had been embezzling vast amounts of money from his individual client accounts since he joined the firm in 1994. Brown allegedly skimmed in excess of three million dollars over the past five years. The majority of Brown’s clients are retired, live out of state, and have trusted him since he joined his father, the late Joseph Brown, at the firm in 1994, the same year the elder Brown died from a fall while vacationing in the Caribbean after tripping on a sidewalk as he returned to the vacation home he and his wife owned, hitting his head on the concrete pavement and suffering massive bleeding before going into a coma. The senior Brown opened the respected firm in 1969. At the time of his death, the managed assets of Brown & Associates were listed by the SEC at over one billion dollars.

The South Carolina State Police worked with FBI agents and SEC officials in locating Brown on Friday morning after his wife, Lily Park Brown, the only daughter of the late Senator Tommy Park, reported her husband missing. After numerous reports of Brown’s physical location, the authorities were led to the lighthouse on Sullivan’s Island, where Brown was sitting in a gray flannel suit, starched white shirt, and a perfectly-knotted silk tie, surrounded by an incoming tide that saturated the pillowcases filled with bundled money that encircled him. One FBI official noticed a revolver in Brown’s hand, and as he raised it and pointed it to his temple, the trained police German shepherd leapt through the air and seized the weapon, and Brown fell forward.

Attempts to contact Brown’s wife or any of the officials involved with the incident and apprehension have been futile.

Betsy reached inside her desk drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. She cut out the newspaper article about her father, opened the finches’ birdcage, and slid the newspaper at the bottom, and then she waited until “Scout” and “Jem” and “Boo” and “Atticus” crapped all over the newsprint. The birds broke into their sweet singsong, and Betsy was overcome with anger. She wasn’t sure, though, whether she was angry with her father, with herself for carpeting the finches’ birdcage with the morning news, or with the finches for sounding so happy, when she felt anything but, as they flew with seeming madness from perch to perch.

About the Author

Kathleen M. Jacobs is the author of books for young readers. Her first YA-novel, Honeysuckle Holiday, has received critical acclaim. And her children’s book, Please Close It! has won numerous awards. She divides her time between New York City and the Appalachian region. She lives with her husband, John, and far too many books. Visit her website at www.kathleenmjacobs.com and on Instagram @kathleenm.jacobs.

Contact Links

Website

Blog

Goodreads

Instagram

Purchase Links

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Other

1 Comment

Violently in Piece by K.V. Rose Cover Reveal

10/4/2019

0 Comments

photo Violently in Pieces_zpsyfxtptsl.jpg

(The Act, Book 1)

New Adult Dark Romance

Date Published: November 12, 2019

Cash Adair

Astrid Eaves

give me nightmares.

keep me numb.

He was raised by darkness and light so polarizing it shattered him.

She always saw things she shouldn’t.

He never looked away.

She ran, every time.

An artist who dances in blood.

A performer who lives for the breaking.

Together, they’re danger.

Apart, they’re madness.

Which is worse?

We’ll see.

About the Author

K is an author of dark romance living in Toronto. She enjoys iced coffee, villains, and everything in black. To follow K and her adventures in dark delights, head to instagram.com/authorkvrose or find her on Facebook at facebook.com/authorkvrose.

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Goodreads

Instagram

Purchase Link

Amazon

a Rafflecopter giveaway

0 Comments

Everything Girl by Emily Mayer Blog Tour

10/3/2019

0 Comments

About the Book

Everything Girl
by Emily Mayer
Genre: Adult Romance
Release date: May 11th 2019

Summary:

Evelyn Mercer has always had a plan. She lives and breathes the plan. The plan and coffee.
Go to law school. Check.
Make Law Review. Check.
Get competitive internship. Check.
Land dream job. Double Check.

That dream job? Yeah, it’s a nightmare, and Evelyn is miserable with a capital M. When she reaches her misery threshold, Evelyn does the unthinkable and deviates from her plan.

Her unexpected new job takes her to Pinehaven Ranch in the middle of nowhere Montana where Evelyn is faced with her biggest obstacle yet. No coffee shops within a 30-mile radius and her new boss’ brother, former rodeo champion Jack Danvers. The three words that best describe Jack are stink, stank, stunning. He is perfection and he inexplicably seems to hate her on sight. But if there is one thing life has taught her, it’s that she still has a lot to learn and Montana is full of surprises.

Add to Goodreads

Read an Excerpt

"And then. And then. In a moment that would probably haunt me for the rest of my life, I asked the question that was tumbling around inside my head, the one from moments earlier in the kitchen.

"Do chickens lay eggs? I mean, obviously I know where eggs come from, even though we don't have a lot of chickens in the city." I laughed uncomfortably before I plowed on, fully committed now. "Although, I read somewhere that urban farming is getting really popular now since people are all of a sudden so concerned about where their food comes from. Plus, you know, organic is like an entire movement now. And chickens are the obvious choice. I mean for urban farming. Because they don’t require a lot of space, and people living in cities don't really have big backyards, or any backyards at all. So anyway, I know roosters are boys and nature's alarm clock”—I gave an awkward chuckle—“but is a hen different than a chicken?"

His eyes widened briefly, as if trying to fully absorb all the crazy I had just hurled his way without warning. Then he blinked slowly—once, twice, a third time. Every blink sent a fresh wave of shame crashing over me."

About the Author

Emily Mayer is a best-selling author and a book lover with a capital L. When she isn't writing, you can usually find her in the kitchen burning dinner with a book in her hand or tucked away in one of her favorite reading spots promising "just five more minutes." In addition to books, Emily is addicted to coffee, dogs, and cat videos. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and dog, both of whom are very good boys.

Author Links:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Emily-Mayer-Author-445779269301148/
Website: http://www.emilymayerbooks.com/

0 Comments

The Meaning of Life by Robert Scollo Book Blitz

10/3/2019

0 Comments

photo The Meaning of Life_zpshcnzjlgl.jpg

Fiction, Suspense

Publisher: Xlibris

While change is in progress in James' life, terrorists give just 48 hours to agree to their demands. Is it too late to stop them?

The Shaw family have experienced insurmountable tragedy in their lives culminating in the sons’ mother wasting away from cancer and the father committing suicide because he can’t bear life without her. Whilst the son James is undergoing counselling, he too is confronted by another death which leads him to examine the meaning of life, and in total despair, he attempts to take his own. Whilst building the courage to do so, he is visited by an entity who encourages him to help save the world, which is rapidly destroying itself though pollution, climate change, over-population, and war.

The boy agrees, and progressively encourages the world leaders to participate in this change, sometimes by force, but not before he has to thwart terrorists who attempt to disrupt the inaugural conference of the world leaders, and then threaten the United States with nuclear warheads they have stolen from a Russian facility, giving them 48 hours to agree to their demands. The chase is on as the FBI attempt to locate these terrorists before the warheads are detonated. They travel half the globe to find them, but is it too late?

Excerpt

There is a hint of anger in the Russian president’s face, although James can’t read his

mind.

‘I don’t care whether you want to help or not. I don’t give a shit, but I’ll give you

three possibilities on how this will go down. I can make you a puppet so that you

appear a fool in front of everyone. I kill you now and encourage your replacement to help, or you do this willingly. Which is your pleasure?’

‘I’m not going to be made a fool of, and I’m not going to help you.’

‘Fine!’

The president opens the right-hand top drawer of his desk, finds nothing, and opens

the drawer below. He reaches inside, pulls out a PSM pistol, and holds it to his head. The president’s eyes widen. He can feel his index finger beginning to press the trigger.

‘Wait, stop,’ pleads the president.

James let the president rest the gun on his desk.

‘OK, I promise I will help you.’

‘I am completely baffled as to why you are totally against helping change the

world for the good of mankind. I understand that the majority of your people love and worship you, but everyone else hates your guts. Others think you’re an arrogant tyrant, a liar, and a lowlife. Wouldn’t you rather be remembered as the greatest saviour of the world? A leader with the foresight and the passion to help his fellow man? I don’t care whether you take credit for the contribution you will make in helping the world but as long as you do it for the right reasons and not take advantage or manipulate those who are vulnerable and are trying to help.’

‘Yes, I understand what you are saying.’

‘I hope I can believe you because we will have no further discussions. If you lie

to me again, I will not give you another chance to plead for forgiveness. You will cease to be. You may consider this a threat, but I call it giving advice. Agree willingly, contribute positively, participate completely, and help change the world, and humankind will live a long and peaceful life, including your family, for generations to come.’

‘I still don’t understand why you are doing this. What’s in it for you?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all. I’m not in this for fame or gratitude, and I don’t want to

be mentioned outside the group. I’ve had a happy life, but I’ve also experienced great sorrow, so much sorrow that I wanted to end my life. The majority of the people on this planet know nothing but sorrow and hardship until they die. On the other hand, very few of them enjoy wealth and power and sometimes greed to the detriment of the poor and the environment. But no more. I want those people like you, with wealth and power, to contribute and help everyone and everything on this planet for its long-term survival and happiness. You may think that I’m a fool, but I know what’s coming even though you don’t believe it. The destruction of this planet will not come in our lifetime, but it’s not that far away. In two, three, or maybe four generations, we will have contributed to our own destruction to the point where change will not make a difference. We need to start changing now before it’s too late.’

About the Author

photo The Meaning of Life Author Robert Scollo_zps96ycsjbv.jpg

Robert Scollo lives in Melbourne, Australia, and has just turned sixty. The Meaning of Life is this first book, and he hopes that it inspires people to help one another.

The author says, "Frustration. We are constantly frustrated when we hear how badly we treat one another. We whine and complain. We turn our backs when people ask for help, or we ignore famine and prosecution, or we abuse the environment and leave it barren and toxic, or we slaughter animals to extinction, but no one does anything about it because we’re a single voice in the wilderness. Apart from one impossible thing occurring in this novel, everything else is achievable. We just need enough of the right people to listen."

Robert hopes that more people than not will enjoy the book, and if they do, the main character James will return in a second novel.

Contact Links

Website

Promo Link

Purchase Links

Amazon

B&N

Kobo

iBooks

IndieBound

0 Comments

A Scattering of Leaves by Patricia Reynolds Blog Tour

10/3/2019

0 Comments

About the Book

A Scattering of Leaves (Keeper of the Souls #2)
by Patricia Reynolds
Genre: YA Historical Fantasy
Release Date: August 27th 2019
Old Crow Publishing

Summary:

Following his Vision Quest in A Scattering of Crows, Hidden Spirit continues the journey after an unsettling vision of his sister, Chasing Rabbit, in danger. He races against the clock to find the boarding school where Preacher Jim continues to indoctrinate the Sioux children. He fears he will be too late and wonders about the fate of his beloved, Morning Star.

Surviving insurmountable odds, Hidden Spirit rises to the harrowing challenge. Quelling his anger, his inner warrior and magical powers begin to surface and develop in ways he never thought possible. Along the way, he meets some unsuspecting friends and allies that help forge this epic journey.

Add to Goodreads

A Scattering of Crows (Keeper of the Souls #1) on Goodreads

About the Author

Patricia Reynolds lives in Washington State with her partner of many years, along with their adopted family of dogs and cats. She has a passion for nature and the environment, and a soft spot for animals of all kinds. Patricia's primary goal in writing this book was to lend a voice to the forgotten. Her young adult fantasy series: Keeper of the Souls, is based on actual events.

Author Links:
Website: http://keeperofthesouls.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/KeeperOTSouls
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/patriciareynoldsauthor/
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/keeper-of-the-souls-1724462124516853/

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

0 Comments

Scott Free by Nkosi Ife Bandele Blog Tour & Giveaway

10/3/2019

1 Comment

Literary Fiction

Date Published: June 2019

Publisher: Crimson Cloak Publishing

Scott Free chronicles the life of a near thirty New York City filmmaker, ironically stuck working the concession stand at an upscale movie theater,, trying to negotiate his dead end relationships, too. He hops a “Greyhound $99 Special” en route to Hollywood, but in failing to reach the stars he lands on his knees, down and out in the San Francisco cleaning toilets and realizing that his life West resembles his life East as there’s really no escaping oneself.

About the Author

Nkosi Ife Bandele writes for periodicals, stage, TV, and film. His three novels, The Ape is Dead! (2016), The Beast (2017), and Scott Free (2019), are all published by Crimson Cloak Publishing. His outrageous short fiction, including Fuckity Fuck Fuck Fuck, Fuckity Fuck Fuck Fuck Part 2: Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit, and Itty Bitty Titty Committee, appear in Akashic Books’ Terrrible Twosdays series.

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Promo Blitz

Purchase Links

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Kobo

iBooks

IndieBound

a Rafflecopter giveaway

1 Comment

Coinage of Commitment by Robert Costelloe Book Blitz

10/2/2019

0 Comments

photo Coinage of Commitment_zpsvzzisxcn.jpg

One-of-a-Kind Romance

Publisher: Author

This is a different kind of love story. It features characters determined to find romance that's better than the relationships they see all around them. Something richer, something higher, something longer lasting—something worth holding out for.

Wayne and Nancy meet in the late 1960s and recognize these special qualities in each other. Their attraction is irresistible. But they have class, political, and religious differences between them, plus they face opposition from both families. But these challenges are small compared to a twist of fate that will be the cruelest test of all.

Coinage of Commitment tests the limits of love's boundaries, its capacity for sacrifice, and the height it is capable of soaring to.

photo Coinage of Commitment on ipad iphone and print_zpsrewgmfzb.jpg

Excerpt

Excerpt for Coinage of Commitment

Setup: Late Friday night, 1968, at Philadelphia’s 30th St. Subway Station. Wayne is looking from the trolley station, where he stands, to the adjacent subway train (El) platform.

As he watched absently, the girl from Sullivan’s came down the El station steps opposite him. She paused at the foot of the stairs, getting her bearings. Although adequate lighting bathed the platform, most riders took stock of others in the vicinity for safety’s sake. It was a natural precaution, instinctive for most, and especially important this late at night. She saw him, signaled recognition by a parting of her lips that was not quite a smile, then she lowered her gaze, turned, and strolled slowly out of sight to the other side of the stairway.

Seeing her again pricked him with an off-kilter joy, uplifting and refreshing, partly because she recognized and acknowledged him, but also because she seemed so buoyantly out of place down here, her bright beauty undefeated by the dank-smelling gloom of the subway. He smiled, turned away, and sauntered to the south side of the trolley platform. The minutes dragged, but no trolley car arrived. He began mentally composing a theme paper for his International Politics course, the only non-technical one he had that semester. Ideas came to him, prancing, and he thought of getting a notebook from his bag.

“Police! Help! Help me!” A woman’s screaming and it came from the El platform.

Thinking frantically of the girl, he ran to the north edge of the platform and jumped the foot or so that got him down onto the trolley tracks. A steel grate fence separated the two transit systems, but it had seen better days. A section was ajar, just ten feet to his left, and he swung it open enough to squeeze through.

Now things got difficult. The El platform was too high and far to jump to. The train tracks gleamed below him, the electrified rail closest, then the two steel tracks. He saw only one way to get there and didn’t slow down to analyze the risk. He threw his bag onto the opposite platform, then leaped forward, over the electrified rail, and down into the square trench that ran a foot and a half below and between the steel tracks. The platform loomed just above him, and the smell of ozone was stronger this close to the electrified rail—the one he must not fall back against. With his momentum still carrying forward from the jump, he kept moving, aware his footing and balance must be perfect. He reached up and grabbed the El platform edge, stepped up on the rail before him, then used his grip on the edge to lever himself up and onto the platform, landing on his right shoulder and side. Feeling no pain, he got to his feet and sprinted west down the platform toward the woman’s screams.

As he ran, he recalled what he had seen: the girl from Sullivan’s, a nondescript man, and three black youths: teens with their heads wrapped in dark bandannas, signifying…he knew not what. They were what fueled his urgency. Where was she? The commotion was still ahead of him.

He ran at top speed past the central vending area and spotted figures near the far steps. He could see her blond mane, somewhat disheveled now, and she stood with her arm across a shorter girl’s shoulder. The nondescript man ran up and joined them.

“He took my purse,” the other girl wailed. “I can’t believe I was so careless to let him get my purse that easily.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the blond girl said, her arm still across the smaller girl’s shoulder in comfort.

“All my ID. A credit card. And I just got my paycheck cashed today. How stupid can you get?”

Another woman came down the steps and joined the group. As Wayne approached and slowed, a balding, thirtyish-looking man passed him from behind, joined the scene, said he had heard the commotion from above, and that a companion had gone to the toll booths to get help. Then two of the black youths he had seen earlier ran up from the west.

“He high-tailed it onto the tracks,” said the shorter of the youths. “He’s got choice of Thirty-third Street trolley or Thirty-fourth Street El station, so it looks like we kiss that one good-bye. You know what I’m saying? The Fuzz’l never collar that dude now.”

As though on cue, a police officer, complete with German Shepherd, came down the steps and assumed authority. The third black youth also joined the crowd. Wayne held back, not seeing what he could contribute by his late arrival. The blond girl had seen his running approach. Or had she? Her gaze had flicked briefly in his direction, then back to her charge. The tension eased with collective relief, and the officer started questioning the stricken girl, unpacking a notebook as he spoke.

Wayne thought of how the blond girl continued to be too distracted to notice him, and he felt bemused by the irony of his situation. He had arrived about 7.2 seconds too late to be of any use, even to the wrong damsel in distress. His breathing slowed. Still not seeing anything he could contribute, he turned and walked slowly in the direction he had come. He needed to retrieve his bag from where he had tossed it onto the platform. When he got there, he picked up the bag and looked out over the gleaming tracks toward the trolley station. No way, he thought, realizing with a shiver the danger he had risked. The price of another transit token wasn’t nearly worth the peril. And then, as though to underscore the irony, his trolley arrived and then quickly departed. Oh well, might as well climb the stairs to the mid-level pay booths so he could get back down to the trolley station. He took his sweet time since he probably had at least a twenty-minute wait. He approached the corner of the stairway, trying to remember whether the trolleys discontinued service during the wee hours. Suddenly the blond girl stood in front of him, her eyes wide, her expression anxious.

“It just dawned on me,” she said. “How did you get over here?”

About the Author

photo Coinage of Commitment Author Robert Costelloe_zpslzyewhcr.jpg

Robert Costelloe wrote fiction as a youngster, and completed his first novel a few years after college. But then the demands of family and career intervened, and his writing was mostly business or technical. But in 2005, he read an Anita Shreve love story whose ending was so abruptly despairing that he felt outrage on behalf of so many abused readers. The result was two books, Coinage of Commitment, which became a National Indie Excellence Book Award finalist, and Pocket Piece Cameo, both published by Saga Books. Again he went off into nonfiction pursuits, but in 2012, he elected to rewrite both titles for the simple reason that he could make them better stories for his readers. Both titles have been republished digitally as second edition stories, and both are available as ebooks.

Rob and his wife live near Houston, Texas.

Contact Links

Website

Twitter

Facebook

Promo Link

Purchase Links

Amazon

B&N

Kobo

iBooks

Smashwords

0 Comments

Annabel Horton and The Black Witch of Pau by Olivia Hardy Ray Release Blitz & Giveaway

10/1/2019

2 Comments

Fantasy

Release Date: Oct. 1, 2019

Publisher: Chattercreek

Annabel’s husband, who has been missing for years, is finally discovered among the bowels of White Chapel England during the horror of Jack the Ripper. His discovery brings Annabel and her family to the turn of nineteenth-century England hoping to rescue Michele from the Black Witch’s cage. What they discover is that the Black Witch has been forced into an insidious pact with the devil and the devil, with malicious intent, is luring them all into a web of death. Can they escape his grasp?

Excerpt

Whitechapel, London

1888

Geneviève Têtu, the Black Witch of Pau

The moon floated past my window like a round, celestial ship; it seemed detached from the sky as it beckoned me, this segregated, white, globular light. Clouds that looked like smoke nearly covered it, but it was still bright and full. I stood in the shadow it threw across my floor and whispered the incantations of conquest as I stared at it. Only when the moon is full could I do this. It kept me potent, this incantation. I have been whispering it many years, mostly for others, but tonight, it was for me.

Urbain has beckoned me, the great and most obnoxious Urbain. I was surprised to be his chosen one, but then again, I am the most wanting. He has given me a command and I must obey if I know what’s good for me. But I must admit, this command he has given me fills me with excitement, this command from the devil’s disciple is most miraculous. I was titillated and beyond containment though I must also admit to feelings of weariness and discontent.

I reached for the windowsill and held fast to steady my nerves. For all the miracles I could manifest, there is still magic I cannot perform. The great Urbain was a far greater witch than me, but what would I owe him for doing his bidding?

I turned from the window to stare at the massive man clothed in a Catholic priest’s robe. What a joke that is! His cross was the color of blackberry jam and marred by scratches, and the starched white collar around his neck was so stiff I wondered if it irritated him. I closed my eyes and mumbled a prayer of gratitude.

“What are you mumbling about?” he asked.

The irritation in his voice surprised me. I am a witch. I do a lot of mumbling—incantations, curses, and dark prayers. I wanted to tell him that, but I held my tongue and met his eyes. I was impressed he had been patient, but I had become leery. But it is my nature to be leery.

“I was calling upon my goddess,” I said.

“You have no need of goddesses. You have only need of me. Will you honor my command, or do I have to strike you down?”

“No need for violence, Urbain.”

“You say that Annabel has come to your window. How do you know this? How do you know the face of Annabel?”

“I don’t, but the old man called her by name and she was beautiful, so I surmised it. You told me that the old man was her husband, Michele Guyon.”

“Yes, but all the time travel he does has made him a blithering idiot.”

“So you said, and now he is in my dungeon as you commanded.”

“Yes, good move. Well, I imagine Annabel might have come to your window, though she certainly knows not whose window she stood before. I’m sure she thinks, from the bowels of her limited brain, that it is her love of music that beckoned her to you. I did not really think she would obey me, but I am pleased to see that I have power over her still.”

“I’m sure your power is greater than hers. She must be putty in your hands.” I kept my sarcasm buried behind my veiled smile.

“Of course, she is,” he said. “I wanted you to rest your eyes upon her and fall in love with her great beauty. But I had no idea she succumbed to my will.”

“How did you trick her then?” I asked. “How did you get the old man to my window?”

I had heard that the great Urbain was no match for Annabel Horton, but I would never tell him that. Annabel had the power of several of her wretched family members, quite competent witches, to ward off any threats from Urbain. Together, they could probably crush him the way Annabel’s magic had crushed our daughter, Jeanne Elemont, beneath the cross.

He looked away for a moment, but I saw the twitch in his cheek. He needed me for revenge. How cunning he was. Whose need for beauty was greater than mine?

“As I have always tricked her,” he said. “But that is not important. I wanted you to see what possibilities there are. Your doubt and hesitation surprise me.”

“I do not doubt you. I am merely thanking the Goddess Hecate for the magic you bring me. I am . . . how do you say it . . . Joie. I am with delight, Urbain.”

“I bring you no magic. It is power, the power of evil intent. I wish to destroy Annabel Horton, the way she destroyed our daughter, Jeanne.”

“Why choose me?” I asked, though I knew the answer. “There are so many you might have called upon.”

He shrugged. “And why shouldn’t I choose you? You have the most to gain.” He laughed wickedly, as if he were crushing a small dog under the weight of his hand.

“I am about to give you a great gift, Geneviève. You will be beautiful once again, the way you were when we first made love under the light of the moon,” he said, standing in the shadow by my parlor window. “Do you remember?”

I nodded, though it was a memory I would have preferred to keep buried. He called it making love; I called it something else, violence against me, perhaps.

As he walked out of the darkness and took my face in his hand, I could see his blue eyes, shining like two icicles hanging from a rotting roof in the starlit night sky.

“What greater power is there than beauty?” he said.

“I am to be a pawn in your revenge,” I whispered.

His great height overwhelmed me as he released my face. I could still feel his touch, like heat from the sun.

“I can take my exit,” he said, “and leave you to your misfortune for all eternity.”

I knew instinctively I should have let him go, but his offer was too prodigious. “No!”

He smiled again, benevolently. The cross he wore hung low, nearly to his stomach. His priest robes dusted the floor like drapes, falling in gracious folds. One could easily trust him, and how foolish that would be.

“I will do your bidding and take the risk,” I said, “for there must be risk.”

“There is, but if I succeed, it will be worth it.”

“I will need a powerful, cogent potion to bring Annabel to me. But of course, I will do it. Annabel Horton will come to me of her own free will, and I will have her eating out of my hand.” I showed him my imperfect teeth, and he returned a smile. His smirk was like a long road into hell. And if I defied him, that’s exactly where he would banish me.

He handed me a music box. “Your bait. Sometimes potions are not enough.”

I took the box and stared at it. “What is this? A box?”

“I have sent her music boxes over the years. She thinks they’re from her husband. Women can be such docile fools when in love. She’ll know you have her precious Michele if you give her this.”

“Fine, where is she?”

“She lives in Brooklyn.”

“Where’s that?”

“It is in America.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “I cannot go there,” I said. “How in the Devil’s name will I get to America?”

“In the Devil’s name? Ha! You are funny.

“But I cannot go to her. I cannot cross time.” I began to panic. “I’ll need someone else to give her the potion and your . . . uh . . . box.”

“Well, then send that fool of a priest,” he said. “He can go anywhere. She will follow him. Imprison her immediately or she will get away. Then summon me at the Church of the Holy Ghost at Nightingale Square. We will take her to Julian’s church for the exorcism, and I will be forever in your debt, Geneviève.”

“And I in yours,” I whispered. I faced him on my settee, staring stoically. “What if she does not come?” My fear of him was far more obvious than I wished it to be. “Why should she go where Julian tells her to go?”

He let out a deep bellowing sound that hurt my sensitive ears. “She will think he comes with God’s intent. She trusts him.”

“I see.”

“Would you prefer to live as you are with the face of an ass? A chimpanzee? Or would you prefer to have men falling at your feet as they used to?”

I had no answer. It was obvious I ached to be beautiful, as any ugly woman would.

“I thought as much,” he said. “We can accomplish anything if we want it badly enough.”

And with one brief, perturbing glance over his shoulder, he was gone, leaving me to the impossible task of ensnaring a witch that could crush my soul. I stared at the dust he left behind and a shiver ran through my bones.

I was to trick the notorious Annabel Horton. For that I would need more than the fingernails of a beggar for my brew.

About the Author

Olivia Hardy Ray is the pen name for Vera Jane Cook. The Author has published Three fantasy novels as Olivia Hardy Ray and five women’s fiction titles as Vera Jane Cook. The Author is writing a sequel to Pharaoh’s Star called Fox Hollow Road. The author’s women fiction title, Kismet, is due out this winter.

Contact Links

Twitter

Facebook

Blog

Goodreads

Additional

Purchase Links
Amazon
B&N
Kobo

a Rafflecopter giveaway

2 Comments