Introducing author Leigh Goff and her YA novel “Disenchanted”

Please join me in welcoming author Leigh Goff today, with her Young Adult novel, DISENCHANTED, scheduled for release on June 1st, 2015

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A forbidden love. A dark curse. An impossible choice…

About Disenchanted:

Descended from a powerful Wethersfield witch, sixteen-year-old Sophie is struggling to hide her awkwardly emerging magic, but that’s the least of her worries. When a dangerous thief tries to steal her mysterious heirloom necklace, she is rescued by the one person she’s forbidden to fall for, a descendant of the man who condemned her ancestor to hang. He carries a dark secret that could destroy them both unless Sophie learns how to tap into the mysterious power of her diamond bloodcharm. She will have to uncover dark secrets from both of their families’ wicked pasts and risk everything, including her soul to save them from a witch’s true love curse, but it will take much more than that.

Excerpt:

I sat, soaking wet, shaking from the adrenaline. Whoever he was, he rescued me from the would-be thief who bore the symbol of the Leos, a breath-saving nickname I gave Judge Mather’s Law Enforcement Organization. I strained to see, but the rain drops clinging to my long eyelashes blurred my vision. I wiped them away as my heart settled to an even pace.

With his back to me, he watched the thief disappear into the stormy night. He ran his hands through his thick, wavy, wet hair. His broad shoulders relaxed before he turned to offer me assistance. He extended his long arm to help me to my feet. I hesitated for a second, unsure of him, but as he reached for me, our fingers brushed together. A shock of electricity bolted through my hand. I froze as I caught the surprised reaction on his face, telling me he felt it, too. His fingers clasped firmly around mine and, with no effort, he pulled me to my feet. Unsteady, I pressed my hands against his firm muscled chest that showed through the drenched white shirt. A dizzy, swirly sensation swept through my head as if I were on a merry-go-round spinning around at one hundred miles per hour.

He had to be six feet tall.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a smooth British accent. His deep voice vibrated with tension, sending warm chills inside me.

I balanced myself and brushed my wet hair behind my ears, swallowing hard. A British accent that could make a girl melt if the girl didn’t have alarm bells going off in her head. There were no Brits currently living in our small part of Wethersfield, which meant he had to be one of them. My wide eyes flitted around, looking for a clue to make sense of why the statuesque Mather boy with his soaking wet shirt and black tailored pants left the comfort of his father’s manor house to brave the storm.

He stepped closer, breaching the already slim gap between us and forcing my eyes up. The streetlight illuminated his handsome features. His ivory complexion, dappled with raindrops and a shadow of thick stubble, revealed a hint of blush as if it were wintertime and the cold air had plucked at his cheeks.

I followed the perfect straight line of his nose to his brooding, dark eyes full of mystery. His eyes wandered over the details of my face and settled on my own, waiting for me to reply. A warm, wet breeze swirled up from behind him and wrapped his alluring scent around me; clean, floral and woodsy and thoroughly masculine. I inhaled again and again, unable to exhale. With all the plants and flowers I had smelled in my lifetime, he smelled better than any, alone or in combination. I wavered slightly, side to side, feeling dazed. I gulped a mouthful of air, trying not to breathe him in. What was wrong with me? I shook myself out of the stupor.

“Did you know that man?” he asked.

“Did you?” I said in an accusatory tone, but at that moment, I didn’t care about the attacker.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He drew back like I was crazy for suggesting anything.

He was the enemy. Say something, I thought. “What…what are you doing out here anyway?”

He furrowed his eyebrows inward. “Saving you, obviously.”

I threw my hands on my hips, shocked by the irony. A Mather helping a Greensmith? Hell was freezing over somewhere beneath our feet and every kind of farm animal was sprouting wings to fly. “That’s impossible.”

“And why is that?”

“Because…because you’re a Mather,” I said, not meaning to sound disgusted, but I struggled to contain my feelings. Fact was, the Mathers had Greensmith blood on their hands, as well as my coven’s blood. Through Wethersfield’s history, they were known as witch-hunters and with each generation, they changed only to appear more politically correct, but their intentions remained unchanged.

Mirror World Publishing Link:  Disenchanted

Amazon Purchase Link:  Disenchanted

About the Author:

Writing Enchanting Ever-Afters ♥

Leigh Goff grew up in Maryland where she resides today. Her writing is inspired by an unusual childhood, a vivid imagination, and compelling historical events. After taking several writing courses in college and attending professional writing workshops after she graduated from the University of Maryland, she joined the Maryland Writers’ Association and Romance Writers of America. She is also an approved artist with the Maryland State Arts Council.

Learn more about Leigh Goff on her WEBSITE or at Mirror World Publishing.

Follow the Tour Here: 

http://saphsbookblog.blogspot.com/2015/05/book-tour-schedule-disenchanted-by.html

http://saphsbookpromos.blogspot.com/

Genre(s): Young Adult, Fantasy, Romance, Occult

Keywords: Young Adult, Fantasy, Fantasy Romance, Witchcraft, Wethersfield, Goodchild, Mather, witch, coven, true love curse, white witch, black witch, Sophie, Alexavier, bloodcharm, star-crossed, clairvoyant, outcast

ISBNs: e-Book ~ 978-0-9947490-0-0  Print Book ~ 978-0-9920490-9-6

Number of Pages:  264

Release Date: June 1, 2015

Place and Presence in Novels by Derek Thompson

 

 

Place and Presence in Novels by Derek Thompson

 

Although I’m an advocate of going with the flow when it comes to writing, I also believe – passionately – that everything within a book should be essential. This extends beyond the characters and plot to the setting. The landscape you choose for your novel (or that chooses you!) is more than mere backdrop; it may also function as a symbolic landscape. In Wuthering Heights, Cathy and Heathcliff had the wild and elemental moors; Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe prowled the sleazy streets of Los Angeles. Landscape, brought to life, is both metaphor and a character in itself.

I pondered all that when Thomas Bladen, the protagonist of my debut thriller, Standpoint, first introduced himself. He told me he was from Yorkshire and I laughed because I’d only ever spent a few days there – a week in York and two stopovers for work in Leeds. It took a little while to place him in the North Yorkshire town of Pickering, not too far from the North York Moors National Park. That decision and the sight of him standing alone on the moors, camera in hand and still as granite, while the ragged winds blew around him, gave me important clues to his identity.

If the natural world gave him solace and solitude, it was the urban locations that would test him and in some ways corrupt him too. In Leeds he encounters love and its consequences; in London he finds anonymity. The contrast is echoed in Thomas’s double-life, working as an intelligence gatherer and moved from department to department, while family and friends know nothing of his private world. A man who compartmentalises his life needs to stay in control, so what would happen if those two worlds collided and he couldn’t fit the pieces back together?

Location is an important factor throughout Standpoint because Thomas behaviour changes depending upon where he is. As the author, that became part of the fascination: who is he really?

Thomas’s world and mine intersect at certain points. I grew up in East London, so placing his flat only three miles away meant I could get a clear sense of locality. Naturally, the London Underground features, as does a building where I used to work. Each element helps me build up a clearer picture in my head that should translate on to the page. Place and presence, whether it’s blatant or subtle, can add colour and texture to a novel, creating imagery and mood that live on in the mind of the reader.

By way of an example, here are the words of a master:

To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth. – The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck.

And to round things off, here are the opening lines to Standpoint:

Thomas Bladen focused his binoculars on a block of shipping containers far below the lookout. As a prolonged ferry blast carried across the port like a cry of mourning, he surveyed the slate sky, tracking a gull as it veered across and crapped on a Bentley.

About the book

Standpoint, published by Joffe Books, is the first in a series of novels about Thomas Bladen. Follow @DerekWriteLines for updates on the sequel to Standpoint, coming 2015.

Thomas Bladen is a civil service photographer, working in London, but the Surveillance Support Unit also assists other government departments – something he neglected to mention to the few people he allows to get close to him. The SSU is staffed by ex-forces personnel, careerists and Thomas. He has an eye for details that other people miss and a talent for finding trouble – a combination that was never going to bring him an easy life.

During a routine observation he unwittingly exposes a world of corruption and danger that bleeds into his private life. When the cards are stacked against him and the only woman he’s ever loved may end up paying the price for his choices, can one good man hold the line without crossing it?

 

About the author

I’m a diverse writer of fiction, non-fiction and comedy material. Standpoint is the first in a series of contemporary British thrillers that combine action, intrigue and dark humour.

Come visit my blog: http://www.alongthewritelines.blogspot.co.uk

US

http://www.amazon.com/STANDPOINT-gripping-thriller-full-suspense-ebook/dp/B00UVQBVVU/ref=sr_1_25?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1426799134&sr=1-25&keywords=spy+thriller

UK

http://www.amazon.co.uk/STANDPOINT-gripping-thriller-full-suspense-ebook/dp/B00UVQBVVU/ref=sr_1_25?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1426799134&sr=1-25&keywords=spy+thriller

Welcome guest author Flossie Benton Rogers

Please welcome my guest and fellow Secret Cravings Publishing author, Flossie Benton Rogers, with her new release, Lord of Fire – Wytchfae 5, a Paranormal Fantasy Romance. Be sure to check out Flossie’s Rafflecopter giveaway.

Karen, thank you for featuring Lord of Fire today! Your hospitality is much appreciated. Lord of Fire is a paranormal romance / urban fantasy, with elements of time travel. I thought your readers might like to start out with a picture of an old Florida rock mine similar to the one near the hero’s cabin. Imagine walking around this woodsy area in the dead of night. Those ravines are deep.

Blurb: When The Hawk meets his Wytchfae, the result is spontaneous combustion.

Garnet McAnna chases the demon responsible for attacking and enslaving innocent fae familiars. She never expected to run headlong into a mesmerizing stranger known as The Hawk. Nor did she anticipate the way his masculine power kindles a womanly flame within her.

Exiled from an elite warrior’s brigade, Lord of Fire Gabriel Hawk guards his heart and his solitude. He wants nothing to do with the world of men or the realm of fae. Then a beautiful Wytchfae bursts into his life, stirring desire and sparking need. Garnet is on a dangerous mission, and he can’t let her face the evil alone. What else can he do but fight beside her? When she disappears, he raises hell to find her. Will he be too late? Will darkness conquer this couple or will love burn their souls into one?

First Line Teaser: She’d catch the demon tonight if it killed her.

Memorable Quote: “Garnet McAnna, you’re the hottest woman in thirteen worlds.”

Excerpt:

Lost in her thoughts, Garnet ran up against something hard and springy, and a sharp point pricked the soft flesh of her thumb. She squeezed off the pain with her other hand.

Damned barbed wire.

She had already made it to the fence line and hadn’t even realized it. Sucking in a deep breath, she cleared her mind to concentrate on the task at hand. She had to edge around the boundary to the north side of this large piece of private property to gain access to the portal. Then she’d hunker down in the bushes and wait on the demon Borros.

Moving swiftly again, she cut a wide swath away from the metal fence. Snorting sounds came from within one of the corrals she had noted early this morning when she skirted the property. Horses and a few cattle had grazed within.

Bearing around the corner to head north toward the portal, a splash of incandescent green appeared and then disappeared in front of her. Startled, she blinked and reached into her coat pocket for the revolver. The weapon lay cold and substantial in her hand. She stilled her body to a midnight silence.

The eerie green reappeared and dashed around her body without spotlighting her in any way. It formed a mysterious elongated glow. She clamped down harder on the gun handle to stop her hand from trembling, while shifting positions to keep the phenomenon in front of her.

Her mind tumbled over possibilities. The light couldn’t be swamp gas, as it seemed to proceed purposefully. Its movement created a slight whirring sound. A will ’o the wisp? Somehow she thought not, but what was it?

The presence darted behind her.

Before she could turn, a warm, corporeal hand covered her own and relieved her of the weapon. Whirling around, she came face to face with—a man.

A gasp escaped her lips. With his substantial height, he towered over her. A faint greenish residue of light illuminated him enough so that the fierce scowl on his face caused her heart to thump into overdrive.

She swallowed, fingering the sheath of one of the knives in her pocket. Damn it, next time she’d bring a backup piece. She forced herself to speak, but despite her efforts, her voice rasped. “Give me back my weapon.”

His sonorous growl reminded her of a feral animal. “Not so fast. What the hell are you doing sneaking around my property with a firearm in the middle of the night?”

Video Book Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CTifE-174mE

Buy Links:

Amazon http://amzn.to/1nzt1Bs

Secret Cravings Publishing http://bit.ly/1FKwWBu

Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/wytchfae-5-flossie-benton-rogers/1120627377?ean=2940046361803

Bookstrand http://www.bookstrand.com/wytchfae-5-lord-of-fire

All Romance https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-wytchfae5lordoffire-1654243-149.html

Author Bio:

Flossie Benton Rogers is the author of the Wytchfae paranormal romance series. She is Sagittarius with a Libra ascendant and Taurus moon, or a 5^th generation Floridian and freedom loving mystic. She pursues her passion for mythology by writing romances with fairies, goddesses, ghosts, angels, demons, and other magical beings. The Wytchfae world brims with dimensions parallel to our own. Some are welcoming, others dangerous and forbidding. Through the darkest night and the fright of unchained chaos, love will always shine.

Connect with Flossie:

Website: http://flossiebentonrogers.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/FlossieBentonRogersAuthor

Twitter: http://twitter.com/FrostFyre

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/Wytchfae

LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/in/flossiebentonrogers

Goodreads author page: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6553203.Flossie_Benton_Rogers

Amazon author page: http://amazon.com/author/flossiebentonrogers

Thanks so much for stopping by!

Flossie Benton Rogers is hosting a giveaway at Rafflecopter!

The Next Phase of Life

I find myself in a new phase of life, so to speak. At the graceless age of fifty-two, changes come slowly and sporadically, but once they pass, it’s forever. For women, this pertains to perimenopause (and actual menopause), the empty nest syndrome, and marital issues that might arise when one or both partners retire from a lifelong career.

I’m dealing with perimenopause, and though I don’t dislike the transition, I’m none too thrilled about it either. I can handle the occasional hot flash (a change in my overall diet largely put an end to this inconvenient symptom), and I’d really like to see the end of the nasty monthly periods. And though I do enjoy the alone time with my husband, I think once our nest is empty of our youngest daughter (21), I’m going to miss her very much. She’s funny and insightful, and her little dog is a joy to have around.

A woman’s biological change sometimes transitions with a partner’s retirement. Suddenly, she’s thrust into the constant company of a person she’d learned to essentially live without for eight to twelve hours at a stretch. Again, I’m fortunate—my husband and I happen to like each other, and we work, play, and sleep together. He’s a considerate hottie, and getting “it” two or three times a day is not a problem for me. Like I said, he’s attentive and quite fetching, and looks damn good in black short-sleeved T-shirts… Ahem.

I wrote The Secret Life of Richard McCoy with aging only partially on my mind. I think the genesis of the character, Sally McCoy, came with my own awareness of my shift in life. Like me, Sally reached a point in the aging process where she’d gained the maturity to examine her life, and accept whatever regrets she’d accumulated.

Sally’s double-whammy is the knowledge that her late husband Richard McCoy, had layers of strange and compelling secrets, all the while discovering she still has the capacity to forgive, and fall in love again. Uncovering the mystery of how Richard’s life transacted independent of their marital relationship returns Sally to a former self she’d abandoned when she married him almost thirty years ago. For Sally, finding love with Victor Callahan, a man whose life carried a similar and potentially destructive bitterness toward Richard McCoy, is undeniably watershed.

* * * *

An author of Fiction Noir, and Erotic Romance, Karen Kennedy Samoranos co-manages a music education business in the Bay Area with her husband, Clifford, focusing on jazz theory and live stage performance for children ages 5 through 18. She has four adult children, and four young grandchildren. In her off hours, she hikes, is an avid fisherman, and motorcyclist (both dirt and street), and an advocate for regular exercise, the modest consumption of red wine, and adherence to whole foods.

Buy Links for The Secret Life of Richard McCoy:

Secret Cravings Publishing

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

All Romance e-Books

iTunes

You can find me at:

Amazon Author Page

Web Site

Facebook

Twitter

Richard W. McCoy Makes the Hall of Shame

Imagine being married to a man for nearly thirty years. You have a shared history, including three children, now adults. You’ve endured health issues that didn’t stop him from acting as your constant lover…well, maybe during a certain period of time, when a reproductive affliction meant you couldn’t have sex. Once corrected, your sex life is back to normal, active and strong, your husband randy as ever, with eyes only for you. There are never any red flags to suggest otherwise.

You’d been to hell and back, your body, once nearly smashed to bits in a violent and near-fatal accident, was surgically pieced back together, and yet, he still loves you. Now you’re at the precipice of age fifty, and he’s as eager to bed you today as when you were young and first in love. Your entire life has been dedicated to loving this man, all your trust and total commitment, while he served as a gate against the world that that terrifies you with its seething danger.

But then, he dies, quite unexpectedly. So, you catch a flight to where your man passed away, view his body in the morgue, and numbly make arrangements for cremation. Picturing the ultimate romantic gesture of sleeping with the urn containing his ashes at your bedside, forever…except, that forever is negated in less than one week, when you discover your husband had been living a very well concealed double life.

A quite unbelievable premise, you might ask? However, this occurred to the women in the life of former Stanford pediatrician Dr. Norman J. Lewiston. In Dr. Lewiston’s case, he seemed more of a womanizing bumbler, too lazy to obtain a divorce, than a crafty premeditated and calculating husband, as portrayed in my Erotic Romance, The Secret Life of Richard McCoy (Secret Cravings Publishing, July 2014).

This novel enters into Richard W. McCoy’s antics post-mortem, describing a man driven to succeed at the cost of others, the general definition of the true sociopath. Lacking compassion, empathy, with his only ambition hedonistic adventure, Richard played people in a game of chess that included lovers, illegitimate children, and crime.

Sally McCoy, newly widowed, is initially ill equipped to delve into her late husband’s many and complex secrets, yet she unravels a mystery that nearly costs her own life. More importantly, as she returns to her former self, she finds love with a most unexpected ally, Victor Callahan, a man whose presence in her life ironically served to allow Richard to betray Sally. But she’s no longer the victim—with the reins of life firmly in both hands—and her heart.

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Please visit the links below for further information on this book, and other novels by author Karen Kennedy Samoranos.

Author Web Site

Author Amazon Page

Author Facebook Page

Author Twitter

“The Secret Life of Richard McCoy” can be found at:

Secret Cravings Publishing

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

All Romance e-Books

iTunes

 

The Secret Life of Richard McCoy is coming to paperback print in January 2015

Featuring author M.S. Spencer’s “Whirlwind Romance”

What do pirates, princes, Puritans, and propaganda have in common? Lacey Delahaye, forager and jelly maker, finds out in this romantic suspense set in the western Caribbean.

Whirlwind Romance

Secret Cravings Publishing, 9/2/2014

89,000 words; M/F; 3 flames; Adventure/Romance
I didn’t mean to write this story. I meant to write a nice romantic interlude set on Longboat Key, a lovely barrier island on the Gulf Coast of Florida. Even before I’d reached Chapter Two, however, things had taken a geographical turn and veered off into the western Caribbean. Even now I’m not sure how it happened, but everything started to go awry when Lacey Delahaye, my heroine, finds a bedraggled castaway in her mangrove swamp. Fine. Not a problem. He’s handsome, injured, and clearly has a secret. Could he be a lost tourist? A real estate agent caught up in a Florida land scam? An environmentalist who’s discovered that whales have become man-eaters? No, sir. With his exotic, dark looks (flashing black eyes, shimmering ebony hair, etc.), he hardly seemed the real estate agent type. And he has an accent. Therefore he comes from elsewhere. He eventually confesses to Lacey that…well, I certainly won’t divulge his secret. I will say that he and Lacey find themselves in a remote, tiny, tropical paradise, which would be very romantic, except for the vicious serpent lurking there.

Blurb:

In the aftermath of a hurricane, Lacey Delahaye finds herself marooned on the Gulf coast of Florida with a mysterious man. They are immediately drawn to each other, but before Armand can confess his identity, they are kidnapped and taken far from civilization to a tiny, remarkable island in the western Caribbean. With the help of her son Crispin, a small, but proud young boy named Inigo, and a cadre of extraordinary characters, Lacey and Armand must confront pirates, power-mad ideologues, and palace intrigue if they are to restore the once idyllic tropical paradise to its former serenity and find lasting happiness.

*****

Excerpt (R): Makeup Sex

A light tapping woke her. She lifted her head as the mantel clock chimed once. One a.m. “Who is it?”

“It’s me. Armand. Can I come in?”

No! “What do you want?”

“We have to talk.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, you’ve locked me in. I’m hardly in a position to refuse.”

The doorknob rattled. “Damn it, you’re right—those two blockheads must have ordered it. Hang on.” She listened to some scratching and bumping and the door yielded. Armand stumbled in.” He held up a small pin with a grin. “Once again the superiority of my education is affirmed.”

“That’s nice. Look, I need some sleep. I’m getting out of your hair tomorrow morning, so you don’t need to threaten me. I apologize for being such a fool.”

He took a step toward her, and she drew her knees up to her chin. “May I sit down?”

“Be my guest.”

He gazed at her a minute. “It’s…it’s good to see you.”

She was too busy clenching her jaw to say anything.

He tried again. “I missed you.”

“Huh.”

“I…uh…look, Lacey, you have no right to take that attitude. After all, you were the one who left me.” He stood and paced.

“I—”

He swung on her, his face pinched, his voice brittle. “Why did you do that? Why did you go?”

“I had to, Armand. I was in the way. You had a family crisis—a national crisis—on your hands. My presence just made things worse.”

“No…no. That’s not true. I wanted…needed you. Lacey—” He bent toward her, his beseeching eyes filled with shade upon shade of black and mahogany and gold.

They reminded her of Maitea’s eyes. “Really?” She tossed her head. “I see you wasted no time getting engaged.”

He lifted his chin. “What else could I do? I’d lost the only woman I’ve ever loved. All I have left is my honor. And honor dictates that the second son of the grand duke marry his second cousin.”

Lacey remembered that awful night in the castle, with Edrigu and Crispin and Inigo, and…Armand—the night when all her options were so cruelly eliminated, leaving her with the one, the inevitable choice. “You didn’t lose me, Armand. You let me go.”

His stricken face shot shards of pain, piercing her heart. Defenses crumbling, she held out her arms. He fell into them.

A long kiss, followed by a rambling conversation in which the words “love” and “forever,” figured prominently, went on for a few minutes. Armand’s hands roamed over Lacey like a blind man memorizing her body, finally reaching the hem of her nightgown. He lifted it up and over her head, pausing to kiss each nipple. She unbuttoned his shirt, planting kisses on his chest. He wiggled out of his jeans and returned to her.

She pressed closer, squashing her breasts against him, wrapping her thighs around his hips. They held still, savoring the moment, savoring the knowledge of what was to come. He inched down her stomach, pausing to lick her belly button, then on to her waiting pussy. His tongue explored the soft flesh, flicking at the lips. “Hurry, hurry,” she panted. Instead, he lingered on her inner thighs, trailing his lips down the bare flesh. She writhed on the bed, aching for her climax, begging him to unleash the passion building in her.

At last, he came to her toes. He peered up at her, and she caught a mischievous gleam in his eye. Lacey, who a minute before had been consumed by impatience, wanting her orgasm, wanting to come with him immediately if not sooner, settled down to watch. He took each toe gently between his lips and kissed the tips, then ran a finger along her instep. One hand cupped her heel while the other gently stroked the back of her calf. The kneading calmed her. This must be the way a cat feels when she’s petted—all warm and cozy and loved. Her restlessness muzzled, she lay quietly, rejoicing in his caresses.

Armand whispered, “Lacey, I’ve waited for this moment for six weeks. Every night I’d fall asleep thinking of you and every dawn I dreamed you were lying here next to me. I’d wake happy, until the real world crashed in. And here you are, as beautiful and desirable as you were the moment I first set eyes on you.”

“Come to me, Armand.”

The world stood by as two lovers met and enfolded. A roll of thunder and crash of lightning from beyond the window echoed the thrumming of flesh on flesh. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His scent filled her nostrils and she let go.

Fingers intertwined, lips touching, they rested. The storm faded into the night.

As dawn peeked in through the open window, a knowing smile on her cream-colored face, Lacey pulled Armand close and reminded him again of what he’d missed. Almost sated, they slept again.

 

*****

Buy Links:

Secret Cravings:

http://store.secretcravingspublishing.com/index.php?main_page=book_info&cPath=4&products_id=934

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Whirlwind-Romance-M-S-Spencer-ebook/dp/B00N105I4E/

ARe: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-whirlwindromance-1605591-153.html

Bookstrand: http://www.bookstrand.com/whirlwind-romance

 

About the Author

Although she has lived or traveled in every continent except Antarctica and Australia (bucket list), M. S. Spencer has spent the last thirty years mostly in Washington, D.C. as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter, editor, birdwatcher, kayaker, policy wonk, non-profit director and parent. She has two fabulous grown children, and currently divides her time between the Gulf coast of Florida and a tiny village in Maine.

Ms. Spencer has published nine romance novels. The first two, Lost in His Arms and Lost and Found, were published by Red Rose Publishing. The other six—Losers Keepers, Triptych, Artful Dodging: The Torpedo Factory Murders, Mai Tais and Mayhem: Murder at Mote Marine (a Sarasota Romance, Lapses of Memory, and the Mason’s Mark —were published by Secret Cravings. Whirlwind Romance, her ninth, was released September 2014.

Contacts:

Blog: http://msspencertalespinner.blogspot.com OR

http://bit.ly/1aBzraT

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/msspencertalespinner

Twitter: www.twitter.com/msspencerauthor
GoodReads:http://www.goodreads.com/msspencer
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/msspencerauthor/

 

Join guest author Melissa Aires

MOMS in SPACE

Starlander’s Myth will be out next weekend! It is a mixed genre romance, a steampunk/space western with supernatural elements.

My heroine, Sophie Farrel is a single mom, a widow, with a secret. I haven’t read too many mother heroine’s in SFR, though they are common in other romance sub-genres. I thought she was interesting. Having a child makes her conflicts deeper, I thought.

Sophie is a bit of a play on the more common kick-a$$ SFR heroine. She is–can be–very powerful. Scary, even. But she is vulnerable because she is the single mom of a small child, a child young enough to be completely dependent on her. There are things she is capable of doing, but she must restrain herself in order to keep her daughter safe.

Having a child ups the stakes. A job loss is worse if a child is dependent on you. So is a bad relationship. Disasters, tragic circumstance–all harder if you are trying to keep a three year old fed, healthy, and comforted. A parent’s greatest fear is that harm or death will come to their child

That is Sophie’s reality. She wants her daughter to have a happy childhood with stability, but she has fallen into the hands of slavers. She is not helpless, but in some ways her circumstances are pretty hopeless.

Jack Starlander is a good man with survivor’s guilt due to losses in war. He has isolated himself far from his home—and yet somehow he has made a small family with fellow asteroid miners. When he learns of Sophie’s situation, he acts.

Blurb

Asteroid miner Jack Starlander stumbles upon the illegal sale of a woman and child with unusual abilities. In the ensuing shoot out, two important men die. Jack, Sophie and her daughter, and Jack’s close neighbors are forced to flee to safety. Their journey takes them into deadly danger.

Sophie is a creature from myth and she recognizes the mythic thread in Starlander’s family legend. Perhaps his family’s story can save them.

You can read an excerpt here: http://www.melisseaires.com/excerpt-starlanders-myth.html

It is coming this weekend.  Check my Amazon Author page for links! http://amazon.com/author/melisseaires

or Blog:  Http://melisseaires.blogspot.com

 

Panhandling, and the Defense Finance and Accounting Service by S.S. Hampton, Sr.

Saturday afternoon, almost a week ago, I thought of panhandling to raise money—survival funds, I call it. I never gave such a thing serious thought before in my life, and I am 60 years old.

The next questions were where to go, what sign to carry, and what to use for collecting money that someone might be kind enough to donate. The world-famous Strip? Plenty of well-to-do tourists there—plus hotel security and police. Maybe not such a great idea. Fremont Street in “old Las Vegas?” That is basically private property, but the homeless and panhandlers seem to be somewhat tolerated. And then the sign. Maybe “Retired Military Veteran Needs a Helping Hand?” I already tried that on Indiegogo, the crowdfunding site (60-year old Native American Veteran Needs Help); the Indiegogo campaign has been a dismal failure. And what to collect money in when panhandling—perhaps my ACU cap that I wore while deployed to Iraq.

Decisions, decisions, decisions. All because of a policy that excuses all, and an institutional business as usual attitude.

To back up for a moment, let us consider the background. When a “weekend warrior” retires from the National Guard, retirement military pay is not paid until the first month following their 60-year old birth month. The retirement pay packet goes to the Human Resources Command (HRC) at Fort Knox, Kentucky, for processing. Retirement orders are “cut” and the packet goes to the Defense Finance and Accounting Service (DFAS) for processing. The soldier receives a partial retirement paycheck the first month after the birth month of their 60th birthday.

Of course, as usual, my situation is a little more…interesting. Because of the unexpected impact of the Global War On Terrorism (GWOT) on the Guard and Reserves, there is a program that, broadly speaking, allows for retirement pay to be issued earlier than the 60th birthday. There are all sorts of rules to the program and it is based on the type of orders a soldier was on.

I thought I qualified for the program. Before I retired in July 2013 I asked my higher headquarters and the response was “NO NO NO.” No one looked at my documentation. I raised the issue again in May 2014 when HRC was processing my retirement pay packet; they asked for documentation. Of course they did not receive the fax so I had to scan and e-mail. It took HRC 30 days to make up their mind, but the result was new orders. My retirement date should not have been 21 June 2014, it should have been 21 March 2014. My packet had already gone to DFAS a month before, but on 17 June 2014 DFAS received the amended orders.

And since 17 June 2014, as it is DFAS policy that they have up to 30 days before touching incoming documents, my amended orders sat there—just sat there, untouched. Phone calls did not accomplish anything, nor did DFAS Customer Service notes that I was experiencing a severe financial hardship. After all, they had up to 30 days to act on incoming documents, so everything was business as usual as enabled by their policy.

Of course, in mid-June I ran out of money.

The only money I have had in my pocket since mid-June is from asking family and friends for loans. Hundreds of dollars in loans. After all, car insurance, property insurance, rent, etc., does not wait for 3-months backpay from DFAS. The greater world wants their money now.

It has been years since I have been in a similar situation. In a sense it is worse because my fate is in the hands of others to whom all is business as usual.

I wake up early in the mornings wondering who I can borrow money from, how much, and when it will arrive. Because I find it difficult to sleep, I usually sit up until early morning with the same thoughts. Without money to get my 1996 Honda Civic worked on, I drive it only when I have to. Otherwise, I stare at Netflix and YouTube on my computer, and the TV. I check my bank account each day, hoping against hope, that the backpay will magically appear one morning.

On that morning there will be a well-deserved buffet breakfast to enjoy. After that, the car needs to be worked on. Car insurance to pay and property insurance to reinstate. Lien taken off of one of my storage units and bring the other storage units up to date (if I emptied them, the apartment would not be so empty as it is now). Broom, mop and mop bucket; shower curtains; trash cans; and a lamp for each bedroom. I can redeem my camera equipment that I pawned in June for survival funds. Then I will finally (I hope) feel like resuming my life and getting things going again.

But most of all, there will be the freedom from daily stress and wondering who next to ask for money.

Until that morning arrives, I feel like a beggar.

Stan Hampton, Sr. is a full-blood Choctaw of the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma, a divorced grandfather to 13 wonderful grandchildren, and a published photographer and photojournalist. He retired on 1 July 2013 from the Army National Guard with the rank of Sergeant First Class; he previously served in the active duty Army (1974-1985), the Army Individual Ready Reserve (1985-1995) (mobilized for the Persian Gulf War), and enlisted in the Nevada Army National Guard in October 2004, after which he was mobilized for Federal active duty for almost three years. Hampton is a veteran of Operations Noble Eagle (2004-2006) and Iraqi Freedom (2006-2007) with deployment to northern Kuwait and several convoy security missions into Iraq.

His writings have appeared as stand-alone stories and in anthologies from Dark Opus Press, Edge Science Fiction & Fantasy, Melange Books, Musa Publishing, MuseItUp Publishing, Ravenous Romance, and as stand-alone stories in Horror Bound Magazine, The Harrow, and River Walk Journal, among others.

In May 2014 he graduated from the College of Southern Nevada with an Associate of Applied Science Degree in Photography – Commercial Photography Emphasis. A future goal is to study for a degree in archaeology—hopefully to someday work in and photograph underwater archaeology (and also learning to paint).

After 13 years of brown desert in the Southwest and overseas, he misses the Rocky Mountains, yellow aspens in the fall, running rivers, and a warm fireplace during snowy winters.

As of April 2014, after being in a 2-year Veterans Administration program for Homeless Veterans, Hampton is officially no longer a homeless Iraq War veteran, though he is still struggling to get back on his feet.

S.S. Hampton, Sr.’s books can be found at:

Dark Opus Press

Edge Science Fiction & Fantasy Publishing

Melange Books

Musa Publishing

 

MuseItUp Publishing

Amazon.com Author Page

Amazon.com. UK Author Page

 

Goodreads Author Page

“Better Than a Rabbit’s Foot.” Ed. Joelle Walker. MuseItUp Publishing, June 2012.

ISBN: 978-1-77127-078-6

 

 

BLURB:Sergeant Jerry Stanton is a young soldier serving in the War in Iraq. He is a gunner on a gun truck nicknamed “Lucky Bear,” one of those tireless workhorses that escort supply convoys from camps in Kuwait to destinations scattered throughout the war-torn country. In the early morning hours before a scheduled mission, a dust storm howls across his camp and threatens to bring convoy operations to a halt. Worse, the camp receives word that a gunner from his company was killed by an IED while on a convoy mission. Unlike most soldiers, Jerry doesn’t carry a lucky charm, but upon receiving news of the death of the gunner, he begins to mull over/ponder the merit/virtue of a good luck charm—only, what would work for him? Perhaps mail call will provide the answer.

 

EXCERPT: “People like a happy ending.”

Sergeant Jerry Stanton, an M4 Carbine slung across his chest, glanced at the dark form that trudged alongside him in the hot, early morning darkness. It was all the darker for the dust storm howling across the small camp, a dusty and sandy convoy support center, CSC, a mile south of the Iraqi border. He placed his hand over the tall styrofoam coffee cup from the messhall that was open at all hours to serve those about to head out on a mission. He felt the itchy dust filtering down his back, along his arms, and coating his fingers.

In spite of his short time deployed to Kuwait, he had learned that dust storms were worse than sand storms; they were hot and itchy while the sand storms stung exposed skin and chilled the air. Breakfast was good but tasted flat, more due to the question of whether their mission would be a go or no-go because of the storm that roared out of the midnight darkness hours before.

“What?”

“People like a happy ending,” the soldier repeated. He was a gunner from another gun truck as the squat, venerable M1114 HMMWVs, which were never meant to be combat vehicles, were called. He held up a rabbit foot that spun frantically in the wind and added, “I like a happy ending. Especially now.” They rounded the corner of a small building, actually a renovated mobile home trailer with a covered wooden porch lit by a bare electric bulb. The gunner pointed to a small black flag, suspended from a log overhang, flapping furiously in the wind.

“Oh shit.” Jerry sighed as a cold chill raced through him.

“It’s been there for an hour or so,” the soldier said as he enclosed the rabbit’s foot within both hands and brought it up to his lips as if to kiss it. He glanced at Jerry. “I’m not superstitious, but still, I mean, there’s nothing wrong with having a lucky charm. You know?”

“Yeah.” Jerry nodded as he watched the twisting flag. “I know.”

The soldier looked once more at the black flag andthen walked toward the shower and restroom trailers beyond which were the air-conditioned sleeping tents they called home…

BUY LINK

 

 

Kleptocracy and Self-Discovery

I’m in the midst of reading Jared Diamond’s fascinating treatise on the evolution of organized societies. In Guns, Germs and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies, Diamond writes a particular section on kleptocracy, a fancy word applied to thieves who install themselves as undisputed leaders in an organized society, and then proceed to pilfer from their constituents for personal financial gain. Diamond utilizes President Mobutu of Zaire as the classic example of a kleptocrat, who keeps the equilvalent of billions of dollars for his own gain, and yet allows nothing to trickle down to his people, the result of which is the lack of a functioning telephone system in Zaire.

Duping an entire populace into supporting self-serving behavior is only viable when kleptrocrats enlist public support by creating a religious ideology. Humans inherently suffer from a belief in the supernatural, which is often based on fear or suspicion of the natural world and unexplained phenomena. In order to justify a central authority bent on the transfer of wealth from a large number of workers to the elite few—and to continue the ruse—supernatural beliefs become institutionalized as…religion.

The predominant example of a kleptocracy is well represented by the present-day Catholic Church, and institutionalized religious dogma that historically held the power to make or break people. With the concept of excommunication, violators of the faith—that is, people who failed to comply with church edicts or offer up payola—were often marginalized by their communities. Unable to make a living, to feed their children and support their descendants, excommunication was treated as a disease. In essence, if your neighbor was excommunicated, you didn’t want to catch his virus, so you wouldn’t buy his livestock, nor have your daughter marry his son. Excommunication based in fear was a powerful tool of manipulation wielded by kleptrocrats who were more self-serving, and thus far from examples of brotherly love.

Now I understand the nagging embarrassment inflicted upon the masses during the Annual Diocesan Appeal. Although no priest ever stood at the ambo and pointed a crooked finger at any of the numerous members of the assembly, defining the least generous of the bunch, we were all tacitly shamed into compliance. The final year of our church attendance, we actually pledged twice the recommended ADA amount, simply because we felt guilty on behalf of those who couldn’t/wouldn’t commit their own basic ADA pledge. Although I felt not an ounce of resentment, I did harbor a sense of responsibility. However, I was intelligent enough for free thought. I didn’t believe that if I were stingy in the amount of my financial donation, young children would not have the financial backing to attain their Sacrament of First Communion, and would then be relegated to some pitiless limbo if they died unfulfilled.

In truth, the only facet of my life that suffered from being involved in the church choir and attending a weekly Mass was my writing. I was reluctant to write about physical love in detail. Lust was more of a basic animal reaction, and not a lofty human attribute, and though I knew I was an animal, free to share my lustful feelings with both my husband, and in the pages of my fictional works, I held back.

This is not to say that I was loath to scrutinize my faith, or the so-called invincible bastion that Christianity is portrayed. Much of my writing focuses on the eternal conflict between western religious ideology, and its methodical efforts to restrict women to a lower rung on society’s ladder.

In contrast, the original Native American societies recognized that women and men could not exist in harmony without mutual respect. Hunter-gatherer societies of which formed the core of many Indigenous peoples were more egalitarian by virtue of necessity, with bands and tribes that consisted of low populations, where everyone knew everyone.

The Hutterites understood this concept, also known as “Dunbar’s Number,” the idea that most human societies can only effectively exist if they number between 100 and 230, with the optimal number being 150. Think about it: how many people are your Facebook friends? Do they exceed a count of 230, and do you know them all by name? Are you ever surprised when you see a post from an FB friend who communicates only sparsely, and then realize this individual has been on your friends list for the last three years?

Getting back to writing, while being church-going folk. I loved singing at church. I loved the Mass parts and the hymns. And yet, I intentionally restricted the language in the novels I wrote, knowing that fellow choir members might read one of my works. Perhaps that gaze from across the room was less friendly, and more judgmental. I was personally freed when my husband left his position with the Diocese. Unbeknownst to me, this relief translated into a wider vocabulary and sense of freedom in my prose. Let me conclude by stating this type of self-discovery has been utterly refreshing.

The added benefit is a dearth of yammering by kleptrocrats bent on slurping up our hard-earned income. At the end of my days, there will be just me and my Creator, and I doubt She’s going to tally up my ADA contributions as a testament to my eligibility into the afterlife.

Thank God I don’t go to church anymore.

STRUCK by guest author Clarissa Johal

The shadows hadn’t been waiting.
The shadows had been invited.

After a painful breakup, Gwynneth Reese moves in with her best friend and takes a job at a retirement home. She grows especially close to one resident, who dies alone the night of a terrific storm. On the way home from paying her last respects, Gwynneth is caught in another storm and is struck by lightning. She wakes in the hospital with a vague memory of being rescued by a mysterious stranger. Following her release from the hospital, the stranger visits her at will and offers Gwynneth a gift–one that will stay the hands of death. Gwynneth is uncertain whether Julian is a savior or something more sinister… for as he shares more and more of this gift, his price becomes more and more deadly.

Excerpt:

She stared into his pale eyes, which were the color of storm clouds. A scream welled up in her throat. He pushed her against the wall and shook his head in a warning.

“Do not scream.”

His voice was low and soothing. She nodded quickly, with every intention of screaming her lungs out as soon as he removed his hand.

“Do not scream,” he repeated.

Gwynneth could hear her breath heavy against his hand. He wore finely made black leather gloves. Why would he be wearing gloves inside? She thought frantically. It wasn’t cold enough to wear gloves. Dressed in the same black material from top to bottom, except for a white, high-collared dress shirt, he looked archaic. She tried to match him with a time period. Mid-eighteenth century? His demeanor, too, was somehow…archaic, proud. Small silver buttons ran the length of his jacket. They pressed sharply against her thin hospital gown.

“Do you trust me?” He studied her intently and removed his hand.

“You were there when I got hit,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you bring me to the hospital? You left me at the funeral home.”

“I had no transportation. I left you where you would be found.”

“Why didn’t you stay with me?”

“I have my reasons. I am here now.”

“Well, thank you for saving me.”

“I wish something in return.”

“I-I don’t have anything.” She flinched as she felt a small tug from deep inside. It was as if probing fingers were searching for something. Fear bloomed within her. The probing stopped.

“Are you saying no?” His voice held an edge.

“I don’t understand.”

“Are…you…saying…no?”

Confused, she nodded slightly. Suddenly, Julian grabbed her and they fell into blackness. Something powerful swirled around them. Something malevolent. She panicked and clung to him. There was pressure on all sides of her, as if the air was folding around them and becoming heavier and heavier. And then, everything stopped.

“Open your eyes, Gwynneth,” he whispered.

They were in a house. A Victorian. Fire burned in the fireplace. She could smell the burning wood. The light reflected off elaborate, but worn, wallpaper and furniture. A half-eaten biscuit lay on a delicate-looking plate. An empty teacup lay on its side.

Julian took her by the hand and led her up a winding staircase. She studied him from behind. Tall and lean, he was quite broad-shouldered. Fine white hair draped across his back like silk. His form-fitting, tailored jacket hit mid-thigh, and matching black pants were tucked into knee-high leather boots. He walked with catlike grace, his boots making light sounds on the stairs.

Otherworldly, her thoughts whispered. Still in her hospital gown, Gwynneth felt vulnerable and naked. Her bare feet pressed against the wooden floor. Grit stuck to her toes.

He led her down a hallway lit by fluted glass light fixtures along the walls. At the end of the hallway was a door.

Never taking his eyes off hers, Julian opened it.

Dark figures scattered like exploding glass. Red, so much red. There was blood everywhere. Blood-soaked sheets, pillows; blood pooled onto the wooden floor and soaked into an ornate carpet.

A woman lay across the bed. She wore an old-fashioned white nightgown, which was plastered to her body. Her long dark hair spilled across the sheets. Gaping wounds covered her chest. A knife lay on the floor. The windows were open, and white curtains fluttered in the evening breeze.

The creatures writhed in the corners as light from the hallway shattered their darkness.

A strangled sound escaped Gwynneth’s throat. Julian wrapped his arms around her and urged her forward. The figures that had fled into the corners seeped into the scene once more.

“They come for her. I want you to watch.”

Gwynneth shook violently, and he gripped her tighter.

The figures swarmed over the dead woman’s body, into her hair, along her bare legs. They snaked up and down her torso and made her body shudder. Gwynneth felt their need, burning and relentless.

“Oh my God, she’s not dead,” she moaned.

Her vision went black. 

***

BUY LINKS:

Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Musa Publishing