Sandra C. Lopez's Blog, page 78

Review: BREAK by Kayla Miller

 

It’s Spring Break and the wholeclass has plans. Except Olive was stuck spending the week with her estrangeddad. Perhaps a new smartphone from her parents will bring a smile to her face.Although she tries, she doesn’t really have a good time as she’s so mad at herdad for leaving. Of course, she spends a lot of time on her new phone. Can shelearn to forgive her dad so that she can salvage her Spring Break?

 

The graphics were cute andcolorful, but some of the text was too small and hard to read.

 

It’s a pretty good read.

 

Rating:3 stars

Blog Tour: MALEVOLENCE: THE CURSE OF CARTER'S GROVE by Robert Hazelton

 Discover the enigmatic secrets of Carter's Grove, a seeminglyordinary logging town that harbors extraordinary mysteries.

Malevolence: The Curse of Carter’s Grove

The Curse ofCarter’s Grove Book 1

by Robert Hazelton

Genre: ParanormalHorror

 Discover the enigmatic secrets of Carter's Grove, a seeminglyordinary logging town that harbors extraordinary mysteries.

GabrielCarter arrives to attend the funeral of his estranged father. He leftas a child, though the call of home has always piqued hiscuriosity.

Special Agent Teagan Walsh arrives to assistthe local police in unraveling a perplexing murder investigation thathas left the town in turmoil. But Carter's Grove has many darksecrets, and she's only scratched the surface.

Meanwhile,Joe "Spontaneous" Santino seeks to uncover the truth behindthe small town horrors. Armed with a successful ghost hunting YouTubechannel, he fully intends to unearth mysteries better left alone.

Asthe Curse of Carter's Grove takes hold, these visitors will findtheir lives changed forever.

Join us on this journey ofsuspense, intrigue, and revelation, where the boundaries between theordinary and the extraordinary blur, and the destinies of theseindividuals intertwine in ways they could never have imagined.

**Getit for Only .99cents!!**

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Cassivale took my breath away from afar. The splendor changedwhen we started up the drive, leading to a dilapidated fountain forming aroundabout. A statue of a cavalryman took up the center of the fixture, aheroic figure holding up a saber over his head with the steed rearing in aclassical pose.

            Iassumed the water normally came from the beast’s mouth though it clearly hadn’tproduced anything but mold and moss for several years. The murky water took ona green hue, the stonework cracked and brutalized by Pacific Northwest storms.Despite the fact it stood more than twenty feet tall, it seemed diminished.Diminutive even. 

            Thefact I could not remember it at all bothered me. I wanted to have some visionof it in full glory. Sun beaming down from behind the head of the horseman,water cascading out into the crystal clear pool. As we drove around it, Idoubted it had been cleaned since long before I was born.

            Maybemy parents kept me away from the thing.

            Thefront of the estate loomed over us nearly four stories. A flight of wide stairsled up to a porch stretching around the house with Greek style pillars holdingit up. Those looked sturdy enough, though time definitely had a go at them.Cracks in the wood were apparent long before I got out of the car.

            Rodneystopped directly beside the steps. I hopped out, taking the full brunt of astiff breeze from the left. I drew my coat tight about me, taking a moment tolook over the arched windows dotting the surface of Cassivale, some lit whileothers remained dark. Like the upper stories, none of them appeared to bebroken, which surprised me.

            Consideringthe state of the fountain at least.

            Thehouse boasted twenty-five bedrooms. It sprawled to the left and right, at leasta block in each direction. How had I been allowed to roam freely through thosehalls as a child? Getting lost in the labyrinthine corridors, the secretpassages and dusty spaces no longer occupied. 

            Itseemed like a fantastic dream. 

 

 

RobertHazelton has been writing short fiction, novels and music his entirelife. As the founding member of Deadly Nightshade Botanical Societyand a long time member of the band Abney Park, he has traveledextensively and performed countless shows in exotic locales.

Robert writes in a variety of genres but keeps drifting back tomodern fantasy/horror. He considers Elizabeth Moon, Frank Herbert,and Steven Pressfield to be his biggest influences.

Website* Facebook *Instagram* Bookbub* Amazon* Goodreads

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Blog Tour: TALES OF THE YANKEE CLIPPER by Jonathan Weeks

 

TALES OF THE YANKEE CLIPPER

by Jonathan Weeks

 

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GENRE:  NonFiction Sports Biography

 

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BLURB:

 

Therehas probably never been a professional baseball player more of a puzzle thanJoe DiMaggio. DiMaggio had a talent for keeping his emotions suppressed and hisinnermost thoughts to himself. Few could say that they really knew him. Andeven the ones who did found him to be unpredictable. He was a walkingcontradiction. He was quiet, but not necessarily shy. He could be both graciousand abrupt, approachable or aloof depending on the situation. Although he cameacross as humble, he had a tremendous sense of entitlement. He was complex,secretive, inscrutable. There were many layers to the man who came to beaffectionately known as the “Yankee Clipper.” DiMaggio always felt that hisactions on the field should do the talking for him. And for the most part, theydid. To many, DiMaggio personified elegance, style, and grace. An impeccabledresser, he was married to two glamorous actresses. On the field, he glidedalmost effortlessly, never having to dive for a ball and rarely (if ever)making a mistake on the basepaths. He became the living embodiment of theAmerican dream and a symbol of the country’s so-called “greatest generation.”But as time marched on, DiMaggio grew increasingly distrustful of the peoplearound him. It was understandable—inevitable even. The third book in JonathanWeek’s Yankees trilogy contains an abundance of anecdotes, statistics, andother little known facts about the Yankee Clipper.

 

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ExcerptTwo:

 

YANKEE STALKER

 

While recovering from an injury at the beginning of the 1949campaign, DiMaggio began receiving love notes from a woman he was notacquainted with. At the same time, letters started turning up at the offices ofvarious New York gossip columnists. They were signed by a woman calling herself“Junior Standish,” who claimed to be in a romantic relationship with the Yankeeslugger. DiMaggio was familiar with a Broadway dancer of the same name, but hadnever actually dated her. When a handful of columnists reported that the twohad become a couple, DiMaggio and Standish both made public statements to thecontrary.

 

The plot thickened when the mysterious letter-writerattempted to make contact with DiMaggio at his hotel. After being turned away,she sent a note threatening suicide if her efforts to meet him were thwarted inthe future. Alarmed by this turn of events, Yankee PR-man Arthur Pattersoncontacted the police and enlisted the help of a bodyguard to protect Joe.  

 

While police were investigating the matter, another notecontaining suicidal threats was delivered to DiMaggio’s hotel room. Hoping toproduce some tangible leads regarding the author’s identity, details wereleaked to the press. A 30-year-old woman was eventually taken into custody.While being interrogated by the assistant district attorney in Manhattan, shesuffered a mental breakdown, screaming hysterically and threatening to killherself. Police transported her to a Bronx hospital for psychiatric evaluation.Doctors agreed to release her into the custody of her father on the conditionthat she seek counseling and leave DiMaggio alone. She agreed to thearrangement and never bothered Joe again. Her identity was not disclosed to thepress.

 

Incidents of a darker nature had plagued major-leaguebaseball on prior occasions. A few weeks before DiMaggio’s stalker was takeninto custody, a 19-year-old office worker named Ruth Steinhagen shot Phillies’first baseman Eddie Waitkus in a Chicago hotel room. The troubled teen, who haddeveloped an unhealthy obsession with Waitkus, ended up in a state psychiatrichospital, where she remained for three years. Waitkus recovered and played sixmore seasons. A similar scene had unfolded in 1932, when Cubs shortstop BillyJurges was shot at the Carlos Hotel in Chicago by a showgirl named VioletPopovich. Jurges had broken off a casual relationship with Popovich, promptingher to behave irrationally. The infielder was shot twice—once in the hand andagain in the ribs—but returned to action that year. He played in the majorsuntil 1948.   

 

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 What was the biggest challenge in writing this book and howdid you overcome it?

 

            Baseball writing is constantly evolving. Guys like me whohave been at it for a few years sometimes struggle to keep up with the latesttrends. Modern researchers are always trying to get the facts straight (rightfullyso) and this has led to some unexpected changes. One such change involves theWashington Senators of Joe DiMaggio’s era. The team played its inaugural seasonin 1901. Although the club was officially named the “Nationals,” the monikerwas never fully embraced by the public. And so, for many years, they were also knownas the “Senators.” The Nationals (or Senators if you prefer) moved to Minnesotain 1961 and changed their name to the Twins. But things got confusing when anew expansion club carrying the officialtitle of the “Senators” was placed in Washington and added to the AL lineup. Aftereleven losing seasons, the “new” Senators moved to Texas and became theRangers. This at least partially eliminated any ambiguity until the MontrealExpos moved to Washington in 2005 and became the “new” Nationals.

            Feeling a bit perplexed? You’re not alone.

            The latest trend among researchers is to refer to theoriginal Nationals (the club that made its American League debut in 1901) bytheir official name. The reasoning behind this is that the alternate “Senators”label was allegedly never in widespread use. But that does not actually appearto be the case—at least from my perspective. Almost every baseball book printedin the twentieth century refers to the original Nationals as the Senators. Changingthat now feels a bit like revisionist history. What’s next? Will we bereferring to the team that played in Cleveland from 1915 through 2021 as the “Guardians”because we find the club’s old name culturally insensitive? Not me. I’m apurist. And referring to the old Senators as the Nationals is akin to callingBeatles drummer Ringo Starr by his real name—Richard Starkey. Readers will notethat, throughout Tales of the YankeeClipper, I chose tradition over revisionist history.

            (Call me a rebel if you will)    

 

 

AUTHOR Bio and Links:

 

JonathanWeeks has written several sports biographies and two novels, one of which was aposthumous collaboration with his father. He grew up in the Capital Districtregion of New York State and currently works in the mental health field.

 

BLOG:http://www.jonathanweeks.blogspot.com

GOODREADSAUTHOR PAGE: https://www.goodreads.com/author/list/5862273.Jonathan_Weeks

Amazon:https://www.amazon.com/Tales-Yankee-Clipper-Reflections-DiMaggio-ebook/dp/B0CKBLVMM5/ref=sr_1_1

 

 

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GIVEAWAY

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Blog Tour: THE SPINSTER, THE REBEL, AND THE GOVERNOR by Charlene Bell Dietz

 

The Spinster, the Rebel & theGovernor

by Charlene Bell Dietz

 

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GENRE: Historical Fiction

 

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BLURB:

 

Move over Susan B.Anthony. There’s an unsung woman asking for the vote 224 years before you, andmurderous rebels and bigoted gentlemen can’t prevent spinster Lady MargaretBrent from wielding her power to defend Maryland settlers from plunder andobliteration.

 

Lady Margaret Brent,compelled to right wrongs, risks her life by illegally educating English women,placing her family at risk. She fights to have a voice, yet her father andbrothers exclude her from discussions. Worried the kings’ men may know of her illegalactivities, she flees to the New World where she can enjoy religious toleranceand own land, believing she will be allowed a voice. Once in Maryland, shepresents cases in provincial court where she’s hired as the first Americanwoman attorney, but there she uncovers perilous actions, prompting her to builda fort to shield those within from being murdered. Can Margaret Brent’sintegrity and ingenuity protect Maryland from being destroyed?

 

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Excerpt One:

 

The Wells girl covered her eyes with both hands. Margaret,ignoring the buzzing of flies and the damp heat of the morning sun, worked tountangle the girl’s words in her mind.

 

“If the river doesn’t take me, then I shall have my babyalone and will have to live with Master Cole, and I shall never see my dear Tomagain.” With that, she burst into tears.

 

“You do not look like you are about to have a baby. Why doyou say your time is up?”

 

“Master Cole brought me here four years ago. He said after Ihad worked for him for four years, I wouldn’t owe him a tad more, and now hesays I can’t leave, and so I might as well marry him. Lady Brent. I worked hardfrom early morning until after dark every day, and my time is up. Even thedevil would say this isn’t right.” She sniffed and looked away.

 

Margaret set her jaw. “Heaven help us if other masters herein Maryland treat their servants in this manner.”

 

“There’s nothing I can do.” She bit her lip. “I thoughtmaybe the next time you talked with Governor Calvert you might say something onmy behalf, and I pray my request is not one of cheekiness.”

 

“Mary.” Margaret called sharply across to the soap makinggroup. “Would you please come here?”

 

When Mary finished saying something, she trotted over to thegarden. “Hello, Carrie. Are you not feeling well—your face seems flushed?”

 

“So, you are acquainted with Carrie Wells?” Margaret studiedher sister, slipped the basket from Carrie, and moved it into Mary’s hands.“She brought these for us and herbs to scent your soap.”

 

“Sometimes on Sundays after church Carrie walks with me inthe woods and shows me barks, roots, and herbs that heal.” She glanced at thebasket. “Why, these are lovely.” She glanced at the young woman, then put herhand on Carrie’s arm. “Are you still having trouble with Jacob Cole?”

 

“Jacob Cole is about to have troubles with her. Has Gilesreturned from Kent for Assembly today? Will both our brothers be at themeeting?” Margaret’s frogs roiled inside her.

 

How dare these men take advantage of their servants?

 

“I saw him and Fulke along with some other men heading toLewger’s home earlier.”

 

“Come, Carrie Wells. We shall also attend Assembly.”

 

“But—Margaret,” Mary grabbed her arm. “Certainly, womenwould not be allowed—”

 

Margaret shrugged Mary away, snatched Carrie Wells by herhand, and stomped off down the path.

 

“Sister,” Mary called after her, “you must take off thatfilthy apron. You’re covered in soil.”

 

Margaret jerked it untied and slung it. “There is adifference between God’s soil and men’s dirt. Carrie Wells and I are about tosort this very thing out with all those fine gentlemen of Assembly.”

 

 

 

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AUTHOR Bio and Links:

 

CharleneBell Dietz lives in the central mountains of New Mexico. She taughtkindergarten through high school, served as a school administrator, and anadjunct instructor for the College of Santa Fe. After retirement she traveledthe United States providing instruction for school staff and administrators.Her writing includes published articles, children’s stories, short stories, andmystery and historical novels

 

Email:chardietzpen@gmail.com   

Website:https://inkydancestudios.com/

 Char Bell Dietz @CharBellDietz   

Purchase:http://apbooks.net/srg.html

 

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Theauthor will award a randomly chosen winner a $25 Amazon/BN gift card.

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Book Blast: OUT OF BODY by Kimberly Baer

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by < ahref="http://www.goddessfish.com">G... Fish Promotions. The author will award a $25 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Those weird dreams Abby Kendrick has been having? Turns out they aren’t dreams after all. They’re out-of-body experiences, like the ones her cousin Logan is having. At first Abby has fun with her new ability, using it to spy on her neighborhood crush and spook a mean girl. But when Logan gets in trouble on the astral plane, the game changes, and Abby must bend the rules of out-of-body travel as she journeys to a distant realm. Her mission is a perilous one, and success is not guaranteed. Can she save Logan and find her way home again? Or will the cousins be lost forever on the astral plane?

Read an Excerpt

I strode back to the coffee table and pressed the off button on the remote. Instantly the TV went blind and silent, like a lopped-off head. But I didn’t make it to my bedroom. Before I could take another step, I saw it again, that flitting movement near the recliner. This time there was an accompanying noise—the unmistakable rustling of clothing.

I turned in dread, and at long last there was something to see. I felt the briefest flicker of triumph—Ha! Caught you!—before the horror of the situation thumped me in the chest.

My dad’s jacket had come to life. It was floating in the air beside the recliner, puffy and solid as if inhabited by a body. The sleeves were waving: Hey, look at me!

I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. My vision darkened as if I was going to pass out, but if I did, that would be the end of me, because that thing would come over and strangle me. It was a disembodied jacket. It couldn’t be up to any good.

The jacket’s sleeves reached down. They bent at the elbows. Up went the jacket’s zipper with a z-z-zip sound.

Somehow I managed to draw in a big, rasping breath, and I screamed. I screamed loudly enough to wake the Halloween dead.

Then I ran for the front door.

About the Author: Kimberly Baer is an author and professional editor who was born and raised in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, a town marginally famous for having endured three major floods. She even lived there during one of them. She enjoys power-walking on days when it’s not too hot, too cold, too rainy, too snowy, or too windy. On indoor days, you're likely to find her hard at work on her next novel or binge-watching old episodes of Survivor, her favorite guilty pleasure.

Kim has had her nose in a book practically since birth. Her first story, written at age six, was about a baby chick that hatched out of a little girl’s Easter egg after somehow surviving the hard-boiling process. These days she writes in a variety of genres, including adult romantic suspense, young adult, and middle-grade. Her books are published by The Wild Rose Press and have won several awards.

Out of Body Book Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYzqrZ2gl-I

Website: http://www.kimberlybaer.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/KimberlyBaer14
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kimberlybaer_author/
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Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/kimberly-baer

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Out-Body-Kimberly-Baer-ebook/dp/B0CQ34D8H5/
Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/book/1144460559?ean=9781509253074
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Blog Tour: MURDEROUS MEANS by Lida Sideris

Murderous Means

by Lida Sideris

 

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GENRE:   Cozy Mystery

 

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BLURB:

 

CorrieLocke may not be the best rookie lawyer in Southern California, but when itcomes to catching a killer, she’s got the skills to bring a band of shifty-eyedsuspects to their knees.
When the wealthy matriarch of the dysfunctional Means family dies in her sleep,the family is convinced her death was anything but peaceful. They hire Corrieto prove it, but the only evidence they have to go on is a psychic’s half-bakedvision that it was murder. To put the matter to rest, Corrie sets her sights onproving the psychic is a fraud. After all, everyone knows psychics arecrack-pots, don’t they?
But what should be a simple investigation morphs into something deadly. Thedeeper Corrie digs, the more bizarre clues are revealed, and a possible witnessis found dead. As tempers rise, it is up to Corrie to catch a killer…who’sabout to strike again.

 

 

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Excerpt One:

 

Most people think the worst when they spot a shadowy figurelurking outside in the middle of the night. But there’s often aperfectly reasonable explanation. Take tonight, for instance. I was previewingmy next job at a time carefully selected to avoid interruptions. 

 

It was the quiet hour, halfway between sunset and sunrise.Although breaking and entering wasone of my favorite past-times, I carried a key fortonight’s visit, provided by a prospective client. Except she wasn’t expectingme till much later, like in twelve hours. I was checking out theplace to determine if the job was worth taking.

 

The house was one of four structures on twenty-nine acres atthe end of Old Canyon Road in Los Ranchos, population 1300. The tiny town wasnestled between two powerhouse communities with small town vibes of their own:Calabasas and Malibu. Just far enough away from Los Angeles to makeresidents forget the worries and bustle of city life. LosRanchos was a hidden pocket of relief in the massive overcoat of L.A.

 

I entered a sturdy Victorian home sitting dead center offenced-in pastures. The antique furnishings were the real deal, fashionedby expert craftsmen. From Windsor chairs to walnut corner pieces, it was likestepping back in time, circa 1900, except ladies back then didn’t dress inblack sweats or don suede ankle boots. Nor did they stash pistols intheir crossbody bags and Japanese throwing stars in their beltbuckles. Well, maybe the pistols.

 

Oriental rugs scattered around tongue and groove floors,quieting my footsteps. Not that anyone would hear me. The house sat unoccupiedever since…I dove behind a small settee and froze. A floorboard creaked onthe porch, a weighty creaking that lasted a tad too long. Wassomebody out there?

 

 

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Review: The death of an old lady normallywouldn’t justify a case, especially if there didn’t seem to be any foul play.But a psychic said there was more to it and PI Corrie Locke decided to check itout if only to prove the psychic was a fake. Irony was that Corrie had her ownfake psychic, which was odd. I mean, why have the fake psychic at all?

Corrie spends the first fewchapters trying to decide whether or not to take the case. Okay, you’d thinkthat that would’ve been decided already, but, sure, we’ll play along. The diarynarrative was nice and witty, but it can take a long time, especially whendescribing the lush SoCal scenery. I liked the humorous references like theséance from the “I Love Lucy” episode.

The prose was smart and clever,but, quite honestly, it didn’t move fast enough and it wasn’t too centered onthe case. Story was quirky and oddball, which definitely sets it apart fromother mysteries, but it wasn’t quite as efficient as a mystery.

It’s pretty good for a chuckle andit’s a decent mystery. 

Rating:3 stars

 

 

AUTHOR Bio and Links:

 

LidaSideris is the author of the Southern California Mysteries. Slightly edgierthan the usual cozy mystery, the series is loosely based on the author’s formerlife, working as an entertainment attorney for a movie studio…kind of like herheroine, Corrie Locke... except without the homicides. Lida is a recipient ofthe Helen McCloy Mystery Writers of America Scholarship Award and a 2x KillerNashville, Silver Falchion Award finalist. She lives in the northern tip ofSouthern California with her family, rescue dogs, and a flock of uppitychickens. To learn more, please visit www.LidaSideris.com

Links:

www.lidasideris.com

https://www.facebook.com/lidasideris

Twitter:@lidasideris

Instagram:@lida_sideris

Book Bub

Amazon

 

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GIVEAWAY :

Lida Sideris will be awarding $20 Amazon or Barnes andNoble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

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Blog Tour: THE LEGEND OF RACHEL PETERSEN by J.T. Baroni

Supernatural

Date Published: 06-10-2023

Publisher: Sky Publishing

 

Outraged when The Post Gazette overlooks him for a promotion, 43-year-old Sportswriter Christian Kane quits the Paper and moves to the country to write fiction. Inspiration flows from a grave he stumbles upon in the woods. He pens The Legend of Rachel Petersen, a fascinating story revolving around the dead twelve-year-old girl who was laid to rest beneath the weathered tombstone in 1863. His book climbs the Best Seller lists; then Hollywood adapts it into a blockbuster movie. Kane becomes rich and famous; but then! Does an enraged Rachel become more than a figment of the writer’s imagination and rise from her grave, seeking revenge on him for slandering her name?

 

 

 Excerpt:

               He popped his head out of thehole and looked beyond the heaping piles of freshly dug dirt, making certainthere were no intruders hiding in the bushes, waiting to rob him of his find.Satisfied there weren’t any, he reached down and grabbed the lid. Rusted solid,the tiny hinges creaked loudly as he tugged. He yanked harder and harder untilthey snapped.

               Then... Wooosh! A gigantic galeforce wind blasted up and out from the coffin, violently ripping the lid fromhis hand. The plank door pinned his legs against the earthen side of the grave.Using his arms, he shielded his face as the tornado strength winds blewstraight up past him. His hair was blown straight on end. The tree limbs abovehim thrashed and whipped wildly as the colossal, continuous gust of wind rippedthrough the leaves. Dust, dirt, and stones, tore at his arms and face as theywere hurled from the hole. The rush of the air howled loudly with an eerie,awful sound, as though a thousand people were screaming at once. Thaddeusgrimaced as the forceful wind would not allow him to catch his breath.

               As fast as the howling wind had eruptedfrom the coffin, it abruptly stopped. Then the lid slammed shut with a loudwhack. The branches bounced and swayed to a peaceful rest as Thaddeus,trembling, cautiously began to wipe the dirt from his face and arms.

               Being more cautious on his secondattempt, he slowly lifted the lid while peeking over it through squinted eyes.No howling gust of wind greeted him as the mummified remains of the once verypretty and young Rachel Petersen, laid to rest in a plain floral print dress, cameinto view. A thin layer of dust covered her and everything else inside the tinycoffin.

               But how could that be? After thatviolent windstorm, which just moments ago blasted forth from the coffin, nodust would have remained. That was just another curiosity that never crossedThaddeus’s mind.

               Staring back at him were twolarge empty eye sockets in a tiny skull, which rested on a satin pillow. Herfacial skin, once having a flawless peaches and cream complexion, was nowbrown, deeply gouged with wrinkles, and drawn tight, exposing her baby teeth.Her nose was reduced to two narrow slits. Red hair, parted in the middle,covered her forehead before coming to rest in curls on her shoulders.

               The bones and joints in her handsand arms were clearly visible. Her skin-tight hands lay folded on her chest,clutching a rosary. An artifact!

               “She looks like a dried-out prune with red hair,” Thaddeus thought to himself. Thenhis pulse pounded faster and louder in his ears when he spotted the holy prayerbeads.

               He stared wide-eyed at the whitebeaded rosary that had a tiny silver crucifix attached, then the corners of hislips curled into a sly smile as he congratulated himself on the find, “I knewthere would be something of value buried with her.”

               Slowly he reached down for the treasure. “One more inch and it’s mine.”

               Then he quickly jerked his handback when Seth’s warning echoed through his mind, “Do you want someone like her to haunt you for the rest of your life?”

               “Nonsense,” he reasoned tohimself with a chuckle. “Ha! What does Seth know?”

               Then his subconscious hauntedhim, “What about your dream? The curse in hieroglyphics?”

               He answered himself out loud!“That’s nonsense too! Take the treasure and cover her back up!”

               Nervously, he wiped the beads ofsweat running down his brow; again, he reached for the holy rosary very slowlywhile staring at her ghastly, withered face. And those two empty eye socketsstaring back! He was expecting her to move, or worse yet, holler, “Grave robber,” and grab at him with herboney hands. Nevertheless, he desired that rosary so badly, he was willing totake that risk.

               Thaddeus delicately grasped thetiny cross. Firmly, but with a gentle touch, the young archaeologist raised ittwo inches until all the slack was out of the chain. Now taut, it would notcome away from the corpse any further; the remaining beads of the rosary hadbeen intertwined around those hideous looking hands.

               Keeping a vigilant watch on herhollow eyes, he tugged a bit harder on the rosary. He did not see when the armyof huge, dark orange centipedes scurried out from under her hands. Quickly, oneafter another, thousands of the ugly bugs crawled out from their hiding spotand ran up the chain. They raced across his hand and up his arm. “Oh!” Thaddeushollered as he let go of the cross and flung his hand back.

               Thousands more continued to pourout from their hiding spot, climbing over his shoes, up his pants, up his legs,under his shirt. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

               Moreover, they stunk. Likebattery acid mixed with used motor oil and ammonia.

               A part of his dream flashedthrough his mind, “Within these walls liethe remains of Rachel Petersen. Cursed will be all those who dare enter.”

               In one bound, he jumped the fourfeet out of the grave. The hideous bugs poured out of the hole and chased himdown. Chills ran the entire length of his spine as he danced about, flailinghis arms, trying to shake the repulsive insects off as more and more coveredhim.

               He ripped his shirt off and usedit to swat the creepy crawlers off his back, chest, shoulders, and stomach.They were in his hair; he shook his head. One was halfway in his ear when hepulled it out. He kicked his feet into the air while grabbing and shaking hispant legs; he stomped on the vile and relentless hunnerd leggers that did fall to the ground. The ones he missed,turned and came after him again.

               For ten awfully long minutes,they kept up their never-ending assault.

               While jumping up and down, hetripped over the shovel’s handle and fell face first over the freshly dug dirtpile back into the grave, landing three inches from Rachel’s mummified face; heswore he saw Rachel smile at him! ...

              

              

 

(J.T. Baroni, pictured with the tombstone that inspired the story)

Living in Western Pennsylvania all my life, I’ve been an avid Whitetail hunter since old enough to tote a rifle, which is also about as long as I’ve had a fondness for word games and literature.

While hunting one year, I actually did stumble upon a weathered tombstone in the middle of the woods.

While waiting patiently for that big buck to cross my path, I had plenty of time to ponder the dead girl's fate, which I was then driven to write.

Eerily enough, this is the premise of The Legend of Rachel Petersen, my first novel published in 2012, which I recently revised.

A newly retired transformer repairman, I refer to Johnstown, Pennsylvania, a small town outside of Pittsburgh, as home.

My wife Becky and I share our abode with two retrievers - Piper, and Remmy.

 

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Audiobook available at Apple Books

 

 

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Blog Tour: SECRETS OF A GAY MAN GROWING UP IN THE 1950's by Jonathan Feinn

 

SECRETS OF A GAY MAN GROWING UP IN THE1950S

by Jonathan Feinn

 

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GENRE:  Memoir

 

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BLURB:

 

TheBlessing of Self -Acceptance

 

Idecided to write my memoir when I reached my mid-eighties. Given the gift oflongevity, I felt a strong need to review my life openly and to recall both thejoyful moments as well as the days and nights of feeling anguish andhopelessness. Highlighting events and experiences in my life has given me theopportunity to better understand the emotional and physical cost over the yearsof denying the person I am and the pain of self-rejection.

 

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Excerpt One:

 

My parents grew up in very different families. My paternalgrandparents immigrated to America from the Ukraine when my father was only ayear old. Grandma Sonia had been a victim during a pogrom and through theefforts of a cousin living in the United States, the family was able to come toAmerica and settle in Chicago.

 

Neither of my grandparents spoke English but were fluent inRussian and Yiddish. They parented five sons one of whom had a very seriousdysfluency and was thought to be retarded. Given the lack of understanding and resources during his earlychildhood, he never received any specific help and suffered throughout his lifefrom emotional problems. I don’t remember having much connection to him, but Iwas aware that Uncle Joe felt rejection from my father who was a lawyer and theyoungest brother who was a doctor. I remember feeling, frightened as a youngchild when my father would yell at him. The oldest son was married and alreadyhad a son when I was born.

 

Three of the uncles lived in an apartment with mygrandparents above ours in a two flat building. There was much tension betweenthe brothers and throughout my childhood I have memories of yelling andscreaming fights between the brothers. I felt somewhat closer to my uncle Jackwho I remember sitting me on his lap when I was a young child and singing tome; ’Thai Thai tiddly tum’ I remember feeling safe with him.

 

Looking back, I realize my paternal grandparents weredepressed. I never saw them affectionate with one another. Grandma Sonia hadbeen raised in a family in Moscow with some financial means and hadopportunities to be educated in the arts and dancing. My grandfather came froma religious but impoverished family in Odessa. Neither grandparent ever sharedanything with me about their lives in Europe which saddens me. I realize howdifficult and painful it would have been for them and of course, there was thelanguage problem. From time to time when my parents were out for the evening mygrandfather would be my ‘babysitter’. I was told when I grew older that onenight when Grandpa Zelig was the sitter, my parents returned and found him fastasleep and snoring while I was up playing with my toys.

 

My parents spoke to my grandparents in Yiddish and as achild I wanted to understand what they were saying. Over time I began todevelop a beginning understanding of Yiddish and knew a few expressions which Itried to speak to my grandfather.  Hewould always say ‘You American boy. NO speak Yiddish.’  In my adult years, I regret a missedopportunity to become a competent Yiddish speaker.

 

How difficult it must have been for my grandfather tosupport the family on a fish peddler’s income though the war years were hardfinancially for most people including my parents; my father did providefinancial help to my grandparents in addition to supporting the four of us.Meanwhile grandmother Sonia Sarah had to adjust mealtimes to each of her son’sdifferent schedules and preferences. She was very protective of her disabledson and on her death-bed begged family members to promise to care for him, Despitemy uncle’s disability, he was able to work and live an independent lifeeventually getting married.

 

 

 

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AUTHOR Bio and Links:

 

Jonathanholds a Ph.D. from the University of Illinois and was trained to serve both asa teacher and administrator providing guidance to staff and to children andadolescents with identified emotional disturbance and behavior disorders. Hehas served as a consultant to differing programs in both public and privateschool settings and was the director of a high school off-campus learningcenter serving students who required part-time placement outside the mainbuilding.

 

Hehas held faculty positions at National College in Evanston, Illinois andShippensburg University in Pennsylvania where he taught students studying forboth Master’s degrees and state certification. Prior to his retirement, hetaught gifted elementary students in a ‘pull-out’ program. He is currentlyretired and continues his love of travel. To date he has visited 22 countrieswhere he developed meaningful and lasting friendships with people in differingsettings throughout the world.

 

Amazon:https://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Gay-Man-Growing-1950s/dp/1614688540/ref=sr_1_1

 

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GIVEAWAY

JonathanFeinn will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Blog Tour: NEXT STOP, BOSTON by Iris Dorbian

Next Stop, Boston

by Iris Dorbian

 

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GENRE: Contemporary Fiction

 

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BLURB: Sixteen-year-oldGeri Randall's life is turned upside down when her late sister's fiance, DezDeacon, a washed-up rock star, is named her guardian. Whisked away from theonly life she knew and taken on a rock and roll tour, Geri is initiallydesperate to win Dez's approval. That desire hits a sour note when Dez'streatment of her becomes too much to bear. What ensues is a battle of willsbetween her and her temperamental guardian, a collision course that will pushGeri to do the unthinkable to get what she wants.

 

 

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Excerpt One:

 

Her skinnyfingers rippled across the strings. She played a G chord, one of the few chordshe’d

taught her inbetween gigs. She plucked it again, the twangy sound vibrating in her ears.

 

It was part ofher nightly backstage ritual. Most important was polishing and cleaning hisguitar.

He waspersnickety in the way he liked it. Lately, she had gotten the hang of it, butit had been rough going there for a while, as he was never satisfied withanything he asked her to do. Whether it was this task or another, she couldnever please him. Not until recently.

She’d thoughtbeing on the road would be a lot more fun. She didn’t hate it, but she didn’trelish it either. Time was a blur; it was as if school and her other life neverexisted, with every day seeming to stretch into an eternity.

 

She scanned themusty room, and when she was sure no one was lurking, Geri picked up the Gibsonagain and pretended to play the guitar like a rock god. Tossing her head back,she rolled her right arm like a windmill and closed her eyes, faking thestrumming and picking motions.

 

It was dumb,childish as all hell. But, screw it. She needed to let loose.

 

Of course, ifhe saw her doing this, she’d never hear the end of it.

 

 

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AUTHOR Bio and Links:

 

Iris Dorbian is an arts and business journalistwhose bylines have appeared in a wide array of outlets that include Forbes,Wall Street Journal, Reuters, Crain's New York Business, Business Insider,Buyouts, Venture Capital Journal, Investopedia, Playbill, Backstage, DanceMagazine, Theatermania and Stage Directions, where she served aseditor-in-chief for eight years. Her personal essays have been featured inHBO's Inspiration Room, Boomer Magazine, Jewish Literary Journal, DiverseVoices Quarterly, and Gothesque Magazine. Having previously published"Great Producers: Visionaries of the American Theater"(Allworth/Skyhorse) "An Epiphany in Lilacs: In the Aftermath of theCamps" (original publisher: Mazo Publishers) and "Sentenced toShakespeare" (Sunbury/Milford House Prss), "Next Stop, Boston"is her fourth book.

Links:

 

Book links:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Next-Stop-Boston-Iris-Dorbian/dp/1949802353

B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/next-stop-boston-iris-dorbian/1144160777

 

Social Media Links:

Linkedin Site: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/iris-dorbian/1/759/358

Twitter site: https://twitter.com/IrisDorbian

Facebook site: https://www.facebook.com/iris.dorbian

Instagram site: https://www.instagram.com/irisdorbian/

Muckrack.com: http://www.muckrack.com/irisdorbian

Personal website: www.irisdorbian.com

 

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GIVEAWAY

Iris Dorbian will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BNGC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.a Rafflecopter giveaway

Review: THE CLASS REUNION by N.L. Hinkens

 

What was done was done. The pastwas the past. But a 20-year high school reunion may bring it all back.

Heather never thought of comingback to Iowa, but the sudden death of a friend prompted her to, which alsocoincided with her high school reunion, where the classmates planned on payinga tribute to the departed friend. A threatening note at the reunion leads tomass confusion and paranoia among the group of old friends including Heather.Did someone know their secrets?

While working through all themystery, Heather recalls a cataclysmic event that spiraled her into her ownblack hole of guilt. If I were Heather, I would’ve done the same thing. Letthat bastard die.

 

It just seemed like whereverHeather went, these threatening notes with creepy statements were being sent.“Once a killer, always a killer.” Who was sending these? Possibly someone thatknew Heather’s secret? And why was this person targeting the people closest toher? Revenge?

Right away, you get into thismystery with all its suspense and cryptic pasts. It just keeps you riveted andthinking all the way. I tell ya, I didn’t see that shocking end coming.

An absolutely thrilling read!

 

Rating:5 stars