Edward Hoornaert's Blog, page 22

A pain in the blowhole #mfrwhooks

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Continuing from last week’s selection from Alien Contact for Kid Sisters, we see several important things:

The success of Quinn’s con job
Our first glimpse of the heroine, though from a distance
Our first glimpse of the antagonist, up close

But first, the tourists from Oklahoma object to Quinn raising the price for the phony wood carving he’s  selling them.

The woman’s voice grew loud. “Give us back our money.”

Quinn turned with a sigh, cradling their carving in his arms. “Ninety dollah more.”

“That’s robbery.” The man’s face was red. Through thin white hair, his scalp showed red, too. “I ought to call one of your gendarmes.”

They sure as salmon guts weren’t his gendarmes. “Okay, okay,” Quinn said as though heartbroken. “You Uncle Homos too smart for simple Kwadran like me. Only forty dollah more.”

“That’s more like it.” The man dug out his wallet.

After Quinn took two twenty-dollar bills and handed over the carving, he glanced up at the huge window in the new Hilton Kwadra Island, a short distance uphill from this street. Though he couldn’t see details, he glimpsed the unmistakable purple-and-white uniform of Prince Reese Eaglesbrood. The prince climbed the grand stairway toward the hotel’s private suites, one arm around the waist of a woman in a pale blue dress. She was blond — Merkin, obviously, because Kwadrans had dark hair — and her shoulders were bare. Pretty soon Prince Reese would have the rest of her bare, too, and he’d show the klootch good, hard Kwadran lovemaking, over and over until she fainted from pleasure and exhaustion.

“Do her real good, prince,” Quinn whispered in his native language, Shanoog. “For our side.” His fantasy shifted so it was him pounding the bare-shouldered pixie. He’d do her even better than the prince would. Yeah . . .

The fantasy popped when a giant of a woman stepped in front of him. A woman he knew, which wasn’t good. Worse and worser — a woman who knew him.

“Well, well,” she said in Shanoog. “We meet again, Maquinna Lebatarde.”

“Merde,” Quinn whispered in the same language.

She stood four finger-widths taller than him and as many hand-widths broader. Covering her massive body was the severe garb of the Kwadra Island Gendarmerie. The black and white uniform was meant to evoke a killer whale, the terror of the seas, and on her, it looked predatory indeed. Sergeant Desrielle Squitt had arrested him six times and seemed gleefully intent on seven. In his overlarge experience, she was the smartest, strongest, most determined gendarme of all. A true pain in the blowhole.

Be sure to check out the hooks by other great writers in the Book Hooks blog hop.

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Alien Contact for Kid Sisters

Fleeing murderous rebels, the queen’s sister finds a hero to save her.

Or is he kidnapping her, instead?

[image error]Marianne is sick and tired of being just the kid sister of the famous queen of Kwadra Island. Although she daydreams about being a warrior, when rebels bomb the royal ball she’s shunted to one of the many tunnels that honeycomb Kwadra, where she awaits a captain of the valiant Royal Guardians.

Quinn, a scam artist fleeing the police, dons the uniform of a Royal Guardian killed by a tunnel collapse. When Marianne mistakes him for her bodyguard, Quinn can’t decide whether to save the feisty maiden, fall in love with her—or kidnap her. With bloodthirsty rebels pursuing them and a treasure map in his pocket, what will he choose?

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Effing Feline tries telekinesis #wewriwa

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I, Effing Feline, changed my name last week to Efrem Thimbalist Jr. After sleeping on it, though, I’ve decided the name isn’t classy enough. I’m still thinking long and hard of name splendid enough for a cat like me who can do anything.

Anything, that is, except for one crucial thing, which I’ll tell you about after this commercial break from our sponsor, The Solid Gold Aliens.

Tresky Buffrum is a naive young shepherd from the mountains of the colony planet Jones. When he visited the planet’s largest city, population 50,000, he met a woman (Ebbril) and married her the very next day. And overindulged in wine.

The next morning, Tresky is awakened by a man wanting to sweep out the crude, open-sided hovel in which he apparently spent his wedding night. Tresky asks where Ebbril is. Last week’s snippet ended with the sweeper (named Aram Vappu) asking, “Is Ebbril the pale beauty who oversaw your delivery in a wheelbarrow last night?” 

Tresky had no idea how he’d gotten here, so he said, “She’s my bride.”

“Bride?” snorted Aram Vappu. “Let me guess, young man — is your purse gone?”

Tresky shook his head, which was a mistake; to still its spinning, he rested it against the stone wall. “You’re as pessimistic as a Godgifu tribesman.”

“Because I am a Godgifu, lad — can’t you tell?” Preening as though he were a nubile beauty rather than a floor sweeper, the man ran his fingers over a streak of short golden hair over his ears. “And I’ll wager you’ve been sheared like one of your Gasparre sheep.”

Frowning, Tresky touched his vest, hoping Vappu wouldn’t notice, but when he couldn’t feel the lump of coins, he slapped his chest frantically.

“No purse,” Vappu said with an exasperated sigh as though it was Tresky’s fault his dour outlook had been confirmed.

Effing Feline here again. I admitted above that there’s one very important thing even I cannot do, and that lack is why I slave in thrall to a mere novelist.

I can’t open a damned can of cat food!

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Can you spot the new book’s cover on the banner atop this page? After that, be sure to visit the other great writers in Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday.

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The Midas Rush is now
The Solid Gold Aliens

For 500 years, the aliens were no threat.[image error]

But they were just waiting . . .

 

New title, new tagline, new cover.

Ed thinks the new title conveys a bit more mystery — readers should be interested in anything solid gold, let alone golden aliens. After all, nobody knows what a midas rush is unless they’ve read the book.

Like the title, the new tagline focuses on the aliens rather than the human characters. More importantly, it highlights conflict.

And the new cover is, in Ed’s humble(?) opinion, a big improvement over the old one. He did a lot of work on this one himself. How’d he do it? See yesterday’s cover reveal.

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Cover reveal — The Solid Gold Aliens

COVER REVEAL:
The Solid Gold Aliens

Previously published as The Midas Rush
Science fiction with elements of romance
Thoroughly re-edited and a brand new cover!

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I purchased the basic artwork from BookCoverZone because the feel of it suited planet Jones, where the story takes place. I then adapted it to my story.[image error]

For example, in the original, the figure is a robot, but that wouldn’t work because the heroine is human. The robotic face had to go.

I broke out my dusty old graphics skills, got a model’s face off Depositphotos, and then spent way more time than I should on fonts and various minutiae. Et voila!

Tagline:

For 500 years, the aliens were no threat. They were just waiting . . .

Blurb:

All Tresky Buffrum wants is a taste of adventure and freedom before resigning himself to the simple life of a shepherd.  What he gets instead is a mysterious wife (determined to remain chaste) who leads him to the Midas Crater, where some of the planet’s intelligent natives have been transformed into gold.

Everyone on the caravan to the crater has an ulterior motive . . . except Tresky. Aided only by an old, near-death alien and a determined policewoman, can he defeat the madmen and interplanetary conspirators — including perhaps his mysterious bride? — who seek to destroy the Midas Crater and its sinister yet glorious secrets?

Excerpt:

“More wine?” asked Tresky Buffrum.

The most beautiful woman he’d ever met didn’t answer. She glanced at the cork-sheathed wine bottle sitting on the table between them. Then she stared across the hotel room at the carved greywood bed big enough for four people. Six if they were related.

And still she didn’t answer. Tresky fidgeted.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she said at last.

“No!” He felt his face flame. “No, I just—”

“Have more wine yourself.”

As she refilled his cup, her long, black hair swayed, framing cheeks glowing like sunshine on fresh snow dusting a field of pinkbuds. Her bosom, rising gently with each breath, was intoxicating and delicate, unlike the mountains of flesh drooping to Gasparre women’s waists, or below. When she smiled, it was like the first gush of daylight after a long night.

“Drink up,” she said

“You are so beautiful. More beautiful even than my prize-winning ewe.”

As soon as he said it, he knew he shouldn’t have. But “Thank you” was all she said.

Tresky heaved a sigh, half relief she wasn’t angry and half eagerness for what would happen after the lights—real electric bulbs—went off with the click of a button. He pressed his nose against the window—real glass—and pointed at the throng in the narrow, twisty streets three stories below.

“Look at all those fools. Just because somebody found some Sloths made of gold. Sloths hardly ever move, so the ones at the Midas Crater aren’t much different than living ones, right? Different color is all. Can you imagine anything sillier’n coming here all the way from the stars because of golden Sloths?” He laughed.

Ebbril—that was the beauty’s name—didn’t laugh along with him. Too bad. She must have a delightful laugh. “Planets,” she said in her soft, thrilling voice.

“Huh?”

“Offworlders are from planets, not stars. And the mystery is a bigger draw than the gold. No one understands how intelligent creatures like Sloths could be transformed into gold. It’s not possible. So tourists flock here like flies to dung.”

“Yep,” he agreed, not wanting her to think he was an ignorant hick. “But still, the golden thingies are Sloths, for heaven’s sake. Why would anyone care?”

“Offworlders,” she said with a shrug, “are strange.”

“I’ll drink to that.” As he sipped, her pensive beauty drove all thoughts of Sloths and Offworlders from his head. “Would you, uh, care to retire for the night now?”

“No.”

“Oh. Certainly.” Tresky reminded himself to drink slowly. She was still nursing her first cup, while he was on his third. Or was it fourth? “Let’s talk, then. Get to know each other.”

Ebbril nodded but said nothing.

“You know,” Tresky said, “I feel I’ve always known you, even though we met just yesterday. And now that we’re…” He hesitated, fearing if he spoke the word aloud, she would slap him awake from the grandest dream he’d ever had.

“Now that we’re, uh…married.”

She didn’t slap him. Excellent.

“Married,” he repeated. “Married. Uh, we should start learning about each other. Our past, our dreams, our hopes. Do you want to go first?”

“No.”

“But there isn’t much to tell about me, I’m afraid.”

“Have some more wine, then. It’ll help you speak more freely.”

“Whoa, not so full.”

 

A con man at work #mfrwhooks

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New year, new book, or at least new to book hooks.

Alien Contact for Kid Sisters is part of my Alien Contact for Idiots series of near-future sci fi romances. To escape environmental collapse, Native Americans from the future of an alternate earth move Kwadra Island to the Pacific off the coast of Washington State.

They’re now the planet’s most technologically advanced nation, but they have their share of fun-loving con men — such as Maquinna Lebatarde, who is perhaps my favorite of the romantic leads I’ve written.

“Fifty, fifty-five, sixty,” the white-haired tourist said. “There you go, chief, paid in full.”

Chief? Quinn Lebatarde’s lips tightened at the insult, but almost immediately, he grinned. The tourist’s clothes shouted money to burn, as did his Rolex watch and expensive digital SLR camera. Quinn pocketed the money but held onto the cheap, plaster replica of an ancient Kwadran woodcarving the man and his wife were buying.

Time for some fun. Hordes of tourists crowded the streets, celebrating the birth of the heir to Kwadra’s throne. Business was great. Only three more ‘carvings,’ a mask, and some miniature totem poles remained on his rickety street-side table. And now the prospect of conning this man made Quinn’s day even brighter.

“All original,” he said to the couple in the thick accent and broken English dumb tourists expected. If you spoke too well, they didn’t believe you were from an alternate Earth. “Historic. Maybe I sell too cheap.”

Instead of giving them their mythological monster from Kwadra’s distant past, he clutched it to his chest. Not very hard, though. The trashy fakes broke under the least pressure. “Too cheap, ahha. Thirty dollah more.”

“We had a deal,” the tourist’s wife said.

With a loving fingertip, Quinn stroked the carving’s ugly, wide-open lips. “Fifty dollah more.”

“Wait just one darned minute,” said the man. “Isn’t this against the law or something?”

“You no on America now. Merkin law useless. Where you from you no know that?”

“Oklahoma,” the man said. “Of course we know Kwadra is a sovereign nation.”

“Uncle Homa, eh?” Fleecing them became still more fun. He wondered if these two thought him a drunken Injun despite his people’s technology being more advanced than anything this version of Earth had yet invented. This one’s for all you downtrodden Oklahoma Indians.

“No heard of Uncle Homa,” he lied. “Seventy dollah more.”

Be sure to check out the hooks by other great writers in the Book Hooks blog hop.

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Alien Contact for Kid Sisters

Fleeing murderous rebels, the queen’s sister finds a hero to save her.

Or is he kidnapping her, instead?

[image error]Marianne is sick and tired of being just the kid sister of the famous queen of Kwadra Island. Although she daydreams about being a warrior, when rebels bomb the royal ball she’s shunted to one of the many tunnels that honeycomb Kwadra, where she awaits a captain of the valiant Royal Guardians.

Quinn, a scam artist fleeing the police, dons the uniform of a Royal Guardian killed by a tunnel collapse. When Marianne mistakes him for her bodyguard, Quinn can’t decide whether to save the feisty maiden, fall in love with her—or kidnap her. With bloodthirsty rebels pursuing them and a treasure map in his pocket, what will he choose?

Amazon | Canada | UK  | Australia
Apple iBooks
Smashwords
Kobo Books
Barnes and Noble

Amazon customer rating 4.8 out of 5. Goodread rating 4.44 out of 5!

Effing Feline renames himself #wewriwa

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I, Effing Feline, am snippeting from a book that Ed is revisiting, renaming, and re-covering, It used to be called The Midas Rush. Now it isn’t.  I’m feeling cantankerous — it’s been a whole hour since my last nap — so I’ll be effed if I tell you the new name right away.

Tresky Buffrum is a naive young shepherd from the mountains of the colony planet Jones. When he visited the planet’s largest city, population 50,000, for the first time, he married a woman he’d just met . . .  and overindulged in wine. The next morning, Tresky is awakened by a man wanting to sweep out the open-sided hovel in which he apparently spent his wedding night.

“Who . . .” Tresky swallowed a mouthful of wool and tried again. “Who are you . . . and where am I?” He ran a hand across the straw where he’d slept. “Where’s Ebbril?”

The bald man propped his hands atop the broom handle. “One: I’m Aram Vappu.”

Tresky cringed and whispered, “Not so loud.”

“Two: This is the Happy Louse Inn. And three: Is Ebbril the pale beauty who oversaw your delivery in a wheelbarrow last night?”

Effing Feline here again. In the spirit of bestowing new names, I think that henceforth I shall be called Efrem Thimbalist Jr — Efing (one ‘F’!) for short. What do you think?

And is it just me, or does a wheelbarrow ride sound like fun?

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Be sure to visit the other great writers in Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday.

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Oh yeah, I almost forgot to tell you the book’s new name. The Midas Rush is now (or very soon will be) —

The Solid Gold Aliens

For 500 years, the aliens were no threat.[image error]

They were just waiting . . .

 

New title, new tagline. I like to think the new title conveys a bit more mystery — readers might be intrigued by solid gold anything, let alone golden aliens. After all, nobody knows what a ‘midas rush’ is unless they’ve already read the book.

Like the title, the new tagline focuses on the aliens rather than the main human characters and points to the main conflict.

Effing Feline doesn’t want to look back #wewriwa

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I, Effing Feline, don’t believe in this human nonsense of reviewing the year that is ending. You wouldn’t want to look behind either if the only tool you had to wipe your butt was your tongue. The view ain’t great.

Christmas is over and so are the snippets from Alien Contact for a Christmas Nutcracker. (Ed might disagree; he played a performance of Nut C Saturday and has another today — but tough. I declare it OVER.) In its place, I’m snippeting from a book that Ed is revisiting, renaming, and re-covering, It used to be called The Midas Rush. Now it isn’t.

Here we meet the hero of the tale, Tresky Buffrum, a rather naive young shepherd from the mountains of the colony planet Jones. A few days before, he came to visit the planet’s largest city, population 50,000, for the first time. Here we find him on the morning after overindulging on his wedding night.

Tresky made the mistake of opening his eyes. Light stabbed his brain like a firespear thorn. He groaned.

“Awake, are ye?”

The words filled Tresky’s ears with boiling agony. He groaned again and rolled onto his side. The speaker was a short, squat man, bald except for a fringe of kinky auburn hair with a gold streak over his ear.

Moving his head as little as possible, Tresky glanced around the dark hovel where he lay. One wall stood open to a corridor where the stranger was sweeping. The hovel was smaller than the stall for birthing sheep, back home.

Effing Feline here again. All I need to know about the New Year is that, looking forward with 20/20 vision, the coming year will be better for me. I’m certain of it. It will, it will, it will.

Or else somebody is going to pay!

Be sure to visit the other great writers in Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday.

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And finally, Ed got a neat Christmas present from InD’tale magazine — a five star review of Love thy Galactic Enemy.

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From Effing Feline’s species to yours #wewriwa

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I, Effing Feline, am too busy to write — Christmas presents to claw open, cards to send.  I hope I have enough pee for Twiggles the Dog’s card!

Instead, here are some Christmas greetings from my species to yours.

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Alien Contact for a Christmas Nutcracker is Ed’s sci fi novella for the holidays. Holly Jansen has gone to Kwadra, an alien island transported to the Pacific off the coast of Washington from an alternate Earth. While listening to the orchestra she’ll be conducting, she and Lissette, the facilities manager, learn more about each other’s cultures.

Her acquaintance from yesterday, Smairo, was the oboist; he hit a loud wrong note. The Nutcracker made light use of the oboe — the woodwind instrument’s bigger cousin, the English horn, was more prominent — so Holly could forgive a few wrong notes. Only a few, though.

When the March ended, she was scribbling notes on the back of her hand.

When she glanced up everyone in the thirty-piece orchestra was looking at her, and so was Lissette. The woman’s dark eyebrows were raised expectantly.

Holly clapped, belatedly and said, “Great job, folks.” Then, to Lissette: “Sorry. I was taking notes.”

“So I see,” Lissette said dryly. “I must confess to no more experience with Americans than you have had with Kwadrans — is note-taking on your hand an American thing?”

Effing Feline here again. May all your catnip dreams come true this Christmas!

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Be sure to visit the other great writers in Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday.

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Alien Contact for a Christmas Nutcracker

The Nutcracker ballet — for and by aliens?!?

[image error]Holly Jansen, a young orchestra conductor down on her luck, is secretly hired by the king from an alternate Earth to conduct The Nutcracker on Kwadra Island as a Christmas present for his American wife. This big break seems like a Christmas miracle — but after meeting the lead dancer, she wonders if it’s a curse, instead.

Because the Kwadran queen has secretly ordered superstar dancer Rafael Sekwa to produce a potlatch dance honoring her husband’s ancestors — on the same date, time, and stage as The Nutcracker. The stubborn genius is determined to do it no matter what, and Holly finds her goals and ambitions melting in the face of her growing admiration. Will love cost her all her dreams?

Amazon
Amazon Canada
Amazon UK
Amazon Australia
Apple iBooks
Smashwords
Kobo Books
Barnes and Noble

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Click the cover pic below to learn how Mr. Valentine came about.

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Almost like dancing #mfrwhooks

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In Alien Contact for a Christmas Nutcracker, Holly Jansen is an American hired to conduct The Nutcracker ballet in a performance for and by alien humans from an alternate Earth. When she meets sexy Rafe Sekwa, the head of the dancers, he’s in the middle of a rehearsal.

When he was done and waved his arms to direct his troupe into the next scene, she stomped over to him in a polite, ladylike way and tapped his arm. He hadn’t put his shirt back on, so that meant touching his skin. He was a dancer, though, a tactile person who wouldn’t mind being touched.

He turned to her. “Not a word, remember?” He raised his finger to touch her lips again.

“Don’t do that.” She backed away. “Jeez, why do you have to touch me?”

His lips parted and turned up at the corners. “Because the first time felt so . . . interesting.”

He’d felt it too? Well, well, well.

“The dance was . . . interesting,” she said, mimicking his pause, “but what I want to see is the dance for the Welcome Centre’s opening, not this side-project.”

He heaved a sigh. “I am surrounded by morons and philistines. I had thought that you, being an artist of sorts, would be different.” He sighed again then startled her by grasping her upper arms. Definitely a touchy feely guy.

“I am going to walk you back to where you were sitting. Are you ready?” Not waiting for an answer, he took a step forward, which made her stumble back a step.

“Again.” Guiding her with hands that allowed for no disagreement, he stepped forward.

She managed a shred of grace this time as she stepped backward.

“One more time.” This time it was almost like dancing with him. “A box is behind you, so sit.”

Be sure to check out the hooks by other great writers in the Book Hooks blog hop.

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Alien Contact for a Christmas Nutcracker

The Nutcracker ballet . . . for and by aliens?

[image error]Holly Jansen, a young orchestra conductor down on her luck, is secretly hired by an alien king to conduct The Nutcracker on Kwadra Island as a Christmas present for his American wife. This big break seems like a Christmas miracle. But after she meets the lead dancer, she wonders if it’s a curse, instead . . .

. . . because the queen has secretly ordered Rafe Sekwa, dancer extraordinaire, to produce a potlatch ceremony honoring her husband’s ancestors — on the same day, time, and stage as The Nutcracker. The stubborn genius is determined to do so no matter what. Soon Holly finds her ambition melting in the face of her growing admiration — and love.

Amazon — Canada — UK — Australia
Apple iBooks
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Smashwords

 

Music Monday: off-the-beaten-path Xmas music #MFRWauthor

More African Christmas Music

I like to explore the lesser known alleyways of music, so today’s selection is from Africa. The song itself should be familiar, though!

I don’t usually find that music videos add anything beyond the music by itself — but this video really manages to tell a touching story.

Effing Feline laughs at Ed #wewriwa

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I, Effing Feline, told you last week that Mr Valentine — the book Ed inspired, not my pet — has been turned into a graphic novel. The book answers a question that I know has been keeping all of my fans up at night. Namely, what would Mr V look like if his dad was Japanese?

See the shocking answer after this word from my sponsor, Alien Contact for a Christmas Nutcracker.

Holly Jansen has gone to Kwadra, an alien island transported to the Pacific off the coast of Washington from an alternate Earth. She calls her brother, Paul, on a phone that’s right next to a tall, dark and handsome Kwadran who doesn’t leave to give her privacy. The last snippet ended with him telling her to stand up for herself. “Straighter!” Startled, she snapped to attention.

“Yes, like that, except –”

His eyes were definitely sparkling with humor. She held her breath, wary of what would come out of his mouth next.

“Except with me — to me, you should always be soft, compliant, and female, agreed?”

“Uh . . .no?”

“Very good answer, very soft.” He suddenly stood straighter, making her jerk back to attention. “Never quit, Holly Jansen.”

“How do you know who I am? Who are you?”

Effing Feline here again. Ed’s dad was Flemish, which makes sense because he coughs up a lot of it. Cat allergies, he claims, to which I say “Bah, humbug!” But here’s what he’d look like if Grandpa Al had been Japanese.

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I, Effing Feline, hereby give you permission to laugh at all versions of him!

When you’re done rolling of the floor laughing your @ss off, visit the other great writers in Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday.

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Alien Contact for a Christmas Nutcracker

The Nutcracker ballet — for and by aliens?!?

[image error]Holly Jansen, a young orchestra conductor down on her luck, is secretly hired by the king from an alternate Earth to conduct The Nutcracker on Kwadra Island as a Christmas present for his American wife. This big break seems like a Christmas miracle — but after meeting the lead dancer, she wonders if it’s a curse, instead.

Because the Kwadran queen has secretly ordered superstar dancer Rafael Sekwa to produce a potlatch dance honoring her husband’s ancestors — on the same date, time, and stage as The Nutcracker. The stubborn genius is determined to do it no matter what, and Holly finds her goals and ambitions melting in the face of her growing admiration. Will love cost her all her dreams?

Amazon
Amazon Canada
Amazon UK
Amazon Australia
Apple iBooks
Smashwords
Kobo Books
Barnes and Noble

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Click the cover pic below to learn how Mr. Valentine came about.

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