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The Twilight Tsunami

EASTER SALE: The Twilight Tsunami, 99 cents April 19-May 3. A riveting fictional novel about the lives of social workers who work and play harder than most professionals. Lots of drama, suspense, romance, heart-break, fun and passion. Their jobs are tough; their reactions are tougher! Get the book at:

Have a great Easter and may all your writing dreams come true!

Reviews of The Twilight Tsunami

 “A compelling read from cover to cover.”
⸎─Midwest Book Review

 “Shelby Londyn-Heath has written The Twilight Tsunami, a raw, funny, and hard-hitting account of the lives of people involved in the child welfare system.”
⸎─KRGB FM Radio, Affiliate of National Public Radio

Excerpt of The Twilight Tsunami: (a romantic part)

The following weekend when Christine went on a girls’ night out, she saw men looking at her. She felt attractive again after years of not being noticed, except of course, when she had been Grey’s lover. Christine remembered Grey’s passion and affection, and for a moment, she longed to be with him again. Then she remembered Grey standing in her office slurring and yelling. For now on, she wanted a man who would not leave her humiliated.
Christine, eager for a new adventure, wore a form-fitting cotton dress. Gone were the black outfits she always wore. She was tired of living a grief-stricken life, tired of stressful work dominating her life, tired of painful memories haunting her.
When Philip, a middle-aged man, approached her and asked her to dance, she said yes. As Christine twirled and swayed to the music, she noticed Philip smiling at her. His hair fell in dark curls around his large eyes, and he swung her across the dance floor with poise.
 Tall and muscular, with an angular face, he spoke to her of heroism and intelligence. His mahogany skin was supple over his gym-toned muscles, and he moved with self-assurance. Christine thought this had the possibility of a happily ever after ending, maybe.
“Hey, let me buy you and your friends a drink,” Philip said after the dance. They walked to a table where she had gathered with her friends from work. The evening frolic continued as Phillip and her friends danced and laughed until closing time. Philip invited Christine to go hiking with him the next day. 



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 Afton—whose father is the victim of a local decades-old hate crime—is meeting with town administrator Patsy Blankenship. Her mission is to develop a ghost story feature for a special to air on the station’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 father’s past and redeem his own future? Can the murder mystery that has haunted Afia for most of her life finally be solved?

It’s a fight for the future and the past when spirit and flesh wage war at the Gordon place.

Mike Murphey - Section Roads -  Cover Reveal


Author: David W. Berner
Publisher: Adelaide Books New York/Lisbon
Pages: 200
Genre: Memoir/Essays

About the Author

David W. Berner is a memoirist whose personal stories tell all of our stories. His memoirs reflect on our collective relationships and how those experiences link us to the world we share. From stories of fathers and sons, to road trips, travel memoir, pets, and music, David's books are mirrors of our common human experience. 

Storytelling has been a part of David's life since his days as a young boy, delivering The Pittsburgh Press newspaper. He began telling his own stories and the stories of others as a reporter for numerous radio stations, including freelance work at National Public Radio and more recently for CBS in Chicago.

David's reporting background has given birth to award-winning memoirs and novels based on his own experiences.

He has been the Writer-in-Residence for the Jack Kerouac Project in Orlando, where he was privileged to live and work at the Kerouac House in Orlando for two-and-a-half months. He later was honored with the Writer-in-Residence position at the Ernest Hemingway Birthplace Home in Oak Park, Illinois.


THE CONSEQUENCE OF STARS is a unique and thoughtful memoir on our eternal search for home. Told in a series of essays on love, loss, travel, music, spirituality, and the joys of solitude, memoirist David W. Berner, reaches deep to discover where he belongs and ultimately where all of us belong.“Berner gives us both travelogue and memoir in living, breathing depth and color.” — D.S. White, Editor-in-Chief, Longshot Island.
“A writer with an enormous sense of humanity.” — San Francisco Review of Books
“Reflective, engaging…Berner’s authentic storytelling takes you with him on his travels through the chapters of his life where in the end, he reveals connections to finding a place to be, his home under the stars.” — Nancy Chadwick, author of Under the Birch Tree

Finding Your Writing Home

By David W. Berner

Virginia Woolf called it a “room of one’s own.” George Bernard Shaw wanted his old hut to be a hideaway from people so he could work. Dylan Thomas wrote in the privacy of a room above an old boathouse in Laughnare, Wales.

A writing place, a sacred spot to work, has been key to the work of many famous writers. And as I began my writing life years ago, working more seriously writing essays and books, I too, found I wanted that special kind of space, a room of my own.

For many years, I wrote almost exclusively in coffee shops. The buzz and whir of a coffee house was comforting, and the act of people watching was both research and a release. But in time, I wanted something more personal, a personal space where I could fall hard into my thoughts. 

So I studied Thomas’ boathouse, Shaw’s hut, and then Thoreau’s cabin. I considered photos and drawings, noted what they kept inside these writing places and how they worked in them. I found more—Roald Dahl’s shed and the extraordinary shack of poet Robert Stephen Hawker built into a hillside Cornwall in England. Then I read Michael Pollan’s book, A Place of My Own: The Architecture of Daydreams. It’s the story of his planning and building a writing hut for himself in the Connecticut woods.

With all this and a dream, I set out to build my own writing shed.

I found a company that could deliver an 8-by-10 foot structure, complete with shingled roof, a window, and a door. It needed to be painted and the inside was unfinished. A flat bed and a Bobcat moved it into a corner the backyard, we maneuvered it into place and augered it into the ground. I soon began the process of insulating, nailing barn wood paneling to the walls, tiling the floor, and whitewashing the unfinished ceiling to best match the interior of Thomas’ boathouse. A bookshelf and a desk came next. I moved two lamps and a space heater inside. White blinds were installed on the window and the door. I lugged in books, a chair, and my old six-string acoustic guitar. And when all was complete, I lit a candle and sat at the desk in the quiet of a spring evening. I had found my writing home.

I would love to tell you that since the building of the shed, all of my books have soared to the top of the bestseller list and I’m now in the process of writing a literary masterpiece. Of course this is not the case. But I write in my shed nearly every day of the year now. I read and I think there. I take no phone calls. I read no email. The shed is my holy space and it has become my source of literary light; it is my writing home.

There is no perfect writing environment. It is entirely a personal matter, as individualistic as a hairstyle. And it could also be a moving target, shifted by specific needs or project’s requirements. The late writer Jim Harrison said at one time he could only write in his cabin or his house, but in an interview for a publication for the University of Iowa, Harrison added that he got liberated once and wrote an entire novella in a Montana motel. But whatever or wherever it is, it is worth the search for it.

Nearly all of the writing of my latest memoir, The Consequence of Stars was done inside my shed. And there is no doubt that that special place helped me focus on the memoir’s main theme of “finding home.” The shed is my home, my writing home, and it brought the overall thread of the book to a complete and full circle, and solidified my belief in the power of what Hemingway called “a clean, well-lighted place.”

It seems some writers, like Harrison at one time, may always be looking for a fresh creative space that gives renewed energy to the work. And maybe someday I’ll go searching again, but for now, the small shed in my backyard, 150 feet from the house’s rear door, is my one and only hallowed space.


Contact Information

Purchase Links
Barnes and Noble:

What the Parrot Saw

Historical Romance

Publisher: Eve D. Ackerman

Release Date: February 26, 2019

Hijacking an Englishman from a brothel is all in a day’s work for Captain Mattie St. Armand. She needs protective coloration, and a naïve (and expendable) white man will keep the eyes of the authorities off her as she smuggles slaves from the Florida Territory to freedom in the Bahamas.
Oliver Woodruff wanted a spot of travel in the Caribbean before he settled down, but he never expected “Marauding Mattie.” He’ll help her, but he knows there’s no place in his world for the bastard daughter of a pirate and a freed woman.
As Mattie trains him for their ruse, she comes to realize he’s a man she can turn to for support and companionship, and Oliver grows to love the commanding and daring woman who refuses to fit society’s mold… but both are sure their relationship is doomed by society’s taboos.
It will take danger and adventure (and Roscoe the parrot) to convince them that the passion between them is more than an island fantasy.


Should I go with traditional, indie, or hybrid publishing? How do I write a pitch? What kind of royalties should I expect? What the heck are beta readers and why do I need them?
Publishing is an ever-changing business. As a result, these and many other questions are at the forefront of the modern-day writer's brain. You've probably asked them yourself!

In How to Go from First Draft to Published Author, we guide you through the entire process, from refining your manuscript to choosing a publishing track to releasing your book into the world.

In addition to our own fantastic writers  here at ProWritingAid, this book also contains advice from industry experts such as BookBaby's Andre Calilhanna, Kindlepreneur's Dave Chesson, Reedsy's Savannah Cordova, and TCK Publishing's Tom Corson-Knowles.

Publishing is changing. Get the knowledge you need!

About the Author

Kerry O'Hallaron was born in St. Louis, MO. He attended college at the University of Missouri, and later "emigrated" to Florida. His passion in life is to help others maximize their own potential.

His latest book, "People Skills 101 - tm: How to Have More Friends, Fewer Conflicts, and Better Relationships," is a compelling and life-changing new spin on one of the oldest "self-development" books in print. In it, he adds new color the art and science of people skills, which wealthy industrialist John D. Rockefeller called the most valuable asset under the sun. O'Hallaron teaches us in a humorous way how to use time-tested principles in our quest for friendships and positive business and personal relationships. The teachings aren't new - but O'Hallaron's unique twist on them certainly is. Whether you're a shy, reserved introvert or a bubbly, outgoing extrovert, "People Skills 101" could be the only book you need to understand the simple tools that will help you both create and manage the perceptions people have of you.

You will be amazed how a few, subtle changes you can learn from this book will craft a new, more influential, more charismatic, more likable, YOU!

O'Hallaron lives in Tampa with his wife, Carol, and can't seem to get away from spending significant parts of each year in his home town of St. Louis.

Website Address:

Twitter Address: @ps101_book

About the Book:

Author: Kerry O’Hallaron
Publisher: Shamrock Publications
Pages: 301
Genre: Nonfiction/Self-Help/Self-Development

A life changing modern-day twist on Dale Carnegie’s timeless classic – learn how to have more friends, show more charisma, and better manage every relationship – all in the comfort of your home.

“Kerry O’Hallaron simply nailed it with People Skills 101,” says Jason Broadman, international book critic. “He took something everyone needs to know, which nobody teaches, and made it interesting, eminently readable, entertaining, and exceptionally useful to just about everyone.”

Do you remember that course you took in school called “Basic People Skills?” You don’t, do you – because nobody, anywhere, teaches such a course. Whether grade school, high school, or beyond, NOBODY thought it was important to teach us how to interact. NOBODY thought it was important enough to teach us interpersonal skills – how to get people to like us, how to get them to see us the way we want to be seen, how to manage our relationships.Apparently they just assumed that we are either born with “people skills” – or we weren’t!

People Skills 101 offers an elegantly simple and completely unique solution. It works, whether you are a shy and reserved introvert, a bubbly and outgoing extrovert, or anywhere in between. Simply choose any three of the twenty-one “Golden Rules” offered in the book, begin to use them faithfully, and watch the results with awe. You will be amazed how a few, subtle changes will quickly craft a new, more influential, more charismatic, more likeable, YOU!



Book Excerpt:

How to INSTANTLY Become More Likeable

“Share your smile with the world. It’s a symbol of friendship and peace.” 
(Christie Brinkley, American model, actress, and businesswoman, 1954- )

Legend has it that “Connie” (her real name – she’d be pleased to know that I’m sharing her story) came out of the womb with a smile on her face. I wasn’t on this earth at the time, so I don’t know that for sure. I only knew her for the last two thirds of her many years. So let me share what I do know about her. She was born in the Midwest United States, of hard-working middle-class parents who were not far removed from European immigrants. She had a happy childhood. In the middle of World War II, as a young adult, she married Don. They were together nearly sixty years – by all accounts a very happy union.


(See Author Interviews)

Tony Smyth, author of: FUKUSHIMA and the coming TOKYO EARTHQUAKE

Tony Smyth is an ex-pat from Ireland who has lived in Japan for almost forty years. He lives in a city that is facing an earthquake that could be devastating. Tony talks about why he stays, what the Japanese culture is like for him, and what he believes citizens of the world are urgently in need of. Tony is a writer who does thorough research and presents his findings in an easy-to-understand manner. His book is an amazing read!



Volk's Biography:

Douglas Volk is a veteran corporate executive who also writes dark thrillers that are “hard to put down” (Maine Sunday Telegram). The author of The Morpheus Conspiracy and two more forthcoming novels in The Morpheus Series, he also serves as CEO of the award-winning Volk Packaging Corporation. 

One of the most interesting things about Volk’s approach to novel writing is the way he uses the tools of business to build his thrillers from the ground up. After assembling a team of specialists with firsthand knowledge of sleep science, crime scene forensics, psychiatry and law enforcement homicide investigation techniques, he taps into the team’s expertise throughout the writing and editing process in each of his books.

Thanks to this “team approach,” his paranormal crime thrillers have often been praised for their credibility and convincingly realistic detail.

Volk’s novels also frequently include another of his major concerns: the painful and deeply disturbing impact of the “betrayal” of U.S. soldiers who fought in Vietnam by their own government. As a U.S. Army veteran himself, he’s passionately committed to telling stories about that tragic betrayal whenever he can.

Douglas Volk lives in Maine with his wife of more than 45 years. They have two adult children and five grandchildren.

Says the hardworking author, who’s also published datelined news stories on Cuba and Rwanda for the Boston Globe and Portland (ME) Press Herald in recent years: “I learned a long time ago that success depends on getting all the input you can from other people—and then pushing your own creativity “to the max.”

Link to The Morpheus Conspiracy:



Richard Dolphin is a writer and lecturer: based in rural England. His enthusiasms include steam locomotives and drinking real ale in proper English pubs. When not restoring his ancient house he can be found reading political biography, chopping down trees, pointing walls, taking his much loved Old English sheepdog for walks and, in season, plucking pheasants.

 Book Review by Surfs Up Bookshelves, ShelbLondyn-Heath:

"Richard Dolphin is a natural story-teller who writes about his early upbringing in old England. He reveals the cozy days of living with loving parents before the evolution of internet, video games, and jet-hopping, when people attended church and neighbors helped each other. This book is a hero's journey, a travel through time, risk-taking adventures into a new world, seeking and finding new shores and new friends, and returning home a bolder and better person." Book Review by Shelby Londyn-Heath


Somewhere around 1950 there was a fire in the Congregational church. I can recall my father and I visiting the scene the morning after the event. I can still smell that awful charred aroma that follows a fire. I have no recollection of what caused it ~~ or where services were held in the meanwhile. But I do remember attending a Christmas party in the church hall and desperately wanting to get outside to see Father Christmas arriving (presumably on a sledge pulled by real live reindeer) to hand out presents. Mr Shattock was a local farmer. I was at school with his daughter Elizabeth and he used to invite me to children’s parties at his farm. It is not very long ago that he died. I still buy goose eggs from a girl who learned to farm under his wings in the early 1960s: and who saw the Beatles at the Gaumont in Taunton. (One of Somerset’s very few excitements).

My father had a perception of himself as an important man: and, of course, we lived in the manse. I can remember a horse drawn milk cart delivering bottles to nearby houses. Further I recall asking my father what people were doing handing out pieces of paper on the street. There was a general election. He explained they were canvassing: Clement Attlee was running for re-election.

My mother - the single most inspiring human being that I have ever known - used to take me to a milk bar in Bridgwater. We sat on stools and drank (presumably milk). She also took me to dancing classes in the town. I remember running to her screaming; asking her to rescue me from this dreadful punishment. Presumably this was a precursor to my many failed attempts to learn to dance. I do wish that she had persevered.

FUKUSHIMA and the coming

This is a well-researched and documented book about how nuclear plants came to be built along catastrophic fault lines in Japan. It tells what happened when a tidal wave hit the Fukushima nuclear plant area in 2011 and what will most likely happen when a massive earthquake hits Tokyo in the future.

Link to book:

Links to Tales of Tokyo:


by Surfs Up Bookshelves

The Mindset Accountability Journal by Allie Hudson is a hands-on journal with daily assignments leading to readers developing an attitude of gratitude and individual success. The best part of the journal is the author’s words of support and positive feedback throughout the book. She models the practice of self-praise for those working in the journal and self-forgiveness when their unexpected lapses may occur. She keeps everything simple and consistent, refusing to overwhelm her readers with a glut of journal headings and unnecessary lists.

This journal is filled with inspirational sayings by the world’s best philosophers, inventors, writers and humanistic leaders. The one thing that deters from the journal is the sexist language in many of the sayings:  i.e. “mankind” instead of humankind, “man” instead of people. Granted, some of the sayings are from previous generations, but for readers from today’s cultures based on equal gender opportunities, these sayings appear stale. It would be more compelling to have modern sayings or better yet, sayings of inspiration from the author herself.

However, this is a good-looking journal, written by a writer who cares about the happiness and well-being of her readers. The beauty of this book is the genuine enthusiasm and positive attitude emanating from  the author.  Her signature of caring, her profound belief in the potential of her readers, and the sense of dignity in her writing will certainly lead readers to personal success if they follow this attractive and well-laid- out journal for forty days.

Allie Hudson Contact Information


 This book shows you how to be the best you can be!

Success, motivational, inspirational, self help, entrepreneurship, health/wellness, personal development
Date Published: November 26th, 2018.

Read FREE with Kindle Unlimited!

Amir Rad has moved to the top of the fitness industry with an approach that’s about much more than muscle. In Live to Thrive, he delivers his methods of attaining success from an entrepreneurial perspective, as a master personal trainer, and a competitive athlete. What is success? How is it related to health and fitness? How does a powerful mindset lead to success? Most important, Amir teaches readers HOW to get ready to succeed physically and mentally, and then maintain that level. Using stories and examples from his own life and those of his clients, Amir picks out the elements of a thriving life and spells just what it will take to get there yourself. Amir Rad is an entrepreneur, health and fitness expert, and a motivator. He started his first business, Thrive Fitness, in Ann Arbor, MI when he was 22 years old. As a competitor and personal trainer, Rad is most passionate about helping people reach their full potential and conquering their goals. He says, “Every individual, regardless of their athletic ability, age, or skill level, deserves to obtain the highest quality of life.” In other words, they deserve to thrive. Rad lives to thrive, and his goal is to help as many people as possible to learn to do the same. 

Author: Leslie Wolfe

What is Las Vegas Crime about? 

A detective’s worst nightmare comes true when his daughter is daringly kidnapped from her school, minutes after being dropped off, a frenzied search begins, involving the entire police force of a city that never sleeps. But for Detectives Baxter and Holt this isn’t a crime like any other; it is personal.

This team of Las Vegas detectives trust each other with their lives, only not with their deepest, darkest secrets. Together, they frantically search for the missing teenager, while all the leads take them to a serial killer’s gruesome killing fields.

What would readers remember after they finish reading the book?

There’s a hidden side to every one of us, a part that only we know about, that’s important to us, and that we wish to keep a secret. That hidden side of us is what makes us who we are, what makes us great at what we do. And that hidden side of us is what we, on rare occasions, allow into the open as a sacrifice needed to help those we care the most about.

Your writing style is fast, filled with dialogue, almost at the expense of description and narratives. Why is that?

This is how human beings interact, especially when under pressure or stress. We stop paying attention to our surroundings, and focus on the task at hand. People interact with one another, talk to one another, and have feelings for one another and for everything we do. That’s what I’m focused on, rather than specifying each article of clothing someone wears, or the color of the flower vase in an office somewhere. This technique isn’t necessarily good or bad; just somewhat different from mainstream.

What’s the biggest compliment you received from a fan?

It’s when readers tell me they stay up all night to finish the book, because they couldn’t put it down. That’s music to my ears  Like any other artist and entertainer, I thrive knowing that I deliver that escape into the fictional world in a grasping, addictive, and memorable way.

You mentioned science, technology, psychology. How do you keep it real?

I do extensive amounts of research for my work, and I’m fascinated by what I have the opportunity to learn. Additionally, sections of my books go through a process of validation at the hands of several fantastic partners who are law enforcement officers, attorneys, scientists, doctors in medicine. In Dawn Girl, for example, there are sections that speak about using certain plant extracts and animal venoms to achieve certain goals. Despite the extensive research, my hands were shaking a little as I wrote them, metaphorically speaking, and I was relieved when my research “passed scientific review.”

In the entire Las Vegas Crime Series, I had the privilege to enjoy the assistance of three fantastic friends: New York’s best criminal attorney, an expert in casino gambling who spent his entire career in Las Vegas, and the most talented fashion director I’ve ever met. I’m grateful to all of them for lending me their edge.

Do you do any book signings, interviews, speaking and personal appearances? If so, when and where is the next place where your readers can see you? Where can they keep up with your personal contacts online?

Apart from social media and email interactions, I’m a veritable recluse. Email is the best and quickest way to reach me, and I was fortunate to build true friendships with readers over email. The majority of my readers ask me when’s the next book coming out, not when I’m getting out of the house, so I get the hint and keep on writing.

Is Las Vegas Crime going to be continued?

This book is the third in the Las Vegas Crime Series, and I left room for a sequel, if the public will demand it. So far, this series has been very well received by the readers, and my fans have been adamant: they want more.

Book Excerpt:

Silent Screams

She struggled to control her sobs but failed miserably. With every mile the man drove into the dark desert, her fear grew, panic overtaking her sense of reason, making it impossible for her to sit still and be quiet like the man had ordered.
“No, please,” she whimpered, “I’ll disappear. I won’t say a word to anyone. I swear,” she added in a high-pitched plea, her voice trembling badly.
She stared through a blur of tears at the man’s intense eyes, reflected in the rearview mirror. He rarely looked at her, not even when he spoke to her, but when he did, his eyes were icecold, feral.
She couldn’t tell how long they’d been on the road, or how far away from the city they’d traveled. Far enough for darkness to engulf the dazzling lights of Las Vegas, left behind at their brightest and now gone from view. Far enough to know that no matter how loud she’d scream, no one would hear her desperate cries for help. She sat silently, petrified, unable to fight anymore, knowing what Homeboy did to those who disobeyed him.
They had entered the desolate vastness of the Mojave Desert, cold and bleak at night.
Her breath shattered as raw memories swirled in her head, repeating over and over like a broken record.
“Get rid of her,” that terrible man had said, “this bitch ain’t good for nothin’.” The one they called Snowman had curled his lip in disgust and ran his fingers across his throat in a clear gesture, sealing her fate.
She was to be killed.
She remembered how her knees gave and she folded onto the cold, grimy floor, half-naked and barefoot, shaking, sobbing uncontrollably, while the other man, a brute she got to know only as Homeboy, smiled and licked his lips. Then he’d grabbed her arm and dragged her out of that place, mumbling, “Sure, boss, whatever you say.”
She’d seen that look on Homeboy’s face before. 

About the Author

Leslie Wolfe is a bestselling author whose novels break the mold of traditional thrillers. She creates unforgettable, brilliant, strong women heroes who deliver fast-paced, satisfying suspense, backed up by extensive background research in technology and psychology.
Leslie released the first novel, Executive, in October 2011. It was very well received, including inquiries from Hollywood. Since then, Leslie published numerous novels and enjoyed growing success and recognition in the marketplace. Among Leslie’s most notable works, The Watson Girl (2017) was recognized for offering a unique insight into the mind of a serial killer and a rarely seen first person account of his actions, in a dramatic and intense procedural thriller.
A complete list of Leslie’s titles is available at
Leslie enjoys engaging with readers every day and would love to hear from you.

  Sascha Akhtar and John Alexander Arnold

Illustrated Cards of Poetry and Design

Sample of Sascha's Poetry

I have misplaced the memory
of you morning stars,
a journey that began with one
becomes two & multiples.

Herons are born, flamingos are born
tapirs are born & born
we are, displaced
on this planet, cupping
water in our hands to wash
these many faces growing
wildly outside the hot-house

where the prize orchids
are tended.

To see cards:

More about Sascha:

Sascha Aurora Akhtar originates from Pakistan, and was educated there and in the USA. Her debut poetry collection, The Grimoire of Grimalkin, was published in 2007 and greeted as “a contemporary masterpiece”, with the British newspaper The Guardian naming Akhtar one of the top twelve poets to watch. 

Her most recent poetry collection is 199 Japanese Names for Japanese Trees. She is currently working on book of translations of the work of the first female pilot(and a fiction writer) in the Subcontinent Hijjab Imtiaz on Oxford University Press 2019. 

She also works as a freelance editor & Healer using therapeutic meditation practices at Be meditation. In 2019, she will teach a workshop at The Poetry School entitled Technicians of The Sacred: The Poem As A Magical Event, March 16, 2019. Her fiction has appeared in Storgy, The Learned Pig, Tears In The Fence, BlazeVox and Anti-Heroin Chic. Her chapbook The Whimsy of Dank Ju-Ju is forthcoming in 2019 on Emma Press.

The illustrator:

John Alexander Arnold connects with the Earth’s elements through daily practices in organic horticulture, wild crafting & mandalic composition, from which his art is derived. He lives and practices in Portland, Oregon. 


by Snowball

The Harrowing 1960-80s Childcare System Revealed in Painful, Honest Book. LONDON, NOVEMBER 15, 2018 - A book about the harrowing, personal and first-hand experiences of the 1960-80s childcare system is today released.

The book highlights the brutally horrific system, that made countless victims of the very children it was designed to protect. These brutally horrific regimes, founded upon extraordinary levels of inhumanity, cruelty, violence, fear, and intimidation, brought children to their knees, brutalised, cowed and often in fear for their very existence.

It was a stark, depressive, and oppressively dysfunctional system, that imposed perpetual physical suffering and mental hardship, upon its most vulnerable charges. It was a pernicious cycle of ritualised systematic abuse, inflicted on some of the most vulnerable children society could offer up.

“The book was written and designed to shed light on the abuses of the past  , put the ​ present into context, and inform the delivery of care in the ​ future ​​ .

​ ” Snowball.. This was the environment that the ‘Unfortunates’ found themselves embedded in during the 1960s. It was a system that lacked care, thought, and all things humane. A system where the imposition of brutal physical and sexual abuse had become normalised, legitimised, embraced and ultimately, forcefully accepted. This was life in a local authority home.

These were the homes of ‘the Damned’, where a catalogue of daily horrors were inflicted for the personal pleasure of those charged with the care of this hidden, and often forgotten, sub-culture of children who, through no fault of their own, were forced to embrace these traumas, and endure a fight for their very survival.

"[This book] will be of one of the most emotional journeys you will ever take with a child who survives unbelievable childhood adversity. At times it is almost too painful to witness, it truly is a tribute to the child and the man who wrote it."

​  Amanda Knowles.

About Snowball 

A well-travelled, intelligent, self-employed purveyor of life. Snowball a former soldier and firefighter, survived the hardships, rigours and brutality of 1960-1970s childcare, to become a successful, respected member of the very society that had so brutally rejected him. Dedicated to the protection of children in the childcare system, snowball has now embarked on speaking engagements around the country, in order to ensure that the lessons of the past, are used to inform the practices of the future. An inspirational, humorous and often witty character, snowball brings a radiant light into the darkest areas of historical abuse within the childcare system.


It was in that most romantic of places, the work canteen, that Robert lost his heart and gained his latest addiction.

For someone who had been dead to the world for such a long time, it came as a surprise to him just how quickly he became obsessed with the new girl, sat one table away from him and giggling with her two girlfriends over their mobile phones.

Not that he was aware of her being new, merely that he was certain he would have remembered seeing her before. She was, to be honest, quite alien in appearance. Skin so white, it appeared translucent – Robert could almost see the shadow of her bones beneath it. She was as thin as a stick, and her hair was frankly bizarre. Short, choppy and blonde (natural as far as he could tell), with orange streaks (not natural) throughout. You might call it experimental, if you were being kind.

He wondered what was so amusing, that they could barely be bothered to pick at the salads in front of them. Robert looked at his own plate – gammon and chips, washed down with the fourth coffee of the day. He didn’t often stop for lunch, especially not here in the work canteen. If he had to take important clients anywhere, it would normally be the Bank Westminster. Otherwise, he sent Shirley out for a bagel.

The blonde girl suddenly looked up, directly across from him. A smile still lingered on her thin, fragile-looking face, and he noticed how large and porcelain-white her eyes were. Utterly tranquil, she appeared ready to accept whatever he or life could throw at her. Robert was almost prepared to smile back, when she blinked and turned to her friends. He realised she had been looking straight through him.

He pushed his plate away, no longer hungry. To exit the canteen, he had to pass their table. As he did so, the girl brushed a hand through her blonde-orange mop, making it stick up even more. He didn’t know why, but Robert found her movement incredibly sexy and liberating. Perhaps because it was so confident yet unconscious, so unheeding of fashion, that it made tousled ginger hair a fashion statement in itself.

Author biography:

Nicola Niemc began writing Tangerine Seventeen in her early twenties, along with a now-abandoned tale of time-travel and sorcery (maybe, one day...). She was encouraged to continue Tangerine by a few select individuals in the office she worked in before the idea behind Addicted to Love began to take root.

She has now returned to her first love of medieval-style sorcery, with a dash of forbidden romance thrown in. Visit her website,, for more clues as to where this may yet lead...

Influences: David Bowie, for making it o,k, to be freaky. Robert Palmer – the inspiration behind ‘Addicted’, and the one who has given me unrealistic expectations of what a gentleman should be like. Richard Brautigan, for glass coffins, watermelon sugar and the freedom to write crazy, if that’s what your mind is telling you to. Do I have a hunch about what I’m talking about? No, it’s just the way my coats rides up at the back.


 website and social media links:

author:  k. kris loomis

Book excerpt:

Danny drove me to McClureville the Sunday before Leopold Beckenbauer was murdered. He didn’t have to do it, what with me asking for a separation and all, but he’s always been kind like that. He really does deserve someone better than me.

Asheville was thick with fog when we left that morning, and I felt as if the opaqueness were wafting into my brain, making me dull-headed. Luckily, Danny didn’t say much until we crossed over into South Carolina, but when he did speak he trod over the same ground we had been covering for the past month. I watched as the trenches got deeper.

“Claire. I don’t want this. You know that, right?”

An eighteen-wheeler whizzed past. What could I say that I hadn’t already said? 

About the Author

USA Today best-selling author Sheila Roberts has seen over fifty books, both fiction and non-fiction in print. Her novels have appeared in many different languages and been made into movies for both the Lifetime and Hallmark Channels. She writes about things near and dear to women’s hearts – love, 

Her latest book is the women’s fiction, Winter at the Beach.

About the Book:


Author: Sheila Roberts 

Publisher: Harlequin/Mira

Pages: 384


Jenna Jones, manager of the Driftwood Inn, a vintage motel in the Washington beach town of Moonlight Harbor, is convinced that a winter festival would be a great way to draw visitors (and tourist business) to town during those off-season months. Everyone in the local chamber of commerce is on board with her Seaside with Santa festival idea except one naysayer, local sour lemon, Susan Frank, who owns a women’s clothing boutique in town. The beach gets hit with storms in the winter, no one will come, too close to Christmas. Blah, blah. What does Susan know?

It turns out that Susan knows a lot. A big storm hits during the weekend of the festival, wreaking havoc with the parade and producing power outages all over town. Including at the Driftwood Inn.

Jenna finds herself with a motel filled with people, all with no power. What to do? Enlist the help of friends, of course. Her friends take in many of the stranded visitors, and Jenna and her Aunt Edie take in the others, stuffing them into Aunt Edie’s house next door to the Driftwood.

All the guests come with their own unique stories. The last thing Taylor Marsh wanted was a getaway with her husband. His refusal to give up on his dying business is taking them down financially and killing their marriage. But her sister Sarah (she who has her financial act together and never lets her sister forget it) insists this will be fun for both their families. It will only be fun for Taylor if her husband gets eaten by a giant squid. Then there’s Darrel Wilson, who planned the perfect anniversary getaway for his wife, who’s been undergoing chemo. So much for the perfect anniversary. And the sisters, Lisa and Karen, who can’t seem to go on a sister outing without it turning into a Lucy and Ethel adventure. Unlikely roommates, all of them. But perhaps each one has a valuable lesson to share with the others. And perhaps, what looked like a disaster will prove to be the best holiday adventure of all. 



Book Excerpt:

Jenna Jones, who manages a vintage motel, the Driftwood Inn, is sure her idea for a holiday festival will bring business to her Washington coast beach town of Moonlight Harbor. Let’s see how her proposal goes over with the Moonlight Harbor Chamber of Commerce…

“Okay, that takes care of old business,” Brody said. “Now, I think Jenna has some new business.”

Oh, boy. She could hardly wait to see what Susan would have to say about this.

She cleared her throat. “Actually, I have a suggestion for a way to bring down more visitors during our slow time.”

“We’re all for that,” said Patricia Whiteside.

Susan clamped her thin lips together and gave Jenna a look that dared her, the newbie, to come up with something.

Jenna’s nervous twitch put in an appearance. Don’t blink. She blinked one last time and cleared her throat again. “Well, I was just thinking about other towns I’ve visited in the past and one that came to mind was Icicle Falls.”

Susan rolled her eyes. “The cheesy German town.”

“A lot of people find it charming,” Jenna said. “It’s awfully pretty, and they’ve done a great job of making themselves as authentic as possible. They always have something going to get people up there. In fact, I did some research online. They have festivals all year long, including a chocolate festival. Their tree-lighting ceremonies on the weekends in December bring in thou- sands of people.”

“So, are you proposing we have a tree-lighting ceremony?” Susan mocked.

“No, but I am proposing we have a holiday festival.”

“We just had a festival in August in case you forgot,” Susan said snidely.

What was with this woman anyway? The town had done a good deed by putting on a festival to help Jenna raise money to restore the Driftwood after she experienced a financial setback. It had been such a success that the chamber had decided to make the Blue Moon Festival a tradition, with proceeds going to help other businesses in town in need of assistance. Jenna had benefited and other local businesses would as well, and Susan resented it? She was a crab in the pot. If she couldn’t succeed, she didn’t want anyone else to, either. And everyone knew her shop wasn’t doing that well, especially now that Courtney was selling her own designs over at the Oyster Inn.

Well, pooh on her. Jenna handed papers to both Tyrella and Brody to start passing around the table.

“People love festivals. Remember how many came down for the Blue Moon one?”

“That was in the summer,” Susan reminded her.

“I know. But people also love holiday festivals. We’re looking for ways to get visitors down here in the winter. Why not put together a giant holiday party in Moonlight Harbor?”

Patricia Whiteside was reading Jenna’s handout. “Seaside with Santa, that’s cute. And I like all the suggestions you’ve made for activities. I really like the idea of making use of the pier.”

“The weekend before Christmas?” Susan objected, frowning at her handout. “Who’s going to want to come to something then? People will be getting ready to go see family, and they’ll be finishing up their shopping.”

“Why shouldn’t they finish it here?” Jenna argued. “We have all kinds of cute shops. We have great places for them to stay while they shop and plenty of restau- rants where they can eat. They may even want to stay here for the holidays. All we need is an event to lure them down. A festival could do it. And who doesn’t like a parade? Look how many people turn out for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.”

“Look at the floats they have in that parade,” Susan countered. “What sort of floats would we be able to put together down here?”

“Okay, maybe not the most impressive parade ever,” Jenna admitted, “but I bet we could come up with some- thing.”

“I could get some of my employees to dress up as mermaids,” said Kiki, “and stick ’em on a flatbed truck strung with fake seaweed.” She grinned, clearly taken with her idea.

“We need more for our Moonlight Harbor Queen and her princesses to do,” put in Nora. “They love riding in those old convertibles. You’ll let us use your vintage Caddy, right, Ellis?”

“Well...” Ellis hesitated. “If it rains...”

“Which it probably will,” said Susan. “Come on, people, be practical. You know what it’s like down here in the winter, all wind and rain.”

Patricia pooh-poohed that objection. “We’ve survived plenty of storms.”

“Well, I think it’s a bad idea,” Susan said, scowling across the table at Jenna.

Maybe it was. Jenna’s left eye began to twitch.

“I think it sounds great,” said Elizabeth MacDowell. She and her twin sister, K.J., were new members of the chamber. They’d opened their arts and crafts store, Crafty Just Cuz, in September, and it was already one of Jenna’s favorite places to hang out.

“We do need more business in the winter,” said Cindy Redmond. “There’s no getting around it. And doing something for the holidays could be fun. I say we give it a try,” she added, and Jenna’s eye stopped twitching.

“We’d have to get moving right away,” Nora said, pulling another sheet of paper from her yellow tablet. “Who can help?”

“I can,” said Ellis.

“Me, too,” Brody said, smiling at Jenna. “Jenna, it’s your idea. You’ll have to chair the committee.”

“Me?” she squeaked. Not that she couldn’t take charge. She was a firstborn, and Responsibility was her middle name. (Although her sister, Celeste, would probably argue that her middle name was Bossy.) She didn’t have a problem with rolling up her sleeves and getting to work, but she also didn’t want to offend old- timers like Susan Frank. “I’m sure someone else...” she began.

“Your idea, you have to do it,” Susan goaded.

Jenna raised her chin. “I can do it.” She’d survived rehabbing the Driftwood Inn. How much harder could it be to organize a festival?

In three months. Blink. Blink, blink, blink.

“Do I have a motion that we sponsor a Seaside with Santa Festival for the weekend before Christmas?” Brody asked.

“So moved,” said Ellis. “I’m with you, kid,” he told Jenna.

“I’ll second,” Nora said and reached across the back of Tyrella’s chair to give Jenna’s shoulder an encouraging pat.

“All in favor?” Brody asked.
“Aye,” chorused almost everyone.
“Nay,” Susan Frank said. “I’m telling you all, this is a bad idea. Make sure you put that in the minutes,” she told Cindy.

“Motion carries,” said Brody. He smiled down at Jenna. “Looks like we’re going to be putting on a holiday bash.”

“Holiday disaster,” Susan grumbled from her side of the table.

What did Susan know? Blink, blink, blink.

Link to the book on Amazon:  

book excerpt:

 Before long, the storms were right in front of us.  I scanned the radar to find the path of least resistance through the line.  As we entered the weather, the turbulence started to kick up, and heavy rain began to hammer the plane.  I tightened my lap belt and turned up the cockpit lights to drown out the lightning.  The plane got tossed around like a rag doll as the updrafts and downdrafts took us.  
     “Ask for a block altitude,” I told Chip.  This would allow us to ride the waves through the storm easier without having to maintain a constant altitude.  Chip didn’t say a word.  “Chip, you hear me?” I yelled.  I looked over and realized he was catatonic.  He sat there in his seat, staring straight ahead like he was looking into the face of a ghost.  
     I got the block altitude myself.  It seems like no matter who I fly with I always get stuck doing all the work.  
     Damn worthless copilots!  
     The lightning flashed as bright as daylight all around us as I continued to fight the storm.  The lights in the rear cargo area flickered on and off as the boxes bounced around back there hitting the light switch.  I watched our airspeed as it fluctuated wildly up and down, continually making power adjustments to keep the plane within tolerances.  Saint Elmo’s fire crept up the windscreen, and the radios blared with static interference.  
     That’s when I smelled the s***, literally.  Chip had s*** himself.
     The weather was over before long as we punched out the backside of the line but the s*** smell stayed for the rest of the night.  What was worse was that, when Chip came out of his catatonic state and started speaking to air traffic control again, he started crying on the radio, saying things like “Tell my parents I love them,” and “I’m too young to die.”  
     “Will you calm down?” I said. “You’re spilling your placenta all over the radio.”  
     I had to pull his headset cords out of the mic jacks to save us from further embarrassment.

Synopsis of The Summer Abroad

Late May, 2013. Follow three musicians fresh out of college, as they backpack across a panoply of Europe's finest cities--getting drunk, enlightened, beside themselves in ecstasy, or utterly lost along the way. In short, a trip unlike any other.

Through a lens of pop-culture, borrowed song lyrics, and a dual Argentine-American heritage, the reader discovers Mikaíl Fantasma, bassist and singer of the trio, in Austin, Texas, where our coming of age story begins.

Close to graduation, a drug-induced epiphany incites the boys to purchase one-way tickets to Amsterdam. It becomes clear early on that easily available distractions have always encouraged them to ignore the real life issues that loom overhead: where to find a job, how to settle down, why grow up at all.

Once overseas, they roam with distinguished randomness from city to city, by train, by bike, by boat, even hitch-hiking. After Amsterdam comes Brussels, then Paris, Milan, Prague, Berlin. Each city becomes a unique opportunity for the boys to test a new drug, get sick, enjoy casual sex, reject others' concept of "the American abroad," or play to the expectation. For the first half of the summer, we are charmed by the narrator and his friends, their love stories, and ratty accommodations.

In the second half of the adventure, however, their high becomes their downfall. Unchecked naiveté, too much bickering and pettiness, drive the group members apart. One manages to return to Austin, but another disappears, while the third heads off to a mountain in Catalunya, where he prays to find himself at last.

The Summer Abroad (or, in Spanish, El viaje de egresados), is a sonic adventure - at times fast and delirious - that explores the frontiers of language and a new American identity, one which is multilingual, multicultural, and, as the story puts it, "multiconfundido." 

Author Bio:

Iván Brave lives in New York, where he writes poetry, reviews and novels, as well as teaching English to both local and international students.

He is a graduate of The New School, earning his Master in Fine Arts for Creative Writing in 2018, after completing a Bachelor’s degree in Philosophy from The University of Texas at Austin.
Texan by birth, Argentine by blood, and Brooklynite by residence, his work explores a range of topics that draw from his eclectic background and from his extensive travels around the world.
Language and Multiculturalism—with a focus on origins, family and love—are the themes currently dearest to his heart.
In addition to winning prizes, such as the Writing Award from The Vera List Center for Arts and Politics, his writings have appeared in literary magazines like : "The American Scholar" and "The Acentos Review." Iván has recently published his debut novel, The Summer Abroad, out on November 16, 2018. 


poetry by a stretcher bearer WWI

Discovered by chance almost 100 years since it was written, the original “Field Dressings by Stretcher Bearer” manuscript contains the poems of Alick Lewis Ellis, a stretcher bearer of the 2/3rd London Field Ambulance, 54th Division, London Regiment. During more than 3 years of active service on the Western Front in World War 1 his first-hand experience of the horrors of battle at Gommecourt, The Somme, Arras, Ypres and Cambrai, led him to produce a series of compelling poems that will trigger an entire spectrum of emotions in the reader. While many poems reflect the sadness and pain that comes from witnessing so much death and futile suffering, Alick’s work shows he remained full of admiration for his fellow soldiers. In others, the gallows humour of the trenches will make the reader smile at times, while the hope and optimism of his few post war poems will be tinged with the sadness our historical knowledge allows.

Title:                                    Ineke's Mitten. Tragedy and Triumph in World War II
Publisher:                           Show and Tell                                                        
Author:                                Charles McNamara
ASIN:                                   B01MV2YOH7             
Publishing date:                 February 7, 2017

Please see "My Story" page on the website.

Ineke led the way into the blue polar twilight of the East Meadow. They glided in and out of aspen groves and over rolling open meadows, casting long shadows across sparkling, untouched snow. As they stopped to rest, Nels kissed her cheek. “Ooh, you taste delightfully salty tonight.”
“Yes and we'll both be good and salty by the time we reach the cabin at the pace we're going,” she said, smacking his butt with her ski pole.
“Then we won't have to wait for the old smoky stove to heat our bed,” Nels replied, tapping her butt with his pole.
“We never do.”
Nels held Ineke's mitten-covered hand to his cheek. “You're more beautiful than I've ever seen you. My heart is pounding,” he whispered. “Is that because I'm touching you?”
“I hope so.”
“When we're married, will we still come here to the cabin?”
“It's where we first made love,” Ineke replied.
“You made me tremble that night. I've trembled since we first held hands. I even tremble when we're apart.”
“Well, then you can never leave me,” Ineke said.
As they stopped to rest, Nels kissed her cheek. “Ooh, you taste delightfully salty tonight.”
“Yes and we'll both be good and salty by the time we reach the cabin at the pace we're going,” she said, smacking his butt with her ski pole.
“Then we won't have to wait for the old smoky stove to heat our bed,” Nels replied, tapping her butt with his pole.
“We never do.”
Nels held Ineke's mitten-covered hand to his cheek. “You're more beautiful than I've ever seen you. My heart is pounding,” he whispered. “Is that because I'm touching you?”
“I hope so.”
“When we're married, will we still come here to the cabin?”
“It's where we first made love,” Ineke replied.
Ineke took a deep breath and looked at the stars. Nels was mesmerized by the gentle patterns of moonlight illuminating her golden hair.
Behind them, the sliding metallic schlick-schlink of a rifle bolt closing pierced the silence. Ineke grabbed Nels to steady herself. They stood motionless, holding their breath. Then she gasped, “Oh my God, the Germans followed us.”
Nels pushed her forward. “Hurry.” His pulse raced and terror pounded in his throat. A rifle shot thundered behind them and threw up a puff of snow in front of them. Ducking, Nels’s panic overcame him, making his brain freeze.
Silence surrounded them as if everything around them was collectively holding its breath.
An instant before Nels heard the next shot, Ineke groaned and collapsed into the snow.
Nels looked back at the three charging white-clad soldiers and tried to help her back on her skis, but she hung from his grasp like a limp rag doll swinging by one arm. As she slid back into the snow, one of her mittens came off in his hand.
He gasped at the wet red stain in the middle of her back. His head began to spin and his limbs felt too weak to move.
Holding her bare hand to his chest, he squeezed it trying to revive her. Ineke’s radiant touch had gone cold. “Don’t leave me,” he howled like a blizzard blowing through his soul.
In that eternal second, he felt her presence, remembering
their last kiss. His mind struggled to stay in that moment, to keep her close. Another rifle shot jerked him back to reality.  Nels stuffed her mitten inside his jacket and jumped back on his skis. Anger flared his nostrils. Another bullet landed next to him. Panic pushed him to leave her side. His brain screamed for him to go back, but his skis kept pushing him forward. Distance from the bloodthirsty Germans was all that mattered.

Charles McNamara

Author Emily Rose


For Miles Conrad, moving to Hampton, Georgia was a way to escape the darkness of his past.
Working as a bartender, he has family and the simple life he never had before.
But sometimes, the past doesn't want to stay where it belongs, especially when it comes to Reanna “Ray” Adams. She’s the girl he could never have. The girl he could only dream of having, yet the same girl who could get under his skin like nothing else.
And it seems that no matter how far he can run from everything that is Ray, it’ll never be far enough.
But things aren’t the same.
He has changed.
In a lot of ways.
All it takes is one moment.
One twisted second…
To shatter everything.

I could hear the bass of the music inside and it blared each time the door opened. Twisted was supposed to be one of the busiest bars around, but it wasn’t until we arrived that I believed it. The line was long, but lucky for us, we got there early so we were near the door.
A man stood with his arms crossed in front of the door. He was tall and built like a MMA fighter. His hair was buzzed and he wore a simple T-shirt with “Twisted” written across it in purple writing. I saw the dozens of tattoos he had on his arms, their colors a mix of blues, greens, and some other colors.
Just in the short time we’d been standing in line, I had seen four guys get thrown out and one had screamed cuss words at whoever had kicked him out, trying to get past the brick of a man who stood in front of the door.
“I’m so excited!” Danny cried.
I wasn’t so sure about that. It might be my nineteenth birthday and my first year of college, but I wasn’t fond of what I’d seen. Danny had managed to get us some fake ID’s before coming here since neither of us was of age, her being only a year older than me, and I could only hope they worked. Especially after standing in line for two hours. We moved up as the dude lets another rowdy crowd inside.
He eyed us and that’s when I noticed he had the greenest eyes I’d ever seen on a person, the color striking against his tan skin. He smirked like he already knew we weren’t twenty-one.
“ID’s?” he asked.
I handed him the thin plastic. He checked it over a few moments and then handed it back before he opened the door for me. I breathed a sigh of relief and waited for Danny at the door.
“Have a good time,” he said.
She smiled and then walked past him. If I thought it was loud outside, it was nothing compared to inside. The music blared and the bar was so packed that you could only stand. “So High” by Wiz Khalifa filled the space and smoke lingered in the air.
Danny grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd toward the bar. A girl not much older than us was throwing and filling shots like a pro. She had a few tattoos as well and her black hair was cut into a short bob with blonde tips. She also had a small metal lip ring and there was a tiny diamond in her nose.
“Wow. I didn’t think this place would be this packed,” Danny yelled over the music.
I nodded. “No kidding.”
I had known Danny and her older brother, Owen, since high school. They’d become family over the years. It wasn’t until my father was killed by a drunk driver and my mother thought drugs were the only answer that I began basically living at their house.
Over the years, Owen began taking an interest in me and we had decided to take our friendship to the next level. Danny hadn’t been upset about it and told me that she had expected it to happen one of these days.
While I’d been glad to get away from my hometown and all the shit I had there, it was hard to leave Owen behind, but we promised each other to make it work. I just hoped the eight-hour distance between us didn’t affect our relationship.
“What can I get you ladies?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll take a whiskey sour,” Danny answered.
“Bud Light for me.”
She eyed us. “Can I see your ID’s?”
We handed her our ID’s and she examined them for a few minutes before looking up to meet our eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
My heart skipped a beat as she headed down the bar. I looked at Danny, but she only shrugged.
“I don’t see how she would notice,” she said.
“What are you going to do if she figures it out?”
“I guess we won’t be drinking. Maybe even get kicked out,” she answered.
I glared at her. “Not helping.”
She cracked up. She never took anything serious.
At least, not since her ex-boyfriend, Brody Weston, aka douche hole.
The song switched to “Black and Yellow” by Wiz Khalifa and Danny began singing along with the lyrics. Not even remotely worried.
“These two…” I heard the bartender’s voice and turned back to face her.
Our eyes met at the same moment. Years of harsh memories flashed through me and my lungs locked up. Even though he was no longer the tall and skinny guy he’d been in school, it was him. He still had the inky black hair, except it was a shorter, messier cut rather than the shaggy look he’d wore then.
But his eyes were the same rare ones. His left one an ocean blue and the right a forest green. He’d filled out a lot since I last saw him. The firm muscles on his arms, shoulders, and underneath the black “Twisted” T-shirt he wore was a dead giveaway.
He’d always been tall, but it looked like he’d still managed to grow a few inches. He’d also gotten a few tattoos and there was a small, silver ring in his bottom lip.
In his hand were our ID’s.
I didn’t have to say a word for him to know we weren’t of age, and knowing how much he disliked both of us, it was only a matter of time before we were kicked out.
Miles stared at me for a few silent minutes. Tension seemed to crackle between us and then he sat our ID’s down on the bar. He turned to the female bartender.
“They are good. Give them what they ordered,” he said and walked away.
My mouth had to be hanging open by this point. I looked at Danny, her eyes had gotten wide with surprise.
“You got it, boss,” the bartender said and went about getting us our drinks.
“Was that Miles? As in Miles Conrad?” Danny whispered.
I nodded, but that’s all I managed to do.
“He knows us. Why would he let that slide?” she asked, glancing in the direction of Miles.
I shook my head, looking down the bar to where Miles stood pouring shots for customers.
“I don’t know,” I said more to myself than Danny.
Miles Conrad had gone to school with all of us. He’d been in the same grade as Owen, but he was a few months older.
At one point in time, we were all friends, but then Miles and Owen decided there could only be one of them.
After that, there had been a tension between those two and I didn’t like it, but because I was friends with them still, Miles had disliked me just as much.
So, for him to let something like fake ID’s slide, confused me.
Right after graduation, he’d vanished and no one knew where he’d gone. Out of every place for me to apply to college, it just happened to be the same damn town as him.
That was my kind of luck.
I ran away from one hell just to see that I was back in another.

(Buy Link)

(Contact Information)

New Release
The Berlin Tunnel – A Cold War Thriller
Historical Fiction / Thriller


During the Cold War, a tunnel was built by British MI-6 and the CIA to tap into a message cable in East Berlin with the hopes of intercepting and exploiting communications with Russia. The Berlin Tunnel is based on this historic event.

* * *

In the height of the Cold War, American Air Force Captain Robert Kerr finds himself in a divided Berlin awash with spies who move freely between the East and West. His task—build a TOP SECRET tunnel under the River Spree into East Berlin—tap into highly classified communications links between civilian and military leaders in Russia and the Warsaw Pact countries.

Love couldn’t have found him at a worse time. 

Soon after he arrives, Robert falls for a German girl, Anna Fischer. Nasty East German Secret Police harass them both constantly, intent on determining what Robert and his work crew are doing in Berlin, but it’s Anna who gets caught in the crossfire.

The wall is closed, trapping 19 million East Germans including Anna’s entire family behind the Iron Curtain. As the world holds its collective breath over the Berlin Crisis, Robert and Anna fight for their lives as they attempt to free her family.

Advance Praise

"Exceptional! The settings and descriptions are vivid and real. The author is a master of making the reader want to know what happens next.” 

Karen Black, Author of Code of Conduct

"This story was captivating. A good history lesson as well as a good read. You get out of one tension-filled event only to have another start almost immediately.”

USN Captain Terry Badger, Author of The Saga of HS-8

“The characters, scenes and dialogue were absolutely believable. I felt like I was reading an autobiography, believed everything the writer said happened and was surprised when I found it was work of fiction. I enjoyed meeting Anna and Robert and loved seeing the East and West through their experiences—1960s Berlin was as much a character as they are.”

Ingrid Hoffmeister, English Artist and Writer

“I volunteered to be the Beta Readers of a historical novel; what I got was a page turning mystery, love story and spy thriller. The technical details of the building of the tunnel were easy to understand and the tension of the many problems they encounter was believable. Pat yourself on the back. You’ve done a great job. I expected that I wouldn’t really be into the book, but intrigue grabbed me right after the prologue.”

Sarah Vosburgh, Award Winning Short Story Author


Roger L. Liles is an admitted over-[educated bibliophile who decided he had to earn a living after BA and graduate studies in Modern European History. He went back to school and eventually earned an MS in Engineering from USC in 1970.  In the 1960s, he was stationed in Turkey and Germany for five years as a US Air Force Signals Intelligence Officer.  He issued reports that got President Johnson out of bed at least five times.  He lived in Europe for almost 8 years.  He worked in the military electronics field for forty years—his main function was to translate engineering jargon into understandable English and communicate it to senior decision makers in the U.S. government.  He took novel writing classes at UCLA for three years, including the Master Novel Writers Class.  Now retired, he spends most of his time writing novels, but also dotes over his collectables. He is a member of the Scribblers of North San Diego Country. This is his first published novel. 

Contact Links

AUTHOR:  S.P. Joseph Lyons


In the absence of the all-powerful DRUX, their former servants, the wizards, rule with unmatched power-hungry fury. As they mercilessly destroy all who oppose them, the universe is set to fall to their tyrannical enslavement.

Only one, the Lord of the DRUX, with his mystical and ethereal sword, stands a chance against such a menacing foe. But he cannot do so as a DRUX. He must take on the weakness of mortal flesh.


Struggling to endure human limitations and emotional toil, the Demond of Legend forges a forbidden love with a mortal girl; a bond stronger than any supernatural power he has ever known. But will that love be enough for him to overcome such crippling odds and bring peace back to the universe?


Author Craig Wainwright

Twitter: @omega2026

Links to Amazon:


Fragments of Ash Pre-Order Blitz Media Kit

About the Author

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Katy Regnery started her writing career by enrolling in a short story class in January 2012. One year later, she signed her first contract, and Katy’s first novel was published in September 2013.

Thirty-five books later, Katy claims authorship of the multi-titled New York Times and USA Today bestselling Blueberry Lane Series, which follows the English, Winslow, Rousseau, Story, and Ambler families of Philadelphia; the six-book, bestselling ~a modern fairytale~ series; and several other stand-alone novels and novellas, including the critically-acclaimed, USA Today bestselling contemporary romance, Unloved, a love story.

Katy’s first modern fairy tale romance, The Vixen and the Vet, was nominated for a RITA® in 2015 and won the 2015 Kindle Book Award for romance. Katy’s boxed set, The English Brothers Boxed Set, Books #1–4, hit the USA Today bestseller list in 2015, and her Christmas story, Marrying Mr. English, appeared on the list a week later. In May 2016, Katy’s Blueberry Lane collection, The Winslow Brothers Boxed Set, Books #1–4, became a New York Times e-book bestseller.

Katy’s books are available in English, French, German, Italian, Portuguese and Turkish. 

Katy lives in the relative wilds of northern Fairfield County, Connecticut, where her writing room looks out at the woods, and her husband, two young children, two dogs, and one Blue Tonkinese kitten create just enough cheerful chaos to remind her that the very best love stories begin at home. 

About the Book:

Author: Katy Regnery
Publisher: Katharine Gilliam Regenry
Pages: 300
Genre: Contemporary Romance/Reimagined Fairy Tale

Coming October 1st

FRAGMENTS OF ASH is part of the ~a modern fairytale~ collection by New York Times bestselling author, Katy Regnery.

RELEASE DATE: October 1, 2018

E-BOOK PRICING: $2.99 (pre-release/new release price), $5.99 (regular price)


♥ Paperback: Coming soon!


♥ Goodreads:

♥ Web Page:
♥ Giveaway:

Author K. Kris Loomis

K. Kris Loomis is an eclectic author who writes both fiction and nonfiction books. She is the author of the novel, The Sinking of Bethany Ann Crane, as well as the short story collection, The Monster in the Closet and Other Stories. Kris has also written several books about yoga and meditation and a humorous travelogue about the time she, her husband and their handicapped cat moved to South America called Thirty Days In Quito: Two Gringos and a Three-Legged Cat Move to Ecuador. 

When Kris isn’t at her standing desk writing, you will find her playing chess, folding an origami crane, or practicing a Beethoven sonata on the piano. She lives in Rock Hill, SC with her husband and two cats.

Amazon link to book:

Contact Kris Loomis:




Now on Kindle Direct

"A Compelling Read from Cover to Cover" - Midwest Book Review

"Shelby Londyn-Heath has written The Twilight Tsunami, a raw, funny, and hard-hitting account of the lives of people involved in the child welfare system." - KRGB FM Radio, Affiliate of National Public Radio

About the Author

Rosie Politz is a down-home Cajun girl who loves to travel and hates to cook. She has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Anthropology from LSU and works in the tourism industry. She’s a seasoned photographer, a 1980s pop culture trivia fanatic, and an avid list maker. Some of her favorite pastimes include playing board games, planning parties, and singing karaoke. She collects flamingos, wind chimes, and commemorative glasses from her travels. Rosie is married to her husband, Tommy, and they reside in the Deep South, where Tommy does most of the cooking. While she’s written poetry throughout her life, Key Moments is her first novel.

Key Moments

When Clay and Lynn Sinclair inherit a house, they find a mysterious box of keys that catapult them on a cross-country adventure they'll never forget. But will the path they follow lead them to unlock more than just a few doors? With twists and turns, roadblocks and detours, what other hidden truths do they discover along the way? And how far will they have to travel before the secrets that lie between them are revealed?

The Artisan Heart by Dean Mayes

This book will be officially released on September 01, 2018

Link to The Artisan Heart:

Book Blurb

-written in British English-

"Hayden Luschcombe is a brilliant paediatrician living in Adelaide with his wife Bernadette, an ambitious event planner. His life consists of soul-wrenching days at the hospital and tedious evenings attending the lavish parties organised by Bernadette.

When an act of betrayal coincides with a traumatic confrontation, Hayden flees Adelaide, his life in ruins. His destination is Walhalla, nestled in Australia’s southern mountains, where he finds his childhood home falling apart. With nothing to return to, he stays, and begins to pick up the pieces of his life by fixing up the house his parents left behind.

A chance encounter with a precocious and deaf young girl introduces Hayden to Isabelle Sampi, a struggling artisan baker. While single-handedly raising her daughter, Genevieve, and trying to resurrect a bakery, Isabelle has no time for matters of the heart. Yet the presence of the handsome doctor challenges her resolve. Likewise, Hayden, protective of his own fractured heart, finds something in Isabelle that awakens dormant feelings of his own.

As their attraction grows, and the past threatens their chance at happiness, both Hayden and Isabelle will have to confront long-buried truths if they are ever to embrace a future."


James Fitzner stepped in closer and pointed in the direction of the tables off to their right.
Following his finger, Hayden Luschcombe searched the crowd until he spied a tall, elegant figure holding court in the centre of a group of men and women. Hayden studied her up and down. Her aqua-coloured gown hugged a svelte, athletic body. Her copper hair was pinned so that it fell down her neck and back like a curling wave. Twinkling droplets of stone hung from her ears, catching the light and sparkling against her cheeks.
That face.
High cheekbones, full and shining lips projecting a magnetic and effortless smile. Large, piercing eyes focused on each individual in turn, drawing them into the conversation and holding them as though every person was important, as if she were speaking to them and them alone.
Bernadette Magnion commanded their attention effortlessly. She was as skilled a listener as she was a communicator. A woman dedicated to her craft.
As Hayden continued to watch, Bernadette turned her face in his direction. Her jaw stiffened as she politely excused herself. She glided through the crowd towards Hayden and James, pausing to signal to a young woman, someone she knew. That woman, dressed in a black cocktail dress, black stockings, and heels, manoeuvred in behind Bernadette, armed with a tablet computer. Its light splashed over her face and reflected in the glasses she wore underneath a severe fringe.
Bernadette stopped before both men and first offered her hand to James. She regarded her husband with muted disappointment before leaning in to give him a quick peck on the cheek.
"You're late," she said curtly, standing back to examine him in the low light.
In an instant, Hayden felt reduced to the size of a pea. There was little doubt she was disappointed with what she saw. His appearance paled in comparison to those around him, including James. His suit was far from perfect. His trousers were rumpled and, despite the dim light, Bernadette somehow spotted watermarks at his ankles.
"Jesus, Hayden. Did you ride here through all that rain?" she complained out of the corner of her mouth.
"Yes," Hayden confessed.
Stifling a scoff, Bernadette shook her head. "Couldn't you have taken a taxi?" she countered.
Hayden blinked as though the question was preposterous. "Not really."
An uncomfortable quite descended over the trio as James downed his beer and glanced over at the awkward, but cute, young assistant behind them.
Hayden twitched and swapped his glass from one hand to the other. "I was running late," he explained, apology in his voice. "And I didn't want to be any later. If I'd rung for a taxi, I would have to wait and it would have been worse than it already is."
Bernadette's rancour seemed to release and, for a moment, a sympathetic flicker registered. She tilted her head. "Would you like something to eat? You must be hungry."
"A little," Hayden lied. He was famished.
 She turned to the young woman behind her. "Amanda, could you take care of that?"
Amanda Rischmiller, Bernadette's PA, signalled to a waitress who passed in their vicinity, armed with a tray.
Hayden hesitated as the waitress approached. He reached out for a seafood hors d'oeuvre and popped the morsel into his mouth. He shivered in momentary gratitude. It tasted good–better than he thought it would–and his stomach responded accordingly. He went back in for a second and a third, until he noticed Bernadette's flat stare.
Hayden, his mouth full, projected a silent thank you at the waitress as she turned away and disappeared into the crowd. He cast his gaze out and across the room and noted several people making their way towards the raised stage as the band was winding up their current song.
Through the crowd, a woman attired in a ridiculously expensive-looking ball gown glided towards them. She came up behind Bernadette and tapped her shoulder.
"Speeches are about to take place. You're up, darling."
Bernadette regarded both men with a flash of nervousness. "Gotta go and MC," she said, reaching into her clutch and plucking out a piece of paper. "Wish me luck."
James stepped forward and planted a kiss on her cheek.
"Luck," he offered, while Hayden struggled to swallow the morsel of food so he could kiss her himself.
Bernadette gestured towards Hayden for the benefit of the new arrival.
"Celeste Warren–my husband, Hayden Luschcombe. Hayden–Celeste."
She turned on her heel, ushering her PA before her.
Amanda managed to turn in Hayden's direction. "Hi, Hayden," she called back. "And, ah, bye, Hayden."
Hayden waved, swallowing the last of his mouthful as he watched Bernadette float towards the stage. James slapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, mate. She understands."
Celeste studied Hayden diffidently before offering her hand.
"Hayden Luschcombe. Are you related to the Leabrook Luschcombes?"
Hayden's response was deadpan. "No."
Celeste appeared taken aback. "Oh. Surely you are. There aren't that many Luschcombes in Adelaide."
"No," Hayden repeated. "My family is from Victoria. Country Victoria."
Celeste suddenly grimaced, as if she'd stepped on a rotten egg. Realizing he was still holding her hand, she withdrew it. Her eyes scanned him up and down. "Oh." Her distaste was evident. "Victoria. How extraordinary."
James could barely conceal a grin as he observed the exchange, which only served to agitate Hayden further.

"Tell me," he began, locking eyes with Celeste. "That perfume you're wearing, is it sandalwood?"
Celeste's brow furrowed, greeting Hayden's question with confusion, before she quickly assembled a veneer of charm–of being impressed, even. "Not quite," she replied smoothly. "It's arudesh flower. It's Middle Eastern. Do you like it?"
"My mistake, sorry. I wondered whether it was pheromones," Hayden responded. "Androstenone 5 has a sandalwood odour. Faintly urine-like, actually. It's the pheromone associated with the onset of the menstrual cycle."
While James stifled the urge to choke on his beer, Celeste gasped. Her eyes bulged and she recoiled from the two men in disgust. Diners at a nearby table turned in their direction, unsure whether to laugh or be horrified.
Without skipping a beat, Hayden addressed James, shedding just a little of his antipathy. "Thank you for the beer."
He turned away, his eyes going to the stage and Bernadette, who had just stepped up to take her place near a podium. She was looking at him. Her glare was unmistakable. Around him, people from all corners of the room began returning to their seats.
Without a designated table of his own, Hayden made his way across the room towards an empty club chair near the bar, and moved it as far into the corner as he could.

         The Artisan Heart is available for preorder now at:


The Book Depository


Jacqui is the principal solicitor and director of Theobald Lawyers Pty Ltd, having bought the firm from Rod Theobald in Nagambie in 2012. She has a Bachelor of Laws, Bachelor of Accounting, Advanced Diploma in Taxation Law, Graduate Certificate in Applied Law (In-House), and a Masters in Law majoring in Wills and Estates. 


Dissatisfaction is something which appears to be ever present in today’s society. It comes from many sources and is difficult to pin down to one thing, or a single life event. It is something which seems to have increased with our wealth and is an emotion as destructive as they come.

In The Cult of Dissatisfaction, we are going to look at the culture of dissatisfaction, the symptoms and causes of it and how you can change it within yourself.

The book comes in 3 parts, each divided into chapters which explore things such as:

·        Relationships
·        Stereotypes
·        Political correctness
·        Equality
·        Guilt and shame
·        Stress
·        Failure
·        And much more…

You do not have to read this book in the order it was written. It can be started anywhere, on any chapter, depending on the level of knowledge you already have.

Often, we feel like we are not in control of the way we feel. But what The Cult of Dissatisfaction will give you, is an opportunity to change what you can influence, helping you to identify the limitations and the social pressures which lead to the feelings of dissatisfaction.


Excerpt of DARK HUNGER:


WHEN I WAS A COP, there was one thing I badly wanted to do. Put the Devil himself in handcuffs, to bring in the worst. I figured that if I captured the Devil, then no bad-guy would feel safe. The system screwed up my dream and made me mad enough to quit the force and become Peter Sunday, Private Investigator.
My business was on Madison Street in Downtown Chicago—a small office on the second floor of a twenty story marble building. Ten and twenty story buildings surrounded the business and below us, on the first floor, were the colorful food places that had me smelling cheeses, spicy sausages, and bread baking whenever I was outside.
I was playing a game of chess against myself when the sweet but professional voice of Ruby announced on my intercom that Ms. Lopez had arrived. I told Ruby to escort her in and quickly cleared my desk.
 Ruby was a nicely plump and shapely thirty-five. To me, she is short because I am six two. We hired and kept Ruby because not only did she do her job well, she had a pleasant personality.
As more clients came in, the paperwork, billing and report writing started to pick up. It was at that time I hired Ruby. Since I hate paperwork, I was glad to have it dumped on somebody else. One thing I couldn’t stand about police work was filling out the reports. I have never, I mean never, met a cop that liked doing reports. Cops let people off because they hate doing the paperwork. Ruby escorted Ms. Lopez to my office and left.
 Ms. Lopez stood and looked around with a lost look on her face. She was a stocky woman, about my age, dressed plainly and simply: a sky blue shirt and shiny, dark short hair. Her large, black pearl eyes looked at me, pleading for help. I motioned for her to sit in the client’s chair next to me.
When Ms. Lopez sat, she spotted a chess piece, a knight, on my desk. I missed that knight when I cleared my desk. The eyes of Ms. Lopez shot to the knight. They paused on it. They went to me. Then her eyes looked at the silver-framed photograph: trim, muscular guy in his late thirties, wearing t-shirt, sunglasses, smiling proudly and holding a big trout.
There used to be, next to the photo of me on the desk, the photo of a pretty young woman named Janet. I met Janet after my wife divorced me. Last I heard, Janet was planning to marry some guy.
The eyes of Ms. Lopez left the photograph of me. That pleading for help look appeared on her face again. “What can I help you with, Ms. Lopez?” I said.
“My son. He went to apply for work and he hasn’t shown up.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Three days. I went to the police, but after the third day, I had to try something else.”
“I understand. Where did your son apply for work?”
Ms. Lopez went into her purse. Fumbling around, she pulled out a newspaper clipping and handed it to me as she said, “The name of the company was Janus Gold.”
She had circled the ad in black ink. It read Make big money fast. Apply at the Janus Gold Building from One O clock to Three, M-F. On the left side of the ad was a large, blood red dollar sign. 

About the Author:

Andreas Algava was born in Thessaloniki, Greece, in 1939, the only son of Henri Algava and Allegra Carasso-Algava. When Andreas was 16 months old, Hitler’s forces invaded the country of his birth. Having to decide whether to believe the Nazi propaganda about a safe haven for Jews in Poland or go into hiding and risk execution, Andreas’s parents chose the latter relying on the courage and character of their Christian friends.

After the war, the Algava family moved to New York City and became U.S. citizens. Andreas became known as Andrew, who later attended Cornell University, where he earned an engineering degree. This was followed by military service in the U. S. Army, including a tour of duty in France. After military service, Andrew worked with his father in the family export business in the United States and Argentina.

He joined IBM and worked on assignment in Germany, where he lived with his wife, Priscilla, and where his two daughters, Alisa and Carin, were born. Andreas now lives in Rhode Island to be close to his daughters, his son-in-law Michael, and his grandchildren Drew and Sabria.

Algava wrote 600 Days in Hiding: A Jewish Family in Nazi-Occupied Thessaloniki Greece to tell the story of his family’s survival during the Greek Holocaust. Andreas regards his book as his declaration for people to live in peace and harmony, and a warning to not repeat the horrors of the past.

“Writing my Family’s story energizes me; it’s a fulfillment of a dream.” He plans to write a sequel to 600 Days in Hiding to address: “How as individuals and society we are making very bad choices and need to take appropriate actions.”

The author is available for media interviews and speaking engagements, in hopes of inspiring others to take action to create a more just world.

The author is committed to his personal mission: "To empower myself and others to manifest generosity, kindness, forgiveness, and compassion for myself and for others to relieve the suffering in the world."


About the Book:

Author: Andreas Algava with Daniel Levine
Publisher: For Passion Publishing Company, LLC
Pages: 424
Genre: Memoir


A Note from the Author

The Green Unknown is about my travels in the Northeast Indian State of Meghalaya as a trekker fascinated by the natural and cultural marvels of a place unlike anywhere else. I returned as an amateur researcher attempting to collect information about the state’s largely undocumented, though sadly, disappearing living root bridges. These structures, which are trained into existence from the still-growing roots of the ficus elastica trees, are exceptional because they are among the world ’s few examples of architecture that are simultaneously functional and alive. A root bridge can be both a useable, centuries-old piece of local infrastructure and part of a growing, developing, organism. The root bridges seem like something out of a work of fantasy. Yet they are so commonplace in certain parts of Meghalaya (though far less so now than they used to be), that the locals barely think of them as being worthy of note. I think that it is not mere hyperbole to predict that, someday soon, the botanical constructions of Meghalaya will be viewed as having a place among the world’s great architectural wonders of the world.




(More Photos)

Raquel Byrnes

Weapons of Light & Power
"A soldier leaned out the window, taking aim at Charlotte. A frisson of energy pulsed from the weapon, barely missing her. She screamed, flailing.
Ashton flipped the rocket ignition on the power cycle and the force of the thrust slammed him against the seat as he shot skyward toward the roof. Pulling his tracer gun, he fired blindly at the building. The soldier dove to the floor." ~Ashton Wells, The Tremblers
Creating the weapons for my YA Steampunk novel, The Tremblers took me on a fascinating path. The invention of destructive devices was vexing and addicting all at once.
Weapons of light -- Tracer Guns are the weapon of choice for the soldiers of the Peaceful Union. Powerful blasters that siphon the glowing purple energy from the massive Tesla Domes caging the city-states are feared by the average citizen. Constantly recalibrating to the dome's pulse, they are outlawed to everyone but the soldiers of the government.
Charlotte is a tinkerer and inventor. The daughter of a renowned soldier and chemist, her weapons needed finesse. I designed the metal spheres of her Shrieking Violet grenade to cluster together like a flower. Its shrill screech disables her enemies while a curtain of magenta gas shields her escape.
The Outlaws and Lawmen of Outer City favor guns and pistols of the old world. Sheriff Sebastian Riley's revolver helped him to rise to power among the pirates and pioneers of the sky settlement.
Another daunting tool as the Lightning Stick. Capable of lashing whips of energy. Used by the ruthless Lawmen of the floating ports, Charlotte learns of its devastating effects while trying to flee with Ashton.
However, it is the power and might of the Peaceful Union Aero Squad that strikes fear into the heart of every citizen. Their searing lamps and concussion bombs send rioters scrambling. Creating airship battles and designing the infamous rebel ship, The Stygian, was great fun!Myself the daughter of a military man, I grew up visiting airshows and sitting at the controls of massive machines of war.  I wanted to bring that fascination and awe to the Blackburn Chronicles.
If you love mechanica, mayhem, and monsters, then check out The Tremblers and Wind Reapers available now wherever books are sold.






WHEN I WAS A COP, there was one thing I badly wanted to do. Put the Devil himself in handcuffs, to bring in the worst. I figured that if I captured the Devil, then no bad-guy would feel safe. The system screwed up my dream and made me mad enough to quit the force and become Peter Sunday, Private Investigator.
My business was on Madison Street in Downtown Chicago—a small office on the second floor of a twenty story marble building. Ten and twenty story buildings surrounded the business and below us, on the first floor, were the colorful food places that had me smelling cheeses, spicy sausages, and bread baking whenever I was outside.
I was playing a game of chess against myself when the sweet but professional voice of Ruby announced on my intercom that Ms. Lopez had arrived. I told Ruby to escort her in and quickly cleared my desk.
 Ruby was a nicely plump and shapely thirty-five. To me, she is short because I am six two. We hired and kept Ruby because not only did she do her job well, she had a pleasant personality.
As more clients came in, the paperwork, billing and report writing started to pick up. It was at that time I hired Ruby. Since I hate paperwork, I was glad to have it dumped on somebody else. One thing I couldn’t stand about police work was filling out the reports. I have never, I mean never, met a cop that liked doing reports. Cops let people off because they hate doing the paperwork. Ruby escorted Ms. Lopez to my office and left.
 Ms. Lopez stood and looked around with a lost look on her face. She was a stocky woman, about my age, dressed plainly and simply: a sky blue shirt and shiny, dark short hair. Her large, black pearl eyes looked at me, pleading for help. I motioned for her to sit in the client’s chair next to me.

Michelle E. Lowe 


Contact Steve Haberman at:


The two men jumped Stanislas outside the burned-out apartment building, and he realized he had made a mistake. He raised his cane to strike, but it was too late. They muscled him up a flight of stairs and into a drafty room, and then they got serious.
The one with the German accent threw him hard onto a stool, making Stanislas cry out from the pain that spiked up his bad leg. Next, the accomplice yanked his arms behind, and he went to work, and everything went dark.
And afterward, when Stanislas jerked to struggle loose, the man with the accent clamped a hand on his shoulder and warned in French, “Monsieur Cassel, don’t.” This warning frightened Stanislas even more. This stranger, who had helped ambush him, knew his name.
“Monsieur Cassel,” the man continued, “you are a powerful examining magistrate here in Paris. You have investigated and solved many crimes. You know the high and mighty and have even indicted some. But you do not sit in your Ministry of Justice Annex office. And you cannot command the police to rescue you. You are in an abandoned tenement, alone and powerless. Our house rules: Not a word, please.I talk. You listen.You answer.A simple shake of your head for a ‘no.’ A simple nod for a ‘yes.’House rules, as I said because we cannot waste time. Understand?”
And Stanislas, through his shock at having walked into a trap, just nodded. House rules.
The man with the accent squeezed his shoulder hard. “Luc has roped your hands behind you. Understand?”
Stanislas nodded yes.
“He has blindfolded you. Understand?”
“He has taken away your cane. Briefly, monsieur, you are our prisoner. Do you understand how serious your situation is?”
Again, yes.

  1. Murder Without Pity Can Be Purchased on Amazon

Ellis Shuman author of The Burgas Affair

Ellis Shuman was born in Sioux City, Iowa, and immigrated to Israel as a teenager. He completed high school in Jerusalem and served for three years in the Israeli army. Along with his wife, Jodie, he was a founding member of Kibbutz Yahel. After working for several years in the hotel industry, he today writes and edits online marketing content. In the years 2009 - 2010, his job was relocated to Sofia, Bulgaria.

Ellis’s writing has appeared in The Times of Israel, The Huffington Post, The Jerusalem Post, Israel Insider, and on a wide range of Internet websites. He is the author of a collection of short stories, The Virtual Kibbutz (2003) and two novels, Valley of Thracians (January 2013) and The Burgas Affair (October 2017).

Ellis lives with his wife, children, and grandchildren on Moshav Neve Ilan, outside Jerusalem. He writes about Bulgaria, Israel, books, travel, and the craft of writing on his blog:

Ellis Shuman Writes

Ellis Shuman on Facebook:

Ellis Shuman on Twitter:

Ellis Shuman on Goodreads:

The Burgas Affair
Publication date: October 30, 2017
Purchase link:
Amazon Universal short-link:

MsCreant: The Wrong Doers!

Life With Women: The Long-Awaited Instruction Manual

This book was created for everyone from young adults to seniors. It was written from a male’s point of view, speaking to men who are endlessly struggling to understand the opposite sex. For women, this is a fascinating journey inside the male psyche. The book gives a young reader a glimpse of the future, with a recommended timeline for key life events. Mature readers, who have already experienced much of what is discussed in the book, should come away with a new found understanding and perhaps even closure. 

MsCreant is a controversial, entertaining, yet informative look at everything which influences human behavior including: relationships, life, health, biology, philosophy, sociology, theology, politics, genetics—even physics. E. A. Barker shares twenty-four “inappropriate” stories of life with women. The author bases these stories of women behaving badly on his real life experiences, spanning four decades of his search for an ideal partner. The lessons taken away from the book will serve to help readers make better choices, become more aware, grow and change—at any stage of life.

About the author:

E. A. Barker describes himself as a collector of ideas and a purveyor of dot connections. He attempts to present his findings in an entertaining fashion in an effort to encourage more people to read for self-improvement—especially men who are reading far too little of consequence these days. E. A is an advocate of education for its ability to affect social reform, and actively promotes the idea that a global conscience is possible.


The large print 8x10 paperback and hardcover versions of MsCreant are available to bookstores and libraries around the globe from Ingram Spark.

978-1-77302-134-8 (Hardcover)
978-1-77302-132-4 (Paperback)
978-1-77302-133-1 (eBook)

The e-book options and reviews are many. All can be viewed at: http://mscreant.eabarker.com





Z. Miracle is a 24-year-old who decided to throw himself into writing after a long period of contemplation. Born in Ohio and  still residing in Ohio, he has big dreams of one day building a world in the pages he writes, and entertaining his audience in the process. 

Book Excerpt:

Chapter 5
          The heat was the first thing that hit me when I stood up on the top of the hill. The temperature had increased substantially from down below. After I allowed my body to become accustomed to the change I began looking around. I was now standing in front of what appeared to be a never ending landscape. Smooth rock lay under my feet and in the distance I could see many holes in the ground. Turning my head left and then right I noticed that I had just climbed out of a hole that had been dug into the wall. The wall stretched as far as I could see in both directions. Curious now about the pits that lay in the ground scattered everywhere I began walking to the nearest one. As I approached, I noticed flames licking out of the top. Staring down into it I could see nothing but fire. A sound raised from the whole that was a mixture of moaning and crying. "Hello!" I yelled into the pit. No response came but the cries still continued. Cocking my head to the side I leaned closer and seen what I believed to be a charred black arm. Standing straight again I looked around. Looking closer now it appeared that every pit that lie around me had flames coming from them. Walking to another hole I found I got the same reply to my attempt to communicate with the moaning voice. Running my hand through my hair I began thinking of why someone might place themselves into a pit of fire and refuse to answer a helping hand. Walking away from the pit in the direction opposite my hole I found that the screams got louder the farther I traveled.
Amazon Link to Grim's Awakening


Reach this author at:



Awakening, Alexandra is engulfed in darkness so dense she can’t tell if her eyes are open or shut. Head and heart pounding, she reaches up, probing. Her hand brushes against something; something soft and wet. Stifling the scream threatening to escape from her throat, she tries to move her legs. There is plenty of space to move them from side to side but when she tries to lift them, they hit an obstacle. The world is black but slowly lightening. “Think Alex, what’s the last thing you remember?”she asks herself in a hollow-sounding voice. She remembers a dark street; walking with Jake. They had left the movie before it was over and headed downtown for a late dinner. They agreed the story line of the so-called “based on real events” film was implausible; some nonsense about ghosts and demons roaming the streets of New Orleans. She could picture Jake’s face as they passed under the gas lamp in front of their favorite restaurant. His dark brown eyes were crinkling at the corners as they recalled one of the more absurd scenes from the film. And then…nothing. The pounding in her head is easing up a little. She tries to sit up but discovers something holding her back. Turning her head she finds she can only move it an inch or two in either direction. Blinding light is coming from above her. Unable to shield her eyes, she squeezes them shut, but the light penetrates her eyelids. She has the sensation of being touched but can’t feel anything solid. It is more an idea of touching, being caressed by a breath.

 Chris Turner

Human vs Alien

A pilot stranded on a faraway planet, timelost. An alien seeking symbiosis.

Visceral alien battles, planetary wars. Experience the adventure...along with edge-of-the-seat SF audio in this Star Wars meets Alien thriller.

In 2014, I started sequencing original SFF to audio using the Booktrack free studio tool, and it offered up a unique, creative experience. I was amazed at how the placement of some well-crafted audio, synced by word, sentence or paragraph could make a story come alive—in the same way a soundtrack makes a movie come alive. To date, I have produced a few dozen, text-and-audio renditions of my stories, drawing on the wide variety of sound clips from the Booktrack audio library.
The Timelost, my most recent production, is a gritty, dystopian foray into the macabre.

The world-building was intense, as I tried to incorporate elements of ‘galactic empire’, the theme of ‘a few struggling against many’, and extraordinary alien adversaries. I also wanted to develop the concept that an ordinary person, the pilot Miko, when plunged into a hostile, colonized, or uncolonized world with chilling advanced alien technology, could become a hero. And not just by circumstance.

The movie Prometheus, even though I had seen it after writing The Timelost, deeply moved me and confirmed my fascination with a SciFi, man-vs-alien conflict. Human and alien genesis theories intertwine as the characters scramble to survive many bizarre and unexpected hostile encounters. The story took on overtones of fantasy horror as it gained momentum, with elements not dissimilar to the Cthulhu mythos a la Lovecraft and the imaginative works of R.E. Howard.

I invite you to enter Miko’s distorted world in The Timelost. The Booktrack text-and-audio based format thrusts the reader into the terrifying unknown of planets of deep space.


Promote your book at Global Writers for Peace

Check out the International Writer Retreats on Global Writers for Peace:

So said Sir Ian McKellen in his Foreword to my book. And it is.
Do you remember the terrible times of AIDS and HIV in the 1980s and 1990s? If not, are you curious to learn what it was like for those diagnosed?
Wise Before their Time, first published in 1992, shows in moving detail what it was like to live with HIV/AIDS when there was no real treatment for this life-threatening illness. It tells the true stories of over forty young men and women from all over the world, attending an international conference of people with HIV and AIDS in London in 1991.
I have added a new cover and a short introduction to the new version, but the book remains essentially the same.
These were very young people (most were in their twenties and thirties) having to cope with an unexpectedly shortened life span.
They describe the difficulties of telling their parents, friends and partners of their diagnosis, while trying to cope with the day-to-day problems of staying healthy, keeping in work and supporting their friends.
They all experienced enormous stigma, blame and guilt because of the disease. This can be seen in all kinds of ways ­– from small things, like an Irishman being disappointed that friends did not want him to play with their child, to larger ones, such as man being placed alone in an isolation hospital in Goa for some months with no help.
They all knew others who had died. And one mother tells the story of the death of her toddler.
Yet this is in no way a struggle to read. It is touching, it is enlightening and it is sometimes funny.  But most of all, there is virtually no self-pity. On the contrary, the participants were committed to celebrating the joys of life to the full. Which is why I chose the title – they were, genuinely, wise before their time.
For more information or to buy:


The Long Road to Publication – by Anna Belle Rose

Years and years ago, actually decades ago, I was a stay-at-home mom for a bit, with my then youngest child who would not fall asleep at nap time. Over time, I realized that while he wouldn’t sleep, he would sit in his crib for a bit each afternoon, listening to Yanni at the Acropolis, looking at storybooks, and I could sit and write. And write I did. I wrote and wrote and wrote over many months. By then, my youngest was talking, and he somehow understood that Mommy was writing a book, and he kept nagging me to keep going. And I did.

Fast forward many years, and I’d keep opening the word file of that first novel, print it out, edit and revise, and eventually send it out to a few agents. Rejections would come in, and I’d put it away for a while, then that same son would poke at me again, and the process would start all over again. During this same time, I also started several other novels and kept working on them in the same way. All of them were contemporary romances, heavily linked to life in Vermont, and all have gloriously happy endings – I mean, who doesn’t love a happily ever after?

Finally, late in 2016, I decided I needed to either get serious about writing or give it up for good. So I pulled those two complete novels out again and hired incredible professional editors to go at them. Then I started submitting them to a few agents, and a couple publishing houses that didn’t require representation by agents. And on June 13th, a publishing contract arrived on the novel I wrote first, The Phone Call. And on July 13th, a contract arrived for my second, That One Small Omission. And joy of joys, on December 4th, a contract was offered on my third, More Than I Can Say.

On October 11, 2017, That One Small Omission was published in e-book and print versions, and on December 12th, The Phone Call will be published. The joy and excitement I feel each time I look at my mantle and see my first published novel is an emotion that I think only other authors can understand!

Amazon link to That One Small Omission:
Amazon link to my author’s page:

Earth to Centauri - Alien Hunt

The year is 2118. The First Journey from Earth into interstellar space has been successful, but the explosive secret carried aboard Voyager 1 will have grave consequences.

As Captain Anara and her crew returns to Earth aboard their faster than light spaceship Antariskh, civil war breaks out on the world they have just left behind. A cryptic message warns her of the dispatch of mercenaries to Earth. Their mission - unknown but deadly. She may have just days to prevent unimaginable carnage on Earth and stop the outbreak of interstellar war.

Her crew and the National Investigation Agency or NIA, engage in the greatest undercover search for the mercenaries in the streets of the megacity. As they race against time to uncover the plot, a traitor is unmasked and Anara herself comes under suspicion. She must use every ounce of her resourcefulness to protect 30 million people and one unique innocent life.

Immerse yourself in an edge of the seat thriller on a realistic future Earth and geek out on the technology just a few decades away from today.

Released in December 2017

The Lost Macaw is the fourth novella in the Lost and Found Pets series. Alexandra Prescott is a licensed private investigator specializing in finding missing animals. Reuniting pet and owner is more than just a job.

A former client hires Alex to find her lost parrot. The bright colored bird has flown away before, but this time there is evidence that Molly was kidnapped. The demand is simple—the bird for the pictures.

When her client suffers a stroke, Alex is left with a ransom note, a missing bird, and some very incriminating photos. She is in a race against time to solve the mystery of the lost Macaw.

“Your little old lady is quite interesting, Alex,” Halie said.
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t exist until about thirty years ago.”
“I did a preliminary background search on her. In general, she is clean. No debt. The house is paid off as is her car. The one thing that jumped out at me was the fact that she had a safe deposit box at four different banks.”
Luke raised one eyebrow. I got a sinking feeling. I had noted the bank accounts but hadn’t really given them much thought.
“Yeah,” I said, “I saw those.”
“So why does an eighty-year-old woman need four safe deposit boxes?”
“Why does she need more than one?” Luke muttered.
“Exactly,” Halie said. “So I dug a little deeper.”
“What did you find?”
“About thirty years ago, Joseph and Trudy Kearns purchased the house on Carriage. Back then, it was a new neighborhood, and the prices were cheap. They paid cash. They also opened a bank account, and Joe got a job working for the city. Those are the first records I can find for either one of them.”
“Trudy would have been fifty at that time. Her husband probably a few years older. What about birth certificates? Social security cards?”
“They had them, but conveniently, they were issued from a small county in Virginia where a massive flood destroyed all their records. The county office was in the process of moving the old paper records to electronic when the flood hit.”
“Let me guess. The Kearns’s records did not survive the flood.”
“So the only records for them are the ones they had in their possession.” I paused a moment. “Do they look real?”
“Yes,” Halie replied.
“So they could be authentic.”
“Or really good forgeries. In some ways, it was easier back then.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Not really. Lives on a fixed income of social security and a small pension from her husband’s job. It isn’t much because he only worked for the city for twelve years before he had to retire.”
“Okay, thanks Halie.”
After ending the call, I looked at Luke. He had a perplexed look on his face that I had a feeling mirrored mine.
“Who the hell is Trudy Kearns?”

Available on Amazon, Nook, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords.

“Forests of Mist” Launch

The biggest news I have (writing-wise, I happen to think Girl Spawn joining the world is pretty big news) is that Calliope Jones and The Forests of Mist launched on Amazon on October 21st!* I’m so excited for you guys to be able to download it and read it. I hope you love it. I know I do, but I’m biased. So please, download it, read it, review it! Beta feedback was this book is better than the first, and I tend to agree.And with that, I’m off, since Girl Spawn forgot I just fed her, like, 15 minutes ago. My literary baby is far less demanding. And doesn’t keep me up all night. Well, I can’t promise my literary baby won’t keep you up all might until you finish it. In fact, I wish you many sleepless nights as you Dive into Callie’s exciting new adventure!
You can find Forsests of Mist here.


Shelby Londyn-Heath, Author
of The Twilight Tsunami


“Shelby Londyn-Heath has written The Twilight Tsunami, a raw, funny, and hard-hitting account of the lives of people involved in the child welfare system.”       KRGB FM RADIO – Affiliate of National Public Radio

"A Compelling Read from Cover to Cover." Midwest Book Review

Please check out my author interview at the following site. While you are there, sign up for your own free book promotion. We are writers supporting other writers.  



Here's what Catherine says about herself:

. I live in Northern California with my husband and have three adult children. I was lucky enough to grow up in several different countries because my father was a foreign service officer. He served in France, Spain, and Morocco, so I was exposed to lots of history and grew fascinated by the past. We had many books around the house, so I grew up loving to read as well. I used to type my own stories on my mother's old Underwood typewriter.

After graduating from BYU with a degree in journalism, I worked for a group of community newspapers in the Los Angeles area and then got my teaching credential in English / Language Arts. Later, my husband, who was also a reporter, was transferred to Sacramento, the center of the Gold Rush. My first novel, The Gardener's Tale, published in 2014, is set right after the American Civil War, and another, Chance's Bluff, is set after the Civil War. My latest novel, New Hope, is set in Victorian England. I have also written a mystery, The Jewelry Case, which is set in Northern California's wine country.

Excerpt from Chance's Bluff:

They had come sooner than he had expected. One of the men was hunched over, hammering back the boards that Chance had just torn down, the other stood with feet planted apart giving directions. A black rig stood in the background like the carapace of a giant beetle.

"Hey, there!" Chance bellowed, accelerating to a limping trot.

The shorter, older man wore a three-piece black suit, bowler hat, and white kid gloves. The clothing must have been stifling in the late-afternoon heat, but he showed no sign of it. His black leather shoes shone like bottle glass, but Chance knew that in a few minutes they'd be covered with a fine layer of dust like every other surface on the wind-blown farm.

The stranger barely glanced at him. "Step lively, Samuel," he said in a nasal city voice and checked a gold pocket-watch. "I've an appointment at the bank in an hour."

"Sam?" Chance's voice reflected his shock as he turned toward the other man. Sam glanced guiltily up at his former employer, then went back to work, as if he hoped not to be recognized. Chance was upon him in an instant, gripping the other man's shoulder with one hand while ripping away the hammer with the other. "Golldarn it, Sam, what are you doing?"

"Sorry, Chance." The hired hand cringed. "I needed work after your ma died, see, and this Mr. Lott here—"

Chance whirled on Lott without releasing his grip on Sam. "So that's your name, is it? Get off my property this minute, you prissified varmint, before I kick you out on your worthless rump!"

Mr. Lott looked up at Chance disapprovingly. "This is not your property, Mr. McMullen, and you are the one who is trespassing. If you do not leave at once, I shall have you arrested."

A wave of hot blood rose behind Chance's eyes, nearly blinding him. "And just who's going to arrest me? The sheriff? Artie Wilson wouldn't lay a finger on me. We used to hunt polliwogs together when we was kids."

The man drew a derringer from a waistcoat pocket and aimed it at Chance. "They warned me you might react this way." His clipped, emotionless voice was like the tapping of a telegraph machine. "Release my employee, Mr. McMullen. At once."







Grady, how long have you been writing science fiction and what got you interested in it?

I have been writing science fiction for more than a decade. I got interested in it because science fiction thinks outside of the box about what could be scientifically possible and what is just fun to think about.

What do you think science fiction offers the world? Does it give readers a peek into the future or is it meant to scare readers with no basis in reality?

As I mentioned before, I think science fiction gives us a glimpse of what could be scientifically possible. If you think about the scientific developments that have been made over the years, many things that were previously science fiction have now become reality. Examples include flying cars, self-sustaining androids, and cloning. I have a very strong feeling that more "science fiction" will one day become "science fact." I think science fiction entertains readers as well as gives readers new expectations of what is to come.

Do you read a lot of science fiction?  Who are your favorite authors?

I do read a lot of Star Wars books especially since Disney bought the franchise and is cranking out books more frequently. My favorite science fiction and Star Wars author is Drew Karpyshyn, who wrote such Star Wars books as the Darth Bane Trilogy and Revan. I am a devout Star Wars fan and will enjoy it until the day I die.

Where do you get your ideas from? Do you dream about ideas for science fiction?

I take examples from classical aspects of science fiction such as genetic mutation, parallel dimensions, and cybernetics, and  I add my own unique flare to them. As a science fiction fan, I am quite familiar with the various elements of the genre, so

 I usually develop my ideas on a whim.

Do you believe there is life on other planets? What do you think that life is like?

Oh yes! The universe is far too large for us to be completely and utterly alone. The odds of us being the only life forms in the cosmos are astronomical. Because the universe is over four billion years old, it is likely that extraterrestrial life could be either technologically advanced like us or could be primitive single-celled organisms like bacteria. We really do not know, so the forms alien life can take is virtually limitless.

Grady, if you could, would you go to Mars? What do you think life would be like there?

If we terraformed Mars into an Earth-like planet, I would like to live there because it would be a lot cleaner and fresher than Earth is now. If we only made pressurized environments on Mars's surface, I might be a bit nervous, because just one mistake such as a water shortage, power outage, or a breach in the hull of a container will mean life or death.

Grady, I see that you attend shows with people in costumes and roaming robots?  Would you tell me what these shows are about?  What do you do there? What kind of people do you meet?

Every year, I go to a comic book convention to partly enjoy the show and partly to promote my books. I even wear a T-shirt with The Young Guardians insignia on it. The name of this convention is WonderCon and it is essentially what ComicCon used to be before it was blown out of proportion. I meet science fiction, fantasy, and superhero fans, writers, artists, and so on.

Why are the people at the shows in costumes?

They are wearing costumes in order to express their interest and devotion to the science fiction, fantasy, and superhero genres.

Do you sell you books at the show?  What do you think is the best way to sell books?

In 2015, I had the best book signing of my career at WonderCon and it was glorious! I gained a lot of exposure, sold lots of books, and was interviewed by various reporters. While I think using social media such as Facebook, Twitter, and GoodReads is the best way to sell books, book signings are a great way to gain exposure and interact with my potential readers.

Grady, you said you are an ambassador for high-functioning autism. Will you tell me what that is, exactly?

Essentially, I promote the potential benefits of being autistic and I prove to everyone that autism is more of a blessing than a curse.

As I understand it, people with high-functioning autism have high I.Q.’s and they are creative thinkers; is that correct?  If so, can you enlarge on this?

Oh yes! Thanks to my autism, I have an above average intellect, a near photographic memory, and it gives me an analytical mindset. While most writers jot down notes about their potential ideas or where they are at in their writing, I do not need to do that, because I never forget things like that. I can even remember what film or television show a song has been in, and I memorize dialogue from a book or film and then reenact it. I can imitate Young Frankenstein and Monty Python and the Holy Grail word for word.

Grady, when you have areas of your brain lit up differently than other people’s brains, what happens to the other unlit parts of your brain?

While I process and memorize information and creativity easily, I still struggle with being social sometimes, and I cannot control emotions without the help of medication.

 Do people understand how you think? Do you have friends with the same brain functioning?

I have one friend who is in the same boat as me. My family and loved ones understand how I think and they give me support whenever I need it. 

How does the difference in brain functioning between you and other people affect you socially?

While I am eager to mingle, I sometimes lack the initiative to socialize with others. Lately, though, I am slowly coming out of my shell and joining a medieval reenactment group. So I may be overcoming some of my social limitations.

What is the best part of having high-functioning autism?
What is the worst part?

The best part is that I am highly intelligent, creative, and have vast potential to reach great heights. The worst part is that when I was younger I had difficulty controlling and regulating my emotions, motor functions, and my own imagination. Now,the worst part is far behind me, and I am currently enjoying the best part of being autistic.

What do you wish people understood about you?

That I am not as hindered by my autism as most people would think. As the Sith would say in Star Wars, "Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall free me!" I have broken my "chains," and all of the limitations that held me back are long gone, and my mastery over my condition is still growing and maturing.

What advice do you have for people who have high functioning autism?

If you have a dream, pursue it no matter the cost and do not let the opinions of others hinder you. Also, some people may say autism is a weakness, but it is not. Autism is a gateway to reach new heights you never knew existed, and that few people have access to. I walked through that gateway long ago and it has made me into the person I am today.

Can you name people with high-functioning autism who have done great things?  What did they accomplish?

Temple Grandin is easily the most iconic example because, despite her condition, she has accomplished many things. She is a professor of animal science and one of the first autism ambassadors to ever share her views with the public. One time, when I was interviewed on a show called "Let's Talk Autism With Shannon and Nancy," I was in the same episode as Temple Grandin. We did not meet face-to-face, but I felt humbled to share an episode with her.

Grady, your books look interesting and you seem like you are a committed writer.  What time of day do you write and for how long?

I am a nocturnal writer and I only write at night when everyone else is asleep. My beloved pit bulls' presence also helps me concentrate. The amount of time I dedicate to writing varies from time to time either half an hour to several hours. Recently, I have written twenty pages four days in a row! That is a grand total of eighty pages in four days!

Where do you live and what other kinds of things do you like to do?

I live in California and I love seeing films and spending time with my friends, family, and pit bulls.

If you had a vision for the world to be a better place, what would it be?

A world without terrorists; the environment would be clean, the world's governments more responsible, and there would be no bigotry.

Thank you, Grady. I am excited about spotlighting you on my blog. Please stay in touch.

Below:  Grady's website and links to his books!






A Novel
By Veena Nagpal

In the aftermath of a nuclear attack on India, a huge, totally devastated area – 200 kilometers in radius – has been declared an Exclusion Zone. Inside the Zone, a tiny band of survivors is somehow trying to eke out a living. Yet, even in these bleakest of circumstances, the power struggle for command and control over the most meager of resources, is as intense.
Read on…

Veena Nagpal, Author

Here is a little bit about lovely Veena and what she says about living in India. Hope you enjoy her photo essay! She is talented, both as a writer and photographer.

In Veena's own words:

I live in India, a country where faith and fun commingle in easy camaraderie, where streets teem with stories; where cattle are free to visit beaches (the attached picture is a beach in Goa) and monkeys cheekily check out the corridors of history.

I live in Noida, which is a suburb of New Delhi the capital of India.

 I love to roam the streets of my city with my camera or even my iPhone.

See Photos Below:


Kill, kill, kill...
Club Foot was walking fast. Quick, rhythmic thrusts of his body leveraged hard with his pole. Past the creaking gate that Rangawas trying to fix with a rusted hinge he had found on one of his scavenging trips.
“We’re off lizard hunting,” Chief called.
Club Foot did not look back. He hated the sight of Ranga’s raw-meat face.
Chief hurried after him.
“Hey, slow down! What’s the hurry?”
Club Foot flashed bright, feverish eyes on Chief and continued silently striding ahead. Out through the ghost streets. Past buildings, pockmarked the way erupting heat boils had once marked everyone’s bodies, oozing yellow pus, then drying out into dark scabs.
Beyond. Where no buildings stood. Only a barren, white, sandy landscape broken by patchy vegetation.
Now, now, now!
Tumultuous raging thoughts in his mind, Club Foot saw nothing.
Your end...  it’s here. Been coming a long, long time, Chief. Every time Jiji caressed you with her hands then kissed her fingers. Every time all those others looked at their hero with lovelorn eyes. That dim wit Shanno and that...  all of them. You think I can’t see? Envy corkscrewing my stomach. Churning, building pressure...
Every time your eyes seek my Mina, your fingers tremble to touch... You think I’m blind? Don’t notice? Lust, longing lingering in every breath? Jealousy crouching in my heart ready to pounce. Explode your insides out. Terminate. You.
Envy. Jealousy. Anger. Childish emotions. You think I’m a weak little kid? Still? Oh, brother, you have no idea what’s coming. Yes, was born with a Club Foot. Hunch-backed. That makes me weak?
Dear, dear brother of mine - you don’t know a thing. Weakness empowers with an explosive power, you have to experience to believe. Understand this. You may be Chief in name, but I - I alone, am Chief-of-the-commune. And I can’t bear to see you alive.
His hand went to the dagger at his waist. Caressing. Smooth. Like Mina’s brown body. The touch sent a thrill through his thin frame. Heady feeling... Power intoxicating. Only the commune leader wore this dagger.
You think I’ll let go? Ever?
His eyes narrowed thin lips pursed into a smirk. My prowess with the dagger is something no one can match. Not even you, my...
“Stop!” Chief hissed. “Stop, Club Foot. I’ve just spotted the largest lizard I ever saw.”
Club Foot stopped. Silently Chief beckoned. Club Foot crouched by his side.
“Best to lure it with some food,” Chief whispered. “Sit still and watch.”
He took out a dead grasshopper from somewhere on his person and dangled it. The lizard turned. Beady eyes on the bait, it hesitated. Turned away. Returned. Quick as lightning it darted. Chief was quicker. He had grabbed its tail and dumped it into a bag before the lizard could react.
“Easy, wasn’t it?” he grinned.
Within minutes he had caught four more. Now he put his hand into the bag and held out one to Club Foot. “For you!”
Club Foot shook his head.
“Go on! Eat. It’s fresh and juicy.”
Club Foot opened his mouth taking in the head first, crunching, chewing… As a child, whenever Chief had returned from a lizard hunt, he had always saved the juiciest one for him.
Gruffly, he thanked Chief.
His shoulders sagged. Kill? This brother who had always been there for him? How could he kill him?
His steps slowed. Weary. Minutes later, he stopped.
“Should we go back?” he asked. “You already have half a bag full.”
Chief laughed.
“What’s happened? You were so peppy till now and suddenly, you’re dragging your foot as if you don’t want to move forward another step. Changed your mind? Don’t want to show me your tricks with the catapult? You’re a clever one - not wanting to share your secrets!”
Club Foot stiffened. He tightened his hold on his pole.
“No. No change! I’ll show you.”
“Where are we going?”
“Towards the stone statue. Follow me.”
He was striding forward, purposeful, pole striking ground sharp and stern, his face turned away from Chief.
“Remember how we used to shout into it and wait for our voices to return?” Chief asked. They were standing at the dry well near the stone statue. 
“And Jiji!” He continued with a laugh. “Remember how she used to tell us there was a time when it was brimming with water? What imagination she has! When we asked her point blank whether she had ever seen the water, she had been so evasive...  where’s your catapult?”
Club Foot turned his back on the stone statue which Jiji claimed was a Goddess.
“Forgot it,” he said nonchalantly.“The dagger will do.”He ran his thumb over the sharp edge, suddenly thrust it forward, pointing at Chief.
“Feel it!”
Chief stepped back.
Club Foot laughed. Shrill.
“Scared you, did I? Oh boy! Our great hero is scared!”
His eyes were sharp. Bright, focused lizard eyes on the grasshopper.
“No, feel it.” He placed the point of the dagger on Chief’s neck.
Before Chief could protest he had whirled around, the dagger went flying out of his hand and at the base of the platform on which the statue stood, a huge rat lay pinned.
“Wow!” Chief whispered. “That was absolutely awesome. You really are a master marksman!”
Chief’s eyes were thoughtful on him as Club Foot retrieved the rat, plonked it in Chief’s lizard bag.
“I’ve been meaning to say something to you.” 
Frowning in concentration, Club Foot continued wiping the dagger he had retrieved, on his own clothes. 
“Share some thoughts really...You know before I went on that long journey, hunting for water, I was such an arrogant fool. I really thought I could do what I wanted. No one could stop me.”
Ruefully, Chief shook his head.
“So much happened on that journey, it made me grow up.Made me realize that what I thought was power, was actually like walking on sand. It could disappear from under my feet anytime. I thought I was the most powerful person on earth but what could I really do? I couldn’t stop time, could I? Couldn’t stop the water in our well from depleting... I was just so helpless.”
“It made me realize that we can’t bend God’s will. Like Jiji keeps singing, there truly is a daayara, a limited circle within which we must live out our life’s choices.” 
He looked searchingly at Club Foot. “Sometimes, I think you, who were so sensitive, so - so humble earlier, have become the kind of person I used to be. Club Foot let me tell you...”
With a thrust of his open palm, Club Foot silenced him.
“I still have more dagger tricks to show you. Stand here.”
He pulled out the dead rat from the bag and put it on Chief’s head.
“What are you trying? Want to kill me?”
“Quiet! Just watch.”
A bubbly excitement was rising inside him. Effervescent. They had been in competition since they were kids. He had always been the loser. Now, with the dagger in his hand, he was a conqueror. He was Chief.
With a sure aim, he swung his arm. Chief winced. Once again the rat had been pinned.
“Don’t move!”
Club Foot brought out a lizard, stupefied from its stay in the bag, and placed it on Chief’s head.
“I think you always envied me. Because I was Chief and you... but believe me, you’ve got it all wrong, Club Foot! Power is not so simple, in fact, it is painful - comes with so much responsibility. Its pleasures are all imaginary.”
Club Foot walked back wiping the dagger once again.
“True power, the kind of power that has any meaning at all, is not something you can seize, Club Foot. It has to be given to you by others – as a gift of love. Someone has to love you... until that happens you are no one. You don’t mean anything. You... Club Foot it’s love that you haven’t been able to earn and keep. That is why...”
With a strangled cry of rage Club Foot turned. The dagger flew from his hand.
The stunned lizard jumped. Ran for its life.
 Club Foot dumped the lizard bag in front of Jiji.
“Where’s Chief? Ranga was telling me he went out with you.”
Jiji was sitting on her haunches, outside her dwelling. She did that every evening when the sun started going down and their day’s work was done. That way, when the others started gathering around her, to talk and sometimes sing, the old man could see and hear, feel he was part of them all.
Near her, Ranga had his head down. He was still working. On one side, he had a heap of twisted rusty nails, on the other a tin in which he was collecting those he had retrieved by patiently hammering them straight with a stone.
Ever since he had come, he had put himself to work scavenging in the empty crumbling shells of buildings, picking up usable things and making stuff people needed, a shelf for Jiji to organize her herbs, a door for Mina’s dwelling area, toys for Shanno’s boy, for Gogi and the other kids.
Club Foot turned away from the raw meat face, the skeptic eyes looking up at him from under sparse brows.
“How should I know?” he snapped at Jiji. “He came back early. And don’t I have enough to do, without having to also keep track of every grown man in the commune?”
“Hey, hey what’s eating you, kid? Look at him, snarling at me for no reason.”
Club Foot shook a sullen head.
Kalia started barking.
“Chief shouldn’t have left him behind. The dog is like his shadow.” Ranga put out a restraining hand, ruffled his neck. 
Kalia crawled forward on his belly, quick black eyes flashing a challenge at Club Foot. Saliva dripped from his fangs. Club Foot made a menacing gesture. Kalia groveled back.
“I’m tired,” he muttered. “I’ll go sleep.”
Kaalia snapped at his ankles. Club Foot kicked. The dog kept barking at him as he walked away. Suddenly Club Foot threw a stone at him. Kalia yelped and retreated.
The whole night, the dog sat tin the open and howled.
Next morning Chief had still not returned. He was absent at the water distribution and no one ever missed that.
“Something is amiss...”
Everyone had gathered in front of Jiji’s dwelling. Inside, the Old Man was furiously blinking his one eye. Club Foot turned his back on him.
“Are you blaming me?” he glowered at Ranga.“Are you?”
“Did I say that?” Ranga’s eyes were calm and penetrating. “All I said was something is amiss. We should organize a search.”
There was a murmur of assent.
As the days passed without any sign of Chief, the silence that had descended on the commune, deepened in the gloom. In the pale white morning sun, their long shadows moved around like silent ghosts.
“He would never stay away even one night and now four have passed - something dreadful must have happened,” Jiji sighed.  “We can’t go on like this. Look at my Club Foot. He’s hunch-backed I know, but now he seems to be shrinking into himself, stooping as if the whole world’s weight is on him. Living dead...  It’s time we got on with our lives again.”
“I agree with you. Absolutely. We’ve been sitting around too long.” Ranga got up, dusted his palms together. “Who’s coming to help me this morning?”
Club Foot stirred stood up suddenly. He thrust his open palm up into Ranga’s face.
“Just a minute! I’mChief here. Only I give orders.”
With an amused look on his face, Ranga backed off and stood watching as Club Foot ticked off people into teams of twos and threes.
“Murli will work with me.” He turned to Ranga. “What do you want us to do?”
“Doors? Maybe the two of you could search the ruined buildings for usable doors. I do want to...”
“We’ll do it,” Club Foot said, his pole already in motion. Murli followed close behind.
They chose a building that looked the least spooky of the lot, climbed up the crumbling stairs. There was only a bit of the landing left, the rest of it, precariously overhanging. Gingerly they stepped onto the portion that was still intact, entered a large room. Row upon row of metal basket like things hanging from metal stands, some upturned, some standing still.
“Sh-shh!” Club Foot hissed as Murli screamed suddenly. He had seen something in one of the baskets.
“Skeleton,” he whispered fearfully.
“Child’s skeleton,” Club Foot whispered back.
“So many children?” Murli asked gazing at the rows of baskets.
“Let’s move... where’s my dagger?”
“My dagger! I can’t find my dagger,” Club Foot’s eyes were bright pin points. Unblinking. He spun around. Upset a metal basket. It teetered. Clattered to the floor. Billowing dust. Somewhere, a wall came rumbling down.
“Let’s go! Please let’s go,” Murli caught at Club Foot’s arm. He jerked his hand away. Rushed from one basket to another, crawled under one, upturned another.
“I know it,” he muttered. “I know Chief has taken my dagger. He won’t let me keep it, I know he won’t...”
“Chief?” Murli asked puzzled. “But Chief has been missing for more than four days now. Besides, I saw you using your dagger only yesterday. You...”
He caught hold of the frantically whirling Club Foot.
“Stop! Club Foot stop for God’s sake! Look!”
He pointed at the dagger hanging from its usual rope belt at Club Foot’s waist and started laughing.
Club Foot’s eyes were unbelieving.“You’re laughing at me? At your Chief!You’re... how dare you?”
The sound died on Murli’s lips as he felt the sharp sting of Club Foot’s palm on his cheek. Hurt flooded his eyes.
“My Chief?I thought you are my friend first.”
Leaving Murli trailing way behind, Club Foot stomped away. Muttering all the way back. Soft voice pleading. Inaudible.
“Stop it! You are dead. Dead, dead, dead!”
Whirling around brandishing his pole. “The dead don’t come back. So please! Stop tormenting me.”
He saw Mina near his dwelling and halted.
She was sitting listlessly on a pile of bricks.
“Where’s Gogi?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mina! Look at me. Where’s Gogi?”
She looked blankly past him.
Panicking suddenly, he ran to find Jiji.
“You’ll have to do something about Mina,” he pleaded. “Since Chief disappeared, she’s become extra possessive about Gogi and you know tomorrow is Full Moon. I don’t want her creating any problems this time. Remember how last time, after the medicine man said a blemished child cannot be sacrificed, she tried to chop off his finger?”
“I’ll give her something,” Jiji nodded wearily.
Slowly he walked towards his own dwelling. Could it beMina’s listlessness was a result of Jiji’s ministration? But suppose, just suppose... His heart was racing wildly. If she had done anything to Gogi, he...
He heard Gogi before he saw him. The boy was pulling at a contraption Ranga had made for him - a small cup with paper stretched taut on it and a small stick, so fixed that when the contraption was pulled the stick moved, making a continuous beating sound. Gogi was totally engrossed in it.
“You’re no one until someone loves you...”
Club Foot picked up Gogi in his arms and seated him on his lap.
“Do you love me?” he whispered in the child’s ear. “Do you love your father, little boy?”
Gogi squirmed.
Club Foot tightened his hold, smothered him with kisses.
“Can I go to Jiji now? I’m hungry.”
Club Foot loosened his hold. Gogi slipped away.
“He loves me,” Club Foot murmured at the shadows in the corner. “Everyone else will too... you’ll see that. Once we have water everyone will...”
Water?” the shadows swished.“Where’s the water? You know it’s vanishing. Every day the level is depleting. You know that. Everyone’s happily wasting time making doors and shelves and toys but for how long? When the water finishes, they will blame you. Everyone will curse you. What kind of a Chief are you, they will ask.
True. What kind of leader was he who could not even provide his people with drinking water?
Club Foot glared at the rustling shadows.
“You couldn’t find water, yet they loved you. They did not think you had let them down. Why should they think me a failure when I’m ready, even to sacrifice my only child...”
“Some half-crazed wanderer claims the Gods will shower rain if you sacrifice your child... and you believe it? Nothing will happen. Only Gogi will die...”
Club Foot shuddered.
Little hands. Trusting. Eyes innocent, fearless, secure in a father’s love. That heart-tugging smile...
“Your Gogi will die. Still, it will not rain. What then? Who will you kill next? Jiji? Mina? Or that old man your childhood friend?
Club Foot’s pole clattered to the floor. He crumpled. Crouching, he ground his head on the stones. Tormented soul groaning into the silent night...
The next day was Full Moon. The wandering medicine man arrived at the crack of dawn and joined the gathering at the well to claim his share of water before beginning preparations for the momentous day ahead.
Jiji was coughing, rubbing her chest to ease the pain.
“Where’s Club Foot?” she demanded, as the wheezing subsided.
Everyone was waiting for his or her share of water. Growing restless. Someone offered to call him.
She put up a hand, indicating she would go herself...
Screams. Terrifying. Spine tingling.
Everyone rushed.
Cub Foot lay crumpled on the floor. A pool of blood had congealed around his wrist and on the dagger beside him.
Murli wrung his hands, crumpled beside him. Ranga put a hand on his shoulder.
“What had to be, had to be,” he murmured in a resigned tone. “He’s just hastened the process by inflicting it on himself. Probably believed that, sooner or later, God would have punished him, anyway.”




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Beth McCue

Author of Oceans Ending




Elliot didn't come home last night. His keys are still on top of the dresser where he left them. It's not the first time, but, something doesn't feel right. I make a few calls, friends, hospital, but nothing turns up. Maybe I should call the police, but why whack that hornet's nest? I have had a couple of disputes in the past which required their intervention, and I know already the looks and the questions
I would get.

Instead, I decide to get dressed and head over to the beach, see if I run into anyone who might have seen Elliot last night. Checking outside I see it's misty. I put my hand on the window
and feel the chill, typical weather for late October here. I throw on a sweatshirt and jeans, cover up with one of Elliot's hoodies and head out the door.

The growling in my stomach reminds me, I have forgotten to eat or even have a cup of coffee. Stopping at Matt's, I do a little fishing.

“Hey, mornin' big brother. Did you by any chance see Elliot last night? After we had a little disagreement, he left and never came back.”

Matt answers, “I saw him around 10, headed towards the pier. I was here late doing inventory. I haven't seen him this morning, though. Are you worried? He's done this before, hasn't he?”

 “Yeah, but, it wasn't that big an argument. It just seems a little strange. If he stops by, let him know I'm going for a walk then I'll be heading home.”

“Sure, no problem.”

I shove a bagel into my pocket and wrap my hands around the hot container of coffee. The beach is not crowded. A few yoga ladies are showing off their form; my neighbor is walking her dog; some kids are tossing a football. There is nothing out of the ordinary. Still, something is scratching at the back door of my brain, trying to get in.

I sit at one of Matt's tables. The coffee is horrible as ever, but at least it is waking and warming me a little. Last night's argument comes into clearer focus as I drink. It was not very big, no punching walls or screaming, just a stupid argument. Aren't they all? I wanted him to come with me to my parents' house for the weekend; he wanted to stay home and watch the game. It didn't matter which game was going to be on; he just didn't want to visit my parents. More specifically, he didn't want to see
my father.

 Usually, I would shrug and say, “Fine. It's more comfortable without you there anyway.” Not nice I know but true. Last night I just couldn't let it go. I kept poking until the anger came and he went.I have a habit of doing that, pushing until he blows. It's my way of making him prove he loves me enough to put up with my nonsense.Now I am afraid for no reason I can name. I'm afraid I will
never see Elliot again.

I head down the beach towards the pier, still clutching my coffee. I make a bargain with the fates. If I reach it before the yoga ladies finish, everything will be copacetic. If not I pick up my pace a little as I notice the women are suddenly packing up and heading out. I look towards the sky and realize
why. The clouds are piling up, and in minutes the mist will turn to pounding rain. I run for the cover of the pier. I don't quite make it and reach my destination soaked, miserable and alone. Unable to hold it together any longer, I begin to cry.

The rain is coming down in windblown sheets. The weather is a perfect reflection of my mood. The downpour finally stops, and I leave my shelter to walk back home. I trip over something. I look down. It's Elliott's shoe still attached to Elliot's foot. This time, I lose it for real.

The next thing I know, there is a small crowd gathered around me. Matt is kneeling down next to me looking pale and shaken.

“Are you all right? I'll take you home. Can you walk?”

“I think so. What happened to the…what happened to it?”

“The police are coming. They will take care of it.”

Someone in the crowd speculates out loud that it was probably a shark, “a damn big mother by the looks of it,” that had taken the body previously attached to the foot. Maybe, I think, but, there it is again, that nagging feeling that this is something major, something awful, something bigger than
just a shark attack. Matt helps me to my feet. The crowd makes room for us to pass. I know shortly the feeling of disbelief and numbness will wear off and be replaced by waves of sorrow. I need to be in my house when that happens.

Barely able to make it the last few feet, I open the door and crumble to the ground for the second time. This time, when I wake up, it's Elliot, Elliot…

“Elliot you son of a…do you know what I have been going through??”

“I know Dana. I'm sorry I didn't call, but I can explain.”

“Didn't call? I thought you were dead you idiot. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Dead? It was just one night.”

I go on to explain the saga of the shoe with the foot still attached and bloody. I can see the look of shock on Elliot's face.

“Do you have any idea who it was or what happened?”

“How would I know? I just told you, I thought it was you.”

Elliot then fills me in on his evening. He visited a few of the beachside bars after our argument. Apparently, he visited them pretty hard. He fell asleep on a bench outside his third stop.
When he woke up his wallet, phonewere gone, apparently taken by a thief with bad taste.

“So where did you spend the night?”

“At my sister's apartment.”

He had walked, gingerly, back to a more familiar bar and used the phone to call his sister, not me. But then I guess he figured I would have told him to drop dead at that point. If so, he
had figured right.

“I guess whoever took my stuff is the guy who got attacked by the shark, or whatever it was.”

“I guess.”

The knock on the door startles us all. It is one of the policemen from the beach. He wants to ask me some questions about my poor husband. I point to Elliot.

“Have him explain; I'm going to take a shower.”

Matt is gone, but the officer is still there when I come out. He has a few more questions about last night.

“Were you home all night?”


“Were you alone?”

“How good is your eyesight?”

“Excuse me?”

“If you were looking for Elliot and you saw someone his size, wearing his jacket and it was dark, would you know it wasn't him?”

“Probably not. Why?”

He explains these are “routine questions and there is nothing to worry about.” After all, they don't even have a body, just part of one. When we are finally alone, Elliot begins apologizing

“It was as much my fault as yours, maybe more,” I say. “Let's just forget about it. I'm going to pack a few things and head out.”

“You're still going to your parents' house?”

“Yes, I need to get away from here. Are you sure you don't want to come? It could be the cops have the right idea and last night wasn't an accident. Maybe someone is out to get you,” I
say, doing my best Bela Lugosi imitation.

It doesn't take long for Elliot to pack and we head out for what I hope will be a relaxing weekend.

The fall foliage along the Garden State Parkway is a treat, even though it is past its peak. The rain has finally stopped. Elliot plays his favorite collection of “driving on a fall day in clear weather” songs. By the time we get to my favorite jazz duo performing Autumn Serenade, I am almost in a good mood.

“My mom will be happy to see you. I don't know why, but she likes you.”

“The older ladies always do,” Elliot says.

“You're an idiot,” but I smile, then shudder as I recall just a few hours ago I thought I might never see him again.

The funny thing is, though, he's right. The older ladies, as well as younger ladies and in between ladies, all love Elliot. Maybe it's because of the way he stares straight into your eyes when you talk to him; or the way he listens and responds in a manner that says, “I am hanging on your every word.” It took me a while to figure out his look of rapt attention was just zoning out. He was off in his private world. He knows how to pay enough attention, though, always inserting the head nod, the smile, the commiserating sigh, at just the right moment.

I can see the house now as we make a final sharp turn. Seeing it always makes me breathe a little easier as if my continued existence connects to the house and all that's in it. House still
here equals Dana still here.

My mom is in the kitchen when we walk through the front door. The aroma of something wonderful is everywhere.

“Elliot it's so good to see you. I didn't know if you would be joining us this time or not.”

“I wouldn't miss a chance to have one of your home-cooked meals. I love your daughter, but she didn't exactly inherit your skills in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, sweetie. I do try you know.”

During dinner I tell the tale of the previous night, leaving out the “Elliot didn't want to come” part. I just say our argument was over what type of pet we will eventually get. I want a dog. He wants a cat. I base this on disagreements we have previously had.

They have a thousand questions. We have no answers. I am overcome by exhaustion as the day takes its toll, and I'm ready to crawl into bed. I promise to tell them everything I know, which is
next to nothing, at Sunday breakfast.

After cleaning up, Elliot and I head upstairs to my room. My mother has preserved it in a pristine state since I left for college 15 years ago. Dana's Shrine is Elliot's name for it. I have to admit
I still love the feeling of walking through the door and seeing all my belongings exactly as I left them.

Usually, when we visit, we engage in a little silent sex, pretending I am 16 and afraid of my parents catching us in the act. Usually, it's fun. Tonight we are both too tired to do anything

but crawl under the covers and fall instantly asleep

Beth McCue and her daughter. Don't they look like best friends?

Beth, you have an extensive writing background. When did you first start writing and did you continue to write for a living?

I really began writing when I was around five years old. I started a newspaper for my street called the Anding Avenue Press. My first big story was about a neighbor who lost his glasses.

I wouldn’t say I have earned my living as a writer. I owned a weekly newspaper for many years, but, most of the writing was done by my reporters. At my most recent job, I did some copy writing, as well as ad design and website maintenance. I learned several different computer coding languages, so I guess you could say I was writing, just writing in code.

Do you think there are opportunities for writer freelancers nowadays? Why or why not?

Due to the fact so many newspapers and magazines are cutting back on their full-time staff positions, I think there are many more opportunities for freelancers than there were 10, or even five years ago.

What is your opinion of the state of journalism nowadays?

I think there are still excellent journalists and publications out there, but they are decreasing in number every day. I’m afraid social media and catering to the public’s desire for instant news has diminished the overall quality of journalism. These days anyone with a cell phone can become a citizen journalist. There is very little respect for the craft of journalism. Being able to present a fair and unbiased look at what is happening in a way people can understand is a highly underrated skill.

Do you think news agencies should be banned from the White House Press Conference?

Of course not.

What do you think of the President’s claim that the news is a bunch of lies? Have you ever seen lies or embellishment of the truth in journalism?

I think we have all seen lies and embellishments. There are so many news outlets now with very obvious agendas. If you want to be an informed citizen you have to get your news from a variety of sources, not exclusively from Facebook or Twitter. In truth, I would say don’t get any of your news from social media but I know that’s not realistic.

How long did you live in New York? What kinds of jobs did you have?

I grew up in New York but moved to Florida for the first time when I was 18. I moved back and forth several times, but, when my daughter started school in 1978, I moved to New York and stayed there for 20 years before moving back to Florida, then South Carolina.

I owned a weekly newspaper, then, after selling it, I went to work as Editor of three weekly newspapers that were part of a larger chain.

Did you ever work with, or deal with, publishers in New York?

Not really.

I see that you moved to Charleston, South Carolina.? Why did you move there?

We moved for my husband’s job.

Is there a literary community there?

There is but I haven’t really explored it yet.

What are you involved with in Charleston? 

I’m not really a joiner. My husband and I both work from home. He’s a journalist and I retired from my job last year to concentrate on writing. 

Beth, when did you take up fiction writing? What inspired you?

I wrote my first short story when I was a teenager. I also wrote many, many poems. I published an illustrated children’s book in 1982 and published my first novel last year. I don’t know why, I just always thought of myself as a writer.

How many books have your written?

Only two, and I guess ½ since my new book is about half finished.

What are they about?

One is a children’s book about crystal steeds and unicorns. The novel is science fiction. It’s about genetic engineering and mutant, killer jellyfish.

Beth, in Oceans Ending, your plot is otherworldly. Do you get your ideas from dreams?

No. I usually come up with ideas in conversations with my daughter or husband. The idea for Oceans Ending came up when Rachel and I were on the beach.

The cover of your book is both beautiful and disturbing. Will you tell us about the photo?

The photo was taken by a very talented photographer named Dave Sandford. He has taken many photos of Lake Erie and they are all fantastic.

How did the photographer capture the shoot?

I don’t know. You would have to ask him.

The world in your book becomes chaotic and troubled at one point. Is that a reflection of where you believe the real world is headed now?

No, I don’t think the world is any more chaotic and troubled now than it has been in the past. The threat in my book is not based on anything real, although I suppose something like it could happen. It is sort of a modern day Frankenstein story.

Are you hopeful?

I would say I’m optimistic. I don’t know if hopeful is a word I would use to describe myself.

If you could wake up tomorrow and have the world any way you wanted it to be, what would it be like?

It ‘s hard to answer that question without sounding like a Miss America contestant. I would want peace, prosperity, and equality for all.

What do you do in your own life to move towards the world you envision?

Not enough I’m sure. I try to be accepting, understanding and willing to listen to and respect other people even if their beliefs conflict with mine.

What about happiness? What is your definition of it?

Happiness is family and a sense of purpose.

I notice in your book, that behind many of the relationship facades, there is much unhappiness? Do you think this is true in real life? 

I think it’s true for many people, yes.

What is your formula for a happy relationship?

Accepting the fact that everything changes. The philosopher Heraclitus said, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.”

For a fulfilled life?

See above answer.

What is something you want to change in your life?

I would like to live closer to my daughter.

What is something you are most grateful for?

My family.

What is something you know now that you wish you had known when you were younger?

How unimportant so many things were that seemed so important at the time.

Back to writing: what is your next writing project?

I am working on a novel called Darker Demons.

Where do you want to be as a writer ten years from now?

I just want to keep writing and publishing novels people will enjoy reading.

What is the hardest part of being a writer?

Being a writer is not hard for me. Being an author, coming up with interesting ideas, is hard.

What is the best?

Just being able to do what I love.

Do you have advice for writers who are starting out?

I wish I did but, each person’s experience is different. If I had to say something it would probably be, just write. No matter what, if you don’t take the first step you’ll never get to the finish line.

Is there anything I didn’t ask you that you would like to say?

Not really. You came up with many interesting questions!







M.W. Lilly

Many years ago, before becoming a Kona Girl, M.W. Lilly was a Valley Girl. At the age of seven, she left Hollywood with her family and moved to Encino in the San Fernando Valley. 

In 1968, she graduated from Birmingham High School in Van Nuys, at the peak of the Counter-Culture. The unmistakable importance of this period, when the innocence and prosperity of the booming ‘50’s segued to the Vietnam War and the assassinations of three key American leaders, this period, coupled with her attempt to understand her family’s alcoholism, prompted her to begin writing.

She went on to Raymond College at University of the Pacific in Stockton, California where she was blessed with small, outdoor classes providing intimacy and focus. In 1971, she pursued a Master’s Degree in Clinical Psychology at San Francisco State University. During this same time she married her college sweetheart and set up house in the Bay Area. In 1978, she moved to South Kona, her home ever since.

During her Kona sojourn of rainbows and volcanoes, the author has indulged nearly all of her fantasies. One of her proudest achievements was having developed an estate coffee business called Ali’i Farms, in Honaunau. Where else might a Valley Girl be able to do that?

In such an environment of immense natural beauty, and with a social atmosphere of acceptance and island living, the author has been able to pursue her heart, both in writing, and in working as a therapist with West Hawaii families. She has also taught piano over many years, and, finally, recently took up the ukulele. 

She continues to work as a therapist, and is writing Part II of Eyes of a Valley Girl. She plans these first two books as a prelude to a series featuring the main character, Tita, and her adventures in the Valley, Hawaii, Egypt and France. She hopes to connect with you in the matrix on the Lilly Pad at


Synopsis: Eyes of a Valley Girl is the first of 2 books about life as a Senior preparing to graduate from Birmingham High School in Van Nuys, California in 1968. It is the story of a 17 year old girl, the product of a French/American alliance, and how she navigates a very complex world. She must integrate her idiosyncratic family culture with her external environment, not always an easy proposition. Luckily, she stumbles upon many kind-hearted mentors along the way. This is an embellished personal history.

Excerpt from Shore Thing: The girls were singing “Surf City Here We Come” with Jan and Dean on the radio when I returned to the car. We packed our treats and cruised out of the parking lot, turning right, onto Ventura Boulevard. Our neighborhood landmarks rolled past, the sun catching the various marquises in prisms of dazzling light, the mundane reflected in the divine. Being out of the house, away from the consuming madness, was to escape prison, a delirious freedom, every drop to be savored and stored away for times when there would be no escape.

At Ventura and Haskell we caught the on-ramp for the 405 San Diego Freeway South. Windows down and hair streaming, we laughed and talked. We chimed in with The Rascals singing “It’s a Beautiful Morning,” on the radio, and shouted out Sly Stone’s “Dance To The Music.” Judy navigated across traffic, and at the I-10 made our connection, getting off in Santa Monica. We found a parking space just across the street from the beach, and within minutes settled onto a broad patch of hot, fine, sand. Judy and I laid out 3 bright towels. Renée set the radio on top of the cooler, and tuned the dial to 1110 KRLA as Jim Morrison belted out “Light My Fire.” Girls’ day at the beach. Heaven!

We lay down and warmed our skin in the rays of that famous California sun. Then we applied squares of cocoa butter all over so that we smelled divinely like chocolate and glistened like jewels delivered from the sea. We tanned for an hour or so, absorbing the intensity of the sun into the deepest layers. There was a point when every pore of skin, every fiber of tissue, pulsed with the heat radiating all around. Bodies, ground shells, and coral were all the same essential material. There was no separation, no I and Thou, sand; there were only shared molecules of heat.

Then came a sprint to the ocean, where white foam and opalescent waters lap the sand into a cooling clay. My toes tickled the lacework of receding undulations. I ran another yard or two and dove into the rolling sea. Turning onto my back and looking toward shore, I could see Renée headed my way, launching the beach ball. We started laughing, spurting seaweed and water, tossing the ball at each other as we ourselves were tossed by the waves. Judy joined us. This freedom to revel in Mother Nature’s paradise, was a gift almost beyond bearing in its munificence, in its gentle, easy, and all-encompassing embrace.

After a refreshing swim, we hoisted the umbrella to shade our towels and proceeded to ease our way into an afternoon of sheer bliss, punctuated by rhythms of the ocean echoing off the bluffs, and the occasional wolf whistle.

Excerpt from Timothy Leary, the Snatch Breakfast: "Then there’s the roster for the Snatch Breakfast.” There was an edge to Shelley’s voice.

“Yeah. . .” I waited.

“Well, it seems that no one wanted to ‘snatch’ a certain someone. If you know who I mean. . .”

I gave her a puzzled look.

“You know, the same person that no one wanted to snatch last year. The person that, at the last minute, you had to run and grab after his secret sister bailed.”

I nodded, recalling last year’s quirky event: 

In the eleventh grade we girls were Principias and the boys were Squires. Every year the service clubs organized a Snatch Breakfast, a reversal of anthropological evolution. Instead of hairy-chested men in loincloths raiding a village and absconding with fair maidens, we Principias stole, in the wee hours of the morning, into the very bedrooms of our fellow Squires. After dragging them out of bed and into our getaway cars, we then sped off in the darkness. Destination: Dupar’s, on the corner of Ventura and Petit, the Number One coffee shop on the planet. (I lived for their bear claws oozing with marzipan.) 

There, tucked into cushy booths, giddy from the smells of maple syrup, coffee brewing, and bacon frying, our sister Principias chatted away while their disheveled, pajama-clad kidnap victims struggled to wake up. We girls found it very amusing, and honestly, the boys seemed to thrive on the attention, even if they pretended to be embarrassed. 

And then there was Herman. Actually, then there wasn’t Herman. As organizer of this event, I took inventory and realized he was missing. Diane, his secret sister, was there, giggling in a booth with a couple of her Principia sisters and a handsome array of disoriented Squires. It was her job to kidnap him. What happened??

“Diane,” I had posed the question, “where’s Squire Herman?”

“Oh. Um. Oh. We went to the house. All the lights were off and the doors locked.” 

“That’s odd,” I countered. “I talked with his mom last week to make sure we had a way to get in.” The protocol for this event included enlisting parents as accomplices and swearing them to secrecy. This precaution insured that we weren’t taken for burglars, and allowed for a robe to be discreetly available if needed. Herman’s mom, Dottie, had said that he would love to be spirited away by a couple of beautiful junior girls.

“She must have forgotten. The whole house was dark.” 

“Well, we can’t leave him home when everyone else has been successfully kidnapped! I’m gonna go get him.”

“Fine. Good luck with that.” Diane had seemed contemptuous. I thought to ask her to come with me. We were supposed to work in teams of two or more, but decided against it. I didn’t appreciate her attitude. I also couldn’t call on the other girls who had fulfilled their mission and were now in full party mode with their victims, their breakfast orders up. I quickly let Shelby know my plans and ran out the door. Time was of the essence. Very soon there would be no mysterious darkness within which to work, a serious complication! 

Fifteen minutes later I arrived at the house and jumped out of the car, heading for the bright light over the side door. Passing through the kitchen, I bounded up the stairs, and remembering Dottie’s instructions, opened the first door on my right. There, in the glow of an orange lava lamp, rose the bulky outline of a figure in bed. I ran over and started shaking the lump under the covers. 

“Herman, get up, get up. I am kidnapping you for breakfast. You’ve been snatched. Up. Up.”

As I poked, prodded, and shook, he started groaning and slowly elevated into a sitting position, feet on the floor, eyes closed. As he sat there on the edge of the bed, he looked remarkably well groomed, sporting neatly pressed blue silk pajamas, with his hair smoothed down.

“Herman, open your eyes. We’ve got to go. Everyone’s waiting. Come on!”

“What’s happening? Where are you taking me?” 

“Put on your glasses, Herman. We’re going!” I had commanded.

Suddenly Casey’s voice interrupted my musings. “Oh yeah. I heard about that. The guy who came to Dupar’s in a smoking jacket and leather slippers?”

“It was a silk paisley robe, not a smoking jacket. And yes, he wore slippers made of Italian leather.”

“Yeah. I heard he had a pink rose for his secret sister and everything. That he was waiting to get kidnapped.”

“That’s true. His mom apparently told him what was up. He said he waited in the darkness for a long time, pretending to be asleep, and no one came. He thought he had the wrong morning or something. He was so stoked to join the party. You should have seen Diane’s face. When we introduced him to his secret sister, he gave her the rose.”

           Contact M.W. Lilly:

Author of A Cat Came Back

Check out this author's spunky writing and her wise understanding of what makes a relationship work. She talks about the obvious and the not so obvious, as she takes readers behind the scenes and changes their minds and hearts. This author, an excellent writer, sprinkles her prose with gems of visionary intuition and timeless awareness of partnership dynamics.


Simone, you’re probably going to get this question a thousand times, but here goes: how did you come up with the idea of a woman switching bodies with a cat?

As you might expect from the author of a book called, A Cat Came Back, I’m a cat person. Ruby, my little tabby cat, stares at me a lot, and I often ask myself what she’s thinking, what’s going on inside that little head. Sometimes she looks at me with such intelligence, I can imagine there’s a person in there. So I thought—what if there really was? What if you were stuck in the body of a cat? How would you let anyone know? A Cat Came Back is my playful response, a sort of “what if” story that blossomed from that watchful gaze of an ordinary house cat.

Eliza, the main character, finds herself trapped in a cat’s body through a freak accident, so she faces some very serious limitations! Only her lover, Stu, knows what’s happened to her, and that she’s still “alive.” This results in some funny misunderstandings with other characters, as well as some sad moments; for instance when her parents visit and she’s unable to communicate with them. Also as Eliza watches Stu interact with his own family, her perceptions of them change. She learns new things about people, but she can’t express what she’s learned. It’s all internal.

As the novel goes on, Stu’s attentions become increasingly unreliable. So she is really on her own in this situation. Eliza’s experience challenges her sense of self, her person-ness in a very fundamental way. How do you hold on to who you are, when no one sees you as human? Coming to terms with who we are is the most fundamental challenge we all face, as human beings, and I hope this is a story many readers can relate to and enjoy.

Was it difficult for you to imagine what it felt like to think and feel like a cat? Do you have a cat you studied as you wrote this book?

Writers take other points of view all the time, allowing the reader to inhabit other people’s minds and bodies. Animals’ bodies, not so much. Though there’s a Virginia Woolf story I love that briefly takes the point of view of a snail. Imagining being in a cat’s body was fun for me, especially thinking about being a cat in a garden, creeping through plants, climbing trees. I observed my cats for sure. I did some research, too, about how cats see color differently and hear more sharply than humans do. I also imagined how vulnerable cats are, how little. Eliza doesn’t always enjoy being manhandled by Stu, having her claws trimmed, being acted upon by him.

                          RUBY SUNNING BY THE POND

You do a good job of describing Stu without purposefully describing him. He’s many things rolled into one man. Is he based on someone you know, or is he boyfriends rolled into one embodiment of a man?

There’s a double transformation occurring in A Cat Came Back—the way she is seen, but also the way she sees. Stu in particular. You could say she gradually loses sight of the man she loves and focuses on the animal reality of him. Gradually she loses track of what’s going on outside in the real world. Work, parties. All that becomes almost a story to her. Meanwhile, her relationship with Stu becomes more and more physical. Nonverbal. About the food they share, the bed they share. Smells and touches and tastes. Stu is a composite man, including traits from boyfriends and male relatives, but also he’s a sort of basic male animal. 

Physically, he’s a bit like my spouse. I observed him in his habitat—the way I observed my cats!—the way he hunches over his newspaper, mumbles sometimes, can be spacy. But Stu’s much more conventional. He works in an office! His stability and, you could almost say, his ordinariness is what attracted Eliza to him in the first place. She was scared of not fitting in, of being an outsider. At one point she says, “I wanted to fool Stu into thinking I was uncomplicated and normal—a regular girl. More than anything, I wanted him to scan the horizon and say, ‘Yes, this all is as it should be,’ and include me in his survey.” 

What is the most important characteristic you want to convey to the readers about Stu and why?

He’s loyal, at least at first, steadfast and even ardent. His attention is so focused on Eliza that he can shut out other people. His mother, perhaps. Maybe that flatters Eliza. Stu can be detached, remote, with an ironic sense of humor. Eliza depends, or did depend, on being included in Stu’s club, so to speak. Because Stu is older than Eliza she feels that he knows how to be an adult, how to behave in the world. Before her transformation she’s already rather insecure, sensing—though maybe not consciously—that being an adult is a construct, being a woman is a construct, a kind of roleplaying, putting on an act. Maybe even being human is a construct.

What is the most important quality you look for in a man and why?

Honesty. How can a relationship with a man (or your lover, who, of course, may not be a man) succeed without that? Love to me is built on a foundation of trust. Communication is what makes the foundation possible. If there’s no honesty than trust must fail, and without trust, how can intimacy survive? The whole thing collapses. There’s always companionship, of course, but in that case you’re maybe better off with a cat or dog.

Even as a cat, you convey sensual and romantic feelings towards Stu. At one point you describe him when he answers the phone, “...with his bare chest, muscular shoulders, and messy hair, he’s incredibly attractive to me.” This watching and yearning for an unavailable man is akin to being in an unrequited human relationship. Did you base your cat feelings on having been in a relationship like this? If so, will you describe what it was like?

I suppose that sort of straightforward, uncomplicated, yearning comes straight out of an adolescent girl’s first crush. In my case it was the close proximity of a handsome, buff guy in tiny cutoffs, a friend of the family who did carpentry work for my parents. Of course it was unrequited, but I do think he knew I had an intense crush on him, and maybe he encouraged me with just enough teasing and attentions. Plus he read my poetry and talked about it with me. Very flattering. I suppose in a way he was flirting with me, which sounds creepy, considering I was twelve and he was twenty-eight. But it was harmless, the summer was long and I was bored. Before Facebook what was a growing girl to do but read Judy Bloom novels, write bad poems and make eyes at the “handy” man? I haven’t written poetry since then (just as well!), though I did write a story about that summer, called “Stretch Marks” (The Main Street Rag, Summer 2013). Eliza’s longing for Stu, a cat for her man, channels this adolescent frustrated yearning. All that energy has nowhere to go!

How was it for you to write romantically about a man slowly slipping away? Did that happen to you in real life? If so, what did you do as you went through it?

Most of all I think I’m trying to evoke everyone’s fear about losing a lover. In A Cat Came Back, I imagine this trauma as a sort of forgetting. I can’t say this has happened to me in real life, but I don’t think this trauma is confined to love relationships. I think this is a story many people, especially women, can relate to: about being not quite seen, or heard, or taken seriously, denied the dignity of a point of view. To be overlooked, marginalized, and forgotten. For Eliza it’s like a slow death.

You introduce Gladys in this book. She is a new-age mother who is in some ways rejected by Stu. You describe her at one point as being “too intimate.” What should the reader take away from that statement? Does Gladys’s presence and who she is, give more insight into Stu?

Of course all this is filtered through the point of view of our intrepid but sometimes pissed off cat, Eliza. If she describes Gladys as too intimate with Stu, isn’t she really saying in a way that she’s jealous of anyone who can be intimate with Stu in any manner, when she cannot? Also, the scene you mention comes early in the book at Eliza’s memorial, when they gather to mourn her supposed death. So Gladys’ conversation with Stu is observed by a lot of people. Stu is a private person and possibly he considers his mother’s “new age bullshit” a little impersonal. He may doubt her sincerity. Maybe that makes him wary in his relationships with women in general.

At the same time, Gladys has a sort of endearing way of not respecting boundaries. She goes blundering in. As the book progresses, Eliza’s way of looking at the world changes. She’s able to see things she might not have noticed if she were actually “in the scene,” rather than just a passive witness. If Gladys is “too intimate,” perhaps this is Eliza beginning to notice the opposite trait that comes to characterize Stu: his reserve.

You go on to describe Stu and Gladys’s polarities, mixed with their love for each other throughout the book. In what ways do you think their relationship affects Stu’s relationship with other women?

Stu’s attitude toward his mother highlights Eliza’s growing awareness of Stu’s nature. Before the accident, she put a lot of weight on being seen by Stu, on his attentiveness, his attention. She’s the one doing the looking now and she’s seeing him differently, because she’s different. Perhaps Stu’s relationship with Gladys is a clue to Stu’s character. His mother’s love is more than wants to accept, and he retreats into himself. Perhaps he has trouble accepting love from the other woman in his life. 

The cat becomes a voyeur to Stu and Lisa’s growing relationship. At one point the cat sees the change in both of them; Lisa becomes vulnerable and victimized, and he becomes grossly insincere, even as they continue to play out their courtship. Do you think hidden episodes between couples—even if one of them doesn’t know what happened—impacts relationships? Do you think what happened while Lisa was away would eventually impact the future of her relationship with Stu?

Hidden episodes can and will impact any relationship, no matter how strong. The one who knows will feel something about what is hidden. How can that not affect the relationship? Maybe like a bruise on what should be a nice ripe fruit, the rot starts and spreads, no matter anyone’s intentions. Whether Stu and Lisa stay together, I can’t say. At one point, Eliza says she hopes they do. That’s her evolution: from jealousy to letting go. It’s bittersweet. 

One time in your book, the woman in the cat talks about Stu never having been “fully present,” but she realized she let other qualities in the relationship make up for that missing piece. Do you think it is common in relationships for one person “to not be present?” Do you think there is a price to be paid when one person in a relationship is emotionally absent? Why or why not?

I think being in a relationship with someone who is emotionally absent or distant, often or most of the time would be intolerable! How lonely and sad. Though periods of it are probably normal in most relationships. Eliza says, “You made me feel like a proper woman, so I didn’t care that you often did not seem fully present in our relationship. I just needed to have you there beside me, looking at me with your wonderful eyes.” If the accident hadn’t happened, would Eliza have become dissatisfied with her relationship with Stu? I think maybe so. Unless Stu became more emotionally available, and Eliza grew up and became more self-reliant. It’s possible they could have worked it out. I’d like to think so!

The cat, as it is losing Stu, says remorsefully: “The only power I have is negative power, the power of withholding.” Would you say something about negative power and give examples of when it is used and why?

At that point in the book, Eliza chooses not to come running when Stu’s calls her. Considering that what she most wants his is his attention—especially since no one but Stu knows who she is, that she’s there in the cat—to give up what she most wants is very difficult, but it’s important to her, a way of showing her disapproval and rejection of his behavior. It’s a moral stance and also the only recourse of the powerless and the voiceless. Like a boycott, when you have no other power. Eliza is saying, “Enough. I am not participating in what is going on here!”

What do you think true power is in a person? In a relationship?

I think if the question of power comes up in a relationship, there’s already a problem. If you’re thinking about power, it’s probably because you don’t feel you have it. If you want to have power over someone, presumably you feel helpless or not loved for who you are. The give and take of any relationship hopefully means it never comes up. On that note, I’d say having a giving nature gives you a certain power. Maybe it’s the power of loving or being able to love. A generosity of spirit. Believing in yourself gives you a lot of power. No one can take that from you.

Is there anything I didn’t ask you about the book that you would like to add?

Maybe just the question of why this transformation happens to Eliza. Early on she says, “Before the accident if Stu had asked me (though he never would have), ‘Are you at home in your body?’ I’d have looked down at my hands, thighs, ankles and feet and said, ‘No, not really.’ Did I leave it so easily because I never belonged there, because I never felt at home in that human, female form?” Understanding a situation—and yourself—starts with asking the right questions. Eliza’s transformation in A Cat Came Back gets her asking a lot of questions, and hopefully will have the same effect on the reader!

Would you give us an excerpt of your book and how we may find a copy of it?

Excerpt of A Cat Came Back

Stu stops munching, looks up at me from under his shaggy hair.

“So, can you read?” He slides a section toward me.

I cock my head toward the paper. The letters are small, blurry drawings. The alphabet might as well be Chinese or Arabic. Strange that I can’t read or speak, though I still have language inside my head. Words are a consolation, but not a tool.

“Guess not. You want me to read stuff out loud to you?”

I would, but not right now. If I wanted to show interest in the newspaper I could cross the table and rub against his shoulder. Instead I gaze at him over the bowl of milk.

“It’s so weird,” he says in a hesitant voice. “You don’t look like a cat. When you stare at me, you look like Eliza.”

That’s the nicest thing he could have said. With a happy lightness to my step I move between the bowls, over his napkin ring and spoon, until I stand on the edge of the table and nip at his prickly chin. This is my way of saying: Hi, there. I like you.

The book is available online through Powell’s, Barnes & Nobel, and Amazon. Or readers can ask their local bookstore to order a copy.



Author website: 

Amazon author’s page: 


Lana Campbell

EXCERPT FROM:  Forever and a Night

Mia pushed aside her plate and smiled. “I’m Mia Peebles.
Is this your first time at Tavania’s?” She extended her hand.
He gave it a cordial shake.

 “Yes. I drove by tonight and decided it might be a quiet place to do some work. Not so much, but I managed to accomplish what I needed to. I’m Nathan Davenport.”

Mia laughed. “Yes, it was a bit crazy tonight. It’s good
to meet you, Nath—” She broke off and glared at him.
Her heart did a little trip over in her chest when her brain
cells began to fire and comprehend the name the man had
given her.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. Suddenly, his features
began to morph with the memories of numerous news and
other TV show interviews she’d witnessed over the last
ten years or so. Nathan Davenport was a real estate mogul
and currently the richest man in the United States and
possibly worldwide. Also the most sought-after bachelor
on the planet. A playboy. He had a different supermodel
or Hollywood starlet on his arm every other picture or
interview taken of him.

He looked amused. “I guess you know who I am.”

“Duh.” She laughed, picked up her glass of wine, and
sipped. “My biggest question is, how did you end up here?
I thought you lived in New York.”

“I do primarily, but I have a number of homes, and one
of my favorites is here in New Orleans in the heart of one
of the historical districts. Circumstances have brought me
to the city. Unfortunately, I don’t have a private chef here,
just a housekeeper, so I went out for the evening.”

Mia blinked at him. A private chef? Wow! Of course a
man like him would have all sort of household and personal
staff. Her background was redneck, Missouri rural. Just
having food on the table every day for her ex-husband and
children had been a miracle of God for many years. That
kind of wealth stymied her.

In her four years with Joe, she’d had many encounters
with well-to-do folk and had learned to accept and
accommodate their eccentricities. Not every wealthy patron
she’d met were all up in their stuff, but she suspected Nathan
Davenport about as spoiled as a rich person could get.

“What?” he demanded, grinning at her.

“Nothing. Just glad you happened by tonight and
enjoyed your meal. And truly, I hope you’ll visit Tavania’s
again.” She tried for a kind smile then stood, intending to
take her half-eaten plate and wine glass to the dish pit.
He laid a hand on her arm, halting her. “Are you finished
for the evening?”

Mia’s smile faded. There was a hungry look in his eyes,
which had nothing to do with food, and she didn’t like the
implications. “No. I’m closing tonight and have another
hour or so ahead of me. Why?”

“I was going to ask you if you’d like to have a drink with
me when you’re finished. I’d be happy to wait.”

His expression seemed polite enough. Maybe her
thinking was a little harsh. He’d been completely cordial,
but Mia was forty-two years old and wise enough to
recognize a player when she saw one. “That’s very kind of
you, but no. It’s been an extremely long day, and I’m beat,
but I appreciate the invite.”

He appeared disappointed, but Mia didn’t care. She
hadn’t dated since her divorce. Hadn’t had time and certainly
tonight, she had no time for a guy like Davenport.

 The man would have been a temptation for a nun. She’d lived like
one for the last five years because work left her no time
for a social life. However, she wasn’t thinking very sisterly
thoughts at the moment, which solidified her refusal. That
and the fact he was Nathan Davenport. Dating required
commonalities. She couldn’t think of one they might share.
She’d taken several steps away from the bar when she
heard him speak.

"Mia, look at me." His voice had taken on a deep hypnotic tone, which seemed to echo in her head. In fact, it seemed to only be in
her head, not audible. The strangeness of that reality should
have been terrifying, yet something compelled her to turn
and face him. She sat her dishes on the bar.

“Come with me.” He gave her a kind, reassuring smile.

She opened her mouth to say, Hell, no, but the word that
came out instead was, “Okay.” Her heart tumbled over in
her chest.

Mia realized she was seriously losing it because she
allowed him to escort her out the front door of the restaurant
without a peep. As hard as she tried to get her feet to obey
her mind’s order to run back inside the restaurant, they
were useless. They just kept taking her the direction he led
them. Her voice was useless too. Her jaws felt locked. She
began to pant and look around.

"Mia, relax. You have nothing to fear. I’m not going to
hurt you."
Her gaze, wild and crazy, she was sure, shot toward him.
His words and voice had been in her mind. She hadn’t
heard them audibly. Oh god, please tell me this is not real, that I’m going to wake up from this any second.

He gave her a reassuring smile and took her hand. She
wanted to yank it away and use both to scratch his eyes out,
but she couldn’t move them either.

"You will be afraid no more. Understood?"

As his words filtered through her head, fear evaporated,
and her breathing and pulse gained normal momentum as
desperately as she tried to fight both. He must have drugged
her. That was the only explanation Mia could come up with,
because her mental and physical control were history.

She looked around to gain perspective. Everything
seemed surreal. All the Bourbon Street noises and smells
were alive to her senses yet distant, all stationed in a tunnel,
contained with her in the midst, separate yet, apart. Nathan
stood beside her, holding her hand. At some point, a long
black limo pulled up to the curb. He opened the door and
gently ushered her inside.

How to contact Lana Campbell:





Amazon Author Page:

s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1490447380&sr=1-1&keywords=forever+and+a+nig ht+lana+campbell 



A story of strength, courage, and determination, Patrice M Foster’s moving journey from poverty, neglect, and abuse is a tribute to the human spirit. 

Born in Jamaica West Indies, Patrice and her five siblings endured a barren childhood devoid of love, security, and hope. After both parents abandoned their children, Patrice’s only means of surviving years of mistreatment with uncaring relatives was the hope of joining her mother in America, a country that beckoned with dreams of a better life.

That dream finally became a reality in 1973, but instead of the warm welcome she expected, she was once again abandoned, forever losing any hope of a happy family reunion. Though her eventual descent to the street dragged her to a place of darkness, it never claimed her despite the scars of prostitution, homelessness, arrest and imprisonment, a stay in a mental institution, gang rape, and loveless relationships. 

Fueled by her desire to succeed, Patrice overcame at times insurmountable odds to educate herself. She eventually became a nurse and successful businesswoman while raising three children.

Ultimately, Patrice’s journey in search of love and respect became a search for herself and healing through forgiveness and self-acceptance. 


I remember another terrible fight when my father came home drunk and attacked my mother. She was expecting him to bring something home to cook, which he promised, but seldom followed through. Yet, he expected to come home to a hot meal regardless. He felt the rice porridge that she cooked, which was all we had in the kitchen, was too cold (it was long before the days of microwaves).

My oldest brother, Jovan, often stood up for our mother, so he was in the line of fire a lot as well, and subsequently bore the brunt of our father’s anger. He was always trying to be the peacemaker and stop our father from hurting our mother.

"It's no problem!" Jovan yelled at him. "It's okay," he said again, pressing his hands against our father's chest, as if our brother, who was only ten-years-old at the time, could have held back someone as strong and aggressively drunk as our father.

Dad slammed his fist against the wall and shouted, "Stay out of this! I’ll be the judge of what's acceptable. I work all day and will not eat a cold supper at night!”

"But it’s ten o'clock, Father,'' Jovan said. “Dinner was hours ago.”

Dad didn't like that comment. His face contorted into an ugly mask, and he grabbed his whiskey bottle from the table and raised it over Jovan's head. Jovan took off down the hall with Dad racing behind trying to club him with the bottle. Jovan ducked into the bathroom and quickly locked the door while Dad cursed and yelled to him about respect and authority. It was dark, and we were all hiding elsewhere in the house, afraid for Jovan and afraid for our mother, who was in the kitchen frantically trying to heat up father's dinner.


Author of: THE CLERK

The Clerk is a story about a middle-aged man named Thomas, who, for the most part, is content, despite not being conventionally successful. The conflict comes from Thomas's friends, family, and co-workers, who involve him in their own dramas or try to change him to fit their own ends.

Many literary novels deal with the "malaise" of modern society: alienation, lost opportunities, omnipresent technology, and a broken political system. I wanted to write the "anti-malaise" novel, and have a protagonist who isn't afflicted with a dozen mental maladies that shadow his every thought and action. Also, many novels are written from a middle-class standpoint; The Clerk is staunchly blue-collar.

However, this is no uplifting "chicken soup for the soul" story. There's satire, some harsh truths, and plenty of unlikeable characters. My plan wasn't to inspire, but to present a story from an oft-forgotten segment of our society, and to let the reader ponder its implications.



Back when Thomas was in tenth grade, someone had nominated him for the International Leaders of Tomorrow Conference (ILTC). Thomas never knew who it was, as his parents (mainly his father) had instantly pounced on the opportunity, signed him up without consulting him, and then bombarded him with a hurricane of details about the program. It was some time before Thomas could retreat to his room and look over the ILTC materials by himself.

The ILTC, according to its brochure, was “an exciting experience that will show today's promising youths how to become tomorrow's acclaimed leaders.” Thomas was intrigued to learn that he was “promising,” as his GPA told a different story. He also didn't consider himself a leader; most “leaders” at his high school thought that tersely-delivered commands disguised as innocent suggestions and appropriation of other's ideas were the cornerstones of leadership.

As he continued thumbing through the brochure, he was edified to learn that the ILTC had “brought together students from 75 countries since our inception in 1980” and that “ILTC participants travel to learning-intensive locales to collaborate on horizon-expanding projects and to hear speeches and lectures from top academics, business leaders, and activists.” It all sounded very sunny and innocent. The Thomas of age forty knew that the whole thing was a money trap, just another vacation-cum-resume-stuffer that middle-class parents foisted onto their children, but the Thomas of age sixteen thought the whole thing sounded mighty swell.

Though he'd called his father a “tyrant” for signing him up, he'd settled down and come to understand the value of the ILTC. The worst part was that it took place during summer vacation, that hectic time of endless beach days and nighttime (mis)adventures with tourist girls. He'd also have to miss work, but he was sure Vernon would give him time off. It was only two weeks, after all...

So, a few months later, he happily flew from Raleigh to Washington, D.C., where the ILTC Opening Ceremony was held. A grinning female staffer met him at the airport; she was even holding a printed sign with his name on it. He was, she explained, the only one she was picking up at the moment; his flight had been later than those of the other Young Leaders. As the staffer pumped his hand energetically, Thomas wondered if her smile was going to split her face asunder. He was also impressed by the tightness of her skirt and her skyscraper-high heels. As she led him out of the airport at a brisk pace, babbling about something or other, Thomas watched the twin mounds of her ass bounce beneath the black fabric.

But the staffer soon dumped him in a dorm room at George Washington University and disappeared. It being summer, the campus was deserted, and the ILTC had acquired an entire dorm hall to house its prodigies. As Thomas unpacked, he tried to chat with his roommate, a tall and flat-faced Lithuanian, but as the Lithuanian's English was poor, he ended up lying on his bed in an awkward silence and counting the ceiling tiles.

The ILTC's Opening Ceremony was spectacular, if one liked endless speeches. It took place in a small lecture hall with strange acoustics, so that every syllable a speaker uttered seemed to have been bellowed by a god. Thomas sat stiffly as a CEO, a senator, the ILTC's President, and numerous other luminaries talked about the immeasurable value of the ILTC's program, and how they wished every participant would do their best.

Finally it ended, and the Young Leaders, after moving to empty classrooms, were placed in small groups to do various exercises, such as determining what Chile should do with its copper resources, although Thomas suspected Chile already had that covered. He breathed easier; now he would get to meet people. He'd never been in such a cosmopolitan atmosphere, and he wanted to learn everything about everyone.

That heady feeling was soon dashed. These leaders, no matter if they were from Madagascar, Germany, or North Dakota, were exactly like the leaders in his high school. They didn't discuss; they pronounced or commanded. They didn't ask questions; they battered each other with pointed interrogatives. If another person made a good point, they would say “That's a good point” grudgingly, then repeat the point using longer and snazzier words so it appeared that it had originated with them all along. Thomas's gaze bounced from speaker to speaker as everyone talked over each other; he felt like a ping-pong ball during a particularly heated match. Once he tried to say something, but a Frenchman sniffed “Well put” and threw a rarified Continental gloss on his words. He even used a quote from Voltaire for garnish. Thomas clamped his jaw shut, crossed his arms, and sat brooding.

Just a few minutes ago, he'd yearned to escape from the endless speeches. Now he yearned to escape from these young titans, with their bottomless self-assurance and indisputable declarations. He wished he was back home, lying on the beach with his friends and watching the young bikini-clad girls saunter by, or at Oxendine's Grocery joking with Vernon and the rest of the guys.

The days passed by so slowly that Thomas wondered if God (or a god) had fiddled with the flow of time. He listened to a speech by a supposedly-heroic Canadian activist, but the only thing he seemed to have done was spent some time in a Burmese prison. He listened to another speech by a different senator, one who talked about “the value of bipartisanship, of dealing with my fellow congresspeople across the aisle.” He listened to yet another speech from a Pulitzer Prize-winning author, who informed his audience that the key to storytelling was creating compelling characters.

The only decent experience was the walk along the National Mall. The Washington Monument's plain majesty reminded him of the Cape Lookout Lighthouse, and the Lincoln Memorial moved him in a way few things had. There was Honest Abe, the hero of his textbooks, looking out from his shrine for all eternity. Hot tears formed, and he wiped them away quickly, lest one of his apparently unaffected peers see them. What would Lincoln think of these callous young strivers marching around his temple? Surely he would be angry and baffled at their arrogance. Thomas wished the exquisitely-carved statue would come alive and humble these fools with a few calmly-delivered yet mountain-shattering words, and then stomp them with his giant shoes.

Then it was off to New York, and another dorm room at some university. Thomas was beyond caring which one. He knew New York was big, but he didn't know it was big. On a normal day in Morehead City, there might be a total of ten people on the downtown sidewalks; here, there were ten people within fifteen feet of him. Buildings towered over him, terrifying in their concrete and brick indifference. Newspapers flew down alley and street, like ghosts that decided they'd come out in daytime just to be cheeky. Dirt was everywhere. Drivers honked their horns. Finally their Big Apple Exploration Group entered a pizza joint for lunch, and Thomas felt relieved to be away from the bustle and whirl, until the mustachioed, portly man at the counter demanded he make up his mind what he wanted cuz he was holding up the line. Thomas stammered that one cheese slice and a small drink would do it, then he sped to a corner booth and ate by himself, like a disciplined child sitting in time-out.

There were, of course, more speeches. Thomas sat glassy-eyed and dreamed of sand and ocean and stocking shelves.

Finally it was time for the Closing Ceremony, which was much like the Opening Ceremony, except drenched in ecstasy-sorrow over “our farewells, although I know each of you will cherish these memories forever.” Like everyone else, Thomas received a completion certificate written in stylized English and affixed with the ILTC's Gold Seal. Then it was over. The same female staffer drove him to the airport, this time with a few others. He didn't look at her ass, nor did he talk to the Young Leaders next to him in the van. He got on the plane, the plane lifted off and headed south, he stared out the window at the Atlantic Ocean and the coastline, and in no time at all he was back in Raleigh, and his beaming parents were waiting for him.

     “How was it?” his mother trilled.

     “Yes, how was it, son?” his father demanded.

     “It was shitty,” Thomas snapped.

     The ride home was tempestuous.


What am I working on now? A new novel, which will be completely different from The Clerk, and of course I'm trying to learn all I can about the self-publishing/indie world. The whole indie experience is daunting, wild, and often frustrating - but still invigorating.

Want to chat about reading and writing, or just shoot the breeze? Or maybe you know a surefire way to sell 100,000+ books in 30 days without spending a dime on marketing? If so, shoot me an email at I'd love to hear from you!




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