Welcome to the Finding Happiness in Harmony series’ first journey celebrating the bonds of friendship, love, and life. This feel-good story of first love and best friends will have you believing you too can find it all.

Twenty-five-year-old Chloe Larson has never had a relationship or been really kissed by someone. After a rough childhood spent hiding a secret and being ridiculed, Chloe believes she’s better off with only friends around her. That way she can’t get hurt or misused. She spends weekends living life to the fullest with her best friends and roommates Gaby and Jess and weekdays proving her worth as a newly promoted reporter. The thing is, she doesn’t have time for anything romantic. But secretly she longs for that special connection with someone.

Chris Sherman is bored of the selfish women who flock to him. Recently out of a relationship, he isn’t looking for love. But everything changes when he meets Chloe Larson. She has a way about her that excites and intrigues him, leaving him desperate to get to know her.

Will they both find the courage to let each other in and experience the joys and pains of love, life, and happiness to find it all?

Targeted Age Group:: 18-55

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Stacey Komosinski blends her love for romance novels and Texas with the opinion that you can find it all in this debut novel. She was inspired by her own love story and a visit to San Antonio in 2016.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I created characters that each had insecurities or areas of their life that made them a work in progress, as no one is perfect. In addition, I included elements of personalities I admire, such as kind, caring, hard-working and supportive to family and friends.

Book Sample
He leaned in, hovering just above her. He was so close he could feel her breath on his face. This woman turned him inside out. Her sweet innocence was so appealing to him, it physically made him feel hot everywhere.
Right before he brought his face to meet hers, he whispered, “I think about you all the time.”
Trying to control himself, Chris barely touched his lips to hers. He moved them lightly, soft like feathers over her lips. He kept his eyes slightly open to see her reaction. He wanted to pay close attention to all her subtle cues, so he would know just what she wanted and needed. Or if she wanted him to stop.
Her beautiful brown eyes were mostly closed, her eyelashes fluttering. He felt her shift her hips closer to him and move her hand up his back. She dug the fingers of her other hand into his hair. He knew she would be receptive to him kissing her deeper but wanted to keep it slow and controlled.
Pulling her in just a bit closer and holding her tighter, she responded by parting her lips, and her breathing quickened. She was having a powerful effect on him too. His heart pounded in his ears.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Finding It All Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Finding It All On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Much of what this book contains you are not likely to find in any travel guide. Did you know, for instance, that Sweden held Olympic Games as early as 1834, sixty-two years before the first Olympics of the modern era? That peaceful Sweden has been a colonial power ruling over territories far from Europe? That the man who gave his name to the hundred-degree thermometer was a Swedish astronomer?

Do you know how Sweden acted and reacted in the two world wars? Who the “Super Swedes” were? Or the Scots who came to fight, or make their fortune in Sweden and left an indelible mark on the country? Do you know what a genuine smörgåsbord consists of, how it should be eaten, what the word really means and why it was given a seemingly incongruous name? Do you know how IKEA was formed, by whom and why he remains such a controversial figure? That Swedish inventions range from dynamite to Minecraft and from the modern adjustable spanner/wrench to Spotify? There are answers to these and many more questions.

However, there is also a great deal of information for anyone visiting, or thinking about visiting, the country, as well as showing where to obtain the latest information about places, accommodation, restaurants, events etc. at the click of a mouse.

Targeted Age Group:: Any age

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
While working on a guide book I was commissioned to write on Sweden and which was published in London and New York, I unearthed many things that surprised me despite living in the country for many years. However, there was little room for most of them in the book, apart perhaps for a brief mention. They are included here, along with much else that should be of use to anyone contemplating a visit to, or simply curious about, the country.

Book Sample
The Storsjö Monster (Storsjöodjuret)

The province of Jämtland has its equivalent to Nessie, the mysterious inhabitant of Loch Ness in Scotland. First written about by a clergyman in 1635, this is how it came into being:
Two trolls, Kata and Jata, had a huge cauldron hubbling and bubbling by the side of the lake for years on end. Suddenly one day there was the weirdest noise, then an ear-splitting bang, and out popped a being with the body of a black serpent and head like a cat.
Without waiting to ask or answer questions, it dived into the depths, where it clearly thrived for it grew ever larger, terrifying anyone who happened to be around when it decided to see what was going on up above. So big did it get that it could wrap itself round the whole island of Frösön — and bite the end of its tail!
Many have been the sightings over the years, although the monster’s length has diminished greatly and it has got rather humpy and bumpy. In mid-19C a member of the Swedish parliament claimed he saw it walking on the water, rapidly enough to cause considerable wash. It was then about seven-and-a-half metres long.
Much toil and trouble have gone into trying to trace it. In the late 19C a company was formed to capture the creature. It enlisted the aid of a Norwegian harpooner and erected an electric light to attract the prey. A trap was then set using a live pig as bait! You can see the device and other monster-catching equipment at Jämtlands läns museum in Östersund (below).
In 1998, a Loch Ness expert came over to lead an expedition which it was hoped would unravel the mystery, and an international monster symposium was held in Östersund the following year. The only thing to emerge for certain, however, was that Storsjön provides a much more monster-friendly environment than the Scottish loch, and the baffling being remains at large.
Nowadays, however, the attitude to monsters is much more tolerant and humane than in the past (and they are good for business), so please note there is a strict ban on any attempt to hunt or harm it or any offspring or eggs it might have, or damage the place where it dwells.
You can get a map from the tourist office showing where you are most likely to spot their prize attraction. It also has its own Web site.

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy What You Should Know About Sweden On Amazon
Buy What You Should Know About Sweden on Barnes and Noble/Nook
Buy What You Should Know About Sweden on Smashwords
Buy What You Should Know About Sweden on iBooks
Buy What You Should Know About Sweden on Kobo
Buy What You Should Know About Sweden eBook at Walmart

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Featured Free Book: Book is free from 02/28/2021 until 03/28/2021 If the dates are the same, book is free one day only.

About the Book

Julietta Weaver isn’t like most young women, the Lord gave her a heart for horses. Specifically, racehorses. When she learns the owners sell the losing horses for meat she hatches a plan to open Wild Dreams Sanctuary. A home for lost horses, but to fund it she will have to bet more than she ever thought possible, including her heart.

Download book here

Now a middle aged woman facing inevitable old age, Linda relishes reminiscing about her childhood and what people commonly refer to as the good old days. This is especially prevalent when she gets together with her siblings, and their now extended families. One particular Saturday afternoon’s visit to her mother’s townhouse, which is located on what was once the McDowell’s Farm, Linda is reminded of the events that transpired there when she was a young girl growing up in the sixties. Though at one time the farm was profitable and bustling with activity, by the time Linda’s family moved to the neighborhood, McDowell’s farm was overgrown and uncared for by a crotchety, old farmer and his kind hearted wife. This sets the backdrop for this whimsical and nostalgic tale which takes many unexpected twists and turns. Linda’s strained relationship with her older sister, Karen, does a complete 180 due to the fateful events that occur one fall afternoon in 1967, when they take a shortcut through McDowell’s farm on their way home from school. One wrong decision leads to a chain of events that one would never anticipate and takes the reader through a journey which is tragic and heartwarming

Targeted Age Group:: 12+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I was first inspired to write this novel because of my love for writing. I find myself reminiscing, as I get older and want to preserve my favorite memories. Some of the events from my book are due to actual events from my childhood. When I was out walking one day with my dog, I came across a field with a single tree in the middle. I was reminded of a farm near by while growing up, and my story grew from there.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The main characters are based on my family growing up. Myself and my sister Karen start out as the main characters. The rest are all based loosely on people from my childhood. The book takes a turn a third of the way through and introduces made up characters.

Book Sample
The only thing more frightening than Farmer McDowell’s personality was his appearance. I believe he was born an old man and had just aged ungracefully throughout his lifetime. It was hard to determine his height, as he walked with the aid of a cane and had an obvious hunchback. I don’t know if the cane was used due to the hunchback or vice versa. Toothless and wrinkled, his face resembled that of a jack-o-lantern that had already lost its novelty by November first and was left rotting on someone’s stoop on Thanksgiving. His long, white beard and hair were obviously grown out of neglect and not as a fashion statement. I never saw him in anything other than a pair of faded and torn overalls. I often wondered if he wore the same pair every day or if he had many of the same pair exactly alike. By his odor, however, I believe it was the same pair.

Links to Purchase Audiobook
Listen to a sample of Audiobook at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Recycled Hope On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Book is Bargain Priced starting 03/28/2021 and ending 03/31/2021. Check the price on the book before you purchase it, prices can change without notice.

About the book:

Would You Go Through Hell to Save Your Child?

After years of struggle, Henry Black finally had it all — a loving family and a thriving career as a comedian. Then in one night, it was all ripped away from him when three men murdered his daughter, and ended his world.

But death isn’t the end for Henry. When given the chance to return to his wife, he accepts. Except he’s no longer the man he was — or even a man at all.

To match his sins, Henry’s body has been twisted and his mind thrust into darkness.

But the closer he comes to the truth of that fateful night, the more he leaves his humanity behind. Henry is caught in the war between Heaven and Hell and forced to choose between the two things he cares about the most: Vengence and the chance to save his daughter.

Can Henry redeem himself and save his daughter, or will he be damned for all eternity as monstrous?

Link to get bargain ebook

Uncorked: Tangled Vines by Delta James

When Hunters strike at the wrong prey, Damian Steele will stop at nothing to claim the ultimate prize… his fated mate.

On the backroads of Italy, a fatal accident takes the lives of three of the four people in the car. The only survivor is an unconscious Kinzie Edwards, who is mistakenly identified as her twin sister. In a targeted act of violence, Kinzie loses her sister, Kayla, and her humanity.

Damian is the brooding Alpha of the Sonoma Pack and the head of the Luna de Lobo Vineyard on the California coast. When Hunters strike at his people, Damian rushes to Italy to care for the mate to his omega. Except it isn’t Kayla he brings home.

While Kinzie hovers between life and death, a powerful change within her DNA occurs and she wakes as a wolf. Kinzie knows nothing about wolf-shifters or fated mates, unlike her sister who had been a wolf-shifter.

Thirsting for answers and revenge, Kinzie leaves the safety of Damian’s embrace to confront those who murdered her sister. Can Damian reach her before the Hunters claim her as another trophy?

Targeted Age Group:: adult audiences
Heat/Violence Level: Heat Level 5 – NC-17

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I suppose in a way my dad. It wasn’t so much that he urged me to become an author, but more than he encouraged me to follow my dreams… and not just follow them, but to work towards making them a reality. I like to think that if he were still alive, he’d be enjoying the hell out of my success

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Uncorked and the Tangled Vines series was written in response to readers who wanted to see more of the Wayward Mates world. While the storyline in that series had come to an end, I thought it might be interesting to revisit that world and create a new set of alphas and their mates. The series set in the vineyards that run all up and down the Pacific Coast and a threat from a group of humans known as Hunters. Uncorked introduces readers to Damian Steele, the brooding Alpha of Sonoma and the Luna de Lobo Vineyard. Faced with an unprovoked attack on two of his people on foreign soil, Damian comes face-to-face with his fated mate, a woman he had never considered.

Book Sample
“Honestly, I don’t give a shit. I’m out of here,” she said, trying to push past him.

He took hold of her arm and used her inertia to spin her back into the room. She growled in response. There it was again, that same noise she didn’t know she could make.

“You do not growl at me and you sure as hell don’t growl at Damian, but I’ll let it slide this time.”

“You’ll what?”

“In our society, she-wolves do not growl at ranked members of the pack. As Damian’s beta, that means if you growl at me, I would be within my rights to ask that you be disciplined. Any chance you know anything about BDSM?” he asked.

“Only that I have no interest in it.”

“That’s a shame because it might have made the transition easier for you. No matter. Damian’s never shied away from a challenge and I always believed he’d be called to a fractious she-wolf with a temper and spirit to match his own.”

“I’m only going to say this once more.” Kinzie took a deep breath before slowly enunciating her next words. “Get out of my way.”

“No,” he said with a stupid smile on his face.

He seemed startled by a loud knock on the door, but he composed himself, turned and flicked the lock. Before he could open it fully, the hinges creaked and the door was shoved open. Three women entered, one of which was Stephanie, who she remembered from earlier.

“What do you three ladies think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“If you think we’re going to stand idly by and let Damian force Kayla into a pairing…” started the beautiful blonde with the killer figure.

Kinzie raised her hand to beside her head and waved. “Hello! Hot news flash for the newest members of our little group… I’m not Kayla.”

All of the color left the face of the girl standing in the middle of the threesome. “Kin… Kinzie?”

“Ding! Ding! Ding! The prize goes to the little lady with the strawberry blonde hair,” answered Kinzie.

Stephanie turned to a third woman. “I told you there was something off about her, Grace.”

The woman who had yet to speak, and was obviously named Grace, wrapped her arm around Stephanie’s shoulder.

“You told her?” Xander growled. “Want to explain to me why you didn’t share that little bit of information with me?”

“Xander, can’t you see Stephanie is upset? She’s just learned her best friend didn’t survive,” said Grace, kindly.

“Oh, my God, you mean this is Kayla’s human sister? Oh now, that is too funny for words,” said the striking blonde.

“It’s not at all humorous, Shasta,” Xander replied. “The three of you need to leave. Shasta you were already grounded. Apparently, the spanking you got earlier today wasn’t sufficient for you to behave for even twenty-four hours. Stephanie, you get up to our room. We’ll talk about it when I join you. And Grace, you act out while Linc is gone and he’ll ensure the next time he knots you, it’s on a welted bottom. You go back to your room as well and stay there until tomorrow morning.”

“Ladies?” said Kinzie. “I don’t know why you’re here at this freak show, but I’m leaving. You are all welcome to come with me.”

Once more, she tried to get around Xander. Again, he redirected her back to the center of the room.

“Try that again, little wolf, and mate to the Alpha or not, you’ll feel the sting of my hand on your backside,” he growled.

“You can’t order her around anymore than you can order me around,” Shasta said.

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Shasta,” he said as he grasped her by the waist and bent her over his knee before delivering three harsh swats to her rump.

“You bastard!” Kinzie yelled.

The anger and confusion swirled around her. She was caught up in a storm that had nothing to do with the weather. The air surrounding her was filled with electricity and something washed over her body as she dropped to the ground.

When she shook her head to clear it, she looked down to see a paw.

“Kinzie, run! There’s a dock in the bay. The keys to both powerboats are in them,” shouted Shasta as she tripped Xander to keep him from coming toward her.

Kinzie whirled on her haunches and ran toward the window, gathering her strength and leaping through it with the glass shattering all around her. When she landed, she felt one of the shards slice into her foot… paw… whatever but didn’t let it slow her pace. Her night vision had improved as had her senses of hearing and smell. She didn’t question it, just galloped in the direction of the water.

As she made her way through the courtyard and grounds of the winery, the sound of the ocean became more distinct just before a long, mournful howl split the quiet night. The sound wrapped around her, made her falter. She had an overwhelming urge to return to Damian. She wasn’t sure how she knew it was Damian, but she did and the need to return to him was compelling.

The sound of the surf brought her back to her mission and the salty tang of the ocean permeated her senses. Kinzie ran for all she was worth, not daring to look behind her. She didn’t need to; she could hear and feel him in pursuit. She made her way down the ridge and saw the dunes when she heard him howl again and felt a strong gust of wind hit her from behind. She tripped but didn’t fall, staggering but regaining her balance quickly. She hit the beach and thought that at least the sand would be kinder to her feet.

Another blast of air struck her, exponentially harder than the last, driving her to her knees, making her stumble and fall. She clamored to get back up but was flattened by a third powerful wave of energy, though it still felt like the wind. His presence was overwhelming as he caught up to her and stood towering over her. Kinzie refused to be intimidated and rounded on him growling and baring her teeth.

She sprang at him, hoping her abilities as a wolf could equalize the difference in their sizes. Damian side-stepped and pushed her off. Later, she would wonder if things might have been different if she’d tried to run from him. Instead of that option, she turned and leaped again. This time, he caught her by the scruff of the neck and shook her.

“Shift!” he roared.

Kinzie managed to turn back toward him and grabbed his bicep in her teeth, biting down hard and forcing him to release her. She saw him shimmer and then he, too, was wolf. She knew instantly that any leveling of the differences in their strength and abilities was negated, so she turned to run. She hadn’t made two good strides before he pounced on her, driving her into the ground. He stood over her, growling with the hackles all along his back raised. Kinzie rolled to her back, showing him her belly in supplication. He backed off and she leaped at him, biting him viciously before galloping away.

This time the howl was not mournful; it was filled with lust and rage. She knew he would not allow her to escape if he caught her a third time. She could hear his feet, pounding the sand behind her, gaining on her with every stride. Another howl and another wave of energy that not only knocked her down and knocked the wind out of her, but also made her wolf recede in the face of her mate’s fury. Kinzie would later wonder how she’d known that, but she had.

Links to Purchase Print Book version – Click links for book samples, reviews and to purchase
Buy Uncorked: Tangled Vines Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBook version – Click links for book samples, reviews and to purchase
Buy this eBook On Amazon

About the Author

Please join this author’s email list

For joining the author’s email/newsletter list you will get:
Harvest

Learn more about the author on their website
Follow the author on Amazon

Follow the author on Social Media:
Facebook
Twitter
Goodreads
Instagram

All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

With the choice between imprisonment and exile, William is forced to leave everything behind to start a new life.

It’s the mid-1800’s and William Chestnut is thrown into an epic adventure that leads to betrayal, epidemic plague, Indian aggression, and a city on fire. What could go wrong?

As he raises his family amidst the St. Louis Saints, William struggles to forgive those who have wronged him. He is soon faced with the importance of forgiveness. Though, can he forgive when it really counts, even to save his children?

Inspired by a true story, “Grudges and Grace” is an action-packed, heart-warming adventure with a dash of romance, and is peppered with peril and hope.

Jump into this gripping, heartening adventure and get your copy of Grudges and Grace today. Scroll UP and click Buy Now or Read for Free to join the adventure.

“This really is an engaging, interesting, and fast-paced story. I can’t believe how emotionally involved I became.”-Susan B. Mitchell

Targeted Age Group:: 14-99

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The main characters in my book are my wife’s fourth great-grandparents. I came across their story as I was working on making a five-generation picture chart for her family. Their daughter was the last picture on the chart that I didn’t have. In searching for her picture, I found this story. It was only a few paragraphs but it was so amazing I kept telling my wife that their story should be made into a movie. She told me that any great movie has a great book behind it. So I started writing. Thus, was my inspiration for writing this book.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
My book is 80% people that actually lived in history, 20% made-up characters. Some of them are famous like Abraham Lincoln, Buffalo Bill (as a baby), Porter Rockwell(famous in my circles), and former US President Zachary Taylor. Others are people that were less well known to history, but still interesting figures. I tried to find actual names of Sheriffs and Judges and other figures that would have been in the times and places I had my characters go. I did a lot of research in that direction as I wanted my story to be true to history. The made up characters were people I needed in the story but did not know who they were like the main characters parents, store clerks, etc.

Book Sample
Jefferson brought the chair down hard against the wrought-iron stove. Splinters of wood flew in every direction.
His stepfather had just left the house but came running back in when he heard the loud noise through the front door. As he sur-veyed the scene all the muscles on his face tightened. He saw Jef-ferson holding the remains of the chair. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Sarah, Jefferson’s mother, quickly intervened to calm her husband, then turning to Jefferson said, “Go to your room, now.”
Jefferson dropped the pieces of the chair that were still in his hands and went straight to his room. He could hear Jean yelling at his mother about what he had just done, upset that she wasn’t let-ting him take more severe action. Jefferson slammed the door to his bedroom, stomped his way to his bed, and flung himself onto the mattress.
“Jefferson Chestnut Slade! Don’t you dare slam doors in this house,” his stepfather shouted.
He heard his mother talking to his stepfather, unable to make out what she was saying. Then he heard her forcefully say, “Just let me talk to him first.”
After a few moments, the door opened a crack, and a soft knock followed.
“Go away!” Jefferson called out.
He heard the voice of his stepfather from across the house, “Don’t you talk to your mother like that.”
“Jean, please let me handle this,” Sarah called back as she walked into the room, shutting the door behind her.
Sarah pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. She stared at Jefferson in silence, considering how best to help him.
“Jefferson, blowing up about what your father told you and smashing the kitchen chair to pieces is not going to make things any better for you. You need to control your anger.”
Jefferson scrunched his face. “He is not my father.”
“He provides for you, feeds you, gives you a bed to sleep on, and a home to live in. He is your father.”
“I can’t stand him,” Jefferson said, his speech hurried and strained. “I try to do what he asks, but every time he sees me, he wants me to do another chore. I never get to play, then he whips me when I try to do something fun. I hate him.”
“He’s just looking out for you. You can’t get into much trouble when you’re working.” Sarah tried to meet his gaze and smiled. Jefferson folded his arms and stared at the floor, refusing to look at her.
Sarah touched his knee. “Come on now, other ten-year-old boys have just as many chores.”
Jefferson raised his voice. “Then how come they’re always outside playing, and I’m always working?”
The voice of his stepfather boomed from the other side of the door. “Don’t you raise your voice with your mother.”
Sarah lifted her eyes to heaven and in a sweet voice said, “I’ve got this, dear. Please let me talk to him without interruption.” She looked at Jefferson. “Jefferson, those boys out there playing, like-ly put their shoulder to the wheel and got all their chores done.”
“Well, Jean is just plain mean, and I hate him.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t hate him so much if you tried doing what he asks of you,” Sarah said, speaking slowly and deliberate-ly. “He wouldn’t be as mean, and you would be a lot happier.”
Jefferson was silent. Sarah considered her son for a moment. She saw the anger in his eyes. Her heart ached to see him like this. She came to a decision. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She closed her eyes, swallowed, then pressed on.
“You know, my father struggled in much the same way. Not with his father, but with his anger.”
Jefferson blinked, and his jaw dropped. “You’ve never men-tioned your father before.”
Sarah glanced down, her eyes moistening. “I lost him in the most painful way. It is hard for me to talk about him without re-membering that awful day.”
Jefferson had never heard about any of his mother’s immedi-ate family and was eager to hear more. He spoke softly. “What was he like?”
Sarah noticed the change in her son’s demeanor and smiled. She looked at her hands, then wiped away the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks, “His name was William Albert Chest-nut.”
Jefferson’s eyebrows rose. “That’s why my middle name is Chestnut.”
“Yes. He grew up on a farm, but he didn’t like farming. He was finally able to get out of it when he had an accident with his horse.”

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Grudges and Grace Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Grudges and Grace On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

The mission is underway. The Dragon Emperor leads a battle in space while his warriors swarm the surface of a planet where a device that can be converted into a powerful weapon awaits. His plan to regain the supremacy lost by his father is progressing perfectly. One thing threatens it all—his ten-year-old son.Though young, Jori promises to be the greatest Dragon Warrior in history. His fighting skills are already better than those of his older brother. He is profoundly intelligent, and he has other skills that even the emperor himself doesn’t have. His only weakness is his sentiment. As the emperor’s dream of dominance comes closer to fruition, Jori’s struggle between morality and familial duty threatens the course of many lives, including his own.

Targeted Age Group:: Adult

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Science fiction stories, movies, and TV shows captivated my imagination. I was a prolific daydreamer, and still am. One story with many Star Trek elements developed into a saga. It became so vast that I had to write it down.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Initially, my characters were largely based on people in Star Trek. When I realized this, I thought deeper and worked hard to give them their own color. I picked out the qualities I wanted and brainstormed new ones. I then wrote character journals for the most prominent story participants. The character journals covered everything from physical attributes to strengths and weaknesses to backstories. The journals also included the different ways each character would handle a particular situation.

Book Sample
The two men led him to an isolated room and clamped him into a cold metal chair. Lumpy crusts dotting the armrests could have been rust but looked more like scabs.

The warriors faced him but didn’t make eye contact. Their hard expressions brooked no room for conversation. Their alert posture reminded him of how Jori had often stood, with feet planted at shoulder width, chest out, and hands clasped behind the back.

Hapker worked his tongue to wet his dry mouth. He concentrated on his breathing in a determination not to show his anxiety.

The longer he waited, though, the greater his trepidation became. Jori wouldn’t torture him, would he? Would Terkeshi? It saddened him that the boys could be capable.

The handle to the metal entrance door clicked. Hapker tensed as the door creaked open. When Jori entered, he let out a breath but his muscles remained taut.

Jori bore his usual unreadable expression. He stepped forward and took a stance that mirrored the two warriors behind him. “I told you that if our situations were reversed, you would not be treated the same,” Jori said evenly. “If it were up to me, this wouldn't have happened. But it's not.”

“You didn’t tell your father how we helped you,” Hapker rasped through the dryness of his throat.

“It would do more harm than good,” Jori replied. “He believes sentiment is a weakness. It’s probably best he doesn’t know about our connection.”

Hapker glanced at the two guards.

“Don’t worry about them,” Jori said. “I told them everything, and I trust them with my life.”

Hapker tried to read their faces, but their blank stares told him nothing. “So what happens next? Are you going to kill me?” His gut twisted as he imagined being killed by this boy, a boy he cared about.

“I wouldn't do that, even if Father ordered me,” Jori said, again without emotion.

“Torture me then?” The words soured his mouth.

“I won’t, no. You will be tortured, though. Terkeshi may be compelled to take part. Trust me when I say it is not something that either of us wants to do.”

Hapker swallowed the lump in his throat. “So you’ve come to tell me we’re still friends.”

Jori’s expression twisted into a fleeting look of hurt.

Hapker didn’t give him time to respond. “I understand. We were both forced to do things we didn’t want to do. I forgive you. I hope you can forgive me too.”

Jori’s hard demeanor faltered. “Damn you, Hapker—”

“It’s okay,” he said soothingly. “I know this isn’t your fault. Whatever happens, I don’t blame you.”

Jori’s forehead wrinkled. “I am sorry. I wish things could be different.”

“Me too.”

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Dragon Emperor Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Dragon Emperor On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

An absorbing, page-turning read for all lovers of suspense and mystery
Who is ‘Greta’? What is she hiding? What, for that matter, is it that Francis is less than open about? As for Oliver, how is he to overcome his immediate problems, let alone accommodate the blast from the past that rushes in and engulfs him?

In the summer of 2019, ‘Greta’ has fetched up in South Yorkshire on land owned by Francis. They both have secrets, more entrenched and harder to shake off for one of them than the other. Nearly two hundred miles to the south in Ipswich, Oliver continues to labour as a criminal solicitor, unaware of the consequences of earlier events in his life and, as we all are, of what is yet to come.

The course of events may be predetermined, but their consequences are not predictable by any of us. For ‘Greta’ and Oliver, the past rakes up some unexpected issues, impossible to bury entirely or, in some respects, at all. Indeed, for both ‘Greta’ and Oliver the present, too, introduces some tough challenges and setbacks.

The twists in the plot will keep you guessing right to the end.
Class of ’97 is the ideal book club novel, providing food for endless questions about the characters’ circumstances, difficulties and life-changing events.

“…a very enjoyable read…you have created a very complex character, and…a fascinating backstory… The ending is clever and unexpected.” Alison Hopkins

“The story is a rollercoaster of plot twists and surprises…Threading though the tale are themes of how a person’s life…may be shaped by nurture or nature, driven by obsessive personality traits…This is an exciting mystery with constant menace, a rich cast of characters and which kept me guessing until the end. A great read. Recommended.” PJM

“Who or what is ‘Greta’…and who is the charming man who offers her help? Oliver, successful solicitor, three times married ladies man, grapples with his cases, his business partners, and a young girlfriend. Gill Mather swirls a double helix around these two characters in a tale of love, obsession and stalking, gradually leading the reader up unexpected avenues. The author…makes her characters believable…I’d highly recommend Class Of 97.” Kindle Customer

Targeted Age Group:: 18+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
What inspired me to write this book?

I am a retired solicitor though I started the book before retirement. The law and legal cases reported in the news and legal publications provided a lot of the inspiration for the book. A lot of the book centres on the legal profession, though the book isn’t essentially about the law. The law merely provides a useful backdrop. One of the main themes of the book is obsession and how it affects people; what it makes them do. Lawyers and the legal system are often asked to deal with the outcomes and behaviour resulting from obsessions of various kinds.

Another theme is the way in which people’s upbringing and early circumstances can affect them forever and how very different people can become as a result of their childhoods.

However the central plot of the story is the past and how past events can produce the most unexpected outcomes.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The book opens with two chapters written from the point of view of a woman and the whole book could have been written from her point of view. However the plot demands a male character and I thought it would be interesting to write half the book from the point of view of the man and I found that his character expanded as I wrote more of the book.

The plot also demanded a number of other important though secondary characters whose points of view aren’t written about. They and their quirks nevertheless contribute a rich additional variety to the story.

There are also a couple of sinister characters who exist in the book and their actions are central to the book but we never actually meet them.

Although I have an outline of a story in my head at the start of writing a book, it isn't written in stone and I allow the story to develop organically as life itself does. I think it’s more realistic this way and the characters more believable.

Book Sample
CLASS of ’97

GILL MATHER

TABLE OF CONTENTS

About The Author
Dedication
Copyright
Also by the author
Preface

PART ONE – ‘GRETA’
Chapter 1
Chapter 2

PART TWO – OLIVER
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

PART THREE – ‘GRETA’
Chapter 6
Chapter 7

PART FOUR – OLIVER
Chapter 8
Chapter 9

PART FIVE – ‘TALULLAH’
Chapter 10
Chapter 11

PART SIX – OLIVER
Chapter 12
Chapter 13

PART SEVEN – ‘GRETA’
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

PART EIGHT – OLIVER
Chapter 16
Chapter 17

PART NINE – GRETA
Chapter 18
Chapter 19

PART TEN – OLIVER
Chapter 20
Chapter 21

PART ELEVEN – CAROL
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24

PART TWELVE – OLIVER
Chapter 25
Chapter 26

PART THIRTEEN – CAROL
Chapter 27
Chapter 28

PART FOURTEEN – OLIVER
Chapter 29
Chapter 30

PART FIFTEEN – CAROL
Chapter 31
Chapter 32

PART SIXTEEN – OLIVER
Chapter 33
Chapter 34

PART SEVENTEEN – CAROL
Chapter 35
Chapter 36

PART EIGHTEEN – OLIVER
Chapter 37
Chapter 38

PART NINETEEN – CAROL
Chapter 39
Chapter 40

PART TWENTY – OLIVER
Chapter 41

PART TWENTY-ONE – CAROL
Chapter 42
Chapter 43

PART TWENTY-TWO – OLIVER
Chapter 44

EPILOGUE

Author’s Note

About the Author

Gillian (‘Gill’) Mather has been a solicitor for several decades and at various times has worked in most of the basic areas covered by general practice in England (crime, family, employment, civil litigation, wills, probate and property). Gill ran a small solicitor’s practice from her home near Colchester until 2020. She is a member of several writers' groups in Essex and Suffolk, and is also a member of Dedham Players. Some of Gill's earlier novels were previously published under the pen name of Julie Langham.

Gill has published seven novels on Kindle, the first five being a series of romantic-cum-crime novels set in Colchester around the same fictional law firm and featuring the same main characters over a number of years. As The Clock Struck Ten is the sixth novel, a crime/mystery which delves into a murky subject frequently in the news in recent years. The seventh novel The Unreliable Placebo is a humorous account of a woman's struggle to come to terms with her sudden single state after her husband leaves her.

A series of six novellas have been published in booklet form for local distribution.

Class of ’97 is Gill’s eighth full-length novel.

Gillian Mather – February 2021

To Colchester Scribblers for injecting fresh enthusiasm and ideas

And to proof-reading supremo, Dan

All rights reserved

Published in 2021 by Georfre Publications

© Gill Mather 2021

ISBN: 978-1-8383806-2-5

The right of Gill Mather to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author and publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's or publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact and actual place names, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or to locations or places mentioned in the book is purely coincidental.

Also by Gill Mather

(In a series)
Internment
Threshold
Relatively Innocent
Reasonable Doubts
Beyond The Realms

As The Clock Struck Ten
The Unreliable Placebo

Cosy crime novella series
published as chapbooks

Compromised
Cut Off
Conflicts of Little Avail
Conjecture Most Macabre
Le Frottage
Confounded

Preface

People’s lives are rarely entirely straightforward, but some people have more hitches and hiccups than others. There’s nothing we can do about the circumstances into which we are born. We can only struggle later to put things right to the best of our abilities and to somehow accommodate the unsatisfactory. It may work out; it may not. We usually have to continue to strive in some form or other. This is part of the human condition.

In the summer of 2019, ‘Greta’ has fetched up in South Yorkshire on land owned by Francis. They both have secrets, more entrenched and harder to shake off for one of them than the other. Nearly two hundred miles to the south in Ipswich, Oliver continues to labour as a criminal solicitor, unaware of the consequences of earlier events in his life and, as we all are, of what is yet to come.

The course of events, past, present and future, may be predetermined, but they are not predictable by any of us. For ‘Greta’ and Oliver, the past rakes up some unexpected issues, impossible to bury entirely or, in some respects, at all. Indeed, for both ‘Greta’ and Oliver the present, too, introduces some tough challenges and setbacks.

“The human condition is such that pain and effort are not just symptoms which can be removed without changing life itself…”

Hannah Arendt

The Human Condition, 1958

PART ONE

“GRETA”

SUMMER 2019

Chapter 1

I WAKE up abruptly. The man’s silhouette fills the open door as he comes through, with the moon over the lake behind him providing the backlight.
I’ve been asleep just an hour or so. My bed, consisting of a pile of sacks, quickly loses most of its bulk and seemingly compacts down to a few lumpy millimetres. And it becomes increasingly itchy the longer I lie on it, but it’s all I’ve got. And the night noises are unnerving to say the least and keep me awake if the continual scratching and shifting of position doesn't. Twigs cracking, undergrowth rustling, the occasional piercing shriek. Things running around on the shed roof.
The dawn chorus starts up at an unseemly hour now that it’s midsummer, sweeping away any possibility of further rest, although for the time being it’s still dark.
I feel sure the man’s going to tell me to get out and move on. Or maybe he’ll try and do something to me. I quell the mounting fear which such an intrusion is bound to trigger. I lie motionless, trying not to shake or swallow or breathe quickly, hoping he’ll think I’m still asleep. It doesn’t work.
‘I know you’re awake,’ he says. ‘I saw your eyes open in the light from outside.’
I shut my eyes more tightly and don't move.
‘What are you doing here? I mean, what are you doing?’
Half a minute passes in silence, then I hear rustling. It might be him sitting down.
‘Look, whoever you are, this is just so strange. Are you homeless?’ He pauses again.
‘Are you en route to somewhere, on a walking holiday perhaps and stopping off here for a short rest? If so, there’s a camp site a few miles away.’
He sighs. ‘Look, this must be deadly uncomfortable. And why have you pulled up a load of grass and left it spread about outside? You weren’t going to use it to fill those grubby old sacks you’re lying on, were you? To make some sort of mattress?’
This is precisely what I’d planned to do when the grass had dried out into hay.
‘You’ll be bitten to shreds by insects. If you’re determined to stay here, at least let me bring you some bin bags to put the hay in first. To keep the insects from crawling all over you. And a sheet to lay on those sacks. I don't know how you can stand it.’
He doesn't sound like a mad rapist and I consider sitting up and talking to him. I’m not going to be able to go to sleep anyway.
‘All right then. If you won't be sensible, I’ll come back tomorrow with a few things.’ It sounds as though he’s starting to stand up. ‘But it’s not safe to drink water from the reservoir. Various ditches drain into it from the fields. The water’ll be full of nitrates, and probably herbicides and pesticides. And God knows what else. And the reservoir’s deep, with long thick weeds. You could easily get caught up in the weeds. It’s not safe to bathe in that reservoir. I saw you doing that. Don’t do it again.’
I gasp involuntarily. It means he must’ve seen me in the buff. He’s obviously heard my sharp in-take of breath, for he says:
‘I knew you were awake. You can stay here a short time if you absolutely must, but I have to forbid you from going in the reservoir or drinking the water.’
I sit up. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’
‘The owner of this land, the reservoir, these sheds, the belt of trees behind you and, if you cared to look beyond the wood over the hill, the house further away.’
His accent, I note, is quite refined. I’ve fetched up in the scenic South Yorkshire countryside though, listening to him, you wouldn't know it. He continues:
‘I don't want some silly woman killing herself on my land and having a heap of trouble as a result.’
‘There’re no signs up,’ I say.
‘There’s a “Keep out” sign on the main gate. And funnily enough this place was thought to be sufficiently remote not to attract many visitors. Especially not ones wanting to drink the water and engage in nude bathing.’
‘You didn't have to watch.’
‘Don't worry, my dear, I have no interest whatever in your naked escapades. The point is, this is my land. I do visit it from time to time. At one time it was used by the piscatorial society. They kept their stuff in these huts’ That would explain the faint smell of fish ‘but their licence has run out and they wouldn't anyway they don't fish here anymore and I have to keep an eye on the place.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure why you had to visit me in the middle of the night to tell me all this. I’ll simply have to find another water source. And probably somewhere else to stay, in fact.’
‘Well, I can run a pipe from the cow trough’
‘Wow thanks!’
‘Hang on, let me finish. The field the other side of the wood has a mains water supply that feeds a trough but there are no cows at the moment. I can run a drinking water quality pipe down here from that.’
This man’s attitude has started to bug me somewhat. Had it been lighter in the shed, he’d have seen my eyebrows raised in mock innocence.
‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘No fishermen. No cows. What’s gone wrong?’
‘None of your business. And nothing’s gone wrong. Neither thing is financially worthwhile any longer.’ Do I detect a hint of defensiveness? ‘OK, I’d better go. Er, I’ll bring a bolt for this shed door tomorrow too. By the way, I’m Francis. And you are…?’
‘None of your business,’ I’m tempted to say. Instead, I utter the first name that enters my head.
‘Greta.’
And he proceeds out into the night.
And he hadn't disclosed his reason for coming here in the early hours of the morning rather than during the day.
I realise that the darkness has lifted somewhat, despite the sinking moon having retreated behind a bank of clouds. The birds are already noisily tuning up to greet the emerging dawn therefore there’s no hope of any further rest. I pick a book from my rucksack and go outside into the turgid soupy hot air. There’s just enough watery light by which to read. I plonk myself down on the tree stump that has become my seat this last few days and stare out over the lake.
Though the man Francis had described it as a reservoir, it looks like a lake to me. It’s rather beautiful. Not so large. You could walk round it in, I would say, fifteen or twenty minutes. It has rough, railway-sleeper steps through the undergrowth at various intervals leading down to flat grassed areas where no doubt the fishermen had sat for hours waiting for a bite. The plants around it aren’t tall, things like blackthorn and pussy willow with some skinny alders.
I find it disappointing that it isn't a lake. “Reservoir” sounds so functional. The body of water that’s what I decide to call it in my head sits in a depression. Perhaps at one time it had been a quarry or gravel pit. I had noticed when lowering myself into the water that my feet touched nothing solid. As the man Francis had said, it was probably very deep.
The whole thing, water, steps down to it, the path through the fringe of vegetation and several grassed areas on one of which stand the sheds, lies lower than the surrounding land, which might account for the air being thick and unmoving. There’s no discernible breeze to blow through and create a welcome few degrees’ drop in temperature.
I sit on, trying to focus on my book. I should of course have filled my bag exclusively with food and other vitals and eschewed reading material when packing. An ebook reader would have been better, however, before I left, I’d had no time to download a sufficient number of works of fiction and non-fiction. Once I disappeared, I wasn't going to be able to connect to the airwaves, signal my whereabouts and possibly attract unwanted attention. I knew I’d go mad without something to concentrate on, hence a fair proportion of my baggage consists of physical books. Who knows how much longer this present state will continue nor how long I’ll have to stay away.
Basically I have no idea at all if I can actually return. Ever.

‘GRETA.
I jump, hearing his voice. It’s a day and a half since his nocturnal visit and I’d started to assume that he would leave me alone. Yesterday I’d found, a few feet from the edge of the clearing, a ten litre container of water and this morning a bulging bin bag. On investigation I found sheets, as promised, as well as a camping stove, gas canisters and an inflatable mattress.
Pity in a way. I’d been sort of looking forward to living rough. After all, I’d chosen to leave civilisation and strike out into the countryside. I should embrace the discomforts, face the hardships, live off the land. Catch my own food, light my own fires, fashion my own shelter. If necessary, distil my own contaminated reservoir water. Escape from modern society and, in particular, its communication systems and the problems they bring.
Trouble is, England isn't Montana or the Amazon rainforest or the Australian outback. It’s so overpopulated. Every inch is owned by someone. Someone, for example, who invades your afternoon peace as you’re reclining on the lilo in your bra and panties enjoying the midday sunshine, sipping some of the water and slowly eating a survival bar. Slowly, because there aren’t many left and having to catch my dinner has started to become a real possibility.
Francis is unreeling some rigid-looking blue plastic pipe. I watch as he walks back to a pile of things he’s dumped on the ground. He returns with a thick stake and a sledge hammer and proceeds to hammer the stake into the ground. He fixes a tap to the pipe and attaches the pipe to the stake. And, hey presto, I have a rudimentary standpipe.
‘I’ll go and connect the water pipe to the mains in a minute. Of course, it’ll only do for the summer. If you were planning to stay on for the winter, the pipe might freeze. But I expect you’ve thought of that, as you seem so well prepared for living out of doors.’
I yawn, stretch and carry on nibbling at the bar and reading.
‘Good. Well,’ Francis says, ‘you get some decent R and R. I’ve got work to do. By the way, if you want to come up to the house for a proper meal and a wash et cetera, you’re very welcome.’
‘I’m fine thanks.’
‘OK. I’ve got a little surprise for you. I’ll be back later.’
This worries me more profoundly than he could ever have realised. I’ve had more surprises than I care to remember.
‘But’
He’s gone and I’m left with crumbs from the cereal bar on my bra, the paperback limp on my stomach and the sun beating down on my darkening skin. Despite the blonde hair, I tan easily.

“LATER” turns out to be six o’ clock by my old wristwatch, by which time I’d added shorts and a T shirt to my earlier attire.
While I wait nervously for this “surprise”, I give a little thought to Francis. He’s younger than I’d imagined in the shed a couple of nights ago. From his voice I’d guessed he was maybe sixty or so, a fit sixty but nonetheless a good twenty-five years my senior. This afternoon I could see that he wasn't much older than me; say about forty.
His attitude towards me is a little irritating. Not exactly patronising, not mocking, more as though he’s humouring me. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I thought he was older to begin with.
As I’m trying to think up a list of suitable retorts to have by me, the bushes part and Francis steps into the clearing. I must have been frowning, since he smiles and says:
‘Don't look like that. I’ve brought you the surprise.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’
‘Well, I thought you might be lonely here. And bored. I’ve brought you a companion. I’ll go and call him. His dog kept wanting to stop and sniff at tree trunks and things.’
I stand up quickly from the stump. ‘What? Who? What are you talking about?’
‘Don't worry. He’s quite harmless.
‘Billy,’ he shouts, walking towards the copse behind my shed.
At length a man emerges. He wears Doc Martens, cut-off jeans and little else. His long light brown hair is matted and plaited into dreadlocks, he sports a wispy beard, he’s smoking a rollie and carrying a very tatty canvas rucksack. Fast on his heels lopes a large short-haired dog of indeterminate breed.
‘There,’ Francis pronounces, holding out a hand towards Billy, as though he’s conjured him out of thin air.
‘Billy, Greta. Greta, Billy.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Billy cheerfully, walking over and treating me to a brown toothy grin. A wave of stale tobacco catches in my throat.
‘This here’s Eric,’ he introduces the dog. ‘I’m looking after him for a mate.’ He puts down his bag and sits cross-legged on the ground. His shorts ride up and it looks as though he has nothing on underneath. Quickly I turn away.
‘Hello.’ I cough. ‘Francis, do you think we could have a word?’
‘Certainly.’
‘I mean, alone.’
I walk to the other side of the clearing. Ten seconds pass before Francis strolls after me.
‘Why have you brought him here? What’s this all about? Where does he come from?’
‘I should have thought it was obvious.’
‘Not to me it isn't.’
‘He lives rough in the town. He’s homeless. You’re homeless. I’ve tried to help you out. I thought: why not extend it to someone similar to you.’
‘Well, thank you so much. Similar to me?’
‘I probably didn't put that very well. I meant similar circumstances to you.’
‘But how do you know he’s safe to be with? How do you know he’s not on drugs?’
‘I’ve seen him around begging for some time. He’s never seemed to me to be in the least violent. And he’s promised no drugs.’
‘Oh well, I’m sure he’ll stick to that then.’
‘He’s not the only one in the town. There are quite a lot of them. As you’re here, it seemed to be only common decency to offer someone else a roof over their head.’
‘You mean you might invite others to live here too?’
‘Possibly.’
‘So, I’m to take part in your little social experiment, am I?’
‘You could show some human kindness to someone at least as badly off as yourself.’
I search for the right thing to say, something that won't sound too judgmental. ‘I’m sure you’re aware that in many cases people live rough and are homeless for a reason.’
‘What, like you, you mean?’ Francis’s voice is level. The emphasis and insinuating inflexions he might have put into the words are absent. If they hadn’t been, I’d probably have started to rant at him.
‘No. I didn't mean that as I’m sure you realise. What I meant was … that they have something wrong with them that prevents them fitting into society properly. Whether it’s the drugs that make them like that or that they take drugs because of some inherent personality problem I don't know. I’ve spoken to such people and you just get the feeling that whatever you did for them, they’d never be able to hold down a job or pay their bills on time or well, anything. They’ll never get better.’
‘Hmm. You may be right. But for the time being the weather is pleasant, there are five other sheds here that could be offered to people who’d otherwise be sleeping in cardboard boxes under railway arches and putting themselves at risk…’
I examine Francis’s expression, trying to see if he’s being disingenuous. If he is, he hides it well. He continues:
‘…and whose only crime is to be hooked on various substances’
‘For which to pay, they probably steal from people.’
‘Again you may be right. If you think that, you’d better keep an eye on your stuff, hadn’t you.’
Remembering of a sudden whom we’re discussing, we both look towards Billy. He’s leaning into my hut. As we walk quickly over there together, I ask Francis:
‘I think you said something about a bolt for the door. A padlock wouldn't go amiss either.’
‘OK. I’ll go and get them. And Billy’s things. I won't be long.’
He veers off in the direction of the woodland and I carry on towards Billy. Eric greets me by thrusting his nose at my crotch.
‘You OK, Billy?’
‘Yeah, right.’ His upper body emerges from my shed. ‘You ain’t got no weed ’ave you?’
‘Sorry, I can’t help you there. Only the bare essentials for outdoor living.’
‘Seen any rabbits? I was thinking of sending Eric to catch one. Skin the little bugger and roast it over a fire. Be nice, yeah?’
‘Hmm. Maybe Francis will bring us back some dinner. Have you chosen your hut yet?’
‘I might sleep out in the open. Under the stars. You know? At one with nature. Bottle o’ beer, nice spliff. ’Cept I ain’t got no weed. Or beer.’
I find Billy’s accent difficult to put my finger on. Estuary with something else thrown in. A West Country burr perhaps? Certainly not the now common MYE, the multicultural youth English. All I can say is that it sounds familiar and goes perfectly with the dreadlocks, the homelessness, the dog, the unemployment and the drugs.
‘Bloody hot innit? I think I’ll take a dip.’
‘Francis won’t like it. He says it’s too deep and contaminated.’
‘Fuck that.’
So saying, he kicks off his Doc Martens, rolls down and steps out of his cut-offs and wades in a couple of yards. And then he disappears. Five seconds later his head bobs up, followed by his upper body, arms flailing. This happens two more times and each time he’s further from the shore. It belatedly dawns on me that he isn't mucking about; he can't swim.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
I undress down to my bra and panties again and wade in after him. Striking out in my strongest breast stroke, I grab him as he comes up for the fourth time. He struggles of course, so I catch him round the neck in an arm lock and somehow get him the ten yards or so to the edge, as Eric watches us, frisking and barking. The hopeless bastard doesn’t even help himself by clambering up the bank. I have to drag him out and across the grass where he lies on his back swearing gently, as indeed do I.
‘Actually, I said not to go into the reservoir,’ Francis’s cut glass tones come from behind us.
Billy lies there stark naked and starts to cackle and waggle his willy at Francis. I give Francis the filthiest look I can muster as I stand up.
‘Well thanks a bundle,’ I aim at him as I stalk to my shed and slam the door.

IT IS, of course, viciously hot in the shed but I’m damned if I’m going back outside again. Not yet. I sit there fuming and listening to the two of them muttering together.
I really will have to leave soon. Here I am getting angry with a man who has no duty or responsibility towards me. I had arrived on his property without invitation and yet a moment ago I’d effectively told him off for inviting an indigent onto his land to share my solitude. It was so rude of me, totally unacceptable.
I must leave tomorrow. Billy, while entertaining after a fashion, is a loose cannon. Who knows what he’d do next, or what rubbish he’s manufacturing at this instant for Francis’s consumption. I don't want to spend time with him, helping him out of the consequences of his irresponsible actions, and guarding my pitifully feeble worldly goods, or at least those I have with me, against his probable instincts to nick the lot if he could possibly do so. No, I don't think he would be violent to effect any such theft. I simply feel sure he’s one of the types I’d outlined to Francis who wouldn’t ever benefit from help or be able to be trusted.
Eventually, I lie down on my itchy pile of sacks and, using my rucksack as my pillow, more for its safety than my comfort, I start to drift off to sleep despite the heat.

IT ISN'T quite dark when the door to the shed opens. Francis walks in and sits on the floor as he had the first time.
‘He’s gone,’ he says.
Groggily, I raise myself onto one elbow.
‘What?’ I say.
‘Billy’s gone. He told me you’d saved his life.’
‘Well, I wouldn't have had to if you hadn’t brought him here.’
Suddenly I remember that I’m supposed to be humble about coming uninvited onto Francis’s estate. I’m not supposed to be castigating him. But he’s going on:
‘Very effusive he was, wanting to come in here and kiss you all over. You’ll be glad to know I dissuaded him.’
The thought of it makes me feel faint.
‘It was a bad idea of mine. Sorry,’ says Francis.
‘Look. Don’t make me feel worse than I already do. This is your property. I have no right at all to dictate who comes onto it.’
‘Whatever. Billy was the wrong person, in any circumstances.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘Oh yes. He wanted to leave. He said this wasn’t his scene man. I gave him some money, some food and cans of dog food I’d already bought and he went off quite happily when I dropped him in the middle of town.’
‘I think I should leave too. Perhaps I’ll go to that campsite you mentioned. I only came here because I thought it was deserted and no one would mind. I didn’t think’
‘Well I don’t mind. Though I’m a little worried about you being here all on your own. That’s partly why I asked Billy here. Bad choice as it turned out. You’re quite welcome to come up to the house.’
‘Look, it’s hard to explain. I’m trying not to get too involved with anyone, anywhere. If I could disappear into the middle of the Sahara Desert on my own and survive, I would.’
‘All right. If I say I won’t come anywhere near here from now on, apart from bringing you things you might need and checking you’re OK, would you stay?’
‘I suppose I could. Why though? Why would you want me to stay?’
‘If you’re looking for some sort of sanctuary for the moment, then I understand. I’ve felt the same myself. For possibly the same sorts of reasons.’
‘I very much doubt it,’ I say before I can stop myself.
He doesn't take me up on it.
‘Well you’ve got the camping stove. I’ve brought some tins of food and a couple of saucepans. I hope that’ll be OK.’
‘That’s more than enough. You’re too kind. I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier.’
‘No problem. I’ll put the bolt and padlock on before I go.’
He stands up and goes out. I follow and sit on my stump. I open my book and try to read as he drills and inserts screws. Half way through he asks if I’d like a beer and could I get one out for him. He points to a coolbag next to his toolbox. A cool beer sounds wonderful.
When he’s finished, we have another beer each and sit without speaking as the moon comes up behind us and shines on the reservoir. There are a lot of questions I want to ask him about himself. But he’s being considerate and giving me space. It’s the least I can do to reciprocate.

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Class of ’97 On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Talia didn’t want to be apprenticed, not even to the prestigious Dragon Knight’s Guild.

She’s taken to the school by a cross-eyed dragon and his partner, Kel. A dizzying, madcap ride which leaves her less than eager to be a knight, but soon she finds out the guild needs many types of people. Running into the dragon and squire again and again, she comes to realize the unlikely pair are outsiders in their own school. They were participants in the dragon-human pairing ritual, but it didn’t work quite as intended. They are also stubborn loners, determined to overcome the obstacles in their path and make a proper pair. Or are they?

As Talia’s first year at the guild evolves, she must deal with the Administrator’s quirks, her lessons, the growing mystery of Clarence and Kel, and somewhere in there, possibly decide what it is she wants for her future.

Targeted Age Group:: 13+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The idea for the novel came from my husband. Back in the day, he was an RPG referee, and he came up with the concept of the Dragon Knight's Guild. I enjoyed the world so much; I decided to make a novel based on the world and the crazy magic school. I wanted others to see the exciting world the characters live in.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The school is a place where people from different countries congregate, the guild not belonging to any one nation. So the characters in the novel come from various parts of the world, with their own societies and thoughts. Talia comes from a small village and has never looked past her town's borders. She is the one we learn things through as she gets embroiled in some of the odd happenings there.

Book Sample
IT JUST WASN’T fair. Talia scuffed at the soft ground with her foot. A hawk’s cry echoed in the air, resonating with her own inner turmoil.

She sighed. It was just too early. She wasn’t ready to be apprenticed yet.

With a frown, she looked up from where she sat on the front steps of her home and scanned the tilled fields and small buildings comprising the only world she knew. She scuffed angrily at the ground again then punched the bag at her side for good measure. She was only fifteen—she wasn’t ready!

Only three days ago her parents calmly informed her they’d apprenticed her to the Dragon Knight’s Guild. She’d ranted and raged at them, and they’d listened to her arguments, but they all knew it would change nothing. It was just the way things were done.

Was it so grievous a thing that she didn’t want to leave her home? She would have a better life, more opportunities, by being apprenticed, they told her. But what if she didn’t want those things? She was perfectly happy here!

Though their town was small, there were several people she could apprentice with here rather than go so far away. None of their crafts were all that interesting, but she would get to stay here. Yet her parents told her it was too late for that—money had changed hands.

A soft breeze caressed her cheek as if trying to comfort her troubled face. Talia breathed deeply, calmed a little by the scent of turned earth and evergreens—all pieces of what she thought of as home.

She knew her parents gave up a lot to get her apprenticed, and with the Dragon’s Knight Guild no less. She would do her duty because it would make them happy, but she couldn’t pretend to like it.

Not when they were coming for her today.

Her few possessions didn’t take long to pack. Three sets of clothes and undergarments. The brush and mirror set Uncle Shay brought as a gift from his last visit to the capital two years ago. A dress, a present from her mother, made from fabric bought with the last of their savings. Last, the strange rock she and Lir found in the river when they were little and which she’d kept all these years.

Talia took out the mirror and studied her reflection and that of the whitewashed porch behind her on its surface. She stared at her short, brown, curly hair, her triangular face, and dark brown eyes. How would she look once her apprenticeship was over? Would her parents even recognize her? Would her years away change her until her home meant little to nothing to her anymore?

She put the mirror back in her bag, shying away from such thoughts. All her worldly possessions were in this small bag. She was sure others owned more to show for their lives than she did, but material things weren’t so important to her. Other things she couldn’t take she would miss more—her room in the loft, her mom’s special winter porridge, the smell of freshly tilled fields. Watching the sunsets and the rising stars from the roof. Lir’s teasing and playing tag after school. Helping her father with his wood projects and working the fields. All the things she could only take with her as memories. A pang of coming loss poured through her. It was all she could do not to cry. She didn’t want to go.

A large shadow crossed the yard. Talia glanced up and used her hand to shade her eyes. She didn’t recognize the strange silhouette. Blinking rapidly, she saw a shape zoom past the morning sun. Its wings weren’t in the familiar figure of a falcon’s or a hawk’s; they were more angular, wider. The tail, it was all wrong. It was long and thin. She doubted it was made of feathers. Then the strange shape twisted in the air and dropped, spiraling down.

“Mom! Dad!” Talia raced out from beneath the porch, trying to keep the odd, falling figure in sight. She heard the door of the house open behind her but didn’t look back as her parents hurried outside. “Look up there!”

She pointed upwards and watched the shape grow larger and larger as it fell. It twisted and spiraled at reckless speeds. Her breath caught as she made out the creature’s long neck and big head, its colossal body colored dark green with purple flowing from the scaled ridges on its back.

Goosebumps flowed up her arms—she was seeing an actual dragon!

Talia’s eyes grew even wider as she spotted something glinting on the dragon’s back and realized it was an armored figure. Someone was on the thing.

The dragon and rider continued to plummet. Talia took a step back, her chest tight as they came closer. Something was wrong. They were coming down too fast. Just when she thought they would crash to their deaths, the dragon pulled up his body and instead plowed sideways into the ground. Dirt and plants were thrown everywhere. Its large body came to a stop in the middle of the cornfield.

“No!” Talia rushed forward in a half-panic, as she saw the rider go under the dragon’s massive bulk. Her hurried breaths filled with the smell of earth and something more profound, foreign. She gave the beast a wide berth as she ran around it looking for signs of the rider. She hesitated as the dragon rocked once against the plowed ground then righted itself.

She stared in dumbfounded amazement as a moment later the rider who’d been pinned beneath the monstrous mass slowly sat up and staggered to his feet. Seemingly unhurt, he reached up and removed a dirt-covered helmet whose large red plume had seen better days.

“Are you all right?” Talia stared, not sure how he could possibly be standing after what she just saw.

The young man shook out his sweat-matted, sandy-blond hair and glanced over at her. His intense blue gaze locked with her own. A small smile tugged at his lips, brightening his flushed face. “I’m quite all right. Thank you for asking.” He took off one of his gauntlets and ran a hand through his wet hair.

Talia frowned, for though her mind insisted it should be different, other than looking as if he’d been at work in the fields for hours without rest, the armored man seemed to be just as he claimed.

“Do you have any water?” he asked her softly.

It took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her.

“Oh. Yes, we have a well on the other side of the house. I’ll, I’ll get some for you.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll get it.” The young man waved her off and staggered toward the residence.

Talia followed him with her gaze, still not sure whether or not she believed him. It was then she noticed her parents standing on the porch staring at her, their faces filled with fear and shock. She felt a cold shiver travel down her back as she remembered she wasn’t alone. Even as her eyes moved of their own volition to glance to her right, the dragon’s head swiveled on its long neck to take a look at her with one, large, purple eye.

Talia heard her mother gasp, even as she felt her own knees lock, the rest of her going terribly still.

The strange smell she noticed as she approached them earlier was definitely coming from him.

Small, dark green scales with just a touch of purple covered the dragon’s long face. Its eye was a deeper purple, almost black, and it stared at her with keen intelligence. It was only when it tilted its head to the side to look at her with both eyes that she realized they were crossed.

Hello.

She heard her own in-drawn breath of surprise echoed by her parents as the soft voice rang in their heads. Was there a touch of amusement in the greeting? Talia didn’t know and at the moment was too terrified to care. “H—hello?”

The massive, scaled body moved and shook the ground as the dragon twisted to take an even better look at her. A long, snake-like tongue darted out of the dragon’s large mouth; she could see sharp, wicked teeth glinting at her. She gulped as it occurred to her the dragon might be hungry.

Before the thought could go much further, the dragon’s rider came back from around the house carrying a filled bucket with water. “Here you go, Clarence.” As if the large creature before him were nothing to fear, he set the water before it.

Talia stared at the bucket. It looked like a thimble compared to the size of the giant snout. The dragon’s tongue reached down, dipped into the water and rapidly flicked it up into the gaping mouth.

“Do you have any other buckets?” the young man asked. “It would really help me out. He’s likely to want to go through at least ten of those.” He gave her a friendly look.

Talia tore her gaze away from the drinking dragon so she could find a voice to answer him with. “Su—sure. I’ll go get them.” Feeling abruptly free, she took off and headed to the shed at the back of the house. She glanced back behind her once, not totally able to discard the fear the dragon might come after her.

Breathing hard, she quickly searched the shed for the buckets and found three. She grabbed them and rushed to the well where she found the young rider waiting for her.

“Here.”

“Thanks!” He took the buckets and dropped the line to bring up more water. “By the way, my name is Kel, and my friend over there is Clarence.”

She could only nod, trying hard not to look in the dragon’s direction.

“Your name is Talia, right?” She could only nod again.

As Kel worked to pull up the water, she studied him carefully for the first time. It wasn’t often she got a chance to meet strangers, and this pair was stranger than most. In these parts, blue eyes were rare, especially bright ones like his. Kel’s features were rounded, not as sharp as those of the people around her village. His hair was also lighter than tended to be the norm. She rather favored it.

She’d also noticed in his voice a slight accent she’d not heard before. She was sure he must be from somewhere far away.

“He’ll need to rest for a few minutes before we can start back,” Kel explained. “I hope it’s all right.”

Talia quickly nodded, then looked away as she realized he’d caught her staring. “No, no, that’s fine.”

After the buckets were filled, she volunteered to help him carry them over to where the dragon still lounged in the field, though she made sure not to get too close. Only after three more sets of buckets were brought over did Kel finally sit down and take a long drink for himself. Once he was done, he leaned back on the ground, his armor creaking, and sighed with relief. Talia jumped as Clarence slowly stretched out and laid himself out in the sun as well, his eyes closed.

She stared at them as they lay there and rested, as it slowly dawned on her that this man was a Dragon Knight— that these were the people she was apprenticed to. It also made her think of her parents. Glancing behind her, she saw they’d come off the porch but were sticking quite close to one another. Her mother spotted her looking at them and, after making sure Kel and the dragon weren’t paying them any attention, waved for her to come over.

Talia did and noticed her father staring sadly at his ruined fields then with disbelief at the cause of the destruction of some of this year’s crop. She turned to look that way herself.

Almost as if he sensed he was the object of scrutiny, Clarence opened his eyes and swiveled his massive head to stare at them. Talia suddenly found herself hugged hard from behind by her mother, who pulled her a few more steps back.

With a long, rippling movement, the dragon rose to his feet. He shook the dirt off himself as would a dog throwing off water after a swim, then lumbered in a drunken walk to the edge of the fields and squatted. Before long, a large pile of dark excrement accumulated on the ground. Talia and her parents all curled their noses at the pungent smell.

You can take this and sell it to your local alchemist. The three of them stared at the dragon as his words whispered themselves into their minds. Dragon refuse always brings in a good price. This will hopefully make up for the unfortunate mess I’ve made of your fields.

None of them said anything; they just stared at the dragon in amazement.

After a few minutes, Kel stretched and yawned before he sat up and quickly rubbed his face. Standing up, he brushed off some of the dirt Clarence inadvertently rained on him earlier and approached Talia and her stunned parents. “I almost forgot,” he said, “I’m supposed to give you this.” He took a small pouch from his belt and handed it to her father.

Her father opened the pouch then looked up, confused. Talia was released from her mother’s hold as she, too, turned to see what was inside. As her father poured the contents out onto his hand, Talia was able to see what Kel had given them. Her eyes grew wide. In her father’s palm, glinting in the sun, were three beautiful rubies. Her father stared at them, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. She’d never seen her father speechless before. “We, we don’t understand…”

Kel’s answering shrug was mostly dispelled in his armor. “It’s just payment for the trouble and the fact your daughter is being taken so far from home.”

Talia frowned, sure the damage and the inconvenience weren’t worth a small fortune. Why would the knights pay them so much more than her parents paid to get her into the guild? It didn’t make any sense to her. Was this really a standard practice of the dragon knights?

“If you’ll get your things, I think Clarence is about ready to go.” Talia found herself once more the recipient of Kel’s shy smile.

“Ah, sure.” She turned away as a bolt of excited fear shot through her. It was true—she was really going. It was happening. Sudden mixed feelings rose inside her, but not all of them were made of the unhappiness she felt over the last few days.

Picking up her bag from where she’d left it on the porch steps, she suddenly found herself surrounded by her parents. The tears she saw gathering in her mother’s eyes told her more than anything that this was real.

“Talia.” Her mother took her in her arms and hugged her hard. She felt tears rising to her own eyes. Her mother eventually let go.

“Be good, won’t you? I know you’ll make us proud.” Her father hugged her fiercely. Tears shone in his eyes as well.

She almost sobbed then. How was she going to go on without them?

“Be strong, my daughter.” He slipped one of the rubies into her hand. “Write us if you can.”

Her mother wiped away at her eyes. “Don’t forget us. Always remember that we love you.” The sorrow in her mother’s eyes brought home to her that it was as difficult for them to let her go as it was for her to leave. Yet they still wanted her to do this.

She felt her throat grow tight. “I will. And I’ll try really hard. I love you.” She hugged them both at once. She was going; she was really going.

When she finally let them go, all their eyes were filled with tears. Talia turned away and wiped at her wet face, then searched for where she had dropped her bag. It was gone. Glancing around her, she spotted Kel with it, as he secured it to the battered two-person saddle strapped to the dragon’s back. She hesitated a moment, then walked over to join them.

Almost there, she turned around to take a last look at her parents and her home. As hard as she could, she tried to engrave into her memory the view of the whitewashed house with its sloping porch, the plowed fields with their earthy smell and swaying stalks of wheat and corn, the barn with all the sheep, cows, and horses. It would be years before she saw any of it again. But she would be back. Of this she was sure. She would make her parents proud even if she possessed no idea of what it was she would be doing.

Her eyes stinging, Talia turned away and forced herself to approach the dragon. She hurriedly rubbed her eyes again as she caught Kel studying her.

“I’ll need to show you a couple of things before we get started,” he said.

She noticed his light, amused smile as she still hesitated to get too near to Clarence. She made herself step closer.

“See these?” Kel pointed to some long, leather straps hanging from the saddle. “I’ll help you tie them on once we get you up. They’ll make sure you stay on your seat in case anything happens. The Administrator frowns on us losing any new students.” His expression was serious, but his eyes were full of mirth. Clarence snorted behind them.

Talia wasn’t sure she wanted to know just how exactly they went about losing a student.

“There’s a place here you can use to hold on to.” He pointed to a grip on the front of the second seat of the leather saddle. “If you feel you’re slipping at all though, you might want to hold onto one of Clarence’s scales instead.” Gently he lifted one of the dragon’s green, oval-shaped scales from where it lay flat against its brothers. “It’s attached to his skin here, and it takes a lot to make one of them come off. It won’t hurt him, so don’t worry about it. He’s also worm-free, so you don’t have to be concerned on that account, either.”

Her brows drew together, not knowing about half of the things he just mentioned or what they meant. Why would a dragon have worms?

“Here, I’ll help you up.” Kel cupped his gauntleted hands together to give her a boost up Clarence’s broad side.

Still tense and apprehensive, she put her foot in his cupped hands and, with a tentative hold on one of Clarence’s scales, pulled herself up onto the back seat of the large saddle. Now that she was on board, the scent of oil and possibly jasmine mixed with the strange, animal scent she smelled before.

The leather saddle felt comfortable and warm and looked to have seen heavy use. Its surface was smooth, though not as smooth as Clarence’s scale.

Once she settled herself in, Kel climbed up with the ease of long practice, using the scales as foot and handholds to climb up. He sat down in the saddle backward so he would be facing her.

Going slowly and explaining as he went, Kel showed her how to take each of the saddle’s straps and where to loop them to safely secure herself in her seat. Once he tested their handiwork to make sure it was tight, he turned around and strapped himself in as well. When he was done, he took his helmet off the pommel before him and put it on.

Talia grabbed hold of the groove before her with a yelp as Clarence rose to his feet. She could feel his muscles moving beneath her, bringing her higher into the air than a horse ever could.

“The trip is going to be long and a little bumpy, I’m afraid.” Kel turned his head in her direction. “You might not have noticed it, but Clarence is cross-eyed, and he has an inner ear problem, too. It tends to make our trips a little interesting.”

“But—” The word had barely left her lips when Clarence swept open his long wings with a snap. Realizing what it meant, she grabbed hold of the saddle even tighter. Clarence’s legs churned the ground, and he went into a snaking run, then leaped into the air.

Talia was jerked back as the dragon moved. She held on for dear life. The wind whipped past her, smacking her as if it were angry. She turned to look down and watched in horrid fascination as all she knew shrunk below her. As Clarence pumped with his vast wings and spiraled upwards, roads became thin lines and fields took on the look of squares on a quilt. A thick dark blue line below them she was sure must be the Morrass River. Beside it, the small town of Queegam was turned into dozens of miniature dollhouses with ants crawling all about.

The wonder of the view was just beginning to imprint itself in her mind when Clarence stopped his climb and leveled out.

One of his wings dipped too far to the right and suddenly tilted them sideways.

The saddle shifted, and with a scream clamoring in her throat, Talia released the saddle’s groove and grabbed hold of two of Clarence’s scales. The scales were almost cool to the touch, but this was pretty much lost to her as Clarence overcompensated for his original error and threw them all sailing in the opposite direction.

The ride at no time grew steady. Without fail, every few seconds Clarence would invariably dip too far one way or the other. It was all she could do just to hold on. She kept wishing the saddle held more straps, that it was nailed to Clarence’s back, or better still that she’d never left the ground to begin with. A strong gust of wind caught Clarence’s wings like sails and pushed them all back. Talia’s scream was lost in the wind as Clarence tilted backward and over.

When the dragon twisted back to the right direction things got worse as he somehow got them turned upside down. Clarence dropped like a rock and took them with him. Talia tried to scream again but shut her mouth as her stomach rose to her throat. Any sound she might have made was stolen by the wind as if it were rejoicing in her misery. She clung on, her heart hammering in her chest, as Clarence was finally able to right himself.

Sorry. Clarence’s tone seemed shy yet at the same time amused.

She felt a metal-shod hand on her shoulder but wasn’t willing to open her eyes. Was this what it was to be a Dragon Knight? She wanted nothing to do with it. She wanted to go home.

The dizzying ride continued for what seemed like forever. They dipped, they dropped, they rolled. Hardly was there a moment it could be said they went in a straight line. She just held on knowing she had no choice but to endure it. But how did Kel do it? He had willingly got back on after the horrid landing at her house and with the dragon falling on top of him, too. Was he mad, then?

We’re almost there. Clarence’s voice came clearly into her mind. If you look, you can see the school.

Despite her stomach’s vigorous protests, Talia opened her eyes to see where she would soon be living.

A large mesa rose before them snuggled amidst tall mountains. Nestled in the middle of this mesa was the largest building she’d ever seen. Instinctively, she knew what it was. It could be nothing else—and it was grander and more massive than she ever imagined from the stories told by the bards who occasionally traveled through town. It was a castle.

Clarence circled the mesa, almost as if he were giving her a chance to get a good look. His circling pattern brought them closer and closer. The structure grew before them the nearer they came. On top of the castle, at a steep angle, was a flat white dish with numbers. After a moment, Talia realized it was a clock—and it was huge! The one which was such a source of pride and joy to Queegam was nothing in comparison.

Balconies protruded from the castle on every side. Gigantic flying buttresses held the whole structure together, making it look even more extensive and grander than it already was.

Close to the stone castle was another building. It was almost as large as the former but made of wood rather than stone. The exterior was virtually identical in design but held long slit windows instead of balconies. A wooden castle? It was something she’d not heard of before.

Surrounding the castles were cultivated fields and a small forest. On one side of the grounds was a large strip of land which ran from one end of the mesa to the other, lined by bushes and trees. Once they came close enough, Clarence dived for it.

Talia lost all feeling in her hands, her knuckles turning white, as the ground seemed to rush up toward them. The castle and mesa expanded rapidly around them as they headed straight down. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the approaching doom. Her mind screamed at her that she was about to die!

Clarence shifted up as the ground blurred before them like a wall and plowed into the strip of land, claws first. Talia’s teeth clacked together from the impact, which made her already tight jaw hurt. The dragon slipped, his legs going out from under him, and he slid across the ground on his stomach. His body tilted sideways, throwing dirt up everywhere even as he continued to slide.

Talia ducked down onto the saddle, trying to avoid the flying clumps of earth. She held on with everything she possessed and watched the rolling dirt as Clarence dipped slightly more to one side, shifting her even closer to the moving ground. With cold terror, she recalled his landing on her father’s fields. While Kel might somehow miraculously survive being landed on by a dragon, she doubted she would be as lucky. As fast as she could, she sent out quick prayers to as many of the twenty gods who watched over her land as she could recall.

Clarence’s body plowed into a thick line of bushes which appeared as if they received this kind of treatment regularly. Talia felt her heart rise into her throat as she saw the lip of a cliff not ten arm lengths beyond them.

Both of Clarence’s claws reached out, grabbed like anchors onto the dirt, and brought them to a rough stop before they could go over the side.

Talia made her lungs breathe again, until that moment absolutely sure they wouldn’t make it. Her gaze was locked to the cliff’s edge not five paces from them; she was sure they were still about to fall.

“Talia, are you all right?”

She heard Kel turn around before her, his concern evident in his voice. Not trusting herself to do anything but scream if she opened her mouth, she forced herself to nod instead. He quickly undid his straps then turned fully in the saddle to work on hers.

Once they were all loosened, she found she still couldn’t move. Her numbed fingers were wrapped tightly about Clarence’s scales and didn’t seem in any mood to let go.

Kel didn’t say anything, but slipped out of the saddle to the ground and removed his helmet, shaking his damp hair. Clarence lay quietly, craning his neck to look at them, and waited for them both to get off.

Talia tried again to make her fingers move, but they were having nothing to do with it. She felt stupid and self-conscious half-hanging as she was from the saddle, but couldn’t bring herself to attract attention to her present predicament. Even as she tried fervently to think of what she could do, she noticed Clarence’s eyes focus in her direction. Kel suddenly turned from where he was retrieving her bag as if someone were speaking to him.

“Oh, you’re right.” Kel let go of the straps and pulled the gauntlets off his hands, letting them drop to the ground. He half-climbed back on the dragon, an apologetic look on his face. “Here, let me help you.”

Talia glanced away as his hands touched her fingers and carefully worked to pry them off Clarence’s scales one by one. She flinched as the blood flowed back into them again and they tingled with pain.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be as good as new in a minute.” Gently, he put her right hand between his and rubbed the feeling back into it.

She tried not to cringe as the pain in her hand got worse before it got better. After about a minute or so, he let go of her right hand and took up the other. As she experimentally flexed her fingers, he reached up to help her down. “Thanks.”

Once on the ground, Talia found her knees feeling weak, but they held. She was very grateful. She was sure she’d already made enough of a fool of herself for one day.

After studying her for a moment to make sure she was all right, Kel turned back to Clarence and retrieved her bag. He gave it to her then picked up his gauntlets and helmet. “I’ll meet you at your place once I’ve taken her inside. All right?” He glanced over at the dragon. The boy nodded as if he received an answer though Talia didn’t hear anything.

The dragon waited patiently until they stepped away then rolled up to his feet. He shook himself, sending dirt and pieces of bush flying everywhere.

Talia used her arms to cover her face against the assault. When it seemed to be over, she peeked out only to find Clarence looking in her direction.

It was a pleasure to meet you, Talia.

“Y—yes, the same here.” Though she definitely hoped she’d never have the pleasure of ever having to ride on him again. If all dragons flew the same as he did, she wasn’t sure why anyone would ever want to become a Dragon Knight in the first place.

Clarence inclined his head, almost as if he guessed her thoughts. He then lumbered along the long dirt track they’d used for the landing over to a spacious, cobbled path between the cultivated fields. Kel turned to follow in the same direction and waved for her to come along. Taking a deep breath, hoping her legs were steadier than before, she started after him.

Once her confidence grew and she became positive the ground would stay beneath her feet, Talia looked ahead at what lay down the road. The stone castle she’d seen from the air towered over her, imperious and foreboding. Three rows of balconies crowded the upper floors of the four-storied structure. Her mind boggled as she tried to count them and guessed they numbered around a hundred per level.

Between each balcony and descending all the way to the ground flying buttresses supported the massive walls. As she studied them, it felt as if she were gazing at a many-legged spider, lazily waiting for its next meal. She shuddered, feeling more and more insignificant in comparison to the mighty building. She glanced at Kel, who just kept walking as if the oppressive, towering structure before them were nothing at all. It was difficult to fathom how she might ever think of such a place as home.

The cobbled road split off to the right, and Clarence wove off in that direction. Kel kept on the main course and headed toward a set of dark double-doors. The doors were a full story tall and at least as wide as the length of two horses. The door on the right was slightly ajar, and he stepped through it to the inside. Talia reached out to touch the dark wood and found it amazingly smooth. The doors were as thick as her forearm was long.

Kel’s footsteps echoed in the still air as he walked on the polished green marble floor within. The light was muted inside though still bright enough to see by. The entryway was large with cushioned benches on the far side facing the doors. Colorful paintings of knights astride ferocious-looking dragons decorated the walls. A carved column rose to the tall ceiling every ten feet or so, shaped to represent knights in armor. The air smelled clean and the floor shined, yet all of it still seemed imbued with a deep sense of antiquity.

“Nice, don’t you think?” Kel was smiling at her openmouthed amazement. She was only able to nod, not having seen anything so splendid in her life.

“This way.” He led her down a broad hallway on the right.

They’d not gone far before he stopped in front of a closed door. He knocked on it twice then opened it, but didn’t go in. “This is where I leave you. Tammer is inside. He’ll get you your room assignment.” He gave her a shy smile and set her bad on the floor. “Maybe I’ll see you again later.”

“Thank you.” It was all she could think of to say. She was here. This was all really happening. The fact the only person she’d met was about to leave her only made her heart beat faster.

“Take care.” Kel took his leave.

Talia watched him go as she stood not quite in the new room’s open doorway until he disappeared from sight.

“Come on in, would you please? I haven’t got all day.”

She turned around, grabbed her bag, and stepped into the room at the impatient voice. “Sorry, sir.”

The office she found herself in was small but comfortable. Several deep chairs sat before a long oak desk, which was bare except for an inkwell and quill as well as a lone folder.

“Sit. Sit.”

She did as she was told and tried not to look directly at the desk’s occupant. The man there seemed to be about thirty. His hair was even lighter than Kel’s, but his eyes were a deep brown. His squared features were bland and unexcited. Without ado, he opened the folder before him. “You’re Talia from the village of Queegam, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.” She felt butterflies swash madly in her stomach.

Tammer made a notation on the papers before him. “You’ve been assigned to the Rimorn room,” he said without much emotion. “You’ll find it up the right corner stairs on the next level, the one with the red marble floor. Just follow the hallway. Your room will be the twenty-fifth on the right.” He made another notation on the papers.

“Your appointment with the Administrator is tomorrow morning at nine,” he continued. “You’ll find her office behind the gold door on the fourth level.” He glanced up, for the first time making eye contact. His brow arched high as he looked at her. “You do know how to read a clock face, don’t you?”

“Y—yes.” Pendrora, Queegam’s schoolteacher, made sure they all learned how. The village owned a leaky water clock in the center of town, but it didn’t keep good time. On many occasions, she’d wondered why her teacher bothered. The sun was more than good enough to tell time by. Plus, they didn’t own a clock at home. Now she mentally thanked Pendrora for having made them learn it anyway.

“Good.” Tammer scribbled something else on the papers. “I guess that’s it then.” He set the quill down. “Go ahead and find your room. Don’t forget about your appointment in the morning.” He closed the folder and dropped it into a drawer.

Talia stood up, clear on the dismissal, yet feeling there surely needed to be more. “But—”

Tammer stood up and led her outside into the hall, closing the office door behind them. “The stairs are over there. I suggest you get moving.” He pointed off to the right to a stairwell in the far corner.

“But—”

Without another word, he turned away from her and headed off in the opposite direction. She stared after him, totally uncomprehending. This was all he felt she needed to know?

For hours the night before Kel came for her, she’d wondered what it’d be like to be here. Yet, though the building itself seemed more than anything she might have expected, her introduction to the guild was less than she’d thought possible. Was this how they did things in the outside world? How could they just bring in total strangers and tell them nothing at all then leave them on their own? How was she supposed to know what she could and couldn’t do?

Abruptly uncertain and lost, Talia felt conspicuous standing there in the vast hallway alone. Realizing there was nothing else she could do, she headed for the stairs Tammer had pointed out to her.

The staircase leading up to her room at home was barely wide enough for a grown adult. The stairs before her now could have easily handled at least ten people standing side by side. The hard stone was worn down from use. Her mind boggled at the number of feet which would have needed to walk on it to make it that way. Even the dark, wood banister was large, the same as everything else she’d seen of this place. She felt dwarfed and alone. Was such a vast place really necessary? She remembered her guess at the number of balconies she’d spotted on the outside of the castle and she was stunned by how many apprentices it would take to fill them all. Most large guilds held ten to thirty apprentices at a time, and those were only located in major cities. This place held many, many more, and they were all to be Dragon Knights? Were there that many dragons in the world?

The stairs reached a landing then continued up. The second floor, as she’d been told, was covered in red marble. Doors were set only on the wall closest to the outside, while on the opposite side were chest-high banisters facing the middle of the building, making the hallway a sort of indoor balcony. Other than for her, the hall was totally empty.

Talia started down the passage, counting doors, and tried to ignore her rising uneasiness. As she went along, she thought she heard low voices coming from the other side of the banister. Curious, and at the same time eager to prove this place held other living beings, she stepped over to take a look.

Beyond the railing, a vast expanse spread out before her all the way to the other side of the building. Looking up, she could see two more stories like this one. All three made a full rectangle and were open in the middle.

Beyond the top floor, she could see the angled ceiling for the roof, which in the center displayed huge round holes covered in what appeared to be glass, which allowed the sunshine to filter inside.

Looking down, she found all those she’d not seen so far. The area below her was split into roofless rooms by flimsy, movable wooden walls. Children who appeared to be grouped by age sat in desks in clusters of twelve or so, listening raptly to a teacher. Their voices rose and mingled together so she couldn’t make out what was being said. Soon she, too, would be there with them.

Talia watched them for a few minutes, her previous unease settling a bit at the normal looking activity. The children and young people she spotted below looked to be of all races and colors. She’d not realized so many existed. Back home, Pendrora used some simple maps to show them other places but they’d never really meant much to her. Now she saw the world might just be a lot bigger than she’d ever thought.

Finally pulling herself away from the balustrade, she resumed her count and searched for her room. Beside each door was a small plaque bearing a name. The twenty-fifth door, the one which was supposed to be hers, stood slightly ajar. The plaque beside it was inscribed with the name Rimorn, just as she’d been told it would. Taking a deep breath, she ventured inside.

To say the room was large was an understatement. It was at least the size of the main floor of her house, if not bigger. To the left, nestled in its own nook in the wall, was a massive set of bunk beds made of mahogany. Its thick supports were carved yet were almost worn smooth by the thousands of students who’d slept on them over the years. On the far wall were two full doors with glass, an extravagant expense, which opened out onto a large balcony. With each door came a set of shutters and a thick bar that would fit in the hooks behind them. Offsetting this were thick curtains, which at the moment were pulled back.

To her right, Talia spotted a majestic stone tub filled almost to the brim with steaming water. She frowned, wondering if someone finished filling it right before she arrived, for she could see no signs of a fire.

Two dressers sat against the wall by the door and perpendicular to them was a generous desk with a stack of unmarked books, several quills, and an inkwell. In a niche close to the balcony doors stood a gorgeous arrangement of flowers. The slot on the opposite side held a miniature water clock and pendulum. Talia stared at the latter in total fascination, not ever having dreamed one could be made so small. If she stood close and listened hard, she could even hear the water as it flowed inside it.

A small, utilitarian vanity sat not far from the beds and held a water-filled basin. Beside it were two buckets stacked inside each other. Next to them was a regular sized door. Opening it, she found a small closet filled with linens, two more buckets, and cleaning implements.

As she looked around, Talia noticed not all the light in the room was coming from outside. High in the walls, she spotted several globes, which seemed to be glowing. She raised her hand toward one but felt no heat emanating from it. Her brow furrowed not knowing such a thing was possible.

Shaking her head, she turned and decided to put her things away. Her meager possessions barely took up two of the available drawers on the first dresser. With the two beds and the extra dresser, she wondered if she’d be sharing the room with someone. As far as she could tell, however, there was no indication this would be the case.

After she finished, she noticed a bronze plaque set into the back of the room’s door as well as a place for another wooden bar. Embossed on the sign were the times for the serving of breakfast, lunch, and dinner, which were at seven, noon, and six. It seemed cold and impersonal.

A pang of longing for her parents and home cut through her. Everything seemed to be so different from what she was used to. Nothing felt familiar anymore. She sighed, suddenly tired. Moving toward the balcony to glance at the sun outside, she made herself stop and look at the clock beside her instead. It was only three o’clock. That was three hours before dinner, three hours on her own. Her stomach took this as its cue to remind her she’d not eaten lunch. With another sigh, she lay down on the lower bed and was almost swallowed by the soft, thick mattress.

She glanced up and didn’t see the familiar sight of her room’s low rafters or the gentle inside slope of the roof. Instead, she found the carved and scarred surface of the bottom of the bed above her.

Someone had scratched in rough sketches of the school’s floor plan in the wood. Each floor was there, even the location of the Administrator’s office. It also showed her other essential things like the location of the kitchens and the dining hall. Other students looked to have added other bits of information—class names and times, information she wasn’t sure applied to her. Others seemed to have been content just to add their own names or initials almost as if to make sure those who came after would know they’d been there. As her eyes closed on their own, she wondered where they all were now.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Cross-eyed Dragon Troubles Print Edition at Amazon
Buy Cross-eyed Dragon Troubles Print Edition at Barnes and Noble
Buy Cross-eyed Dragon Troubles Print book for sale at BooksAMillion

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Cross-eyed Dragon Troubles On Amazon
Buy Cross-eyed Dragon Troubles on Barnes and Noble/Nook
Buy Cross-eyed Dragon Troubles on Smashwords
Buy Cross-eyed Dragon Troubles on iBooks
Buy Cross-eyed Dragon Troubles on Kobo

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Whiskey and Suicide paints a kaleidoscope of myriad emotions of the Indian middle class families. In a very informal storytelling style, it narrates the dilemmas of the urban families in dealing with the conflicting emotions arising due to contradictory desires. It is the bonds of family and friendship that allow the protagonists to deal with these crises which are depicted by Manik Bal in a detached but empathetic narrative style reminiscent of the great “slice of life” storytellers of the east and the west.

This book is raw and real and these people can be anyone truly. It is remarkably heartfelt, endearing, it claws at you at times with its depth and emotion. Hard to put down. One of those books you hand to a best friend and say “Read this!”

This book by author Manik Bal is a bouquet of feelings. Every story describes the new face of a person’s life.

The stories are all very good but out of all my favourite of all these is Her Father’s Killer such an interesting, emotional and unpredictable short story and it really touched my heart.

(Whiskey and Suicide is) The petrichor in Indian fiction writing.

The impression is similar to reading Alice Munro.

Variety of intricate topics and unusual metaphorical contrast become an accustomed feat of the author.

I loved the author’s style of narrating the incidents. Minimal yet precise.

Bapu and Her Father’s killer plots are weaved around two completely opposite emotions.

The heart or the author is easily felt with every line, as the lives of the characters seep in, and it is impossible not to get carried by their wave.

It’s a fascinating inside glimpse at dysfunctional family life in modern India in real-world times, subtlety told with enough detail to make your hair curl.

Whether it is the alcoholic father who takes the wrong path after his wife’s death or the sensitive couple in “Subtlety”, most characters are sketched in details.

Modern India is a complex place with the variety of demographics ranging from the multi billionaires to people who are not able to get a day’s meal. The financial liberalization and the IT revolution has created a middle class that is ambitious both in economic aims and spiritual aims. Whiskey and Suicide is empathetic without being condescending.

Targeted Age Group:: 18+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I have always been fascinated by the middle class and their seemingly ordinary life that is anything but ordinary. Their struggle to keep their life together, with all the peer pressure, individual desires, constraints to get what they want – all these things form the core of Whiskey and Suicide. It is really a mirror to the Indian society as one of the reviewers called it.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The characters are from around us, you see them in malls, movie halls, marriage functions, parties and many other places where you meet and see a lot of people. The characters reveal themselves to you if you allow them to. They are interesting when you dig deeper into their motivation.

Book Sample
She was staring at the floor for the last fifteen minutes. It’s 2:30am in the clock that menacingly ticked. The blood on the floor looked like the fake color actors use to picturize a movie scene. She had seen many of them on TV in the plenty of leisure time she has had. “Live life king size”, the logo on his T-shirt screamed at her. The yellow T-shirt had become purple with the flow of blood. She knew the fact that if you mix red with yellow, it becomes purple. She wanted to scream, and she would eventually but right now it felt as if someone is gagging her and not a sound can come out of her mouth. The small kitchen felt claustro-phobic and his body was crumpled on the floor making it difficult to go to the other side. At that moment she could not even think of doing it. She was completely immobi-lized with a mixture of emotions. Fear? Anger? Relief? She was not sure what was the shade of emotions that was the prominent one in her mind at that moment. She might get into her freewheeling mind rambling that she normally experienced when something major happened. A kaleido-scope of thoughts, music, and voices that zoomed through your mind as they jump tangentially from one to the next. Images that did not mean anything, words that danced chaotically, sounds that did not harmonize. She felt a small movement of his hands. Of course, she was imagin-ing it, she thought. She had checked his pulse some time back, and he did not have any. The rambling started again. It was as violent as the act she committed some time back. She tried to focus on the refrigerator door where the magnet displayed the picture of a lion. She knew it is Singapore. Her friends had asked if she had gone to Sin-gapore. Of Course, she had not. She wished she had. She would have if her mother was alive.
It was a Monday and was her first time of wearing a uniform. The pink uniform with the red tie was a little un-comfortable but somehow felt great. It was her first day of school. Pre-school, Amma had corrected her. Amma was dressed in a saree as she used to do every morning. It was a blue saree with a floral print. She hardly wore any make up. She was a teacher at that pre-school for the last two years. She was happy that she would be going with Amma and not spending her time with the mean Grandfather. She held Amma tight on the Scooty. She used to visit Amma’s school once in a while, especially when they celebrated family day or when her grandfather had some other work and there was no one who could take care of her. The school was a small building in a residential neighborhood that had a real green patch. Some of those trees were so close to the building that you could climb on them from the building. These green patches were the reason why Bangalore was called a garden city. They were becoming increasingly rare these days. As soon as they reached the school, a number of girls came running to them and start-ed jumping up and down. “Hi Aunty, is that your daugh-ter?”. “She is so pretty.”. “What’s her name?” . Soon she would go and play among them. She remembered Pinky, who became her best friend. They used to like to play adults who got married and had kids and lived a fabulous life. They used to cook imaginary food, eat in restaurants and take care of their children. Amma used to observe them with the pride of a mother.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Whiskey and Suicide – And Other Stories Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Whiskey and Suicide – And Other Stories On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

this exquisite collection of poems captures the nuances of love and longing, the various emotions that love evokes in us, and how love can touch the seemingly mundane and give it new meaning.

journey through the phases of longing—for what could be, what already is, and what was—toward the sense of belonging that comes after accepting the inner transformations love requires from us.

Targeted Age Group:: 15+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
As the title implies, I was inspired to write this during a period of intense longing where I was very much compelled to write these poems, the imagery practically commanding to be set into words.

Though I did not intend it, I liked how there was a narrative that emerged when I was arranging these poems together—a journey through the phases of longing.

Book Sample
i yearn to give you flowers

that will bloom and die on your lips
every single day:

these tulips.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy love in the time of longing. Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy love in the time of longing. On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Lady Helena Staley knows that she will one day marry a peer of her father’s choosing. She has only resented her future once, when Mr. Price stole her heart at Almack’s and did not even send her flowers in return.

Matthew Price is in no position to marry. He knows this. But that fact has not kept him from pining for the mystery lady he met at Almack’s. If only he knew where to find her.

Fate, or possibly bad luck, brings them together again. There is just one problem, Lady Helena is promised to the Marquess of Boxwood, Matthew’s best friend.

Will duty and pride stand in the way, or can Matthew and Helena find a way to choose their own path?

Targeted Age Group:: Adult

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I enjoy writing regencies because of the world and the unique conflicts not available in contemporary. As I was brainstorming possible conflicts, I came up with the idea of a couple that is kept apart because she is promised to his best friend. It grew from there.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Once I had the conflict, I thought through what types of characters would find themselves in the situation. I also decided that it was important for the main male characters to be opposites of each other.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Promised to a Marquess: A Regency Novella Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Promised to a Marquess: A Regency Novella On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

In Stalin’s Russia, when prison sentences stretched ten, fifteen, and twenty-five years, the future Nobel Prize winner Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn found himself incarcerated in its genocidal “corrective” labor camps (the so-called Gulag of the Soviet Union). His crime: expressing anti-Stalinist opinions in a letter to a friend.

A devout Communist at his arrest, condemned to be worked to death in the frozen wastelands of Russia, he underwent instead a profound psychological transformation, broke free of his Marxist ideology—and survived. This full biography of one of the most influential personalities of the Twentieth Century follows his astounding journey from the camps, to living through near-terminal cancer, to winning the Nobel Prize, to publishing the groundbreaking book that played a key role in the fall of the Soviet Empire—exposing the half-century of inhuman atrocities, and the sixty-million slaughtered lives, it kept so jealously hidden for so long.

In this second installment in the Self-Actualizing People in History series, biographer, historian, and humanistic psychologist Roman Gelperin combines the fascinating narrative of the life of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, with the history of the Soviet State it was embedded in, with a psychological study of the pivotal experiences that shaped him. In a highly illuminating, new perspective on Solzhenitsyn, he shows him to be a perfect example of the self-actualized person—a very specific (“enlightened”) personality type first identified by Abraham Maslow in 1950.

Using Solzhenitsyn’s life as a demonstration, he also illustrates what self-actualization is, why its peculiar character traits, and how Solzhenitsyn found enlightenment on rotting prison straw.

Targeted Age Group:: 18 and up

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Experiencing the state of enlightenment Abraham Maslow described personally. Then becoming able to recognize it in other people. Then realizing I can explain that state in other people through describing my own experiences in deep introspective detail.

Book Sample
In the late autumn of 2009, while slowly recovering from a harrowing spine injury, I was suddenly rocketed into a state of pure self-actualization. I was nineteen at the time, a sophomore psychology student at Stony Brook University; and for the next year and a half, until I dropped out of college at the end of my third year, I experienced a near-uninterrupted state of the most ecstatic enlightenment—the kind few philosophers, sages, and mystics across all history rarely attain.
From a highly neurotic, insecure, intellectually confused adolescent—rife with anxieties, self-reproaches, dishonesty, laziness, and incessant self-doubt—I was transformed into an utterly confident, profoundly driven, totally guilt-free human being—possessing radiant intellectual clarity, unblemished honesty, and a bulletproof self-esteem.
During this transformation, I could gaze back at my former psychological malaise with a god’s-eye view. The doors to my mind’s full potential were thrown asunder. I was supremely cognizant of the person I was before, of everything that had changed in me, and of why it had changed. I was able to glean the most dazzling truths about the human mind, to independently reach the most earth-shattering insights into human nature. And having solved all my own psychological problems, I felt I had the ability to solve anyone’s, that I had discovered the single root cause of the worst of humanity’s ills, and that I—and perhaps I, alone—held the cure.
That now became my mission in life: to help others reach the same enlightenment I did, to teach mankind the path to unlocking its full potential. I was supremely confident in myself and in my ability to change the whole world. I felt mentally, intellectually, emotionally, inferior to no man. I became happiness incarnate. I was going to tear through all obstacles. Nothing would stop me from reaching my goal: the one task fate had chosen me—and only me—for, and that nobody else could do.
And then, in the summer of 2011, my self-actualization vanished as quickly as it had come. I did make some definite gains, to be sure; and I still remembered everything that happened to me. But I suddenly felt, in the worst possible sense of the word, normal. I thought I’d emerged from my psychological malaise as a completely new type of human being; but now, I found many of my old qualities returning—my laziness, my inhibitions, a whole spectrum of negative emotions. I was no longer a being of sheer happiness. I felt tossed out of my private psychological paradise, the gates shutting behind me, leaving me clawing at its threshold, desperately trying to get back in.
Looking back at those blissful one-and-a-half years, I’m still amazed at the tremendous potential temporarily unlocked in me—the acuity of my mind, the power of my intuition, and the ability to act effortlessly, confidently, spontaneously, in the face of all circumstances—a state of being I never before thought possible, and which I can hardly believe happened to me even now.
Shortly after my fall, having been banished from paradise, I embarked on an intellectual quest to discover what made me so different during those one-and-a-half years, a quest to find out what I’d really been like, and a quest to find my way back to that lost paradise—when I soared to the highest reaches of human potential, when the brightest happiness flowed exuberantly from my being, when my mind danced through the eternal universe with exultant ease. This book, and especially this first chapter, is the successful product of that quest—and, maybe, the start of yours. Enjoy.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy On Rotting Prison Straw Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy On Rotting Prison Straw On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Theirs is a marriage of convenience.

She loves another…

Lady Julia has dreamed of marrying her childhood sweetheart since she was four years old. Unfortunately, her father has other plans. He has his sights on her marrying an earl. When she is forced into an unwanted betrothal, Julie needs to make a choice: wait for her true love and destroy her honor, or make a deal with the forbidding earl.

He vowed to never love again…

Robert, the earl of Clydesdale, has sworn off love. A marriage of convenience is more to his liking. So he wasn’t about to turn away a beautiful young lady’s plea for help in exchange for her hand in marriage. But once he spends more time with his betrothed, his icy heart begins to melt. Only his betrothed is in love with another. Now Robert has a choice, either lock his heart away and live in misery, or take a risk and fight for the woman he loves.

Targeted Age Group:: 17+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I loved reading since I was a child. Since my teenage years, my favorite books were the classics, because of the language and the flow of writing. But I quickly realized that romance was a necessary part of a good book for me. This is when I discovered a perfect mix of both, the beautiful language and steaming romance: historical romance books.

My love for reading and my personal experiences combined inspired this particular book. The heros go through some agonizing stuff to get to their HEA, just like real life. My life is also prominently involved with people with special needs, and I have a special character in my novel as well.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Mostly, the characters come to me in my head. They talk to me and dictate their traits, their journeys. However, some of the characters are based off real people. For instance, I use some actual historical events for inspiration and all of that is touched upon in my book and is explained at the back. In the interest of not spoiling anything, I'd prefer people to read the book and then the inscription at the back.

Book Sample
The bitter taste in his mouth accompanied Robert all morning on his wedding day. He sensed he was making a huge mistake. What if Lady Julie was truly in love with someone else, and he was ruining her life? Would her father let her marry that other man if he cried-off, or was he saving her from a worse fate? The doubt plagued him all the way to the altar.
The feelings intensified as he entered the church, seeing the throng of people who all waited for his wedding. Everyone except for his bride, who was either late or not coming at all. His nerves got the best of him, and he was ready to call off another of his weddings before it could even start. But all his turmoil stilled once he saw his bride coming down the aisle.
She wore a hideous pitch-black gown with a ridiculously long train. Her gloves, her veil, and even her slippers were also black. Think what he must about his bride, but she knew how to make a statement. With this ridiculous display of a gown, she showed the ton, her father, and most of all him what she thought about this marriage. It was not a celebration; it was a mourning of love lost. He should feel bitter toward her or even angry. Somehow, he only felt admiration and something akin to pride. His lips twitched in laughter as she stood in front of him. He couldn’t help but admire this young girl who’d made a deal to marry him so she could get her sister, or as his grandmother thought, her daughter out of the asylum. This girl didn’t care for his title and money and showed it to the world with her mockery of a wedding gown.
His expression completely changed as she lifted her veil, and he saw her pale, troubled face. She was not enjoying the joke, the wedding, or anything that was happening. She was repulsed by the mere idea of being married to him. His eyes took on a stony expression as he stared down at her and saw his entire future. The silent dinners, the cold nights together, the accusation in her eyes every time she looked at him. He almost stopped the wedding right at that moment.
What was the alternative? Marrying anybody else would yield the same results. With one difference, they would pretend affection before the wedding and cuckold him to their hearts’ content once they married. Robert took a deep breath. Please, God, let this all turn out all right. He took her icy hands in his and squeezed them tight. As if assuring himself that she wouldn’t run off, as if assuring himself that he wouldn’t run either.
“Dearly beloved,” the priest began.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy A Deal with the Earl Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy A Deal with the Earl On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Will Kat Patterson manage to save her ancestral home when all her brother wants is cold hard cash? Paul’s hired Whip Tyler to develop the property against Kat’s wishes. Whip Tyler of all people! Hasn’t their family lost enough at Whip’s hands?

Hasn’t Paul Patterson caused enough damage in Whip’s life? But if he won’t take the job, Paul will find someone else – a developer who will rape the land and throw Kat’s hopes to the wind. It would be easier if Whip didn’t care. Or if that long-ago promise didn’t stand between him and Kat.

Targeted Age Group:: Adult

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Based on my own Home Place, my goal with this novel was to honor the history of that place while also imagining a future different from what really happened to it. I wanted to see if my protagonist could keep what she loved most about her family's farm intact as my family could not. Could she prevent her Home Place from becoming the golf course mine has?

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Though I leaned on circumstances set by great-grandparents as backstory, I wanted Home Place, the novel, to not be autobiographical. So I invented bad parents for Kat Patterson and her brothers, and while Kat and I share deep feelings for our homeland, that's the only way we're alike. To boost conflict I made her brother Paul love money and added developer Whip Tyler who becomes attracted to Kat. Whip needed his own backstory, one that entwines with the Patterson family and from which neither he nor Kat have ever quite healed. Kat and Whip tell the story in alternate chapters. For fun and to explore deep friendship I added saucy Darcy and her laid-back husband Luke. Numerous minor characters add flavor and exemplify the kinds of rural and small-town people it's been my privilege to know.

Book Sample
Chapter 2: Whip
The place looked much as I expected. Big house with more grace than aerial photos showed. Big lawn and stately trees that must be a century or more old. Perched on a hill above the road, with sloping hills to the south and down to a creek just out of view.

As I came around the sweep of the driveway, the faded grandeur one saw from the road shifted to the ugly utility of a working farm. Not one that worked well. The collection of outbuildings – corncrib, hog lot, shop, a couple of barns – looked as tired as the rusty combine and rickety hayrack in the barnyard. Like so many farms across the Midwest, this one was likely prosperous in its time. But that time was gone. And in its place? Another client hoping to make new money off old land. Not a client I relished.

For one thing, I was no fan of McMansions for people who say they want to live in the country but turn it into suburbia. For another, it was Paul Patterson, and I expected that was what he’d want. He was a greedy kid, and I doubted he’d changed. I shrugged. Business. And…maybe it would help me close a door. I didn’t set my hopes high.

As I stepped out of the truck, I saw a face at a window. Uh-oh. The little sister. Paul said she’d be off to her town job by now, but I should have known he’d miss the mark. Old slapdash Patterson.

The face pulled back, and I glimpsed a bare shoulder and hair the color of a well-worn penny. Like Scott’s. Something odd happened in my stomach. Uneasy if-only thinking that dogged me ever since…

I blinked away old images as the back door opened. She said, “You’re early. I didn’t expect you for another half hour.”

“Ma’am?” I took a step toward the porch. Shower fresh hair hung in wet ropes past her shoulders, and eyes of a familiar green did nothing to settle my roiling stomach. Bare toes. No bra.

She squinted, crossed her arms over her chest, shivered. “You’ve got another truck coming, right? It’s not a big flock anymore, but they’ll still never fit in that.” She nodded to my truck.

“Um…I expect they’ll be along shortly.” Play along, I thought.

“I need coffee. Breakfast. Before they get here.” She turned, laid a hand on the doorknob. “You may as well come in while you wait.”

I hesitated. Not a good idea. But curiosity and something else made me follow her inside where a wood stove pumped heat in a wreck of a kitchen.

“Excuse the mess. Use your imagination. See what it will be. Like a rehabber does. Come back a month from now, and this room will be prettier than when my Great-Gremma came here as a bride.”

I let my eyes roam. Half a bare floor, old linoleum on the rest, a gaping hole in one wall, a layer of plaster dust on every surface. It would take a lot more than a month to make the room look like anything but a bomb site.

She laughed as she reached to get mugs from a cupboard. “You don’t believe me. But it will be gorgeous.” She fiddled with a high-tech machine till steam and the heady smell of coffee wafted.

“That doesn’t look like something your great-grandmother would have used.” I hesitated to venture any opinion, but I felt like I had to say something.

“Not hardly,” she laughed again. “But it makes great coffee

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Home Place Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Home Place On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

When best friends, Jacob and Orla find a mysterious diary written in an unknown language, they head off in search of an artefact that has the power to bring elemental magic back to the world of Lozaro.

But the president of a superpower nation wants the artefact for himself and has dispatched the sinister Gunnar Veto to beat them to it.

The dangerous journey pushes Jacob and Orla’s friendship to the limit while Veto’s secret link to Jacob’s past threatens dire consequences in the present.

Targeted Age Group:: 13+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I always wanted to write a book with interesting young characters thrust into the dangers of a world they underestimated. I love fantasy books that move at a quick pace but still leave room for character development and the chance to tease a world just beyond what the reader can see. I believe Crestmore: The Lost Elmkey, is exactly what I set out to write in the beginning.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I created Jacob and Orla to be polar opposites but still close friends. I loved the idea of two naive individuals leaning on each other for support throughout a dangerous journey that could save a nation. Jacob is very much like myself at 18, in the sense that's unassuming and has dreams of escaping the status quo. Orla is a strong, independent young woman with dreams of leading her nation. I love that type of character as opposed to the boring "Damsel in Distress," trope that's always been so offensive.

Book Sample
Chapter I

A decade had passed since Jacob swapped the small town of Oakhedge for the Capital of Uthovaya, but life in the big city had proved to be anything but the paradise he believed it would be. Everyone was less friendly, for a start; too busy rushing from place to place to offer so much as a friendly hello. The roads were busier, too. If you didn’t hurry across, you risked not making it to the other side.
Oakhedge was a close-knit community by comparison. A place where everybody knew each other’s business. There was also no chance of being knocked down by careless drivers or mugged while out for a leisurely stroll. In fact, Jacob reckoned Oakhedge was superior in every way, except for one small detail: his foster parents, Pirlie and Raszlo lived there.
The two oddities had raised him in a small house on the edge of town, only a stone’s throw away from the Polan Burn. All the local kids played on the banks of that burn, but Jacob rarely got to join them. He spent most of his time cooped up in the house, hidden away like a monster too hideous for the world to see.
Jacob escaped to the Capital on his tenth birthday, and for years after, he wondered why his foster parents had treated him so horribly. It was only when he got older that he began to suspect their behaviour stemmed from the fact he wasn’t Human, like them.
Jacob was a Mixling, and like all Mixlings, he was born to a Dakew and a Human. Some people struggled to tell the difference between the Dakew and Mixlings, but Jacob was usually ready with an explanation. The Dakew were similar to Humans but had hairless skin, a flatter nose, and more rounded eyes. Mixlings predominantly inherited the physical traits of the Human parent, with the only exception being a flatter nose that came from the Dakew side.
Jacob had no memory of his birth parents, but often wondered why they gave him up. Would life have been different if they had stuck around? Jacob had no idea, but he was sure there would have been no Pirlie and Raszlo.
His past still scarred him, and he always vowed never to return to Oakhedge without good reason. Right now, as he struggled through the Capital’s busy streets, trying to avoid the stares from passers-by who studied the contents of his trolley, he could not think of a single one.
Although he was tired, footsore, and hungry, Jacob knew he had to keep going. Dragging the trolley made things more difficult, especially with the dead creature on top, lying underneath a white sheet. He dabbed his forehead with a grey cloth and then looked across the busy street at the Hunters Depot sandwiched between two run-down office buildings.
Just a few more tugs.
Visiting the Hunters Depot could be a long and tedious experience, but Jacob had gotten used to the process since becoming a fully-fledged hunter almost two years ago. He knew it was a means to an end, the struggle before the big payday. Once he reached the counter, he would collect his reward for a hard-earned kill. Payment could be anything from food parcels to money, and although Jacob had never received the latter, he felt quietly confident his latest kill was worth at least fifty nova.
Such a large sum of money would enable him to buy edible food. No more of those out-of-date parcels from the depot. Maybe, the money would even stretch to some new clothes. His tatty grey t-shirt was full of holes and two sizes too small, and his brown jacket was faded and dirty.
Still dreaming of a substantial payday, Jacob joined the queue of battle-scarred hunters, each one spending what probably seemed like an eternity shuffling towards their payment. One hour later, Jacob reached the counter, and was greeted by an overweight, middle-aged Human attendant he had never seen before. She tapped on the bullet-proof glass and ordered him to come closer.
“Name?” she barked through the speaker.
“Jacob.”
“Your full name,” she said, sounding exasperated with his response.
“I don’t have a surname.”
“Everyone has a surname.”
“Not me. I haven’t used mine since I came to the Capital.”
The attendant stared blankly. “Why not?”
It was a good question. The thought of using Pirlie and Raszlo’s surname made Jacob feel physically sick, but he had no intention of admitting that fact to a total stranger. He shuffled from side-to-side, hoping the attendant would get the hint.
“Never mind,” the attendant finally said. “What have you brought us today?
Jacob could hardly contain his excitement as he pulled the white sheet away and let the lady’s gaze settle on his kill – a terrifying beast with six-legs, three arms, and two red eyes. Capable of camouflage, even in death, it had turned dark blue to match the colour of the trolley.
“H-how did you catch one of those?” the attendant stammered, forcing glasses onto her plump face.
The other hunters broke from the queue, chatting excitedly about the youngster who had single-handedly slain a Villfaar Dragon. The attendant signalled a colleague over, and a short man in a crumpled suit made his way around the depot counter to inspect the haul.
“Impressive, huh?” Jacob grinned, enjoying the positive attention from his fellow hunters. Praise was a rare commodity for him, so he intended to make the most of the adulation. He took a deep breath and then puffed his chest out.
“Where are the others?” the man in the suit asked.
“Others?”
“Come on, kid. There’s no way you caught this by yourself. You obviously worked with a hunting party and then plundered their haul.”
“No, I ha –”
“Or you’ve swiped it from a hunter’s camp.”
Jacob could not believe the gall of the man. Capturing the Villfaar Dragon was his crowning achievement as a hunter to date. Yet this perfect stranger wanted to take the credit away from him. How dare he?
“I nearly died three times trying to capture this creature,” Jacob said in a tone that was a mixture of anger and hurt.
“Maybe if you had been killed, I might have believed you.”
It was a ridiculous statement, but the man in the suit seemed completely oblivious to his own stupidity. He clicked his fingers, and two staff members carrying shotguns burst from the depot. Without saying a word, they began to drag the trolley away.
“Leave it!” Jacob cried.
“I’m afraid not.” Said the man in the suit. “We’re keeping your haul. You’re lucky I’m not revoking your licence as well.”
Jacob dashed forward to block the trolley’s removal, but a third armed guard exploded from the depot to keep him at bay. Exasperated, he turned back to the man in the suit.
“I can’t face going home hungry. Is there any way we can resolve this?”
But the cold-hearted man barely mustered a change in expression. “On your way, thief.”
Jacob looked on helplessly as his trolley disappeared into the depot. Too tired and hungry to continue his protests, he started the long walk back to the place he called home, a derelict army recruitment centre in the backstreets of Capital-West. He was overcome by dizziness on the way, and the environment around him adopted a dreamlike quality, as hunger began to affect his mind, leaving him weary and disorientated.
By the time he arrived at his bomb-damaged home, Jacob was exhausted. He collapsed on the cold hard ground but managed to pull a threadbare grey blanket over himself. He looked up at the stars through the broken roof, counting them one by one, and hoping they would take his mind off the hunger pains stabbing into his belly like a thousand knives. Perhaps, tomorrow would bring some luck.

***

The next morning, Jacob threw the blanket away and peeled himself off the ground, just as the bell from the nearby Church of the Dakew began to chime. Although he didn’t believe in a higher power, Jacob never complained about the bell. Its familiar ring meant he had made it through another cold winter’s night.
After a long stretch, he trudged to the closest water fountain for a wash and then made his way to Main Street, hoping to find a familiar face amongst the claustrophobic mess of bodies and traffic. Eventually, he found one in the form of the local tailor, a jolly Dakew by the name of Mr. Janmano, who was seated inside a vehicle that stood out from the everyday cars, trucks, and motorbikes whizzing past.
“You don’t see many Fast-Wheels around here,” Jacob said, as Janmano brought the single wheeler with a seat at either side to a halt.
“What can I say? Business is booming,” Janmano replied, twirling his long, pencil-thin moustache. “Where are you going today, ma’boy?”
Jacob tore himself away from the smooth surface of the impressive vehicle.
“I’m going to meet Orla.”
Orla Paton was eighteen years old; two years younger than Jacob and had been his best friend since he arrived in the Capital. Three days ago, she had gone for an interview at North-West University, hoping to gain a place in next term’s Political Science course. Jacob had agreed to meet her at the train station when she returned.
“Need a ride?” Janmano asked, pointing to a passenger seat on the left side of the wheel.
Jacob nodded. “Train Station West, please.”
“Yes, sir,” Janmano replied, starting up the engine.
Jacob hoped his friend could not hear his stomach screaming for attention as the disc rolled through the congested streets. There was a sandwich wrapped up in a see-through bag beside him on the passenger seat but looking at it only made his hunger worse.
Finally, the Fast-Wheel came to a stop outside the dilapidated station, and Jacob jumped onto the pavement. “Thanks for the lift.”
“No problem, ma’boy.”
Janmano pulled out three nova from his pocket and thrust them into Jacob’s hand.
“What’s this?”
“Get yourself some breakfast.”
“Are you sure?” Jacob replied, secretly hoping Janmano wouldn’t change his mind.
“Of course.” He beamed. “I’m off to work now. Say hello to Orla for me.”
Jacob waved goodbye and then studied the money in the palm of his hand. Was there time for a quick bite to eat? No, he concluded, Orla’s train was due to arrive any minute. His rumbling stomach would have to wait.
He scaled the dirty marble steps at the station entrance and made his way towards a grim-faced Human employee sitting inside a worn-out booth. There was a sign situated above the employee’s head, instructing all Dakew and Mixlings to check-in. Jacob took a deep breath and prepared to do what he always did whenever he entered a public place – swap his dignity for a permission slip.
“Sign this form,” the man at the booth ordered, pushing the piece of paper through a gap underneath the glass.
“Does your job not embarrass you?” Jacob replied as he signed the form and passed it back.
The man behind the booth ignored the question and handed over a blue permission slip.
“That’ll be a no, then?” Jacob added, shoving the slip into his pocket.
“Look, I’m not happy about this either, but I’ve got a wife and two kids to support. If you’ve got a problem with how things are done, take it up with the Antantan government. They’re the ones who make the rules; I only enforce them.”
Jacob knew he had a point. It was hardly the man’s fault that Uthovaya was under the control of another nation. The Antantans were Humans who hailed from the country of Antantis, possibly the strongest superpower in the world of Lozaro. Antantis was ruled by a maniacal president who hated the Dakew and Mixlings in equal measure. It was the president who had ordered his troops to storm the Capital, murder the royal family, and take control of the country, twenty years ago.
Jacob reached the timetable screen and scanned the jumbled-up words and numbers, but his lack of schooling meant understanding them was difficult. A kindly old lady came to the rescue, explaining the train would arrive on time at platform fourteen. He thanked her and then sprinted to the platform in question, feeling dizzy and weak again by the time he got there.
“Can I help ya?” a rough voice asked as he leaned against the nearest bannister.
Jacob spun around and came face to face with a muscle-bound military man decked out in the silver full-face helmet and matching uniform of the Antantan army.
“I said, can I help ya?” the soldier barked.
“No thanks,” Jacob replied, turning away.
The soldier wasted no time in swinging him back around by the shoulder.
“Don’t even think about it, boy.”
Jacob wriggled away, but the soldier appeared to sense his discomfort and stepped further into his personal space, leaving him almost frozen with fear. Jacob took a backwards step, but the soldier came forward again, making him feel even more uneasy.
“Leave me alone. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Not in this spot, you’re not.”
Jacob held up his permission slip. “I have as much right to be here as you do,”
“Your kind will never have as much rights as me,” the soldier spat. “Anyway, this area is being kept clear for the Antantan army recruitment drive. Be on your way.”
Scared he would be ejected from the station, Jacob hurried to another spot and waited for the train. It arrived minutes later, stopping with a hiss and the release of thick white smoke. The doors opened and passengers spilled onto the platform. Orla was among them, sporting a smile and clasping a light green duffel bag. She looked smart in a grey trouser suit and crisp, buttoned-up cream shirt. Her strawberry blonde hair was clipped to the top of her head, making her look older than her years.
“Hey, you,” she greeted him.
“Hey, yourself.” Jacob grinned in response. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. How did you get on at the interview?”
“Brilliant.” She squealed. “I start the Political Science course next week.”
“That’s the best news ever,” Jacob replied, doing his best to look happy.
Although he supported Orla’s dream of becoming a politician, he did not share her view that she could make a difference for the people of Uthovaya. The Antantans had installed their own government and would never allow a Uthovayan to call the shots. Not to mention the course would require her to relocate to Capital North-West. Jacob would be lucky to see her once a week, and that wasn’t enough as far as he was concerned. He wanted Orla to succeed in her goals, but the prospect of life without her came with almost painful loneliness. Not that he would ever voice his feelings on the matter. Orla would probably feel betrayed if she knew the truth.
“Let’s get going,” Jacob said.
He reached out to take her bag, but she playfully snatched it away and burst out laughing.
“Fine.” He said, pulling a funny face and then wandering away.
“Oh, you’re terrible,” she quipped, slinging the bag straps over her shoulder, and then jogging to catch up with him.
“And don’t I know it.” He grinned.
They chatted back and forth as they walked through the station, mainly about what Orla could expect when she started her course. Before they reached the exit, two Antantan soldiers stopped them in their tracks, demanding a closer inspection of Jacob’s permission slip.
“What’s the problem?” Orla asked.
“Stay out of this.” one of the soldiers replied.
Jacob did not resist as the soldiers dragged him away from Orla and bundled him into a squared room. There was an examination table inside with a tray of medical instruments on top.
“Make it quick.” Jacob snapped, glaring at the two soldiers.
There was no response, but he felt anger and shame burn inside him as they conducted a full-body search.
“Are you two finished?”
“Keep it zipped,” one of the soldiers snarled. “Ah, what do we have here?” The soldier removed Jacob’s hunting pistol from his cocoa-coloured trousers. “Care to explain why you have a firearm in a public place?”
“I’m a hunter; I use it for hunting.”
“A likely story,” the other soldier remarked as he slipped the gun into a small grey pouch with tie strings. “We have a bit of a problem here.”
“What problem?”
“How you intend to pay your fine, for a start.”
“Licensed hunters can carry their registered weapon at all times. Page two, paragraph seven of the Hunter’s Law. You guys should have done your homework.”
“This will have to do,” the first soldier crowed, as he held up the money Mr. Janmano had given Jacob.
“That’s mine,” Jacob countered, his voice shaking from a combination of anger and fear.
“It was yours,” The soldier laughed, putting the money into his breast pocket. “Put your clothes back on and get out.”
Jacob dressed quickly and then headed back outside to Orla. She put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a sympathetic look. It was a look he had seen many times before. A look he hated.
“They didn’t even check the slip.” He whispered.
“Those soldiers are beneath contempt,” Orla spat. “Are you OK?”
“I’ll just have to be.”
Despite the bravado, Jacob was more than fed-up with the constant mistreatment, tired of being a second-class citizen. Even after a decade in the Capital he had not gotten used to Antantan persecution.
As they left the station, Jacob felt a deep rumbling coming from down the street, shaking the ground. A group of protesters had gathered across the road, screaming obscenities at passing Antantan soldiers. Suddenly, two monstrous tanks rolled past them in single file., leaving the trail of raging protesters in their wake.
“Another day, another round of intimidation,” Orla said quietly.
Jacob nodded. “C’mon, I’ll walk you home.”

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Crestmore: The Lost Elmkey Print Edition at Amazon
Buy Crestmore: The Lost Elmkey Print Edition at Barnes and Noble

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Crestmore: The Lost Elmkey On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Your heart pounds in your chest, breath catching in your throat as the hair on the back of your neck slowly prickles with the feeling of being watched.

What is it that you’re truly afraid of?

The neighbor next door who might be a serial killer? Falling prey to a psychopath? Or your own inner demons, unleashed? Murder, mystery, mayhem – pick your poison.

The stories in this anthology, previously published in periodicals ranging from Suspense Magazine to The Saturday Evening Post, run the gamut from Hard-Boiled to cozy, noir to funny, with whodunit as the theme.

Whether you’re a fan of great past detectives like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes or Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple and Poirot, or modern investigators like Tana French’s Dublin Murder Squad and Patricia Cornwell’s Kay Scarpetta, you’ll find something to satisfy your inner sleuth within these pages.

Targeted Age Group:: adult

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
This book is a collection of short stories I wrote using my knowledge as a forensic analyst. My background inspired me to write tales that would entertain readers as well as give them a deeper look inside the process of solving crimes.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The main character in this book, Detective Shaw, is an amalgam of different detectives I have worked with in the past. Likewise, many of the other characters are loosely based on people I have worked with.

Book Sample
It’s All About the Cat
By Shannon Hollinger

It’s clear that the cat is a narcissist. Detective Shaw watches the cat stare at its own reflection in the window, licking itself with long, self-indulgent strokes of the tongue. On the floor beneath the window ledge where the cat preens, a woman lays dead in a pool of her own blood. Tiny red paw prints cover the floor. One could almost fool themselves into thinking the cat had been distraught over the woman’s death. The missing flesh from the tip of her nose and the way the cat cavalierly ignores all the humans in the room, suggests otherwise.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Detecting Fear Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Detecting Fear On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Stephen’s existence has become a wash of malaise, from the job he despises to the life that somehow has spun out of his control. He has grown apart from his wife, her respect for him having faded many years ago. As an escape, once a week, he and his friends get together to play The Game, exploring the magical world of Taerh through role play. Stephen soon learns there is more to Taerh than he ever imagined.

The Game, which he thought to be a construct of imagination, was actually based on visions of a world beyond his perceptions. In his dreams, Stephen sees the world of Taerh through the eyes of his ‘reflection’, Hollis, who lives a life which Stephen could only imagine. When tragedy strikes, Stephen must work with his reflection to unravel a mystery that spans both Taerh and Earth. New comrades in both worlds offer to aid them; although some are true allies, others are motivated by their own selfish desires. As Stephen draws closer to Hollis, he must track down the murderers of his closest friends before he joins them in death.

Targeted Age Group:: 12+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I have been playing Dungeons and Dragons since the magical summer of 1980. It has made me the person that I am today. Inspiration for it was drawn from my years of gaming and those who have joined me on that journey.

I have been telling stories since that sunny afternoon, Shadows of a Dream is the culmination of those decades of storytelling.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The characters found in Shadows of a Dream are one natural progression of what could happen to someone very much like myself … or anyone out there as their life does not turn out at they imagined but their dreams are just beyond their fingertips.

Book Sample
Aamir’s children slept on the roof of his simple home to combat the heat; but so softly did Hollis land upon the surface that none of them stirred. He was forced to take to the rooftops as the streets became host to the search for both himself and Aristoi. It made no difference to the thief, as their pitched surface was as much of a home to him as the hard-packed surface below. Stephen’s consciousness had settled into the background as Hollis practiced his trade. He lowered himself one-handed to the alley outside the small kitchen that he remembered from the day of his capture.

The curtains that usually kept the daytime’s dust at bay were pulled back to admit as much of the night air as possible. Hollis slid into the oppressive silence of the house, his eyes adjusting quickly. The building was simple, containing only three rooms, of which Hollis had seen two. Finding where Aamir slept was a simple matter. Stephen cringed as Hollis slowly drew one of his stolen daggers and pressed it to the fat caravan master’s throat. With the barest whispers he warned, “This is between us, Sayyid, I have no interest in involving your sun and flower; but I will if pressed.” He felt the man nodding carefully. “You will rise without waking her and lead me to your strong box. Nod again if you understand me.” Aamir nodded again. Hollis stepped back slightly, allowing the man to rise; but the blade never wavered from its position.

The two walked into the common room where Aamir folded back a carpet, revealing a hole dug in the dirt floor; inside sat an iron bound chest. “I have children, Hollis, have mercy,” he whispered, his tone pleading.

Hollis smiled, a malicious glint coming to his eye, “They are not yours, as we have already discussed.”

The man paled, swallowing slowly, “I had no choice.”

“We both know that is a lie. Your cudgel was the deciding factor in that conflict. You saw the chance to keep my money and collect what I can only assume was a significant reward. You took that gamble, betting that once I entered the Emir’s dungeons, I would never emerge. That was an unwise wager.” He pressed the blade deeper into Aamir’s throat, creasing the skin, “Open the chest.”

“Of course, Sayyid.” His hands trembled as he pulled the key from a hidden pocket and turned it slowly.

Hollis heard the soft click of the lock opening and Aamir tried to take a step back. Hollis clicked softly and shook his head. “If you would be so kind as to open it for me, I would be most appreciative. I have my hands full.” He shifted the knife slightly. He could see the man’s shoulders slump as he reached in, lifted the lid a small way and pulled a catch to the side, disarming the poison-needle trap. He looked up at Hollis with something that could have passed for an apology. The thief shrugged and nodded appreciatively but did not comment.

“You cannot carry all this, Hollis,” Aamir whispered in clipped tones.

“I do not have to. Give me what I paid you and what is left of the reward you collected.”

The man did as he was asked with as much speed as he could muster with a knife at his throat, “It was nothing personal, simply a sound business decision.”

“It felt kind of personal to me, Aamir.”

“Please accept my sincerest apologies, Sayyid. Here is all I have left and the pouch you gave me with not an iron drab missing. Does this make us even?”

Hollis growled low and deadly, “Not even close, Aamir.” He pressed the blade further into the caravan master’s throat, drawing a thin crimson line in the flesh, “Remember this blade,” as he removed it from his neck, he held it before the man’s eyes. “I will keep it with me until we meet again. When that happens, I will kill you with it, so it will be as if no time has passed.” Hollis tapped him on the chest with the tip of the dagger. “Were I you, I would make it my business to ensure that I never see you again.” He casually sheathed the weapon and turned on his heel, moving towards the kitchen. Over his shoulder he whispered, “Now that is a sound business decision.”

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Shadows of a Dream Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Shadows of a Dream On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Featured Free Book: Book is free from 03/29/2021 until 04/02/2021 If the dates are the same, book is free one day only.

About the Book

“Coach” Neil Geddes brings decades of personal experience as well as research to the table.

F… the Black Dog communicates hard-won insights from rock-bottom experiences in a direct, no-nonsense voice that will resonate with the reader.

Personal experiences are related vividly in a visceral manner that will help readers connect therapeutic tools to their own lives.

This is a book about adjustments to perception, philosophy, and routine that can be highly effective supplements to therapy in combatting depression. It is aimed squarely at men and women who have had enough of depression ruling their lives and are ready to take on the hard work of managing their mental health.

It will help empower readers to take the necessary steps to treat and manage their depression, especially knowing that others have been where they are, and made it through the darkness…

Download book here

Featured Free Book: Book is free from 03/29/2021 until 04/02/2021 If the dates are the same, book is free one day only.

About the Book

Written by a video game marketer and consultant who had worked in both AAA game development and indie game studios for over a decade.

Come experience the thrills and the ups and downs of this incredible industry – with an emphasis on first-hand accounts of what IT’S REALLY LIKE to develop, launch, and publish video games.

Hear first-hand accounts and WORDS OF WISDOM – about how THEY got their starts in the video game industry – from celebrated experts who have worked on such iconic games like Pac-Man, Ultima, RuneScape, Dark Age of Camelot, Candy Crush Saga, DungeonKeeper, Dragon Age, Star Wars the Old Republic, ABC Mouse, Halo, Pieces of Flair, Real Racing, FIFA Ultimate Team, and many more.

Together with a framework that allows a young gamer to look inside one’s self; explore one’s unique set of strengths, weaknesses, talents, and values; decide if this industry is right for one’s self, how to stand out, and how to get started…

This book seeks to delight, educate, and inspire the readers by answering three sets of questions:

1. WHAT IS IT REALLY LIKE to create and publish games?

2. Does THE INDUSTRY OFFER VIABLE OPPORTUNITIES for young people? What about teens who are not STEM-inclined or artistic?

3. SHOULD EDUCATORS AND PARENTS FOSTER, CULTIVATE, OR CURE such “dreamers”? And if the former, How?

Download book here

Finding Heaven In The Dark by William L. Ingram

FINDING HEAVEN IN THE DARK – A MEMOIR ABOUT LIFE’S MEANING
The Story of a Boy’s Journey from Rebellion To Redemption.

Targeted Age Group:: Young Adult, All audiences
Heat/Violence Level: Heat Level 1 – G Rated Clean Read

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Imagine Overcoming Painful Life Circumstances and Learning to Forgive Your Past.
Visualize a Lasting Faith that Heals with Love and Peace of Mind as a Way of Life.
Those spiritual principles inspired me to write about the life changing events that gave me victory over my youthful course of self-destruction. The spellbinding odyssey I recount occurred during the turbulent racial and political storms in 1960's America.

Book Sample
EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK
Chapter 1 – HARD TIME – Summer 1970

The handcuffs locked around my wrists. I had been tried, convicted, and sentenced.
I was twenty-one-years old, as I stood shackled and ready to be transported to the Camp Lejeune Regional Brig of the US Marine Corps in Jacksonville, North Carolina.
This military prison was where I wanted to be. My entire focus for the prior three years had been directed toward getting me to this point. This place was the only one where I could end a bad beginning.

Silently, I searched for that quiet center of my being that gave me the strength to get this far. My heart pounded. My swirling emotions calmed when I focused my attention on my hands. The handcuffs surprised me. They were not part of my anticipated scenario.
My sorrow was deep. Not for myself, but for others for whom I caused pain and suffering through my actions. I asked myself, “My God, why hadn’t I grown up sooner?”

Links to Purchase Print Book version – Click links for book samples, reviews and to purchase
Buy Finding Heaven In The Dark Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase Audiobook version – Click links for book samples, reviews and to purchase
Buy Finding Heaven In The Dark Audiobook at Amazon
Buy Finding Heaven In The Dark Audiobook at Audible

Links to Purchase eBook version – Click links for book samples, reviews and to purchase
Buy this eBook On Amazon

About the Author
Learn more about the author on their website
Follow the author on Amazon

Follow the author on Social Media:
Facebook
Twitter
Goodreads
Pinterest
Instagram

All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Mila Stevens just wanted to escape, to start over again. New town, new job, new life. So when she scores an internship at her favorite professional wrestling organization it seems like her perfect way out. Secrets, betrayal, and one certain wrestler may just change everything.

Targeted Age Group:: 18-40

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
This story was the first book I wrote after the sudden passing of both my husband and my father. It is very much influenced by my own experiences as a young widow, and my passion & love for pro wrestling.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
My main character, Mila, is admittedly largely based on me. The love interest is a combination of inspiration drawn from my favorite professional wrestlers.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Wrestling With Love Print Edition at Amazon
Buy Wrestling With Love Print Edition at Barnes and Noble

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Wrestling With Love On Amazon
Buy Wrestling With Love on Barnes and Noble/Nook

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Marinette, her cousin Zach, and their friends have just started college after dealing with the untimely death of Marinette’s family. Everything seems to be going well at the start of school, until they find a strange box hidden on a cliff. Opening the box forces Marinette and the others into a life they never expected to find. Family secrets from the past slowly emerge to reveal that Marinette and Zach had some knowledge of what might be in the hidden box they found. Now these new heroes will have to learn to act as a team, harness their new abilities, and save the world. Twists and turns will force the new heroes into unimaginable battles. Will they be strong enough to defeat the evil they unknowingly released? Or will it consume them?

Targeted Age Group:: 16+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I have always been inspired by nature and believed everyone is somehow connected to it. In this series I like to use the idea of animal spirits fusing with our souls to grant the heroes special abilities. The world is in such a chaotic spin lately that I felt everyone could use a good pick me up story. I hope you all enjoy it.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I used bits and pieces of people I have known throughout my life to create my characters. They aren't exactly one person in particular but a mixture of everyone. For example, my one character Austin is a mix of my husband, my friend Angela, and a little of my older brother's personalities all mixed into one person. His name is actually created by a door dasher I once had. The dasher was awesome in speed, accuracy, and helped me in a bind to grab an extra item when he didn't have to. I liked his name and couldn't think of one for that character and decided to use his.

Book Sample
Funerals have oddity written all over them. After all, it is during funerals that people come from all over to bid a final farewell to someone they once knew, loved, and cherished. Often, they are filled with people sharing lurid details about how they wished they got a final goodbye. For Marinette, this was her third funeral in the past six months. However, this time, the funeral was different in that it left her an orphan, or at least, in a sense, it did. Despite being fraught with conflicting, mostly depressing thoughts, Marinette did manage to ruminate on the succor-inducing fact that she would turn eighteen in three days. This meant she would not be handed over to the state or any such nonsense like that. No one would need to take custody of her, and she would be able to continue living in her now-deceased parents' home, if she chose to. Just two weeks prior, she was finally ‘happy’ after battling the tragic, tumultuous loss of her father and brother after their car mysteriously went over a guard rail after losing its brakes. Having graduated from high school, she had just gotten her acceptance letter from three different universities.
She smiled at the quaint memory of walking into her house and showing the letters to her mom, who was elated at her daughter’s accomplishments. But now that seemingly elusive memory was just as hard to think of as those with her father and brother. In spite of being surrounded by lots of people, she felt disconcertingly alone and devastated, as if the entire world were conniving to somehow mock her decrepit existence. Her aunts, uncles, and grandparents were equally crestfallen. Nevertheless, they all somehow managed to try to remind her that she could stay with any of them; that they all loved her and would be there for her through thick and thin. Yet, a heavy sigh left her lips as she quietly walked away from the overbearing crowd of people that left her unsettled downstairs, heading straight to her parents’ room.
The air inside the room felt stiff and stale, as if the doors hadn’t been open in a long time. Copious amounts of dust lingering on the dresser caught Marinette’s attention. A twinge in her gut made her want to pull out a duster, knowing very well her mother wouldn’t be amused with a dirty dresser. She took a tissue from the box on the dresser and removed some of the dust in a palpably desperate attempt to make herself feel better. But she involuntarily stopped when her hand touched the wooden jewelry box that her father had made for his beautiful bride on their 10th wedding anniversary. Caressing it ever so gently, she found her thoughts drifting helplessly to the last day she heard her mother’s voice.
“Hey Mom, I will be home in an hour; I am just leaving Steve’s house now,” she recalled saying to her. Steve had been her best friend since forever. They grew up together and had a bond that couldn’t be broken.
“Okay, sweetie. I will see you when you get home. I love you,” her mom said in response. A tear fell as Marinette took comfort in the fact that she at least at least I got to hear those three words from her mom, one last time. The memory of her last conversation with her mom was gravid with irony and sadness. Yet a faint smile crept across her otherwise pale face, thanks to that very memory.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Becoming Heroes: The Story of the New Guardian Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Becoming Heroes: The Story of the New Guardian On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Who is more likely to commit a crime?

Someone who was forced to leave the top?
Someone who is looking to reach the top?
Or someone who is afraid of being at the top?

Criminologist Peter Deligiannis is called to investigate
the murder of a prominent politician’s daughter.
Her father tries to find the truth in the lie.
Her brother tries to hide the lie in the truth.
Α leading Russian composer comes to the fore as the main suspect.

A crime with a signature
A melody without applause
A killer is trying to reach perfection
Writing one Last Symphony

Targeted Age Group:: 15-60

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The value of perfection, as a reference point for the conquest of the top and the social recognition, was the first idea which inspired me to write this book. The story deals with people who react to glory with different ways.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
In every book i write I try to create real characters. My protagonists are heroes which I know them personally. Fantasy helped me to add them characteristicsto make them totally unique, like my main protagonist, Peter Deligiannis.

Book Sample
Prologue

He opens his eyes. He finds himself lying on his back. He is surrounded by a trembling white light which fades into shadows. He slowly lifts his legs. He throws his head backwards and leans it on the ice. The skin of his head cools. It is a pleasant feeling of relief to an inflaming mind. His fair hair freezes from the microscopic crystals. He sways the lower limbs. He feels strong, capable for anything, at the same time he feels weak even for the slightest movement. He grabs his neck as if he is trying to restrict it. He shifts his weight from the waist to his knees. He falls forward. The fingers of his hands touch his overall, sleeveless, red tracksuit. He feels cold. He opens and closes his eyelids and faces a man.
The man is dressed in the shades of ice. He is wearing a grey shirt with grey trousers and a grey gabardine with scattered laces, which are hanging like long ribbons. His hair is fair, in the color of platinum, combed in one perfect parting. His feet are bare on the ice, transferring the temperature to his gaze. His hands are intertwined vertically. The left supports the right and the fingers of the first point to his chin. The index finger moves along the neck and stops at Adam’s apple. He half-closes his eyes and looks at the young man with the red tracksuit.
He retreats. He reaches a white wall standing on his knees. He stands up. The man opens his gabardine, takes it off with airy movements, as if dancing in the rhythm of a melody, and keeps it spread out in front of him. He shakes it in the void and throws down the young man. Fiery flames are created around him, but instead of melting the ice, they stabilize and trap it. The young man is forced to move between them. He keeps fighting until the fire retreats.
The man with the gabardine brings a full-body mirror and places it in front of the young man with the red tracksuit. The visual contact of the latter with his reflection completely throws the already disturbed balance of his mind off. He visualizes himself wearing black jeans and a white shirt. The man, the young man, and his reflection are the same person with a different look. The gabardine rotates with mastery in the air and lands precisely on the fingers of its owner. Simultaneously, the young man begins a new battle.
He wide-spreads the legs, falls on the ice, and forms a perfectly straight line. He faces his reflection in the mirror. He himself cannot manage it. His legs try to straighten but remain several inches above the ice. A perfect turn of the man around his axis makes the young man get up.
He continues his attempt. He supports his weight on the left leg and lifts up the right. He catches a glimpse of the man, before looking into the mirror. He raises the right leg, lowers it bending the knee, and stretches it again to the top. This balance seems impossible to be achieved in the eyes of the young man. Behind the mirror, he has begun to resign, after many unsuccessful attempts.
The gabardine rotates up, around, and under the man’s perfect body. As the absolute ruler, he wraps it like a mantle and brings it forward, always keeping the balance and absolute control of each movement. The young man tries some turning movements with his hands while lifting his left leg high up. The answer of the reflection is repeating turns around an imaginary axis, making the shirt swirl around his waist. He fails again.
The young man in the red tracksuit falls onto the floor. He cannot achieve perfection. He cannot reach the summit. The man is dancing on the tips of his toes. He flies in the air, forming a solitary angle of one hundred and eighty degrees. He supports his weight on his right hand and pushes the gabardine. The young man observes him. He is waiting for him to fail, but it never happens. The man gets up, grabs the gabardine in the air with one hand, and smiles sardonically.
The reflection steps back. The young man holds his head and pulls his hair. He bends down. He holds his body. His mind explodes. His body freezes. It hurts. He himself behind the mirror retreats, walking towards the white wall. The fingers are wrapped around his neck, getting ready for the end.
With a subtle movement of the fingers, the man indicates to the youngster the next step. The index finger aims at the full body mirror. The man’s eyes go up and down, pushing the target to its selection. He looks at his reflection for the last time. He himself has collapsed. He is ready to surrender. He has to catch up with him. He gets up, speeds up, and falls on the mirror, breaking it off in hundreds of microscopic pieces of glass.
He goes on the opposite side and falls onto the floor. There is no ice. There is no sense of cold or hot. He meets the absolute void. A sterile white in an invisible light. He looks around him. He is searching for his reflection, but there is nobody. He lowers his eyes on him. The red tracksuit has disappeared. His body is wrapped with the grey gabardine, with the sleeves worn inside out. The right sleeve on the left hand and the left sleeve on the right one. The laces wrap his hands behind his back and throw him face down on the floor.
He turns his head to the left. He sees a shadow on the colorless wall. In the next minute, all his prior efforts are captured. He sees himself in the red uniform. He sees the perfect opening of the legs. The rotational movement of the hands with absolute accuracy. He sees one of his legs high in ideal alignment with the trunk, perpendicular to the opening of his hands. He sees that all his efforts were successful. His eyes are brimmed with tears, hurt, become heavier, until they meet the sheer darkness.

1
Increasing entropy

‘‘Enough is enough, Peter!’’ he slaps his palm up on the desk. ‘‘Learn at last when you need to stop. You can’t hunt ghosts for an entire life!’’ The commander’s voice is furious. Non-negotiable.
‘‘If you think that doing properly my job makes me a whimsical police officer, then I have no place here.’’ He aims with his index finger the point which his superior had slapped up earlier.
‘‘In every case you undertake we lose precious time. While you are searching for answers to questions that have already been answered, some other people out there are in danger. I am not willing to give you another opportunity… I know how important you are to this Force, but when a case is closed and especially from the evidence that you and your colleagues have found, then you should accept it and move on.’’
Peter smiles mockingly. ‘‘Every suicide is a potentially well-planned assassination, Sir. The medical expert agreed with me!’’ emphasizing the doctor’s specialty, in an attempt to weaken the validity of his interlocutor’s speech.
‘‘There are other meticulous and extravagant people like you, I won’t object to that. However, there are moments you should stop.’’
The commander warns him. I stand behind Peter as a silent observer. My gaze falls on the library window with the innumerable files I bet they lack archiving. My brunette figure looks weak. Maybe it's because I'm a little over 50 kilos. Maybe it's because my attitude is defensive.
‘‘Meticulous and extravagant… You attribute correct characteristics to people who pay attention in detail and search for any potential scenarios, even the most excessive one, to discover the truth. I am glad you recognize our work, at least subconsciously, Sir…’’ he is clearly ironic, acknowledging the difficult position in which he is placing himself.
His opponent sighs. He straightens his body to show his superiority over the disobedient police officer. The confidence he radiates irritates him. It always irritated him.
‘‘Apart from searching for the truth, you need to learn to accept it as well, Peter.’’
My proud criminologist raises his neck. He is not going to admit that he is wrong. ‘‘I accept only what passes through the filter of my consciousness.’’
The commander puts his hands deep in the front pockets of his trousers and stretches back on the heels of his shoes. ‘‘Let’s hope that next time the filter of your consciousness won’t appear in the form of blinders in your eyes. I don’t want anything else from you. Magda, don’t do the same. You may go,’’ he concludes with another warning, and we leave his office without accepting it.
He usually treats every case with strict self-control and impartiality, however, if something comes in confrontation with his instinct, he makes us look for evidence that nearly always does not exist. Those are the moments when his ego collides with me, the commander, the – easy target – Andrew, with the Directorate of Criminological Investigations, with anyone unlucky found in front of him…
He enters the office, letting the door bang behind him. His fist finds its place on the full of moisture wall. He averts his glance from the bright light which enters generously into our square office and meets my eyes.
‘‘What are you waiting for? To admit that you were right? Yes, OK, this time I was wrong…’’ he states and opens the collection with the towers of selfishness. One of those self-destructs in front of me.
He walks around the office. He seeks support on the grey wall, which is the new – unique – optical field for him. I do not approach him. I know that in such moments he needs to stay alone, to find time to regain his sovereignty. This childish, as I call it, way of reacting makes me fall in love with him even more each and every moment. I love this irritating man who always wants to be right, who constantly seeks to be the centre of attention and admiration, who seeks perfection and truth. He is the man who needs to exercise control over everyone and everything and most of the times he succeeds.
‘‘I should learn to accept the truth…’’ I hear his laughter without looking at him. This spastic, nervous laughter that covers a series of outbursts of anger from his interior. ‘‘I can’t stand him, Magda…’’ he puffs and blows, and I look at my watch, timing the duration of his monologue. ‘‘Of course, I also exceeded the limits this time…’’
I open my eyes wide at the hearing of this acceptance. I keep being in the same ecstatic posture until he turns towards me and I hurry to arm my gaze with elements of understanding, support, and confirmation…
I am mocking him.
‘‘Don’t look at me like that, Magda! You know very well that I’m not crazy and I don’t hunt ghosts as the other dared to support.’’
The caustic attitude to power is one of the first signs that show that his temporary collapse is nearing completion. It is the best time to support my opinion. Every time the same ritual. ‘‘My love, you aren’t crazy… You are extravagant.’’
He smiles. I smile. He smiles again.
Clearly, he wants to terrify me.
‘‘Magda…’’
‘‘When we know ourselves, we can face everything. You were the one who taught me that, weren’t you?’’ I return an erotic but simultaneously ironic smile, preparing one more quarrel of ours.
His eyes sparkle momentarily. He admires me. I impressed him.
‘‘The awareness of our psychic world is strengthened only if we avoid its notification. Let’s suppose that I am extravagant. If I can convince you of the contrary, I will have recognized my weakness, after I will have launched its decentralization and I will have turned it into a dynamic feature of enforcement,’’ he raises his eyebrow, believing that he just threw me against the wall.
I look up to the ceiling. ‘‘This reasoning course itself expresses the highest reflection of an exaggeration, Peter…’’ I mock him again, remaining in a fairly high level of self-awareness.
‘‘Can you prove it, Mrs. Iliopoulou?’’
His soft voice distracts me. ‘‘Neither can you prove your own theory.’’ I play dangerously.
‘‘I just did it.’’ His dark eyes are enjoying our word game. In particular, they are enjoying the power they are having over me. ‘‘The theory is the last step of the scientific method for the orthodoxy of a case, Magda…’’ he says with a mild manner.
I look at him while frowning, scolding my proud self for this defeat. My mind is seeking ways for revenge when a hesitant, official knocking on the door interrupts my unsuccessful reasoning.
‘‘Antonella told me to bring you these…’’ Andrew walks behind my desk and leaves some pages in front of Peter.
‘‘And what are you? Her maid?’’ he answers back and in such a way it is clear to whom he will break out his nerves this time. Once again.
My dear friend and colleague seems to be thinking about the question before answering to him. ‘‘She was just talking on the telephone and…We were talking about the case and I thought…’’
‘‘And what are the cases of the homicide department to be discussed in the corridors, Andrew? Please come to your senses…’’ He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and sits on the chair. He shuffles his hair to achieve a more unkempt hairstyle or to burst out the irritation that still survives within him.
Andrew retreats, walking towards the door, leaving uncommented Peter’s shots. ‘‘I will be in my office, Magda…’’ he whispers to me hesitantly.
Why does he inform me every time?
I smile at him and release the hands that were tied under my chest. I approach my phenomenally calm husband to read the content of the pages.
‘‘Apostolos Maniatis. Thirty-two years old lawyer, with an office in Zografou, married with two children, ages twelve and two years old. His wife is unemployed, and they were both born on the island of Zakynthos. Clean criminal record.’’
Before I see the pages, the information comes as recorded from Antonella’s mouth, who enters the office dragging her feet. Our new colleague belongs to the category: I say a lot, I do a little.
‘‘So?’’ says Peter raising indifferently his left eyebrow, as he brings the pages close to his face. He seems ready to throw them ostentatiously behind his head.
She sips a generous dose of coffee from her plastic, as if she needs to get energy to speak. ‘‘This morning he was found dead in his office by the woman who was cleaning. The medical examiner concluded that it is a suicide that came from a bullet on his head. Investigations are still going on, but to forestall you, no signs of space violation were found, nor traces of a struggle, so the case will be closed,’’ she states and colors her voice with a reservation, exciting Peter’s interest.
He returns the pages on the desk. He files them with obvious nervousness. The remnants of the debate with the commander. ‘‘And now we await you to tell us the ‘‘but’’ of the case…’’ he smiles at her exploratory.
‘‘But I spoke with someone, who although is considered an unreliable source, told me that last night he saw Aris Nomikos, Orpheus Nomikos’s son, to be knocking insistently on the door of the block of flats, where Maniatis’s office was and calling his name. Of course, the time he mentions was at least two hours after the time of the lawyer’s death, so…’’
‘‘Unreliable source on a level of illumination or of simple misunderstanding?’’ he interrupts her.
‘‘For the rest, his opinion doesn’t count, Peter…’’ she whirls around her eyes as a sign of lack of understanding the indifference of our colleagues, while in essence she is the first to despise any second thought on a case.
I sigh. ‘‘So that each of us doesn’t imagine whatever they want, can you tell us exactly what he told you and who?’’
Am I the only logical person in this Department?
She finishes her coffee and throws the plastic in the bin under her desk. I think that even this movement she does seems exhausting. ‘‘It is about a man around sixty to sixty-five, who runs the mini-market that is placed opposite the specific block of flats. It wasn’t easy for me to speak to him. His breath smelled of alcohol so intensively that it was impossible for me to approach him.’’
‘‘Is this the reason that nobody believes him? Because he was drunk?’’ I pass in the tone of my voice my explicit objection.
‘‘Not only this, Magda… If you see him… He really seems to have no contact with the environment.’’
‘‘And how does he run the store?’’
‘‘Maybe his sister manages everything, but she wasn’t at the store last night.’’
‘‘Did Maniatis have a firearms license?’’
‘‘No. He probably hadn’t declared it.’’ The claim escapes from Antonella’s lips, who after three months of being in our team hasn’t understood that she should not use the word ‘‘probably’’ to present an argument. At least not in front of Peter.
He imposes silence on her, averting his gaze. ‘‘Enough!’’ He raises his hand to reject any additional commentary from both of us and browses the pages.
I stand above him, staring silently. The pictures show a dark-complexioned man sitting in a leather chair with a high back. His right hand is lying on the side of the chair’s arm, while the other is resting on his knee. The knot of his striped tie is slightly loose, and his eyes are closed. The blood has flowed from the right temple up to his neck and has stopped at the collar of his shirt. In another photograph, the gun is thrown at the edge of the desk.
‘‘Yes, it is clearly a suicide…’’ he claims clearing his throat. His lips open and close. I am sure he wants to say more and ask even more. I wonder why he is not doing it.
‘‘This is what I also said…’’ Antonella breathes out boringly and brings her laptop closer. She gently blows her face from the lower to the upper lip, instantly lifting her fringes. I believe that they bother her as she keeps continuously opening and closing her eyes, but she doesn’t admit it not to show that she has regretted her new haircut. Her selfishness moves on levels close to my husband’s egopathy, who now gets in the field of my observation.
I have been scrutinizing him for a few moments. He is filing some pages away, which were left desolate on the edge of his desk. His movements are spasmodic and involuntary. He changes positions to the envelopes, bringing the blue envelope on the top, putting the blacks in the middle and leaving the red envelope at the base. He crooks his lips and moves the red above the blue.
Where is the storm of questions about the place the lawyer was found? For his history? For the interrogation of his possible secretary? How come does he not want to interrogate this drunk man? Where is the anger over the previous disapproval by the commander hidden?
How good of an actor is Mr. Deligiannis?
‘‘Let’s not waste more time.’’ The medical examiner’s report ends up to his fingers. ‘‘Maniatis has committed suicide. The case closes here,’’ he states and places the pages aside.

16 hours ago…

He sits at the desk and pushes the chair forward, knitting his legs at its base. He is trembling but looks focused. He is making a great effort for this. His optical field is enormous, as is his room, since he has placed his desk in the corner, behind the door. It is the only place where he feels secure. Away from the light. Away from the windows. Away from reality.
His eyes are focused on the documents he has in front of him, however, his sight is blurred. He is not reading them. He is not even looking at them, but they must be on the desk. He knows what is written on them. He can imagine. Plans, visions, words he has heard so many times in his life. He grew up with them. He does not need to read them. He knows them.
‘‘Aris…’’ His father enters the room and immediately looks behind the door. He knew that he would be there. From the day he returned from America he is always there.
‘‘Yes, father…’’ he opens and closes several times his eyes to restore his sight. His thin legs, as if they are made of jelly, stand upright as if he has to give some military report.
Orpheus Nomikos approaches his son and examines even the smallest detail on him. ‘‘You are stressed. Again,’’ he comments, and an electric wave runs through the whole body of the young politician. He makes the collar of his shirt. ‘‘Maybe you want to talk to me about something?’’
His question is coarse with no trace of interest. For Aris, it is not even a question. It is a threat. ‘‘I am fine father, really,’’ he answers quite persuasively and with his one hand he straightens the untamable short curls of his hair. He has to show him that he is perfect, that he has paid attention to even the slightest detail on him, that there is nothing that could get as an obstacle for his plans. He wants to persuade him that this time he will make him proud.
His evaluator does not seem to be convinced. His thin lips, which are so thin one can hardly distinguish the upper and lower lip, are aligned in a single line. He looks at his son without speaking. He seems to feel sorry for him. He seems to hate him.
‘‘In ten minutes, be downstairs.’’ His voice was barely heard. Aris might not even have heard it. The door closes and the ordeal is completed.
He is left alone in the room again. He sits down on the chair and nervously straightens his hair. He would prefer to have no curls. They annoy him by constantly flying, and he needs to fix them. He thinks it would be a good idea to have a change of hairstyle by cutting all of his hair, but something like this would not be likeable to his father. Something like this would not be likeable to society.
A young prominent politician with a shaved head!
He sees the laughter of his followers.
Why did he change his hairstyle? Could it be his father’s order?
He hears the comments of passers-by.
Is this Aris Nomikos? I didn’t recognize him! Did he get a haircut to catch the eyes?
He feels his father’s icy look cut him like an iceberg, as he passes by him in this hairstyle.
No.
He must tolerate his curls.
‘‘Orpheus we are finally meeting after so many years…’’ Their guest comes into the living room under the guidance of Aimilios. Aris is also there, waiting to greet him. He observes their fervent embrace and feels his stomach making a perfect knot. It should be perfect as well.
‘‘I’m glad to see you again, Nick…’’ a less warm response from his father.
‘‘Aris, how much you have grown up! You were still going to high school when I left for London.’’
The young politician smiles mechanically and embarrassingly, responding to the indifferent embrace of his father’s old friend. He is obliged to be present at this meeting. He does not want to. But he must. Because his father says so.
They proceed to the living room and Aimilios is walking right behind them, bringing three columnar glasses and a bottle of wine. He serves their guest first and then stops short in front of Aris. He knows that he does not drink alcohol at all, but he is imposed to accompany them. The glasses fill and the toast cuts in half Aris’s engraved smile, who now is the leader of the Democratic Truth party.
‘‘To your victory!’’ Nick Iatrou wishes, while trying to sit more comfortably on the corner couch.
In reality, their guest hopes in the leveling catastrophe of the Nomikos’s family, since several years ago his pre-election contest with Orpheus resulted in a triumphant victory for the latter and for a humiliating defeat for him, which forced him to go abroad. Nevertheless, now they are here again, wearing their masks, exchanging wishes and smiles.
Iatrou takes a sip of wine and continues with one more. He is trying to kill time in the void so that time passes, and this meeting gets to an end. ‘‘Aris, you are the future. The new blood of the party. Your father has placed all his hopes on you. Do not disappoint him.’’
His words swirl like fiery flames around Aris’s head. They burn with rage his brain but leave intact the point of consciousness. To hurt more. To suffer. He clenches his teeth so as not to scream. The fire around him whips him.
Success. Glory. Win. Confirmation.
The words pass in front of him to remind him of his mission.
You have to succeed. You have to make your father proud.
His gaze is focused on his interlocutor, but he cannot react. He thinks that he will have probably sweated again, several seconds will have passed again without him speaking and he will have become the target of observation and negative commentary once again.
‘‘Aris!’’ His father’s voice wholly explodes his mind. One more time he failed. ‘‘How did this happen?’’ he asks him reassuringly pulling his wrists and only then does the surrendered in his thoughts politician realize that the glass has broken in his hands. ‘‘Go and treat the wound. Probably the glass was cracked.’’
Aris looks at him with agitation and amazement. He wonders how his father always has an excuse ready for everything. He wonders why he does not show the slightest interest, although he sees he is not well. Maybe he prefers this attitude. He trembles at the idea of criticism. He knows that it will be severe.
‘‘Forgive me…’’ he lowers his head and stands up, approaching Iatrou. ‘‘I am glad to have seen you again, I will…’’ he hesitates to continue. I will do whatever it takes to win the elections. This is what he has to say. ‘‘…forgive me for tonight…’’ he smiles and with his left hand straightens a tuft of his hair. He brings his palms forward and realizes that they are bleeding. He blinks and walks up the stairs.
He closes the door and hides in his shelter. He returns to his office and feels secure. He feels a pressure on his head that he believes for a moment is due to the suffocating atmosphere of his room consisting only of a cold silence, which makes his ears buzz.
He observes his hands. His brain rehabilitates and conveys to him a feeling of pain. He enters the indoor bathroom and pours plenty of water in his palms and then on his face. He meets his reflection. He faces a failed man, a man that everyone mocks, while simultaneously they feel sorry for him. His father is standing behind him, shaking his head with frustration. Aris turns towards him to meet the luxurious cabin of the bathroom.
Hallucinations or illusions? He is trying to recognize this feeling which he has been carrying since a child and that is about to devour him. He always wanted to give a name to that vague fear which did not let him calm down. The mobile phone vibrates on the desk and he checks the time on his left hand’s watch. The screen flashes and reveals to him the name of his decisive fear.
‘‘Apostolos…’’ he attempts to show stability and calmness, although he is sure he will fail one more time.
‘‘At eleven you must be at the place we said. You know you are involved, don’t make a mistake by bringing the police. Neither your father can save you from this.’’
‘‘I will come alone, I swear to you.’’ He holds the phone firmly in his ear and his cheek cools from a tear descending to his chin. ‘‘I will come alone…’’ he repeats, and his interlocutor hastily ends the call.
He feels the pulses in the back of his head thundering. He is incapable of resisting and defending himself. He is disposed of doing everything, as long as no one learns the truth.
He casually ties his left wrist with a bandage and just before ten, he escapes to the underground parking, managing not to be noticed by Aimilios. He walks from the elevator to his car, looking only ahead. He knows how many steps he needs to reach it. Exactly seventy-eight. He only looks at his target. Any interference in this short distance can destroy him. He should not hear any sound. Nothing that could be an obstacle between him and his car.
He checks the suitcase with the money in the boot of his car, constantly looking around him and takes his place at the steering wheel. His first move is to make sure there is no one in the back seat. He checks the empty interior again and again. His hand trembles, as he puts the key in the ignition. He looks behind again. An invisible threat holds his hand captive. Shadows jump suddenly in front of him and then, as if they want to play with him, hide in the darkness. He ignites the engine and disappears from the parking with such a speed that his heart jumps in his chest.
Acceleration comes out ahead. He recognizes that tonight is just the beginning. That night he was bound to live in the shadow of his shadow. He is hiding behind the figure of a successful economist, who is preparing to conquer the political scene. He knows that Maniatis will continue blackmailing him, and he will constantly succumb to his threats. Fear gives its place to wrath. In the last three years, he has realized that in life it is a mistake to be weak, but he cannot balance logic with panic and show his strength.
But even the weakest personality, even the most frightened and terrified mind, may change. As long as the appropriate words are found. As long as the right time comes. The moment the ‘‘calm’’ attacks the ‘‘wild’ ’and the beings without opinion neutralize even the most imposing rhetors. The moment when everything takes its place, and the chaos finds a rudimentary balance in the complex universe. The moment the entropy subsides.
But this moment does not belong to this night.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy The Last Symphony Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy The Last Symphony On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

It’s a new world for the first fifty Angels ever created. Heaven is under construction and the Angel’s training to become Guardians is about to begin. Heaven is brand new and under construction. The new Angels have been given knowledge, but nothing can prepare them for the astounding sights and smells. The Angels are mystified when they take a tour through new city. Unreal architecture (skyscraper made of white sand and seashells), birds of every color (pure gold) , and a city made of libraries (for those who loved reading on earth), are just a few of the particulars of the Angels initial experience. Our story revolves around the new Angel, Adlay; from his first breath, through extensive physical training, his Humanities class, his Worship class with Lucifer, all the way until a divine conspiracy is revealed. Adlay is special. He recognizes the way things should be and how they shouldn’t, especially in heaven. It isn’t long before Adlay gets a feeling Lucifer is up to something, and, with nobody believing him, he vows to find out what it is.
Between training and Lucifer, Adlay has his hands full.
Launch Date is 2/15/21 – Discounted book will be available.

Targeted Age Group:: 18-80

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
As a Christian, one of the most beguiling questions I have is how did Lucifer talk a third of the Angels in Heaven into overthrowing God? What could he possibly have said that would have them thinking they were not being cared for or whatever? That is my inspiration. I know it didn’t happen the way I portrayed it, but it did happen. I’m very happy with the outcome.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I was in a fraternity and I've played sports forever. In those types of environment you meet all types of personalities.

Book Sample
Raw energy exploded through the large room as fifty bolts of lightning ripped through the ceiling, piercing each torso with their own slice of electricity. The chests of the unconscious rose in sync as if tethered together by a marionette string. The lightning quickly blinked out, and the bodies crashed back to their tables.
A perfect quiet enveloped the spacious room.
As the smell of ozone wafted through the chamber, fifty bodies began to stir.
The group was extraordinarily unique. All measured between seven and eight feet tall with no visible body fat. Chiseled was the word, right out of a block of granite.
Even while lying prone, all gave the impression of being capable of tremendous physical feats. They appeared to be relatively young, in their late teens or early twenties with flawless skin, all male.
Being created and coming to full consciousness takes time. Slowly, one by one, chests began to rise and fall. A slight movement in the inert arms and legs. Eyes gradually opened. Some closed quickly, not ready for the incoming information. Processing such would take tremendous energy.
One of the creatures smiled as if lingering on a memory. He was visibly smaller than the others, just reaching seven feet tall. But what he lacked in height, he made up in muscle. He wore a blonde crew cut with piercing sky-blue eyes. He was handsome, but what made him more attractive was his demeanor. Very unassuming, non-threatening.
This is nice, he thought.
He didn’t know how he knew what the word nice meant or even why he thought it was nice.
There was something in the sweet aroma he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was a sense of wholesomeness, newness in the air. It pleased him.
This was Adlay.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy A Divine Conspiracy Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy A Divine Conspiracy On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

An evil force lurks in a national forest, taking the most innocent of people while a killer uses superstition to cover his tracks.
In a small New Mexico town, the death of a young hiker puts law officials on high alert after no cause of death could be determined. It isn’t the first-time strange things have occurred in their national forests and parks. The common denominator in a series of recent cases is a pair of missing shoes with the body posed peacefully near the area that has already been searched.
Detective Jacque Marquette and his time-jumping friend Wind Dancer, decide on a vacation in Northern New Mexico only to find themselves caught up in a kidnapping of a Down syndrome child. Accused of being involved, the two convince Police Chief Perez to let them team up with her department in order to rescue the little boy. When they discover their friend, Dr. Cleo Sommers, has also disappeared, they attempt to unravel the mysterious chain of events that beckon supernatural forces from a bygone culture and a killer who walks among them.
Time is running out as a solar eclipse summons evil forces, one from the underworld and one who is human. Can the mythical creature Chaveyo, be stopped in time, or will Dr. Sommers disappear into another realm of the universe she can’t escape?
Fans of Tony Hillerman will feel right at home with Dark Side of Noon.

Targeted Age Group:: 30-55

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
One of my favorite places to visit is the North American Indian display at the Field Museum in Chicago. I always gravitated to one display case with a Pawnee warrior. I often wondered what might happen if he came alive and came through a protal to this world and time. That was the beginning of an adventure that brought a number of characters together to solve a terrorist attack and then become a crime fighter.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
My characters, a Pawnee from the 1800s, a homicide detective and a doctor formed a relationship in the first book, Dark Side of Morning. I loved wondering what would happen if you took some from 150 years ago and forced them into the modern world. I needed a detective who was a no nonsense person who would be willing to listen to advice from someone from the past. Then Dr. Sommers, who grew up in the museum, could offer medical advice as well as translate to both men the cultural nuiances of two worlds.

Book Sample
Chapter 1
She ran. Even though she couldn’t see it, she had no doubt it hunted her. Something. The sounds of whispers, the smell of sweet breath and smoke, engulfed her when she stopped to stare from the overlook to the valley below. Spinning around, she could feel its presence. Waiting. The hair on her neck stood up, and goose bumps formed down her body covered in perspiration from the strenuous hike. She noticed nothing but the tops of the pine trees bending, as if someone might be parting them to glare down at her.
A light touch landed on her shoulder. She spun around and found herself alone. A flock of birds flew up from the ridge behind the trees, screaming a warning. A breeze swept in and toyed with her ponytail as she pivoted toward the trail. Then it appeared, standing in the trees. A shadow moved forward the moment she decided it was time to try and escape.
No matter how hard she ran, it followed. If she stopped, so did the unknown presence. The whispers of a language she couldn’t understand began, and the invisible touch of caution slipped icy fingers of possession around her throat to cut off the scream she tried to force from deep inside her.
The trailhead came into view, giving her hope her final sprint might be enough to survive. Her labored breath drowned out the rolling thunder echoing throughout the forest she’d left behind. She splashed through a mud puddle as the trail dipped, throwing her balance off, causing her to spill face-first through scattered gravel often found in the area. Blood trickled down the side of her face and out of her nose. Her palms burned from the implanted gravel pieces. Jumping up, a glance over her shoulder determined the strange thing that pursued her had evaporated.
Sucking in the last gulp of air she’d take, she turned and ran into the body of a creature she’d never have a chance to describe to authorities.

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Dark Side of Noon On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Finalist, 2020 Next Generation Indie Awards, Humor.

Finalist, 2021 Reader’s Choice Book Awards, Memoir.

The most hilarious heart transplant memoir you’ll read this year! (probably ever)

In late March 2019, high school English teacher Terry Kroenung rode a quick 10 miles on his bike. 10 days later he had an emergency heart transplant. Imagine his surprise.

Based on the irreverent Facebook diary he kept during the ordeal, this memoir recounts his experiences with near-fatal pacemaker implantations, defibrillation scorch marks, 7-hour cardiac ablations, surgical staples, and the up-and-down recovery process.

Along the way are 6 pregnant nurses, Canadian axe throwers, alien face-huggers, shopping bags full of Mexican-cartel-priced drugs, and the most horrifying photo of a dead heart that even the doctors had ever seen.

If he hadn’t gone to the Emergency Room purely to avoid a faculty meeting, somebody else would have written this book. There he was told that despite the 100-mile bike rides and 10K races, he had heart failure. Having a very rare disease isn’t the fun pageant you’d think it would be.

His snarky, pun-strewn and geeky commentary on events, as well as more dubiously-termed ‘wit’ that he added after the fact (essentially playing Mystery Science Theatre with himself), make up the book that you’re somehow still reading about.

All proceeds of this book will go to benefit Donor Alliance and their life-saving work increasing the supply of transplant organs.

Targeted Age Group:: 13+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
All my life I was a runner, a cyclist, a fencer, an Army infantry officer. Active stuff. None of that mattered when isolated cardiac sarcoidosis (very rare; turns your heart into zombie meat) stomped on my wonder-heart like a piano falling out of a window. One day I cycled 10 miles, 10 days later I had a heart transplant. That quick. If only the DMV were as fast.

Nothing is as dull as lying in a hospital bed for 7 days. Already a writer, I used Facebook as a diary to amuse myself and the world about the absurdity of it all, while not
slighting the seriousness of it or my donor.

Book Sample
The experts have spoken about HeartSnark!

“I pioneered historic, life-saving surgery for this??”
–Dr. Christiaan Barnard

“Sure, I invented the left ventricular assist device,
but I wish someone had invented a ‘lame author assist device.”
–Dr. Michael DeBakey

“I’d trade my artificial heart for an artificial brain
if I could install it in this author.”
–Dr. Robert Jarvik

“Why is there blood on my shoes?
Is it Kroenung’s?”
–Dr. Jekyll

Hey! Don’t skip this!
(I worked all weekend on it)

Good for you, plucky reader! You took the high road and chose not to blast on by this part, which is actually pretty darned important, believe it or not. This Introduction clues you in on who I am, why this book exists, why it has a weird title, and why you should care. It will make the rest of the long slog more understandable and, therefore, endurable.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
On April 7, 2019, at the Anschutz Medical Center in Aurora, Colorado, they cut my heart out and tossed it in a trash can. Said receptacle, having some standards, promptly spit it back.
That’s not strictly true. It was actually sliced and diced and sent to labs from the Mayo Clinic on down, because my ticker was bizarre. Not only didn’t it work anymore, the high and mighty physicians involved turned out to be dead wrong about why. Keep this in mind, though: you never want your medical condition to be so rare that doctors from far and wide come to visit you in morbid fascination, visions of lucrative research grants cavorting in their heads.
This is the more-or-less humorous story of that heart transplant, from its origins two years before when I was fitted with a pacemaker, despite the doctor wondering why such a relatively young and healthy dude should need one, to six months into a hopefully glitch-free recovery from the transplant. Yes, you read that right. Humorous. Well, as humorous as my limited comedic skills could make it at the time. Thus the odd title for a subject that usually comes with the terms inspirational, courageous, uplifting, or tragic.
The core of the book is the running Facebook diary I kept every day as this insanity progressed. Both out of a natural proclivity toward black humor and out of a necessity to not go crazy and take a swan dive out of my hospital window (which would’ve made me an organ donor instead of a recipient), I took great pains to not act the victim or seek any sympathy at all. Instead, I tried to make as many snarky observations about my predicament as I could. To my amazement, my nearly 5,000 Facebook friends began responding to it as if it were some hit TV show. One even claimed that she was more into it than Game of Thrones (let’s face it, my medical drama was less predictable than that ending). Not long after beginning the whole thing, people started suggesting that it should be a book. Many people. Repeatedly. Being an author of fantasy novels that no one reads, such clamor was a new experience for me. I wasn’t too sure about it at the time, having more engrossing things on my mind like, you know, dying and all, but I kept an open mind. Later I had an open torso, too. After getting home in one piece (though the pieces were a bit different that before), I re-read the string of posts and agreed that something could be made of it all, but only if the facetious angle was the focus. There are already plenty of heart transplant books that aim to inspire or educate, written by people better qualified by temperament for that than I am.
But this is absolutely not intended to make light of the serious nature of the unfortunate donor’s plight, and that of his family. Everything else is fair game for black humor here, but never that. I get to go on my merry way, miraculously saved, but they have an empty chair at the dinner table.
So this is the deal: what you have before you is the mostly unedited spewings I created from March 30, 2019, when I had to rush to the Emergency Room with runaway ventricular tachycardia (sounds like a Marvel villain) through the week of diagnosis, the surgery, the week of ICU recovery, and the five months of home recovery while composing this book. I chose not to go back and correct or prettify anything, unless there was a grievous factual error. It’s an honest account of what I was experiencing and thinking in real time, no matter how lame. There are several pages of posts covering the time leading to the blessed event, to give a sense of the continuity to the thing. Those begin with April 22, 2017. Yes, Earth Day, that glorious homage to recycling. Appropriate, I think, considering. I had to back up so far because there was a significant foreshadowing event that summer. Yes, even more important than the year
being designated as ‘International Year of Sustainable Tourism for Development’ by the UN.
Also included are the comments my Facebook friends made to these posts, along with my own, plus later comments on the comments, from my new perspective. It turns out that some of these people own a modicum of wit. Who knew? I wish this book could provide the hilarious videos and GIF’s that often accompanied their comments. And by no means are all of their comments included here. That would have resulted in a book longer than Moby Dick, and with almost as many sharp implements and gore. Most of the responses were loving and supportive, so many, in fact, that it got a bit embarrassing on my end. Sincerity is not something I handle well. It overwhelmed me, frankly. I kept a few of those in, to communicate the flavor of it all, but I chiefly used the snarkier ones, since they matched the book’s theme. Just keep in mind that the loving ones outnumbered the funny ones by at least 5 to 1.
Lastly, I have gone back through the posts/comments and added explanatory notes/reflections/so-called jokes.
Some biographical and medical items needed clarification, and at times I needed to give my honest thoughts about particular episodes. Hey, it can’t all be comedy gold. My long-suffering wife, Janet (trust me, her suffering began long before my heart troubles) has done the same. With clever formatting, the various sections should be simple to keep straight.
I’ve chosen not to give you my biography in great detail, since it’s not really necessary to understand the book and it’s about as fascinating as a Congressional subcommittee report on turnip pricing. There will be brief explanations of episodes that you need to know so you won’t be totally lost as to why I wrote a particular note or passage.
There’s a semi-serious glossary of medical terms at the end. I may have snarked it up a bit.
So off you go, little fledglings, into the brave new world of my heart transplant. It’s a deadly serious topic, yes, but just this once we can relax and laugh at modern medicine for the grand and glorious absurdity it can be…though you won’t be laughing at the bills. Trust me on this.

April 8, 2019 (the morning after the transplant)
Somebody swiped my heart and replaced it with a duplicate, like Indiana Jones did with that golden idol.

Dave: They weren’t being literal when they asked you to get it off your chest. Nice to see you, eyes open, channeling Munch!

Janet: Respiration tube is out and Terry is talking again!
The stuff of nightmares. Be afraid…be very afraid.

Mark: Uh-oh!

Russell: Let's hope it's an end to the heartache and the thousand (un)natural shocks…

Didn’t immediately end the heartache, but haven’t been shocked since, so…win.

Maria: YIKES! That is quite a Christmas tree of an IV stand you've got there!

? “Have yourself a merry little transplant…may your heart be right…”

Mark: Eeyore and Tigger? Got to be…Tiggers always bounce…

Kristi: Glad to see your tube out and able to talk again! Your color does look better, even Eeyore seems happy!

I went from pasty and gray to merely pasty.

Garalt: This post is on repeat on my FB timeline. How do you get that exposure without actually paying them?

By paying 1.8 million for a heart transplant, that’s how. #justgiveZuckerberghis$

I’m baaack!

Cheri: No club dancing on tables, now!

Aww, mom, you never let me have any fun.

Andrea: Vrrooommmm!! Incredible!!

Cheri: Hope they are finally letting you eat something!!

Hannah: Oh Terry, you are a trouper! Well done! An age to fall in love!

Matthew: ? "Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you…."

Tim: Great to hear from you. The worst part for me was getting the respirator removed. The rest is easy as pie.

Removing the respirator was a breeze. One hard cough and spit out the accumulated goo. Having it in while waiting for them to all agree when to pluck it out was…not.

Garalt: We'll put the Shakespearean Stripper festival on hold for another 40 years.

Oh, don’t put yourself out on my account. If they’re already available…

Bill: Let's hear it for those who checked YES on the organ donor question on their driver's license. I'm so glad you got to give life to another person's young heart.

Maria: Oh dear…back on Facebook…with all those pain meds. Are there any adults supervising?

Absolutely not. And I’d ignore them if they were.

AE: Oh yeah — I can tell by this post you are baaaack! Just don’t do the Ferrari thing too soon. And doubt you’re a Studebaker — maybe a 57 ‘Chevy—those are classic cars.

Me: I’m a 1958, the same year as the Edsel.

Cindi: ??Yay for modern medicine and blessings to the donor’s family. Having been in the donor's shoes at the young age of 31, we felt that donating James' heart and other organs helped comfort us during such a difficult time. I'm really glad that you didn't have to wait a long time?? Heal well.

Mark: We should still get strippers anyway…but we should probably wait until you're a little stronger…

You sound completely selfless about those strippers.

Mark: Whew! Now I don't have to read the "dead parrot" bit at your funeral. Wasn't looking forward to that.

I prefer kippin’ on my back. As if I had any choice in a hospital bed with 347 IV lines in me. #piningforthefjords

Perry: Soon you'll be shagging anything longer than it is wide, demanding drugs, and throwing tantrums in between bouts of suicidal depression. Then you'll be all guacamole dip and gender reassignment surgery. Well done.

You sure know how to have a good time.

Katherine: So, basically, you're immortal!!! Yay.

Cindi: You really are Iron Man!

Tina: Be careful not to chase Janet around too much — the legs are YOUR age!

Me: Yeah, but hers are five years older.

Peter: Gad — Remember the Christian Barnard business in '67? Now this isn't even considered rare — The times in which we live, eh?

Sitting in a chair the same day as the heart transplant!

Rebecca: You will be home soon, if you keep this up.

Janet: Here he is, my very own Captain Jean-Luc Picard sitting in his command chair with a new heart. Make it so!

Engage!

Serge: Remember the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode where we found that Jean-Luc had an artificial heart, and he took a shuttle to a place where he could get a living one?

I could’ve used a shuttle, instead of driving an hour each way for every biopsy, etc.
Jim: I dunno — I'm thinking that many tubes, it's Locutus of Borg, not Picard. Time for a daring and highly unorthodox rescue…

Serge: Has Alice Krige been seen around the facilities?

She played the Borg Queen on Star Trek. There, I saved you a trip to Google.

Dai: You're already more energetic than I! Bastard.

Debbie: WHAT!!!! OH, MY GOD, your wife has a young buck to keep up with now. Seriously, I can't believe what modern medicine can do. I'm beyond ecstatic for you, Terry!!!! Hmm, sending hubby for a medical…

David: And tomorrow, the dance marathon?

Spastic old white-guy dancing? Nobody wants to see that.

CS: Those really are outstanding socks.

Garalt: No cycling for at least 24 hours.

Well, I already REcycled.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy HeartSnark Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy HeartSnark On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.

Book is Bargain Priced starting 03/30/2021 and ending 03/31/2022. Check the price on the book before you purchase it, prices can change without notice.

About the book:

Brad and Shinny have been together for many years. But what is perceived as a long time for Brad, turns out to be a small blip in the lifecycle of his wife. Brad”s world is turned upside down when he sees a UFO and is attacked by an alien. He learns the true pedigree of his spouse and his in-laws, when he stumbles upon an event that causes him to question everything and everyone he knows.

He has to decide if he can get past the hurt and the insurmountable questions that are getting in the way of his relationship with the people he loves the most. If he can do that, then he will not only save his relationship, but he’ll have a hand in saving the planet earth from certain chaos and possible destruction caused by an alien force that has had the planet in its sights for many a millennium. An alien force he didn’t even know or believed existed until now.

Brad risks everything when he accepts the adventure of a lifetime that includes an intergalactic battle he didn’t plan on.
Connor’s Gambit is an unforgettable space adventure calling all of us

Link to get bargain ebook

The first book in the series called, The Taggarts, is an exciting fantasy fiction novel that explains how the nation of Taggarts or Tags began. This creative narrative in the land of Asteria, takes you through the story of Bar the dwarf as he goes from being a traveling dwarf, to one who no longer wishes to travel, but rather settle down. He is a bowman with skill beyond belief and meets some young elf girls who have some skills of their own. Being chased by elves and dwarves sent by the evil stepfather of Tami, an elf girl, these three go on an adventure of a lifetime that none of them will ever forget. The Taggart series is a selection of stories that happen in the world of Asteria and follow a family line. This family line that produces the people called, the Taggarts, are one day, the protonate people of the world. However, as they family starts, they are unknown, and unwelcome. This is book one and happens in the year 2398. Book two follows and is titled, “The Northern Woods.” If you like this book, also try “The Dragred’s Deception”

Targeted Age Group:: 10+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The love of story telling inspired this book. When reading series like, "The Sacketts" and "The Lord of the Rings," I realized that I wanted to tell a story of a family line who lived in Asteria (from previous published book) who were strong and noble. I wanted this to be a fantasy fiction novel series that promoted good morals and had a fun and entertaining story line.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The two main characters came from one of my previously published books, "The Dragred's Deception." The other characters were simply made up as the story progress. Fictional characters that live in a fictional world.

Book Sample
BAR

My wrists hurt. I was tired, and if I was honest, I was a little scared. I knew I had gone too far into the Golden Hills. That buck was so close though, and I had bagged a buck. That was a good shot with my bow. I had been tracking that buck for some time, through the rolling hills that were covered in a thick golden grass. I knew why they were called the Golden Hills. They looked like gold, and when the wind blew, they almost shimmered like gold too. I had loved the way that they looked when I first saw them. Bareggt is my name, I had come from Aster along the sea. I am a dwarf that lived just north of Plane City in the mountains. I was always a wonderer though. My father had always told me not to wander, but I had never listened. Now that I am grown, I am still wandering. “Bar,” My father had said (Bar was what most dwarves I knew called me), “One day this wandering of yours will get you in a mighty lot of trouble.” Well, it looked as if my father’s prediction had just come true. I could have been more careful. After I had shot the deer from almost one hundred and twenty yards, a good shot, I had begun to dress it where it was. I had just finished skinning it when I saw the elves. They had me alright, dead to rights. If I would have taken the time to move the carcass to a less visible place, I may not be in this predicament. Well, I was, and I had to make the best of it. The elf suddenly jerked the chains that cuffed my wrists. Didn’t they know I couldn’t walk as fast as them? They were all pushing seven feet tall! I am only four and a half. My legs can’t go that fast! They were magnificent looking. The elves of the Golden Hills were clad in gold armor. Fitting, I thought. Their body was covered in armor; helmet, chest plate, reembrace, vambrace, pauldron, cuisses, and greaves all gold in color. I knew that the metal was not actually gold, but it sure looked like gold. I then looked down at myself. No armor at all. Just cotton pants and a leather shirt. I frowned, then smiled. Even if I wasn’t dressed like a warrior, I knew I was one. I would challenge any of these elves in a hand-to-hand combat. Especially with no weapons. I was strong, even for the dwarves, who were all strong. My muscles could be clearly seen through my leather shirt, and my thick legs looked like tree stumps and were hard as a rock. If they would just let me fight them one on one, I would take down all of them. But they wouldn’t. Soon I would be wherever they were taking me and probably be executed for trespassing. These hills belonged to them after all. King Ellon was the ruler of this area. Kings ruled small territories in those days, and the High Council of Asteria was recently formed and Ellon was on this Council. This made him an important ruler. At least that’s what people had said.
Walking along the path with golden grass on either side, we summited a hill. When we did, I saw it. The biggest castle I had ever seen. There had been some dwelling places of elves that I had seen along the way, and these had seemed normal enough for elves. This castle though, it was huge. There was an outer wall that went around the entire city. Within the wall there were shops, houses, streets and such. Then, in the middle of the city was the castle. Its walls were much higher than those of the city and the walls were all painted a gold color to make it look like a golden castle. It was a big triangle with three guard or archer towers, the golden walls connecting them. The guard towers were black and ominous. They rose high above all. Because they were in a triangle, from a long distance, they looked like three towers in a line. They were still far away at this point, but before long, we were there. The path was easy, and the elves were dragging me at a rapid rate. When we arrived at the city gate, it was open and the elves went straight in. Once close to the castle, I saw that this gate was not open. Strange for times of peace I mused but gave it no more thought. After an exchange of words from the guards we were let in. The gates were black fringed with golden flowers. They were solid gates, and I judged that there would not be very many things in Asteria that could break them open. When inside, I saw an open area with a fountain and pool of water. The guards did not let me look long, and I soon found myself being dragged past the pool of water and to an iron door that was guarded. The door looked like it led into a small standalone closet in the middle of an open area. The closet was a ten-foot cube, a door filling one side of the brick enclosure. I thought it must be a holding place for prisoners and was already starting to feel claustrophobic when the elf guards opened the door. When they did, I did not see a tiny space, but rather a staircase going deep down into the darkness. Not that it was pitch black, it was dimly lit by torches, but seemed black compared to the sunny outdoors.

Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy The Wanderer Print Edition at Amazon

Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy The Wanderer On Amazon

Have you read this book? Tell us what you thought! All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.