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Fantasy / Paranormal

Date Published: March 11, 2015

Publisher: Chattercreek

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From the Salem Witch trials through the Nineteenth Century and beyond, the devilâ€™s disciple pursues young and innocent Annabel Horton. During the Incident at Loudun in 1633 Urban Grandierâ€™s soul was taken by the devil in a furious confrontation between good and evil. The once pious priest becomes the demonic priest. His curse is on Annabel for forsaking him to Lucifer and he pursues her through time as she taunts his beliefs and he reviles hers. As Annabel flees the devilâ€™s fire she must take the bodies of those that the devil favors to protect her family. She must uncover the motive behind the illusive Ursula/Louis Boussidan, the scandalous cross-dresser who is pursuing her beautiful granddaughter, and she must learn, being one of Godâ€™s most powerful witches, how to use her power. But will it be enough to save her husband from Urbainâ€™s fiery inferno? Will it be enough to save her children from demons greater than themselves?

About the Author

The first novel I ever wrote, Dancing Backward In Paradise, won an Eric Hoffer Award for publishing excellence and an Indie Excellence Award for notable new fiction, 2007. The Story of Sassy Sweetwater and Dancing Backward in Paradise received a 5 Star ForeWord Clarion Review and The Story of Sassy Sweetwater has been named a finalist for the ForeWord Book of the Year Awards. I have published in ESL Magazine, Christopher Street Magazine and I have also written early childhood curriculum for Weekly Reader and McGraw Hill.

The pen name for my fantasy and paranormal novels is Olivia Hardy Ray. There are two other books in the Annabel series, Annabel Horton and the Black Witch of Pau and Annabel Horton and the Demon of Loudun. Black Witch is book 2 in the series and should be published this year. Also penned by Olivia is my novel Pharaohâ€™s Star and my soon to be released, Pindar Corners.

Aside from Southern fiction and fantasy/paranormal fiction I write womenâ€™s fiction with two titles to be published in 2019 and my presently published Lies a River Deep.

As for pleasure I love wine, chocolate, dogs, cats and other creatures of the jungle. I also love to travel, read, write, watch films and go to theater. I value friendship, history, my enormously loving family and quiet times under a summer sun.

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Bed, Breakfast, & Beyond by JoAnn S. Dawson Book Blitz

4/18/2019

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Memoir, Travel

Publisher: BookBaby

In September of 1998, Ted and JoAnn Dawson purchased a horse farm in rural Maryland to fulfill their lifelong dream of owning a bed & breakfast. Little did they know what lay ahead!

Restoring a filthy, dilapidated, nearly condemned Victorian house to a charming and welcoming country inn while raising two rowdy young boys was only the first of their challenges. Dealing with shady former owners, a string of ghostly events, and a wide variety of colorful guests opened their eyes to a whole new world.

With the fortitude and life lessons born of years growing up on a dairy farm, the rare good fortune of choosing the perfect partner in life, and a boatload of humor thrown in to preserve their sanity, they have managed to keep Fairwinds Farm Bed & Breakfast running strong for over twenty years.

About the Author

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JoAnn S. Dawson grew up on a dairy farm in Newark, Delaware and has been a full-time horse stable owner since 1983. She currently owns and operates Fairwinds Farm & Stables in North East, Maryland with husband Ted, offering riding lessons, summer camp, trail rides, horse-drawn carriages, pony rides, hayrides, local honey, birthday parties, weddings, and a bed & breakfast. (www.fairwindsstables.com.)

Fairwinds Farm has been honored as a national finalist in the 2015 Time to Ride Challenge, an inductee of the 2015 Cecil County Business Hall of Fame, 2011 Cecil County Tourism Business of the Year and 2009 Outstanding Farm Operation, and has been featured in the New York Times, Washington Post, and on Good Morning America.

JoAnn works as an animal wrangler for film and TV, and as a Screen Actors Guild member has held principal acting roles in The Sixth Sense, 12 Monkeys, and Oprah Winfreyâ€™s Beloved. She is the author of the award-winning Lucky Foot Stable series for ages 8-12 and appears at schools and book signings with her pony, Butterscotch. She is a 4-h leader, former columnist for Cecil Soil Magazine, an appointee to the MD Equine Advisory Committee, a LEAD Maryland fellow, a board member for Cecil County Economic Development Commission and Cecil County Tourism, and is known nationally for her hilarious and enlightening presentation Bed, Breakfast & Beyond: Twenty years of Kooky Guests, Gentle Ghosts, and Horses in Between - based on her book of the same name.

JoAnn is the mother of two grown sons, Zach and Nick, and teaches both Equine Science and Acting for Stage and Screen at Cecil College in North East, Maryland.

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Crossing the Line by Carla Swafford Book Blitz

4/17/2019

An Atlanta Edge Hockey Novel

Sports Romance

Published: March 2019

Atlanta Edge's hottest Russian hockey star made a big mistake. Now he must find a way to apologize big time to the girl he left behind in the States.

I've been a puck bunny most of my life. So when Roman Volkov, up and coming hockey star with the Atlanta Edge, takes me home and treats me like a queen, I believe I've found the man I can love. Then one morning, I wake to the news that Roman has left me behind while he plays in Russia. His agent takes pleasure in kicking me out of Roman's house. I don't believe anything the sleazy man says. Roman is good to me. No way will he treat me like this. So I go in search for the truth and I discover so much more.

I'm suffocating on the third line when the season ends. So when I get a call from Russia in the middle of the night to participate in a high-profile tournament, I go for it. I'm certain a gold medal will launch me into the top line with my team back in the States. No sooner than I arrive, I call Kitty Summerville to explain why I left without waking her. She's not answering. Has my ambition destroyed any chance of a future with her? When I return, my sexy kitten and I will have a long conversation.

Only, I want to know why is she living with my Coach, and his wife and family?

About the Author

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Carla Swafford loves romance novels, action/adventure movies, and men, and her books reflect that. And thatâ€™s not all, sheâ€™s crazy about hockey, and thankfully, no one has made her turn in her Southern Belle card. Sheâ€™s married to her high school sweetheart and lives in Alabama.

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Sellenria: The Starship and the Citadel by Chuck Boeheim and Daniel Elswit Blog Tour

4/17/2019

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Science Fiction

Date Published: June 20, 2018

Publisher: Lampworks Publishing

An archaeologist from a star-faring society faces a world of legends and impossible creatures...

Stenn Gremm set out to solve the mystery of his ancestor’s disappearance but instead found himself stranded on a forgotten planet. A creature made of clay has just ground his vital technology into dust and is about to do the same to Stenn when he isrescued by the deadly and enigmatic swordswoman Gilwyr.Instead of studying the life of a medieval society, Stenn must now learn to survive it.However, his training in swordsmanship and court intrigue is cut short by the chaos that follows the murder of the heir to the throne.All the archaeological digs that he had led via telepresence had not prepared him to get dirt under his fingernails and blood on his hands!

Fleeing with Gilwyr and their mentor, Ox, Stenn begins a journey of discovery, both of this world and of himself. Who are the reclusive Kir Leth who raised Gilwyr? What is the truth behind the legend of the Grimmerroth, the sorcerer who once laid waste to this land? Perhaps the answers may be found in the mysterious citadel that is said to be hidden in the desert far to the south. Stenn must combine his scientific insights with newfound skills and something that might be called magic to try to uncover the truth behind the legends before time runs out.

A fantasy adventure wrapped in a hard SF environment, Sellenria is a world where technology is myth, but myths are real. As the War of the Grimmerroth appears destined to replay itself, Stenn and Gilwyr must struggle to transcend their roles. The last war devastated the planet; this time it could extinguish all life on this unique world.

About the Authors

Chuck Boeheim is a life-long denizen of physics laboratories, where he worked on the computing for major high-energy physics experiments. Daniel Elswit studied Archaeology in college and has worked in University IT ever since. Dan had ideas for a story about an archaeologist in a middle-earth-like setting, which Chuck hijacked to turn into a science fiction story set on an alien planet.

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Duncan by Dennis McCort Book Blitz

4/16/2019

Thriller

Date Published: February 2019

Publisher: Gatekeeper Press

A cunning pederastic serial killer nicknamed â€œSantaâ€ is making his way up the East Coast from New Orleans to Boston, leaving a trail of young bodies in his wake. Santa covers his tracks along the way by working as an itinerant bass player in a series of jazz combos. At the same time, the Driscoll family â€“ Mark, Julie and their nine-year-old son Nate â€“ who live in an upstate suburb of Syracuse, New York, struggle to come to grips with Momâ€™s quadriplegia following a horrific auto accident. The suspense builds to a fever pitch as these two plot strands approach each other for the inevitable confrontation. All this tension is heightened by the mystery of Duncan, Nateâ€™s stuffed-toy gorilla, who is not only the boyâ€™s beloved companion but becomes a kind of family totem, and, later on in the story, so much more.

This is a novel not only for readers addicted to thrill rides and maddening suspense, but also those who are curious about the abnormal psychology of the pedophiliac killer. The book gives food for thought as well as a kind of perverse satisfaction for the imagination and senses. It is a thinking readerâ€™s thriller.

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Excerpt

It was the best cut at the ball little Joey Simmons had ever taken, but he fouled it back over the chain-link fence. As catcher, Zach Moss had the job of retrieving it. He slipped down through the hollowed-out area under the fence, looked both ways before crossing the empty street lined with warehouses and loading docks, and darted across to where the ball lay nestled against the curbâ€”just a few feet in front of the charcoal van. It was Sunday afternoon and the area was deserted. As Zach reached down, out of the corner of his eye he spotted the tall man in the black polo shirt leaning casually against the vanâ€™s open sliding door, kicking a crushed paper cup to the curb.

â€œWhatcha got there, pal?â€

â€œA baseball,â€ Zach answered shyly, noticing the van was empty.

â€œWow, that looks like a Phillies ball. Iâ€™ll bet you caught it off the bat of Ryan Howard or some big slugger like that, huh? Could I have a look?â€

Zach hesitated, torn between advancing and retreating, politeness and caution. That hesitation sealed the boyâ€™s doom. The man made as if to reach for the ball, but grabbed the little wrist holding it instead. It was a deft move, a practiced move, and lightning fast, carried out with the larcenous dexterity of a seasoned pickpocket. The boy was so stunned that he forgot to scream.

The sliding door slammed shut and the man was behind the wheel pressing the accelerator before the boys on the ball field knew what was happening. He had kept himself on the sidewalk side of the van during the entire abduction, carefully hidden from their view. Zach knew heâ€™d done something very wrong, even though he hadnâ€™t meant to. All those endlessly repeated parental warnings raced across his mind, all the â€œDonâ€™t ever listenâ€™sâ€ and â€œAlways avoidâ€™sâ€ and â€œRun screaming fromâ€™s.â€ Could he have another chance? Please! Heâ€™d do it right this time. He splayed his fingers against the window, crying outâ€”too lateâ€”to his friends as the van pulled away. He hadnâ€™t noticed that its windows were dark-tinted, transparent only from the inside.

Passing through the industrial outskirts of the city, the van headed up Old York Road into the northern suburbs. It neither sped nor lagged and it obeyed all traffic laws. The man at the wheel enjoyed a supreme confidence in his trapping skills. It was a craft, an art even, and he had mastered it. Soon there was more wilderness than houses, until at some point the van turned left off the main road onto a poorly marked crossroad that, in short order, forked at a dirt road. The van took the dirt road across a tiny rustic bridge spanning a creek, continuing then across a cleared, open field on the right, at the end of which stood a modest white colonial house atop a gently sloping lawn. Potted plants overhung the small porch with its two rockers diagonally facing each other on either side of the front door. The place stood in the open, yet was well hidden by hilly wilderness beyond property boundaries. The dirt road saw little traffic.

The van pulled off the road and circled around to the rear of the house, stopping next to the angled steel cellar doors. The man got out, looked around and inhaled deeply, basking in the mellow sunlight of late afternoon. He was alone, the only sound that of the gently rustling trees. He slid open the vanâ€™s side door and leaned in, hands braced against the roof, ogling his prey with satisfaction. And lust.

Terror widened the boyâ€™s eyes, making themâ€”and himâ€”all the more alluring to his captor. He cowered, pressed against the corner of his seat, his body balled up in futile self-protection.

â€œWhat do you want, mister? Why am I here?â€ he asked tentatively, knowing full well the man knew he knew why he was there.

â€œAll in good time, Zach, all in good time,â€ the man chuckled. Heâ€™d heard the other kids call the boy by name weeks ago when he first began scouting him. He always made sure, if at all possible, to get a kidâ€™s name before taking him. The process went much smoother that way. Strategic use of a boyâ€™s name soothed the boy with the delusion that, despite appearances, his captor was well disposed towards him. A tactic that would make an adult instantly wary tended to pacify an eight-year-old. Heâ€™d learned that the hard way many years ago from the debacle in Austin when the words, â€œWhaddaya say, kid, letâ€™s hang out,â€ triggered a shrieking that forced him to start, rather than end, the process with lethal violence. After that, from Atlanta through Nashville and Blacksburg and on up the east coastâ€”it was his first â€œtourâ€â€”he made sure to get the name up front and learned to soften his diction. It was part of his evolution from a seat-of-the-pants amateur predator to a serial pedophile of deadly proficiency.

â€œWhy donâ€™t you climb out of there and come in for a cold drink, Zach? You must be thirsty. Catchers eat a lot of dust. They need to rehydrate all the time.â€

â€œNo! I donâ€™t want to! I wanna go home!â€

â€œIâ€™d like you to think you are homeâ€”for now.â€

â€œNo, Iâ€™m not!â€ the boy cried with mounting panic. He began to whimper.

â€œCome on now,â€ the man said, mildly irritated. He extended his powerful right arm inside, like reaching for a prize in a grab bag, and gently but firmly pulled Zach out of the van. Then, bending over slightly while holding onto the boy, he pulled open the already unlocked cellar doors with his free arm.

Instinctively, Zach began to buck. He tried to pull away and squirmed furiouslyâ€”to no avail. He had never felt such physical strength before. It was like trying to jerk a piece of wood loose from the vice in his fatherâ€™s basement tool shop. Even when, not so long ago, his father would playfully toss him up in the air and catch him coming down like a medicine ball, it was nothing like the sheer physical resistance, the total control by another, he was feeling now.

The man carried the boy down the steps, bracing him on his hip like a surfboard. They entered a finished basement, though one that had the same dank, musty air all basements have, with or without dehumidifiers. The smell of the air caused a new spike in the boyâ€™s panic, suggesting as it did the mold of the grave. Even at eight Zach was aware of the connotations of mold. The man cuffed him, as if scolding a pet, and got off on it. It was all part of the one-way foreplay.

The man carried him to the far end of the dark basement, which was largely uncluttered by the usual piles of stored junk, as if the house hadnâ€™t been occupied long enough to accumulate much to store. There, well behind the furnace and hot-water heater, was a small, inconspicuous room, walled off from the rest, no doubt originally intended as a study or office. But the man had converted it to a kind of private pleasure cave. Richly paneled and lushly carpeted, hung with lurid pornographic images, both paintings and photographs, of naked children, many interacting with â€œerectâ€ naked men, the windowless room was the sick expression of what had become the manâ€™s sole reason for being. He had left the door unlocked and ajar for quick and easy sequestering of his latest prey. Lowering the boy onto the quilt-covered king-size bed that occupied more than half the roomâ€™s space, he raised an index finger to his smiling lips to shush the signs of panic contorting the boyâ€™s face and body language. Then he leaned forward and switched on the portable CD-player on the nightstand. The soft strains of â€œSo Whatâ€ filled the room, the opening track of Miles Davisâ€™s cool-jazz masterpiece, Kind of Blue, with the insouciant opening base sequence introducing Davisâ€™s smokey trumpet. It was always the same music, always â€œSo What,â€ setting the same naughty jazzy moodâ€” anything else would have been unthinkable to him.

As the man pulled his shirt over his head and began unbuckling his jeans, the boyâ€™s whimpering swelled into alternating sobs and shrieks. He had no idea he was playing right into his predatorâ€™s game plan, for the manâ€™s lust was spiked above all else by another creatureâ€™s helplessness. He wanted the boy to beg for his innocence, his bodily integrityâ€”his life. He craved the dark bliss of godlike power over the destiny of another, especially when that other was fully aware of his own utter dependency. This was his drug, his elixir, immeasurably more potent than the heroin he had tried so many times, which, while bestowing bliss, had also dulled his senses, and he lived for the sharpening of his senses. This got him out of bed in the morning.

â€œZach, Zach. Itâ€™s all right. Weâ€™re just gonna cuddle for a while. Okay? Just lie together and hold each other and make each other feel good, you know?â€

â€œI wanna go home!â€ the boy bawled in tearful protest, apparently shocked by the urgency of his own voice, for his sobbing escalated, opening up to a pathetic wail fueled by panic.

Its only effect was a quickening of the manâ€™s desire. Stimulus â€¦ response. No one could hear them there, and it was all just becoming so delicious. As the man slipped out of his jeans, Zachâ€™s eyes were riveted on the bulge in the crotch of his briefs. At eight, he had just enough sexual awareness to know what that bulge meant. Still, it was his dim but nightmarish sense of what might come afterward that intensified the stabs of panic.

The man lay down on the bed and snuggled up to his prey, whose flinching reflex merely spiked his lust once again. The man was lost within the dark caverns of his desire, the boy trapped within those same caverns.

â€œThis is so nice,â€ the man breathed dreamily, reaching down deftly to their mutual nether regions while pressing the sobbing boy to him with unnatural strength â€¦

The sun was down and a purplish twilight graced the overgrown area behind the house as a dark figure strode purposefully from the cellar doors in the rear into a little copse of oak and cedar about a stoneâ€™s throw away. He was carrying a base fiddle case. But his firm grip and taut right arm left no doubt that the caseâ€™s contents were heavier than any fiddle.

After a while, the only sound to pierce the darkening stillness was the rhythmic thrusting of the spade into the soft earth. Far from being drained by the effort of the

cleanup, the man felt juiced, energized, expansive, and, at the same time, utterly relaxed. He reveled in the digging, each thrust of the shovel a little aftershock of that explosion of pleasure for which he lived. Finally, dropping the shovel behind him, he sank to his knees, opened the case and stared for a while at the olive-hued double-strength trash bag that served as a shroud for the lifeless body. Gently lifting the body from the case, he lowered it into its shallow grave, again staring and carefully straightening out both the bag and the body it contained, though without attempting to pose the body in any way. No tableaus, no â€œnecro-symbolismâ€ to titillate the profilers. Just putting it where it belonged.

About the Author

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Author Dennis McCort (1941-) was born and raised in Hoboken, New Jersey, the â€žmile square cityâ€œ on the Hudson, in the shadow of Manhattan. He writes of his experiences growing up there in the postwar industrial era before gentrification in his book, A Kafkaesque Memoir: Confessions from the Analytic Couch (PalmArt Press). McCort is now retired from Syracuse University in upstate New York where he taught German language and literature over a long career. He has authored literary studies on German and Swiss writers and on the influence of Zen Buddhism on such Western writers as J.D. Salinger, R.M. Rilke and Thomas Merton. His understanding of Zen, both as scholar and practitioner, i.e., from both outside and inside, helped him to add layers of complexity to the fascinating personality of the pedophiliac protagonist of Duncan. McCort has also written a comic novel, titled The Man Who Loved Doughnuts, about a young professor who fails to get tenure at his upstate university and spends a lost weekend in lower Manhattan. It is available as an Amazon Kindle eBook. Duncan is his novelization of a macabre seed-concept coming from his wife Dorothy: that of a serial pedophiliac murderer on a collision course with a young boy whose only defense is his stuffed toy gorilla. Both McCort and wife describe the book as a â€œthinking manâ€™s thriller.â€

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The Impaler's Wife by Autumn Bardot Blog Tour & Giveaway

4/16/2019

Part of a Fearless Women in History series

Historical fiction, Historical Romance, Gothic Romance

Published Date: April 3, 2019

The year is 1464 and young King Matthias controls Hungary, his family, and the fate of the world’s most notorious political prisoner, Prince Vlad Dracula.

Ilona Szilágy, the king’s cousin, is young and ambitious. Dracula is determined to marry into the Hunyadi family. It is love at first sight…but the king has other plans. The Impaler Prince, however, never takes no for an answer.

This begins Ilona’s journey into the treacherous world of court intrigues, family betrayals, and her husband’s dark desires. Eager to become Vlad’s trusted confidant, Ilona soon discovers that marriage to man tortured by his past comes with a price.

Woven throughout is a peek into the life and times of one of the world’s most enigmatic and maligned rulers…the man before the legend.

With Bardot’s decadent period detail and a cast of gritty evocative characters, The Impaler’s Wife offers a fierce yet sensuous glimpse into the violent 15th century.

About the Author

Autumn Bardot writes smart erotica and historical fiction about sassy women, spicy sex, and daring passions!

Her erotica includes Legends of Lust, ( Cleis Press )and Confessions Of A Sheba Queen ( Cleis Jan 2020). Autumn has a BA in English literature and a MaEd in curriculum and instruction. She’s been teaching writing and literary analysis for fourteen years. Autumn lives in Southern California with her hubby, rescue pooch, and ever-increasing family. Her favorite things include salty French fries, coffee, swimming, and a great book.

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The Gordon Place by Isaac Thorne Release Blitz & Giveaway

4/15/2019

Horror

Date Published: 04/15/2019

Publisher: Lost Hollow Books

Lost Hollow constable Graham Gordon just walked into his abandoned childhood home for the first time in twenty years. Local teenagers have been spreading rumors about disembodied screams coming from inside. Now, thanks to a rickety set of cellar stairs and the hateful spirit of his dead father, he might never escape.

Meanwhile, Channel 6 News feature reporter Afia Aftonâ€”whose father is the victim of a local decades-old hate crimeâ€”is meeting with town administrator Patsy Blankenship. Her mission is to develop a ghost story feature for a special to air on the stationâ€™s Halloween broadcast. When Patsy tells her about the screams at the Gordon place, the past and the present are set on a collision course with potentially catastrophic results.

Can Graham come to terms with his fatherâ€™s past and redeem his own future? Can the murder mystery that has haunted Afia for most of her life finally be solved?

Itâ€™s a fight for the future and the past when spirit and flesh wage war at the Gordon place.

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE EXCERPT

The only net gain for Graham, if it could be considered such, that had come out of the election so far was that he had been able to use the position to convince the town to turn his old homestead over to him for a song and a promise heâ€™d clean up the blight. That had been another lark. In the same town board meeting that had seen him sworn in as constable there had appeared on the agenda a plan to demolish the old place as a means of curbing the juvenile delinquency it seemed to entice. The rumors being spread by the kids in town had reached the boardâ€™s ears, and they had come to the same conclusion he had: the place was turning into an attraction for vagrants and neâ€™er-do-wells. Therefore, tear it down.

When the time came for public input on the matter, heâ€™d suddenly found himself standingâ€”without having previously planned to do soâ€”and arguing that the place had sentimental value for him and that heâ€™d like a shot at restoring it. He might even turn it into some kind of tourist spot, an idea heâ€™d come to by way of town administrator Patsy Blankenship, she whom heâ€™d hung up on moments ago. She had already renovated one old local homestead into a bed and breakfast that hosted the occasional guest or local event. The board had balked at his idea at first, but after heâ€™d promised to either clean up the blight or hand the old Gordon place back to the town for demolition within a year, theyâ€™d relented. Now he owned the home: a shelter for rats, snakes, vagrants, and bored teenagers. He had no idea where to begin.

Graham pushed the thoughts away. This was no time to go second-guessing his life choices and cost himself what little nerve he had summoned to search for trespassers. He sidled up the hall. The back of his shirt created a loud scraping sound against the faded and peeling fleur-de-lis wallpaper covering the entry hall, a remnant of his motherâ€™s New Orleans roots. He left his own narrow trail of Wolverine sole prints in the dust on the floor, carefully avoiding stepping on the ones left by the previous visitor. The physical memories of life in the house came flooding back to him. The sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor. The sound of his fatherâ€™s footsteps. Even the scrape of the wallpaper against the fabric of his shirt bubbled up memories of him dashing all over the house, running his hands and fingers over the walls as he did, just as any normal wild young boy might do.

The tiny hook and eye latch that had been meant to secure the cellar door was already undone when he got there. Graham didnâ€™t know whether his father had initially installed that latch, but heâ€™d always thought it a silly and unnecessary addition. The door to the cellar was no more than three uneven slats of painted pine carelessly supported along their backs by two horizontal two-by-fours. Large gaps between each slat rendered useless any attempt to keep the cooler air of the cellar out of the entry hall by just shutting the door. Besides, it had always managed to swing shut and stay closed on its ownâ€”even unlatchedâ€”which was one more reason the cellar had made for such an excellent hiding place.

A small wooden cabinet knob was mounted a couple of inches below the hook. Graham grabbed it and pulled. The door swung open easily on its spring hinges and without much complaint about the new tension; surprising after so many years of disuse. The ray from his Maglite spilled into the opening and revealed three splintery and slowly disintegrating steps, approximately one-quarter of the familiar set of plank stairs leading from the mouth of the door before vanishing into the damp darkness below. Graham felt for the light switch just inside the cellar door and flipped it on, but it produced nothing. Heâ€™d had service activated so he could begin work on the place. Maybe the power company hadnâ€™t gotten around to it yet. That would certainly explain the state of the security light out front.

â€œHello?â€ he shouted into the depths of darkness. â€œLost Hollow Constable! Is anyone down there?â€

There was no answer.

Graham stepped through the door. Heâ€™d covered only one tread before the sound of the creaking staircase started to get to him. There he paused, not allowing the door to swing shut behind him and not liking the soft and spongy feel of the tread on which he stood. It had much more give in it than he remembered from his youth.

From this position, the narrow beam of his Maglite enabled him to see the end of the staircase, but nothing beyond. The final step looked black and almost completely rotted away. The one above it didnâ€™t appear to be in much better shape. If he went forward, he risked breaking those steps, which would make climbing out of the cellar much more difficult. If he didnâ€™t go on, and someone was trapped down here, he might lose his job in disgrace. Worse, a real law enforcement officer, like a county sheriffâ€™s deputy, might end up investigating the â€œscreamsâ€ and finding a dead body heâ€™d missed out of fear, in which case he could at the very least be accused of neglecting his duties as an officer of the peace.

Maglite secured in his left hand, Graham pawed at his right hip, immediately taking comfort in the shape of the county issue radio clipped to his belt. He ran his fingers along the top of the device until they closed around the volume knob, which he turned to the right. A thin click and a spurt of white noise erupted through the tomb-like silence of the old house. It vanished just as quickly, leaving in its wake the distinct hum of radio silence. Even so, it was reassuring that he had not only remembered to carry his direct connection to the Hollow County Sheriffâ€™s Department inside with him but it also appeared to be in proper working order.

â€œLetâ€™s hear it for technology. Thank God.â€

From somewhere inside his head, he thought, the darkness replied: GOD AINâ€™T GOT NOTHING TO DO WITH IT.

The next thing he felt was the bone-crunching shock of something blunt and heavy striking the back of his head. He heard what sounded like the shattering of thick glass. He was able to stay upright just long enough to feel what might have been a trickle of blood oozing from his scalp to the nape of his neck. A pair of unseen hands at his back thrust him into the darkness of the cellar, launching him down the full length of the rickety staircase. He fell forward, plummeting face first into the densely compacted earth beneath the house. The bridge of his nose exploded in a bright starburst of pain. His upper teeth crashed down on his lower lip, ripping open the pliable flesh. He felt an immediate swelling there. A thin stream of hot blood ran tear-like down his chin from the wound. Dimly, he heard the crack of splintered wood as his shins came down last, disintegrating the deteriorated lower steps in a fireworks show of wood rot and ancient dust.

His radio went flying when he hit. He heard it shatter in a hiss of static somewhere off to his right. The base of his Maglite struck the ground at the same time. It flew from his hand and bounced off the earth once, twice, and rolled some distance over the ground before coming to rest against the farthest cinder block wall of the cellar. The lamp behind the flashlightâ€™s lens flickered madly, creating a nauseating strobe effect, a stop-motion version of Grahamâ€™s shadow on the wall beside him as he at first struggled to regain his feet and then gave up, collapsing flat to the earth.

The lamp finally steadied itself at a low burn, illuminating almost nothing about the cellar but the corner in which it had landed. It had come to rest too far from the limit of Grahamâ€™s reach. He stretched his left arm out for it anyway, hopeful that the darkness had merely created some sort of illusion of depth. His fingers clawed at the dirt for a second or two before they ultimately surrendered and lay still.

Graham Gordon lay broken and exhausted on the black earth at the bottom of the cellar stairs. In the fading last rays of his dying Maglite, he saw an eye: a disembodied, full white orb broken by jagged lightning-shaped lines of red capillaries. The iris in the center of the eyeball was a murky dark brown color, unshining and nearly black. Its pupil was but a pinprick in the beam from the flashlight.

It stared at him from just beyond the edge of the darkness, unblinking.

â€œDad?â€

The world went dark.

About the Author

ISAAC THORNE is a nice man who has, over the course of his life, developed a modest ability to spin a good yarn. Really. He promises. Just donâ€™t push him down a flight of stairs.

You can find Isaac on Twitter or on Facebook.

Isaac reviews films for TNHorror.com and TheHorrorcist.com. He is the host of Thorneâ€™s Theater of Terror and Classic

Cuts on 24/7/365 horror-themed SCRM Radio at scrmradio.com.

More of Isaacâ€™s work is available at isaacthorne.com and wherever books are sold.

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Everyday Enchantments by Maria DeBlassie Blog Tour & Giveaway

4/13/2019

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New Age, Inspirational Non-Fiction

Date Published: October 26, 2018

Publisher: Moon Books

Winner of the Pinnacle Book Achievement Award in the New Age Category for 2018!

Everyday Enchantments is a love letter to the magic of everyday life, the sweet moments and the profound that we often overlook in our hurry to get from one place to the next. What if we had the power to unplug from our daily hustle and bustle and conjure a more profound way of living rooted in natural mysticism?

We do. All it takes is the whispered wish for more everyday enchantment breathed onto a dandelion head. This collection of essays reminds us to escape into the ordinary, find beauty in a simple cup of tea or rereading a beloved novelâ€”and joyfully let our world turn upside down when synchronicity strikes in the form of wrong turns down forgotten lanes and unexpected midnight conversations with the moon.

This book is a study in what it means to live deliciously, joyfully, and magically. And itâ€™s an invitation to conjure your own blissâ€”-because letâ€™s face it: we could all use a little more magic in our lives.

About the Author

Maria DeBlassie, Ph.D. is a native New Mexican mestiza blogger, award-winning writer, and educator living in the Land of Enchantment. Her blogging life started as a year-long journey to write her back into happy, healthy, and whole through daily posts about lifeâ€™s simple pleasures, everyday magic, and radical self-care. That year-long experiment turned into a lifestyle, a book, a pressâ€”and her ongoing blog, Enchantment Learning & Living. She is forever looking for magic in her life and somehow always finding more than she thought was there. Find out more about Maria and conjuring everyday magic at www.mariadeblassie.com.

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Tick Cooper by John Vance Book Blitz

4/13/2019

YA & Adult Historical Fiction

Publisher: Black Opal Books

â€œI swear by everything I ever owned that my adventure will be the honest truthâ€”even if I had to tell a few lies along the way to get to the meaning of that truth.â€ So promises Tick Cooper, a twelve year old Ohio boy whoâ€™s about to accompany his Uncle Ned down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers to New Orleans. Itâ€™s the autumn of 1860, right before the election that will send Abraham Lincoln to the White House. With his mother deceased and his father having deserted him for the chance of gold in California, Tick has been most fortunate to receive the care and love of his fatherâ€™s older brother and his wifeâ€”Aunt Clara. Although she has recently passed away, she and Uncle Ned have educated the boy about living a good and proper life. But Tick hasnâ€™t had much of a chance to put what heâ€™s learned into practiceâ€”nor to face the moral challenges every young person will face as he or she grows up. But the river journey will provide plenty of those experiences and tests of character. Yet, reaching New Orleans does not conclude the lessons and challenges, for there Tick witnesses a slave auction, and on the block is a thirteen-year-old freed black girl named Clarissa, whom Tick had briefly met in Ohio. Now Tick faces his most significant challenge. Can he help get Clarissa back to Ohio all the way from New Orleans?

Excerpt

There I was jumping from the top of one tree to another. It wasnâ€™t exactly as if I was flying, because I had to land on the top branch of each tree, but it sure felt like flying. Geese were following me and honking away like they were trying to warn me about something. But when I decided to forget about the tree tops and just fly, I fell hard to the ground thirty feet below and started rolling down the side of a hill while I was hiding my face in a pillow. I kept feeling the feathers from the goose down pillow sticking out and poking my cheeks and the side of my neck. Try as I might, I couldnâ€™t pull that pillow off my face and it got to be stained with the blood coming out of me. But I kept rolling and rolling until I was stopped by something firm but soft. But by the time I finally pulled the pillow away from my face to see what or who had stopped me, I woke up and I never found out. That happens to me in dreams a lot. Wish it didnâ€™t, though. What woke me up was my Uncle Ned telling me it was time to leave our house and get on the train to Cincinnati where we would get aboard the steamboat the St. Paul and head down to New Orleans. I was about to leave on the greatest adventure of my life. I swear by everything I ever owned that it will be the honest truthâ€”even if I had to tell a few lies along the way to get to the meaning of that truth. Uncle Ned shouted from the front porch of our house in Oxford, Ohio, â€œTime to catch the train, Tick.â€ Thatâ€™s my nameâ€”Tickâ€”Tick Cooper. Or what theyâ€™ve always called me anyways. Uncle Ned said Iâ€™d always remember this day as long as I lived, but I still wrote it down when we got on the train in Hamilton so Iâ€™d be sure never to forgetâ€” â€œNovember the 1st, 1860.â€ We would ride some thirty-five miles to Cincinnati, the 2 largest city in the whole state. Iâ€™d a been on the train only once beforeâ€”when the railway first opened, when I was six. But what gets a boy excited when heâ€™s six and what gets him excited at twelve are quite different thingsâ€”so this time I acted all grown up like Iâ€™d ridden the railroad every week. I didnâ€™t jump around and bother Uncle Ned the way I did the first time. Even so, it was still pretty special chugging along in such high style. Nothing much happened on the train for the first twenty miles or so, but two more passengers got on and right afterward I heard some commotion going on in front of where we were sitting. â€œI say thatâ€™s my seat youâ€™re sitting in. Get out of it now.â€ The man who said that was an elderly gent who looked like he had gotten into many tough scrapes in his life. He had long white hair and side whiskers, but what I grabbed my attention most was his scarred-up face. It looked like someone had dug trenches on his cheeks and above his right eye. And he seemed much bigger and stronger than men as old as he was. He was talking to a boy who looked younger than meâ€”maybe nine or ten. The boy was in the seat by himself and was just too scared to say anything back. â€œYou had better come up with a good reason why you took my seat or Iâ€™ll rip your nose right off your face, boy.â€ Because Uncle Ned had fallen asleep, it was up to me to do something. I just had to be sure that boy kept his nose on where it was, so I ran up to the man. â€œExcuse me, mister. My brother here is in the wrong seat. Come on, Ben. Your seat is back with us.â€ That boy almost flew out of the seat and headed to the back of the train car. â€œExcuse my brother, mister. He doesnâ€™t hear well and sometimes I have to tell him things twice.â€ I turned and walked back to my seat, expecting that that white-haired old devil would 3 grab me and try to take my nose off. But he didnâ€™t say or do anything. He just grunted and sat in the seat I guess he always sat in when he rode on that train. I found out that Benâ€™s real name was Peter Butler and that he was put on the train by his grandpap so he could take a steamboat from Cincinnati to Pittsburgh, where his mother, father, and baby sister had just settled in a house. I told him Iâ€™d look out for him until we reached Cincinnati, where his grandpapâ€™s brother lived and would take him in for the night. We talked about the man with the scars on his faceâ€”I mean we talked softly so we wouldnâ€™t wake Uncle Ned or let that old buzzard hear us. I told Peter that some folks believe they really own whatever they use oftenâ€”cups, chairs, and such--and that itâ€™s easy for someone big to get what they want from someone smaller, who canâ€™t do anything about it. And if that big someone is also real ugly, itâ€™s all the easier. When I told Peter my name, he wanted to know if I was born with it. I told him that when I was born my father named me John Polk Cooper, but those first two names never really suited me much. It was Aunt Clara who first called me â€œTickâ€ because when I was a baby I used to burrow into the blanket like a tick into a dogâ€™s back. But the name really stuck when I started running around and hiding in bushes, old dead trees, and holes in the ground. I also like the sound of Tick Cooper better than John Cooper or John Polk Cooper any day of the week. One of my teachers said that Tick Cooper wasnâ€™t as easy to pronounce as John or John Polk Cooper, because the first name ended with a â€œkâ€ sound and the second name began with the same sound. But she was educated and I guess those things matter to those kinds of folks. Ben said that Polk was a funny name to be stuck withâ€”and it was, but from what Uncle Ned told me I got my middle name because of the then president of the United States, James Polk, who they say kicked the Mexicans out of Texas and took it for the 4 United States. Uncle Ned said that my father thought Polk did the right thing, but from what Uncle Ned also told me, my father once shot a man in the leg who claimed that the twelve feet at the very back of my fatherâ€™s land rightfully belonged to him. They say the man showed my father the papers, but my father shot him anyways, saying that it was the law that those who live on the land and cultivate it have all right to it. I guess old President Polk never heard of that law when he took Texas. So since I was born on March 3, 1848, I got stuck with a Polk between my first and last names. If I was born three years ago my name would have been John Buchanan Cooper, which was wore then the name I had. As Aunt Clara used to say, â€œThank heaven for small favors.â€ When the train stopped in Cincinnati, we waited until the foul-looking man left the train car before we did. Uncle Ned woke up and finally met Peter, who thanked me for helping him and waited until he saw his grandpapâ€™s brother before getting off the train. I wished he was going to New Orleans instead of Pittsburgh, because I knew Iâ€™d never see him again, but my Aunt Clara used to say that the older you get the more often folks would come in and then out of your lifeâ€”sometimes on the very same day. Aunt Clara. I guess I forgot to say that she was Uncle Nedâ€™s wife and was always like a mother to me, since my own mother died when I wasnâ€™t yet two years old. Iâ€™m still very sad that Aunt Clara got real sick and died a few months back. The day before we left Oxford, we went to see her grave at the Old Yard Cemetery. Uncle Ned had been going there every week since she died, but he never made me go with him. I just did it on my own every few weeks or so, but it was more to be with Uncle Ned because I really wanted to go. Not that Iâ€™m afraid to visit the graves of all those dead people. Iâ€™ve been there after the sun went down with three of my friends and was the very last to run out of there, which won me the wool cap we found snagged on a tree limb the day before. 5 Anyway--at her grave, Uncle Ned told Aunt Clara that heâ€™d be going away for a spell and heâ€™d be thinking of her all the time. He also told her that heâ€™d be taking me with him. She was so good to meâ€”she really was. As soon as we got off the train, we heard a noise on the wooden platformâ€”a kind of â€œker-thumpâ€ every several second or so, so we looked around and saw a man who looked like he hadnâ€™t shaved his whiskers in a hundred years limping along with a wooden crutch under his arm, which he dragged as he took a step with his good leg. Good leg? I should have said only leg! Uncle Ned reached in his pocket for a coin or two, which he liked to do whenever he saw someone who couldnâ€™t walk or see too well. So I reached in mine and pulled out one of my two new Indian head pennies. My other one was back in my room at home, but I always carried one of them with me for good luck. But when I looked at the coin, I wanted to think that Uncle Nedâ€™s contribution would be enough that the one-legged old soul wouldnâ€™t hold it against me if I jammed my lucky coin back in my pocket. I sure didnâ€™t want to be without luck on my grand adventure to New Orleans. But I didnâ€™t think or act fast enough because the next thing I knew I had put my Indian head penny in the manâ€™s hand. He closed his old fist around it, and I felt like I dropped my hunting rifle down a well. My stomach became as heavy as a cannon ball, and my throat felt as dry as if I had swallowed a campfire. Being charitable isnâ€™t always â€œits own reward,â€ as Aunt Clara used to say. The poor man had only limped about ten feet away when two men in fancy clothes, with new top hats and walking sticks came up behind him and started laughing and pointing at his crutch. I guess these were men because they were dressed in all high fancy, but they acted like boys not much older than me. The one in the striped pants took his walking stick and swung it like he was chopping at a low limb and knocked the 6 crutch out from under the old man, who fell to the platform before I could take get close enough to break his fall. Those two dandified gents both burst out laughing as the old man let out one of them painful old manâ€™s screeches, with a whistling soundâ€”probably because he lacked some front teeth. The coins he had gotten from me, Uncle Ned, and some other kindly folks were scattered all over the platform. And then you know what those two popinjays did? They threw down several coins themselves! I couldnâ€™t believe it. I guess they paid for the right to hurt the old man. Or maybe they did it to make sure their consciences wouldnâ€™t bother them none. Uncle Ned told me once that some folks believe they can make up for their being cruel and thoughtless by giving money. And these two gents were nothing compared to what Iâ€™d see later on my adventure. But Iâ€™m running ahead of myself. When I went over to help up the old man, I saw my Indian head penny about six feet away, picking up the bright sunshine, which made it sparkle. When I got the crutch situated under the old manâ€™s arm, I walked over and picked up the coin. I was afraid someone else would take it and use it to buy something useless. No. Now wait. Thatâ€™s not all of it. I better come clean or this tale isnâ€™t going to be worth youâ€™re taking the time to read it if I donâ€™t. To tell the honest truth, I picked up the coin mostly because I wanted to think more about his need for it, since four other folks gave the old man more money. I picked up my coin as the lame old man was walking away with the rest of the money that someone had picked up from the platform, along with the new coins just placed in his hand. I knew he wouldnâ€™t miss my Indian head pennyâ€”not one bit--and seeing that it and the other penny back home were gifts from my Uncle Ned, I decided to put the penny back in my pocket. For about a second. I caught up with the old man and gave him my good-luck penny for a second time. Maybe I was wrong, but I just felt he needed the good luck 7 much more than I did. Then I heard Uncle Ned calling me, and that was the last I saw of my penny and the old man. But not the last Iâ€™d see of those two high-hatted, dandypants scoundrels who knocked the old man down.

About the Author

photo Tick Cooper Author John Vance_zpsnkmizxpe.jpg

During his career as Professor of English at the University of Georgia, John Vance was the author of six books and numerous articles devoted to literary biography and criticism. He also began indulging his love of theater as actor, director, and playwright, with thirty-five of his plays staged. Now he has turned exclusively to fiction, and is the author of fourteen novels, including the humorous memoir Setting Sail for Golden Harbor and the recently BookBub featured In Mind of the Vampire. He lives in Athens, Georgia with his wife Susan.

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The Other Angel by Ann Covell Book Blitz

4/12/2019

Historical Fiction

Published: February 2019

Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers

The Other Angel is a dramatic, startling tale of how four young people from diverse backgrounds, each with their own aspirations and values, become unlikely though firm friends. It is an absorbing story that will attract readers as they get to know the characters, whose disparate lives intertwine before the Civil War splits them up. The Gettysburg battle aftermath brings them back together. It is an exciting story filled with breathtaking scenarios of plots, war and espionage, as well as romance and pathos. The story will resonate with readers as it unfolds to an emotion-charged conclusion that will invoke their empathy.

photo The Other Angel Blitz_zpsqz5nogze.jpg

About the Author

photo The Other Angel Author Ann Covell_zpspmisbgud.jpg

Ann Covell is a British citizen and lives in England's glorious south-west. Ann had a long career with the British health service research section, and also served as a Justice of the Peace in England. Her interests include history, writing and politics. She is the author of "Remembering the Ladies" (a book of unique essays on the 19th century U.S. First Ladies,) and "First Lady, Jane Pierce," who was the 14th U,S, First Lady".

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