Roxanne Rhoads's Blog, page 369

Happy Release Day! Instruction by L.M. Pruitt

InstructionL.M. Pruitt
Publisher: SP Press
Publication Date: August 18, 2015
ASIN: B00ZYJU5OI
Genre: Erotica
Book Description:
Taylor Allerton's speakeasy is one of the hottest nightclubs in Manhattan. Young, rich, and beautiful, she can have any man she wants--and usually does.
Namir Adeem just became the youngest partner at one of the most prestigious accounting firms in Manhattan. His determination to bring honor to his family leaves no time for any relationship.
When Taylor discovers just how sheltered Namir is, she takes it upon herself to give him the education he deserves.
Some things can't be taught in school....

Amazon     iTunes    Kobo   BN

About the Author:
L.M. Pruitt has been reading and writing for as long as she can remember. A native of Florida with a love of New Orleans, she has the uncanny ability to find humor in most things and would probably kill a plastic plant. She knows this because she's killed bamboo. Twice.  She is the author of the Winged series, the Plaisir Coupable series, Jude Magdalyn series, the Moon Rising series, and Taken: A Frankie Post Novel.
http://www.lmpruitt.org
https://www.facebook.com/pages/LM-Pruitt/364776895104
https://twitter.com/lmpruitt
http://www.amazon.com/L.M.-Pruitt/e/B00427WOW4/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4320796.L_M_Pruitt

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Guest Blog and Giveaway with Elliott James

My name is Elliott James, and I am currently writing a series about the modern day descendant of all of those Prince Charmings who keep cropping up in fairy tales.  The series is called the Pax Arcana, and the premise is that Prince Charming wasn’t a prince at all, and there weren’t just one of them - there was actually a long family line of knights who specialized in witch-finding and dragon slaying and enchantment breaking.  Their exploits were romanticized or distorted over time after the supernatural world went underground.   Anyhow, my stories involve a monster hunter named John Charming, and they basically take fairy tales and treat them like action and horror movies in modern day times as told by someone with a sarcasm disorder.  So for my blog entry, I’d like to give…. 

TEN REASONS THE TRADITIONAL PRINCE CHARMING ISN’T ALL THAT CHARMING

1. I love you forever Snow Wh….I mean, Beauty!  Sleeping Beauty!.
2. Can we just admit that Prince Charming’s not exactly a brilliant tactician? The sun would glint off of shining armor and give his position away for miles and miles…

3. Thinks it’s appropriate to go around kissing women who are in comas.

4. HOST: “Bachelor Number One, what’s the number one absolute most important quality that you look for in a wife?” 

PRINCE CHARMING: “I’d have to say a beautiful singing voice…”
5. Can’t seem to figure out that being rude to strange old women is a bad idea no matter how many times he gets turned into something.


6. “So what did this Cinderella’s face look like your majesty?  Uhmm…you did look up occasionally, right?  Well, what did she talk about…”

7. If his way of testing to see if a woman is worth marrying is seeing if she will respond to something the size of a pea in her bed, he might have some insecurity issues.  Just saying.


8. Riding happily into the sunset would make it hard for you to see ahead and outline your position to anyone following you.  Seriously.  Who trained this toolbox?

9. The real ending to Rapunzel: “Brace yourself! I’m going to climb your hair now!  [LOUD SHARP SNAPPING SOUND]  Rapunzel?  Rapunzel? 

10. Praising a warrior prince for his spotless white horse and his gleaming sword is like praising a lumberjack for his baby smooth hands.




FearlessPax Arcana SeriesBook ThreeElliott James
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Publisher: Orbit
Date of Publication: August 11, 2015
ISBN-13: 978-0316253444
Number of pages:  448
Book Description:
When your last name is Charming, rescuing virgins comes with the territory -- even when the virgin in question is a nineteen-year-old college boy.
Someone, somewhere, has declared war on Kevin Kichida, and that someone has a long list of magical predators on their rolodex. The good news is that Kevin lives in a town where Ted Cahill is the new sheriff and old ally of John Charming.
The attacks on Kevin seem to be a pattern, and the more John and his new team follow that thread, the deeper they find themselves in a maze of supernatural threats, family secrets, and age-old betrayals. The more John learns, the more convinced he becomes that Kevin Kichida isn't just a victim, he's a sacrifice waiting to happen. And that thread John's following? It's really a fuse...
FEARLESS is the third novel in an urban fantasy series which gives a new twist to the Prince Charming tale. The first two novels are Charming & Daring.
This can be read as a stand alone.

Available at

Amazon and  BN



A modern twist to the Prince Charming tale in this third urban fantasy in the Pax Arcana series.
IT TAKES A VILLAGE IDIOT
Once Upon a Time, Ted Cahill had changed. The only real question was whether Cahill had changed too much or not enough.
For example, when I first met Cahill, he had been a mouthy homicide detective in Clayburg, Virginia. Now he was the sheriff of Tatum, New York, which basically meant that he was better paid, had more administrative responsibilities, and was forced to be a lot more polite to a lot more people. But when someone in Cahill’s jurisdiction died in a suspicious manner, he was still a homicide detective at heart. And Tatum and Clayburg had a lot in common: Both towns are nestled in mountains, both towns are hosts to small private universities, and both towns call themselves cities, as if saying the word could make it true. So, how much of the change in Cahill’s status and environment was really all that significant?
Another thing about Cahill that was different—but not unrecognizably so—was his physical appearance. Cahill’s skin was a little paler than when I’d first met him, and I was willing to swear that his freckles were disappearing. His excess body fat had melted off like wax from a lit candle, and his cheekbones were still pronounced, but in an angular way rather than chubby. His brown eyes were still small but now burned with an intensity that might be compelling or disturbing depending on how you looked at them… or how those eyes looked at you. This quality is actually fairly common among supernatural beings struggling with predatory instincts.
And that, of course, was the biggest change, the catalyst for all of the cosmetic alterations in Cahill’s life. Ted Cahill had become a dhampir, a vampire who still retained some of his humanity. It was when trying to figure out how much humanity Cahill still retained (or what humanity meant exactly) that things got confusing.
“So, what about it, wolf boy? Do you smell it?” Cahill had been pushy and snappish ever since we arrived. He seemed to feel like he was doing us a huge favor by letting us help him, because asking for help had been so difficult.
“I smell it,” I confirmed. Sig Norresdotter, Cahill, and I were standing in the middle of a frosty and fenced in horseback riding ring next to Kincaid University’s stables. It was that kind of private school. Tatum in January was a lot colder than Virginia, and I was wearing a grey hoodie under a brown Flying Tiger fighter pilot jacket. I was also wearing black leather gloves, thermals under my dark blue jeans, two pairs of socks beneath my running shoes, and a slight frown.
The scent in question had been dissipating for twenty-four hours and was now too faint for normal human senses, but I could discern a weird, flat tang in the air. It was the slightly off, kind of wrong, almost burnt smell that writers of the old tales used to describe as brimstone. When someone or something from another plane suddenly materializes on this one, molecules from the visitor’s dimension get shoehorned into ours, and molecules from our plane get sucked into the visitor’s home to fill up the empty spaces left behind. It’s like the alternate-universe version of swapping spit. And the surrounding air has a neutral but not quite natural feel to it afterward.
Cahill gave me an impatient look. “And?”
“And why don’t you shove an orange cone up your ass and go direct traffic, you doorknob?” I said. “I’m trying to concentrate so I can do your job for you.”
Well, okay, I didn’t really say that. I might have a year earlier, but I’ve been working on my social skills. Instead, I confirmed Cahill’s suspicions. “Something supernatural manifested in this corral.”“Was this thing summoned?” Sig spoke up, wearing some kind of cream-colored, soft-shelled female outdoor jacket unzipped. She wasn’t bothered by the cold any more than she was by the heat of the huge steaming cup of drive-through coffee that she was gulping instead of sipping.
By way of answering, I fished out my wallet and flashed the driver’s license I was currently using. “Does it say Gandalf on here or something?”
I really did say that one.
Sig gave me a look, and her glare is a formidable thing: icy-eyed, intense, full-lipped, and framed by long golden hair flowing over Scandinavian cheekbones. I stared back and saw how smart and strong and beautiful she was, and smiled.
Seeing that smile, her eyes softened, and the corners of her lips curved upward slightly. Being around Cahill again had us both a little on edge, so I relented. “Yeah, it was probably summoned deliberately. Things that break into our universe without an invitation are rare, and they usually kick up a shitstorm right away. They don’t go bump in the night; they go boom.”
Sig nodded and addressed Cahill without looking at him or using his name. “This missing college student… What was her name again?”
“Lindsey Williams,” Cahill supplied. “I was thinking maybe you’d see her ghost around here.”“I don’t,” Sig said shortly. She doesn’t particularly like the I-see-dead-people part of being descended from Valkyries, but she doesn’t deny it either. “So, a security camera caught this Lindsey Williams heading this way at three thirty in the morning, right? What was she doing here that early?”“Normally, I’d say she was meeting someone she shouldn’t,” Cahill said. “Some married professor, maybe, or her BFF’s boyfriend, or her drug dealer. But after a little nudging, her roommate admitted that Lindsey used to sneak out here at night pretty regularly. She said that Lindsey was horse crazy and that the upperclassmen in the equestrian studies program get to choose all the best horses for themselves. So Lindsey liked to come out and take some of her favorites for a night ride.”
“You say it took a little nudging?” Sig’s voice was tight as she repeated the words. Cahill had carried a major torch for Sig back in Clayburg. I couldn’t really blame him for that, but vampires are low-grade telepaths, and as a dhampir, Cahill had some of those abilities. When he’d partially turned, he’d started broadcasting his feelings for Sig and made her experience them too. From what I understand, they flirted around for a few days before going out on a date. Then they had dinner, and at some point while talking about how strange it was that they’d known each other so long and now this new thing was happening, Sig had a distant idea in the back of her mind. Sig is nothing if not strong willed, and the suspicion kept drifting back to the surface of her thoughts despite the tide of hormones trying to bear it away. After dinner, while Sig and Cahill were kissing in the parking lot behind the restaurant, Sig wrapped her arms over Cahill’s shoulders and pulled him close… and broke his neck. Lo and behold, the sudden rush of new feelings that had come into Sig’s life completely disappeared.Cahill’s neck improved. Relations between him and Sig did not.
Cahill claimed the whole thing had been an accident, a result of having new powers that he didn’t fully understand and was still learning to control, and that was entirely possible. On the other hand, Cahill had used Sig’s unavailability as justification for using other women like Kleenex to wipe off excess sperm while his marriage fell apart. So it was kind of hard to say whether Cahill’s feelings for Sig were real or whether they were just his excuse for being a player, and that was a difficult uncertainty to deal with. If Cahill’s telepathic seduction of a woman he truly cared about had been unintentional, it was tragic, and he was kind of a victim. If it weren’t an accident, Cahill had mentally raped Sig as a means toward physically raping her. People are complex, so there was the whole question of what Cahill had done consciously or subconsciously too, or how much of the event he had reinvented or lied to himself about.
Which was why Sig had compromised. She left Cahill breathing but told him to get his dick out of Dodge if he wanted to stay that way. And Cahill, whatever his other faults, knew Sig well enough to take her seriously. Hence Cahill’s new job running a small police force in a town in upstate New York. I don’t know if Cahill had called Sig reluctantly or if he’d been looking for an excuse, but when he came across something he didn’t know how to handle, he’d called her just the same.
And she had answered. Sig is like that. She tends to have an “it takes a village” attitude toward monster hunting. I have mostly hunted supernatural predators alone, partly because I had no choice and partly because I’m an idiot. But Sig is worth going outside my comfort zone for.
“I gave the roommate a mental push,” Cahill’s voice resonated with a complex mixture of defiance and anger and shame. “If I don’t practice using my powers, I’ll never get better control of them. And this was for a good cause.”
Sig considered that while taking a big slurp of her coffee coco mucho mocco whatever (I’m a coffee purist), then turned her focus on me again. “So, what are we dealing with here, John? I saw your lips do that I-smelled-a-fart twitch they do when you connect some nasty dots. Spill it.”
Being attracted to a smart woman has a lot of rewards. It also comes with a few challenges.
“Yeah, I’ve put some pieces together,” I grumbled. I would have liked another minute to think about them, but I went ahead and squatted down closer to the ground so that I could outline a wide area with a sweeping index finger. “Did you notice how this part of the corral has the outline of hoofprints frozen in the mud much clearer and deeper than the rest of the riding ring?”
They had not.
“This patch of ground got moister than the rest and then froze. I figure the creature that manifested a physical body here used water as its elemental base.”
Cahill made a “time-out” sign and gave Sig an exasperated look. “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! I asked you to bring Professor Peabody here because I don’t know a lot about this stuff, remember? What do you mean, element base?”
Professor Peabody was a cartoon character on the old Rocky and Bullwinkle show who had a lot of doctoral degrees. He was also a talking dog.Grrrrrrrrr.


About the Author:
An army brat and gypsy scholar, ELLIOTT JAMES is currently living in the Blueridge Mountains of southwest Virginia. An avid reader since the age of three (or that's what his family swears anyhow), he has an abiding interest in mythology, martial arts, live music, hiking, and used bookstores. Irrationally convinced that cellphone technology was inserted into human culture by aliens who want to turn us into easily tracked herd beasts, Elliott has one anyhow but keeps it in a locked tinfoil covered box which he will sometimes sit and stare at mistrustfully for hours. Okay, that was a lie. Elliott lies a lot; in fact, he decided to become a writer so that he could get paid for it.
Website: https://elliottjamesauthor.wordpress.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/EJ_Author
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ElliottJamesAuthor
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23279104-fearless

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Interview and Giveaway with Cari Silverwood

Can you tell readers a little bit about yourself and what inspired to write in this particular genre?
I’ve always loved scifi and fantasy so now that I’m also writing erotic stories it was natural that I’d try erotic space opera.
Please tell us about your latest release.
It’s a mashup of scifi space opera with paranormal and fantasy, with also the sexual relationships being the main spine of the plot. The Earth has been invaded by an enemy that’s hidden themselves underground for decades while they repair and learn about us. Four earth women discover they have paranormal powers and a type of magic. Talia and her two alien men, Dassenze, a man-god, and Brask, an Igrakk warrior, are the central characters. To grow her powers to the utmost, she finds she must mate with at least one of them, perhaps both, only she detests alpha men. Both are very dominating men, alas for her!

Is there a character that you enjoyed writing more than any of the others?
Talia. She’s very gung-ho warrior sort, a forensic pathologist, and an expert in Japanese sword fighting even before her powers over edged weapons manifested. Since she is smart and feisty, when she realizes she may have to mate with two aliens to help save the Earth from destruction, her conflicts became fun to write.
Do you have a formula for developing characters? Like do you create a character sketch or list of attributes before you start writing or do you just let the character develop as you write?
I think I create story and characters in tandem. They grow from each other. Characters change a little, mature, become more detailed and interesting, the further I write into a story.
What is your favorite scene from the book? Could you share a little bit of it, without spoilers of course?
The final fight scene against the factory queen is up there. I can’t reveal anything much of that.
Another would be when Dassenze first really becomes aware his attraction to Talia is overwhelming him even though he knows it could harm both him and the people who rely on him to protect them. Being almost a god, having anything overcome his resistance makes him rather grumpy. So he’s tempted and tries half measures.
Which, when it comes to having sex without quite having sex because he knows mating with her is bad, you can use your imagination as to how he tries to solve that one.
Did you find anything really interesting while researching this or another book?
The supervoid in outer space. Lol Bet you didn’t expect that answer. It’s this enormous 1.8 billion light year gap of blankness in space that scientists found and they don’t know why it’s there. I give a reason in my story.
What is the most interesting thing you have physically done for book related research purposes?
Ahhh, ye old question for erotic romance writers. Let’s just leave it at searching the internet for weird erotic activities.  
Can you tell readers a little bit about the world building in the book/series? How does this world differ from our normal world?
Most of this series is set on present day Earth, but it’s an Earth that was long ago visited by aliens who burrowed under the ground to lick their wounds and repair after a space battle. Jump forward decades to now and we have the enemy of that enemy here and they have a habit of making any new species they encounter into sexual pets. One difference – we don’t make good pets and the alien men find they are falling in love.
So the main difference is in who is here and also, in this last novel, war breaks out on our planet, cities are nuked, and we have an almost apocalyptic setting.
With the book being part of a series, are there any character or story arcs, that readers jumping in somewhere other than the first book, need to be aware of? Can these books be read as stand alones?
You can enjoy this as a standalone but there are multiple characters from the previous two books and they do feature a lot in this book. This story is where all four Earth women with magic/ paranormal powers come together to try to defeat the enemy. So it is best to read the first two, but Book 1, Precious Sacrifice, is now free and the second book is discounted.
Do you write in different genres?
Many erotic genres, yes, and mostly kinky. Historical, erotic parody, scifi, urban fantasy, and also contemporary BDSM. Under another pan name I have a YA epic fantasy published.
Do you find it difficult to write in multiple genres?
No. I do it to stop my brain exploding. One genre is boring.
When did you consider yourself a writer?
After my first book was published. It was by Lyrical Press (bought out by Kensington)  and a fantasy.


DefilerPreyfindersBook 3Cari Silverwood
Genre: erotic scifi/ fantasy
Publisher: Cari Silverwood
Date of Publication: July 28th, 2015
ISBN: 9781310083327ASIN: B0115U83RU
Number of pages: 156Word Count: 77,000
Cover Artist: Cari Silverwood
Book Description:
Our Earth is on the edge of destruction, our cities are pocked with missile craters, and beneath the surface the alien factory queen lurks.
Four women of power may be our saviors. The last is Talia. Gifted by earth magic with a mastery of edged weapons, she’s a katana-wielding, geek chick with a loathing of alpha men. Although mating enhances magic, she knows bonding with aliens must surely be wrong. Besides, her destined bond mate, Brask, is an Igrakk warrior of the caveman persuasion. One dominant male is bad enough. Dassenze, the alien man-god in the flesh, also desires her and no isn’t a word he appreciates.
As they near their target, Talia’s man problems become the lesser of many evils, for the factory queen awaits them with her nerve chewers and her drills. The price for being avenging, kickass heroines could be a messy death.
Warning: Dominance and submission themes, hot aliens, and violence. Mild horror too if you're squeamish.
Available at     Amazon     iTunes     BN
Excerpt:

Talia approached the door, chair in hand, feeling like a lion tamer, and wedged the chair against the door knob. It worked in the movies.
“Go away! I’ll come and see you after I’m done. To talk about whatever it is you want to talk about.”“If you’re there, on the other side, you can let me in.”
He was going to wait for her to let him in? Ho hum and yawn.
“No, I cannot. Asshole.” She said that to herself as she backed away, grinning. There was a thrill to calling Brask bad names, akin to poking a monkey with a stick. A big, slightly-annoyed monkey.His sigh sounded exasperated. “Do you have any idea how good my hearing is? Or whatever this other sense is. I can tell when you’re aroused.”
She snorted. “Tough.”
His next move was to smash his fist through the door, sending splinters flying, then he shoved aside the chair and opened the door from the inside.
“Damn,” she muttered. “Impressive.”
Running on ceilings was impressive too but this was a whole other realm – a man who would smash down a door to get to her.
Scary as hell.
Keeping her expression defiant was difficult. She found herself cycling between a smirk and an oh-shit-what-have-I-done expression. Fear had some plusses. Excitement for one. He wouldn’t hurt her and she wasn’t going to hurt him, but her heart was pounding away like it wasn’t sure.
Now she had an annoyed Brask on her side of the door. He kicked it farther open and took a step inside as the handle hit the wall and the door swung back in a foot.
“I see you’re ready for me. Nice underwear.”
Breathless, she gathered her reply. “I wasn’t expecting guests. Maybe you should leave?”
“I only just arrived. But if you insist.” But then he stepped closer, until she had to tilt her head back farther to keep the encounter eye-to-eye. Between the width of his shoulders, general body bulk, and the way his blond spiky hair seemed ready to brush the ceiling, he was making her feel like a small female snack.
Never look away from a predator, right? On shuffling back a step, she found the coffee table pressing at her bare legs.
Insolently and probably stupidly, she angled a brow. “Leaving means going in the other direction.”
“It does?”
“Yes.”
He crowded her some more until only inches separated them and she could feel his body heat. She didn’t dare shut her eyes. She was faster than him, but that wasn’t everything. Not at all. But he didn’t lunge at her, instead he very deliberately reached out and around her, with both hands, and took a grip of the back of her hair. Then he screwed both hands in and twisted, thoroughly trapping her.
Something stopped her resisting. Probably raw unadulterated lust. She licked her lips, waiting. When he remained silent, she couldn’t resist asking a question.
“Now what are you going to do? My hairstyle?”

About the Author:
Cari Silverwood is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of BDSM stories and dark erotic fiction.
Cari Silverwood is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling writer of kinky darkness or sometimes of dark kinkiness, depending on her moods and the amount of time she's spent staring into the night. She has an ornery nature as well as a lethal curiosity that makes her want to upend plots and see what falls out when you shake them.
When others are writing bad men doing bad things, you may find her writing good men who accidentally on purpose fall into the abyss and come out with their morals twisted in knots.
This might be because she comes from the land down under, Australia, or it could be her excessive consumption of wine.
Freaking out readers is her first love and her second love is freaking out the people living in her books. Her favorite hobby is convincing people she has a basement...though she really doesn’t. Promise.
If it existed it would be a terrifying place where you would find all the dangerous things that you never knew you craved.
To join Cari Silverwood's MAILING LIST and keep up to date with her upcoming books go to:
www.carisilverwood.net
Website: www.carisilverwood.net
Facebook: www.facebook.com/cari.silverwood
Fb author page: https://www.facebook.com/CariSilverwoodAuthor
Twitter: @CariSilverwood
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/4912047.Cari_Silverwood
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Choosing a Title Guest Blog - Tales of Blood and Sulphur: Apocalypse Minor by J.G. Clay

Bozo Nightmares: The Clay Guide to Picking Titles.
Hi everyone. For those of you who have no idea who I am, I am J.G. Clay, a new (ish) horror writer just off the blocks and indulging in a little guest blogging. Pleased to meet you all and a huge thank you to Fang-tastic Books.

Now, let’s get down to it. I have a book out at the moment. It’s called ‘Tales of Blood and Sulphur: Apocalypse Minor’. I like to think that the title’s quite snazzy; evocative, memorable, unique, distinctive and so on. I like the title. Believe me when I say that it’s far better than the one I originally had in mind – ‘Bozo Nightmares’. Not as evocative, most definitely not as snazzy, but in its defence, quite memorable. I took it from a line in a well- known (and quite brilliant) song from the multi-talented Beck. At the time, I was struggling to come up with a title for the little book I was about to self-publish and I seized on the phrase with the foamy mouthed abandon of a Pit Bull. I loved it. For all of two days, anyway. Then, I started imagining being interviewed and people asking me the title of my book. The more I envisioned saying ‘Bozo Nightmares’, the more I became convinced that, far from being cool and edgy, it was actually pretty stupid. Needless to say, I ditched that, went off in search of a pint and a title that I could actually say out loud without blushing or breaking into gales of hysterical laughter.

Thinking back to that time, I’ve realised that I’ve developed three methods of titling of my work. In the interests of helping my fellow authors out, I’d like to share those methods. They might work for you, they might not. Give ‘em a bash. You have nothing to lose.

1. Song Titles.

A tried and tested method by yours truly. You can either use the title wholesale or tweak it for your own purposes. For instance, ‘On The Beach’, the very first proper Tale of Blood and Sulphur is taken from the B-Side of New Order’s finest single ‘Blue Monday’, (an instrumental version of the A-Side, basically). Given that the vast majority of the story happens to take place on a beach, it was a logical choice. And it works. This same method has been (or will be) used for one of my planned novels next year entitled ‘Fools Gold’. Not only is that the title of my most favourite song by my most favourite band, The Stone Roses, it also fits the narrative – greed, things that look valuable but aren’t, selling people out. It’ll fit nicely. Better than ‘Bozo Nightmares’ would anyway.

2. Wordplay

This is actually a fun method. Just string together words that you think might fit and, bingo, you have a title. ‘Whatever Happened To Pete The Neat?’ and ‘Due To a Lack of Interest, The Apocalypse Will Not Be Televised’ are both titles that came from this freestyling method. Interestingly, these titles led to the stories, a double whammy of creativity. Again, I shudder to think what would have happened if I had ended with ‘Bozo Nightmares’. 



3. Panic

The main method I use for title picking. Panic often leads to the Brain of Clay speeding up and throwing out all sorts of nonsense. Words are spewed out and glued together to make up a phrase that makes sense. This method is a bit like Method #2 on crack.  ‘Tales of Blood and Sulphur’ was spawned in this fashion. I had about a week to publication and no title. Except for ‘Bozo Nightmares’, of course. Neurons began a rapid fire sequence of gibberish that eventually threw up two words – ‘Tales of….’ A start but not a great one. ‘Tales of’ what? Panic kicked in again like a manic ‘Wheel of Fortune’ stopping on….Blood. Great but still not right. ‘Tales of Blood’ sounded a bit hackneyed. I needed something more. I have no idea how the ‘Sulphur’ bit came about. I can’t remember. Maybe I was so blinded by panic that it didn’t register. But the upshot is that I had a title, and it wasn’t ‘Bozo Nightmares’.

So there you have it. My three main methods of getting that eye catching title. There are more, but I don’t want to bore you any further. Also, to my mind anyway, the story is more important. Nail the story and the title will soon follow. If all else fails and the title worries you that much, ask a friend or another author. But whatever you do, don’t use ‘Bozo Nightmares’. I may still have need of that one day.

Tales of Blood and Sulphur:Apocalypse MinorTales of Blood and SulphurVolume OneJ.G. Clay
Genre: Horror
Publisher: Forsaken
Date of Publication: 24th July, 2015
ISBN: 978-1513701998ASIN: 978-1513701998
Number of pages: 212Word Count: 77,000 words approx.
Cover Artist: Ashley Ruggirello
Book Description:
Eleven Tales steeped in Blood and reeking of Sulphur
J.G Clay takes you on a journey through the voids of Reality and into dark places where demons, mutants and inter-dimensional creatures taunt, taint and corrupt Humanity. Survival is not guaranteed, sanity is not assured and death lurks in every corner. These are the Tales of Blood and Sulphur: Apocalypse Minor; eleven twisted tales of terror and mayhem..... There are cracks in the skin of Reality.
Some are microscopic, others are as wide as a four-lane motorway. As the fault lines increase and widen, the door to our world shines like a beacon in the darkness, a warm and inviting sight to others beyond our understanding. When They cross over into our realm, The Tales begin...... A gambler taking one last desperate throw of the dice. A struggling writer making an unholy alliance. An eternal being fighting to stay alive in the financial capital of India. A man burdened with a terrible town secret. The Law Enforcers who must never cry. The End of Days live and direct from the rural heartland of England.
The blood is warm, the sulphur is burning, the tales will be told, the Apocalypse Minor is imminent!

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Excerpt:
‘Above them, the azure of the sky was torn by a crack. It was difficult to accurately measure how large the hole was. The more the reporter concentrated on it, the more it seemed to shift and blur as if it knew that the men below were observing and measuring it. It seemed to flatten, then expand and then flatten again, growing wider with every expansion. Thin filaments of stuff poked through the hole, questing and searching the space around it before disappearing back. It’s tasting the air. The thought startled him. It wasn’t alive whatever it was. Strange, certainly. Unexpected? Most definitely. But not alive. This was one for the scientists. He would make his report, get Murray to air it, and leave it with people far more qualified and clever than he. Reporting from the Twilight Zone wasn’t in his remit, at all. As he watched, the crack opened up, wider this time. Silence. It was total, suffocating.Even the birds had stopped singing. The hairs on J.D’s neck raised in stiff salute as the atmosphere became heavy with expectation.He heard the men shuffling nervously behind him. His annoyance grew as tried to mask his own fear. It was time to take control of this situation. Wasn’t that what Quigley would do?He turned, an angry look on his face.“What the fuck’s the matter with—”A low groaning stopped him dead. It boomed from the sky, echoing around them. Mac’s eyes widened, Mullen became pale. Earl raised a quizzical eyebrow but that was the extent of his response. He wasn’t an emotional sort. He was too stoned anyway.The groaning sound continued for a moment before tailing off into an ear splitting keening. J.D. clapped his hands to his ears as the pitch became too intense to bear. It was no use. The sound seeped through his hands as if they were not there. Pain spiked behind his eyes. He screamed, sinking to his knees. The pitch became higher, rattling the filling in his molars. He felt a warm gush as the blood vessels in his nose let go. The world canted sideways, then became dark. He keeled over.
“Wake up, man, wake up.” He groaned, pushing away the insistent hands that kept shoving and shaking him.“No school today, mum. It’s a holiday.” He mumbled incoherently as hands dragged him up to a sitting position. “J.D, shape up, man.”Annoyed, the reporter lashed out groggily. A hand smashed his cheek, whipping his head to the side. Clarity returned to him, the slap stinging his face. He looked around. Sickening pain lanced his head, reaching a crescendo before subsiding into a low level buzz. His vision clearing, he noticed a peculiar tint to the daylight. The world looked greener than before.Have I had a stroke or something? He moved his legs and arms and looked up. Mac crouched in front of him, his face pale, almost beige. His lips and chin were coated with crimson, trails of blood leading from his nose. They all had nosebleeds, it seemed. Mac’s eyes were large, agitated and lined with red.“Thank fuck you’re awake. Look man, we’ve gotta get the fuck out of here. That thing’s got even bigger.” His voice was panicky, the words tumbling out in a rush.Irritated and groggy, J.D. pushed him away and struggled to his feet. His senses cleared and returned, but the green tint to the daylight remained. Mac spun him around, pointing back to the strange portal.“Look at that. You can’t tell me that’s normal.”J.D. looked up.What the ever-living fuck is going on here? His mouth dropped open at the sight above them.The crack had increased in size and become rounder, yet jagged. A rotten, emerald light spilled from the hole in the sky. He felt relieved. He wasn’t having a stroke. The relief evaporated. There were sounds coming from the hole, slithering squelching sounds. He gulped, turning to the others. Earl had his boom mike raised, headphones on, his face blank as he recorded. Mac looked terrified, as did the farmer. J.D. stepped up to him, his face within kissing distance. He jerked a thumb toward the hole.“That noise! Is that what you heard last night?” Mullen merely nodded, his face ashen, his lips moving in a soundless incantation. The man was very close to losing his mind. The squelching became a fraction louder. The reporter considered his options. This was beyond the scope of any of them. Maybe it was better to let the authorities take care of it. Or maybe it was the biggest chance ever gifted to a struggling, disrespected, low-level reporter. The idea appealed. This could be the event that would propel him past his smug rival and his horrid boss.  He looked over at Mac. “Have you called it in?” Mac shook his head.“Why not?”The darker skinned man snorted in disbelief, gesturing at the green tear. “Have you fucking seen what’s going on? What’s the point of calling it in to Murray? I called the police.” Mac really must have been terrified. He had no love for the boys in blue. “What did they say?” The camera man shrugged. “That they were aware of the situation and that the army was on their way. People can see the light as far away as Leicester, Kettering, even Brum. When I told them about the other stuff, the guy on the phone said, and I quote, “what stuff?’” J.D. turned this over in his mind. They were at the epicentre of this, able to see clearly what others at a distance could not. The footage shot would be pure gold.’




About the Author:
J.G Clay was born in Leamington Spa, Warwickshire on Halloween night, 1973. By sheer coincidence, it was the night of the full moon. The man was tailor made for the Horror Genre. A life-long horror and science fiction fan, he has written for his own amusement since his teenage years, taking time off to do the usual things that adolescent boys do and growing up disgracefully. Now in his forties, he has returned to his passion for the dark, the weird and the twisted. Tales of Blood and Sulphur is his first foray into the world of the Author but rest assured, there are plenty more stories to come. The man has a plan and he is out to scare the world, the solar system and beyond. Off duty, he has a passion for music, films and Birmingham City FC. He can also hold down a half decent bassline. J.G lives with his wife and step-daughter in Rothwell, Northamptonshire – the heart of the English countryside, an idyllic setting but a strange one to find a Nightmare Child of Halloween.
http://jgclayhorrorauthor.com
https://www.facebook.com/jgclay1973
https://twitter.com/jgclay1
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8266846.J_G_Clay

Halloween on My Mind

Halloween is always on my mind- but it's really on my mind this week.

Today I've been getting things together for the PinUp2PinUp Sale Spooky Edition



I'll be at the sale as a vendor selling some signed copies of my books, Halloween earrings and bookmarks from Bewitching Book Swag and Vintage clothing from Bewitching Vintage Treasures. I might also have some costumes to sell if I can bear to part with any.
But you know, out with the old and in with the new.
I've been scanning all the new stuff at www.PureCostumes.com trying to get my kids to decide what they want to be this year. So far the list is a mile long...oh I like this...and this and this...I hope they'll each pick something soon.

Anyway, if you're in Flint August 29 and need something for Halloween or for PinUp Photo Shoots, drop by and see what you can find. In addition to the sale their will be hair, makeup, mini photo shoots and a Pin Up Contest.

The Secrets of Love and Death by E. Van Lowe and Sal Conte

ROMANCE IN GHOST STORIES
I loved the movie Ghost .
I mean I LOVEDit!
And after all these years I still do (the movie came out in 1990—twenty-five years ago).  That’s because paranormal stories create a sense of heightened anxiety, and romantic stories do as well.  Horror and romance are perfect together because the two can create an awesome sensory experience in a movie, as they did for me with Ghost , and they can also create an unputdownable read.  Writers need to learn how to take advantage of this, because we readers and movie goers eat up romantic horror with a big ole spoon.
In my latest novel, The Secrets of Love and Death (White Whisker Books), I channel the spirit of the movie Ghost —pun intended.  In the book I set out to create a ghost story that while very different form Ghost , captures the same heightened anxiety amidst a fantastic love story.
The Setup: A tragic young life turns joyous when 13 year-old Theo “Turtle” Dawson meets Rita Calderon.  Love between the young couple blooms, and we’re rooting for that love.  Then, Turtles older brother (whom he idolized growing up) returns from the grave (Adrian died in a car accident two years earlier) in the form of a vengeful ghost… or, is he something else all-together?   It’s a horror story, so things go south pretty quickly.
I won’t spoil it for you by revealing anything more. The Secrets of Love and Death is available today and tomorrow for just 99 cents (reduced from $5.99). Please go to the book’s Amazon page and see what reviewers are already saying about it (seventeen 4 and 5 star reviews) and then pick up your copy while it’s still available at the 99 cent bargain price.
I am also sponsoring The Sweet Chocolate Secrets of Love and Death Giveaway featuting a prize worth over $100. Why not check out both the book and the giveaway before time runs out.
And, if you’re around today, August 14th at 6 pm Eastern, stop by my The Secrets of Love and Death Virtual Launch Party on Facebook. #Virtuallaunchparty I plan to give a prize away every 6 minutes, and the first drink is on me.  The party will be hosted on my Facebook fan page: https://www.facebook.com/author.e.vanlowe

If you can’t make the party, you can find me at my usual haunts.

The Secrets of Love and DeathE. Van Lowe and Sal Conte
Genre: Romantic/Horror
Publisher: White Whisker Books
Date of Publication: July 12, 2015
ISBN: 13: 2940150851580ASIN: B010IFNF2Q
Number of pages: 270Word Count: 104,269
Cover Artist: Deb Daly
Book Description:
Theo "Turtle" Dawson is overweight, under-confident and unloved, that is until the arrival of Turtle's new classmate, feisty Rita Calderon. It's springtime in Foster City, and young love between the teenage couple begins to bloom, until...
...Turtle's best friend, big brother returns from the grave. At least that's what A.D. wants Turtle to believe. Is A.D. really back among the living, or is Turtle going loony-bin crazy? And if Turtle's loving brother has returned, why is he asking Turtle to do such murderous things? "The Secrets of Love and Death" is a ghostly tale of romance and horror, memories, and murder.
ebook On Sale for .99
Aug 14-16
Available at  Amazon   BN

“The Secrets of Love and Death will tug on your heartstrings while simultaneously scaring the pants off you. A triumphant coming-of-age tale with a dash of the supernatural and a twist of gritty horror, The Secrets of Love and Death may be Van Lowe’s best novel yet!” – Anabelle Blume, author of Frozen Heart and Melted Tears.
“E. Van Lowe and his dark twin, Sal Conte, dig deep in The Secrets of Love and Death and come up with emotional gold. Not for the faint of heart, The Secrets of Love and Death will grab you by the throat and not let go until the horror-filled, page-turning ending.” - John Lansing, author of the bestselling thrillers, The Devil’s Necktie and Blond Cargo
Prologue
Spring 1984
“I don’t wanna go out!”Marty McKenzie was scrunching up his face, looking very much like that prune-faced old guy in the Six Flags commercials. He’d been lying on the floor playing with his Legos which were splayed out before him like the ruins of an ancient city. “See, that’s the thing,” said Marty’s older sister, Allison. She pushed her glasses up onto her nose. “You’re not goin’ with me.”Marty’s expression shifted, morphing from one of protest to one of concern—dire concern. He stopped playing and sat up. They weren’t real Legos. His father had bought the blocks for Marty’s fifth birthday when he visited almost a year ago. He told Marty they were Legos, but Marty new better. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t want his father feeling bad about being gypped at the Lego store. The Legos were one of the few gifts Marty’s father had ever bought for him. He treasured them. “You can’t leave me,” he said, his voice going high and whiny, like a baby’s. Even he heard it.“I’m not leaving you. I’m treating you like a grownup for once in your life. You don’t want me treatin’ you like a little baby anymore, right?” Allison knew full well no little kid wanted to be treated like a baby, especially one as close to being a baby as Marty was.“But Mommy says I’m not to be left home alone,” Marty replied, his voice going even higher. He tried keeping it level. Put some base into yer voice, I say! Yet the babiness crept back in. “That’s because Mom thinks you’re a little baby,” Allison said, laying on the word—baaaby—extra heavy. “But I know better.” She winked at him. “We both do, don’t we?” she said, playing her six-year-old brother like a well-worn instrument.Marty nodded. He was ascared of being left in the apartment all by himself. But he knew if he told Allison about the monster that lived in the closet, or the one that hung out under his bed, she’d laugh and call him a scaredy-cat, or worse, a baaaby.             Even at his age, Marty was wise enough to know that at twelve, Allison was too old to understand there really were monsters out there, monsters that had their eyes on tasty little kids.             A few years ago she would have sympathized with him. A few years ago they’d both hidden under the covers, quaking in the darkness and talking in loud voices until the monsters went away. But somewhere between the sixth and seventh grades the monsters stopped being real for Allison, around the same time she started writing boys’ names on the inside cover of her notebook.             “Where’re ya goin’?” Marty asked, trying to add some grownup to his voice and failing miserably at it.             “To the mall, with some friends. We’re shopping for something fun to wear to a party next weekend.”            “Can I—”            “No!” the word exploded from her lips. “You can’t go to the mall with me, and you definitely can’t go to the party. It’s at night, anyway.”            “Who has a party at night time? That’s dumb,” Marty said, although the idea of a night time party sounded pretty cool, as long as there were lots of lights burning. It was darkness that was scary.            “You are not to answer the door while I’m gone. Do I make myself clear?” she said in a tone very much like one their mother might have used.            Marty nodded again. He was happy for Allison. She’d made some friends. Allison had had a hard time making friends during the past two years as the family bounced from shelter to shelter. Marty knew from first-hand experience that Allison made a wonderful friend.  She was kind and caring. Unfortunately, those qualities hadn’t been recognized in Allison’s last school. In her last school, all they saw was the homeless girl.             “What am I supposed to do the whole time you’re gone?” Marty asked.            “The same thing you always do—play. And this time you’ll have our bedroom all to yourself. How cool is that?”            Marty looked toward the bedroom he shared with his sister, the only bedroom in the apartment. Their mother slept on the pullout in the living room where he was now playing. His thoughts again turned to the monster that lived in the closet, and his pal lurking under Marty’s bed, and Marty could practically see the two of them licking their chops at the thought of having him all to themselves.            “Think I’ll play out here while you’re gone,” he told her with a resigned sigh.            “Suit yourself.”             From the look on Allison’s face, it hadn’t dawned on her that he’d be afraid. To ease her guilt, she built the neatest pillow fort and stocked it with enough books, coloring books, toys and puzzles to keep Marty busy until she got back. She even brought the Captain Crunch cereal box from the kitchen and told him he could snack from it right there in the living room—just like a grownup.             “These are your rations,” she said, handing it to him. He smiled at that one, and it eased some of the guilt that had been gripping her heart.            “Thanks.”            Allison deposited Marty in the center of the fort, gave him a big hug, and reminded him not to open the door for anyone.             “This is just between you and me,” she said, her voice lowering dramatically. “I don’t want you blabbin’ my business to Mom when she gets home from work. Got it?”            Marty nodded. His tongue was desert dry.            “I’ll bring you some ice cream, you little con man,” she said, rubbing her hand across the top of his head.            “That’d be nice,” he replied with the shadow of a smile. “Chocolate.”            It would be the last thing they’d ever say to each other.            The sound of Allison moving away from the door, her footsteps retreating down the stairs—away, away, away—died in Marty’s ears. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he called. Of course, she couldn’t hear him. He laughed high and loud. It was a fake laugh and when it died, Marty realized he was alone.            The first thing he noticed about being alone was how quiet the apartment was without Allison or his mother there. No chattering voices of the two of them going at it again, no music from the radio filling up the empty spaces. Phoebe kept the radio on whenever she was home.            “Dance to the music!” Sometimes she’d sing along with a song on the radio, grab Marty and dance him around the apartment. “You’re my new leading man,” she’d say, twirling him.            “Stop, Mom!” he’d cry out, but he enjoyed dancing with her. He especially enjoyed that she was happy again.             With both Phoebe and Allison gone, the apartment was nighttime quiet, even though Marty could see the bright Spring sun streaming in through the living room blinds, casting long shadows on the faded carpet.            He looked down at the treasure Allison had dumped in his fort before she left. Think I’ll read. I’m a big boy now, and that’s what big boys do. We don’t play; we read.            Marty picked up his favorite book, Tall Timber Tales, about Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. He decided to read the part about where Babe drank the entire Grand Coulee River. He wasn’t sure how big the Grand Coulee was, but he knew it was a lot of water.            He’d gotten the book when he was small, picked it out himself off a table at The Salvation Army. Allison used to read it to him at night back at the shelter, back when all he could do was look at the pictures. But now that he was a big boy, he could read it all by himself—sort of. He opened to the section with the picture of Babe drinking the river and pretended to read… What was that?            A sound. A soft, sliding sound had come from Marty and Allison’s bedroom. It sounded to Marty as though someone or… something had slid out from underneath his bed.            “Hello.” No answer. Of course there wasn’t an answer. There’s nothing there. It’s just my magination. Allison complained about his overactive magination all the time.            “I know there’s no monster there,” Marty called out. “So you may as well get back under the bed.” Nothing.            Marty glanced down at the book in his lap. He folded it back to the picture of Paul and Babe on the cover. He enjoyed staring at the picture on the cover because when he did, he could magine himself hangin’ out with old Paul and Babe. He could magine so good that sometimes it was as if he was right there with them.             Skreek!            Marty’s attention was again drawn to the bedroom. He peered wide-eyed around the arm of the old couch because this time he was certain he’d heard the closet door opening, certain he now heard whispering—monster voices.             I gotta get outta here. The thought drifted in like an early season snow, yet stuck like the first big fall of the year. If I don’t leave now, all they’ll find of me are bones and clothes. Monsters only eat the good stuff. Then, another thought drifted in. Scaredy-cat.             That’s what Allison would call him for being so afraid. And I thought you were a big boy… I AM A BIG BOY!             Marty began to rationalize: I’m a big kid. Big kids can go out all by themselves—just like Allison did. The idea of him being a big boy was a lot more palatable than thinking he was afraid. Marty clung to it like a lifeline. He wasn’t leaving the apartment ‘cause he was scared, he was leaving because he wanted to go to the mall, too. He wanted to hang out with his friends. Shoot.            Marty gingerly got up off the floor and measured his footsteps to the front door. He could hear the monsters gathering in the bedroom, their excited chatter no longer whispered. Why whisper? He’s all alone. He knew if he tried to run they’d get him. Monsters loved grabbing little boys as they ran. He needed to move toward the door as if he wasn’t afraid.             The shelter they’d lived in on Saul Road was a scary place, especially at night. Allison had told him to count to ten whenever he needed to walk down the long hallway all by himself. She told him whenever he was afraid to take a deep breath, count to ten and let it out slowly. “Just keep telling yourself there’s nothing there, and pretty soon you’ll be down the hall.”            Marty had used the trick several hair-raising times at the shelter, and it seemed to have worked, so he gently placed the Paul Bunyan book on top of a pillow and sucked in a lung full of air. One. He took a furtive step over the pillowed wall, one foot now resting just outside the fort, the other still in. Two. Now the other leg came over, easy, easy. He let out a little bit of the air as both feet rested outside the fort.            Gotta get to the door. Gotta move to the door like I’m not afraid. If I’m afraid, they’ll get me.            Three.             Marty took a jangly step toward the door, then--four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He bolted across the room. Arriving at the door, he flung it open and let out the deep breath in a big whoosh! The monsters had quieted down. They only bothered little kids, and he’d proven he was a big boy now.            Kathunk!            This new sound came just as Marty was thinking he was safe. It caught him off guard, and he nearly leapt out of his skin like a snake in shed-mode. He charged out the front door, fleeing into the corridor of the apartment building.             It was the sound of Marty’s book falling from the pillow and hitting the floor that had alarmed him, but to Marty’s imaginative ears, it was the sound of a monster exiting the bedroom, looking for a little boy to eat.            Marty looked back at the apartment door hanging open, and decided to leave it open. He surmised that if the door was wide open maybe the monsters’d leave while he’s gone and never come back. He was too young to realize that leaving the front door open in a neighborhood as iffy as theirs was an invitation for the McKenzie’s precious possessions to walk away along with the monsters.            He moved downstairs and out into the crowded street. It was broad daylight, and the sun beat down on the top of Marty’s head feeling good. The street was teeming with people, and Marty was no longer afraid. The people were passing by as if he belonged there. Not one person said: “Hey little boy, where’s your mother?”             Allison is going to crap a brick when she sees me at the mall, Marty thought with a grin. “What are you doing here?” “Oh, just came to hang out with some of my boys. You know, Paul, Babe, the crew.” Hahaaa!            Yet as Marty continued walking, it started getting scary out on the street all by himself. Everyone looked as if they knew where they were going. But so do I. I’m going to the mall.             As he neared the Canal Street alley, his footsteps slowed. The Canal Street alley wasn’t actually an alley. It was a narrow pedestrian walkway between two tall buildings that connected Main Street with Fair Oaks. On any given Saturday the alley was heavily trafficked. Call it a fluke, call it a moment in time, call it a curveball, but when Marty arrived at the alley on Saturday June fifteenth nineteen eighty-four, it was ominously vacant of foot traffic.             He thought he remembered the alley being the shortcut to the mall. He remembered going through the alley with Allison and his mother to go shopping. Or was that his magination? No. He was sure.            He stopped at the alley entrance. His first inclination was to wait for other pedestrians to pass through and then mosey through along with them. With the buildings being so close together, the alley was heavily shadowed; the shadows were really scary.             But Marty also remembered he was a big boy now. He waited another few minutes, and when no one came along, he breathed in deeply and entered the ally all by himself.  One. The cobblestones of the alley felt odd and slick beneath his feet. It was then he realized he was still in his footsie PJs. He didn’t have on any shoes. Dumb! Allison is gonna crap a brick when she sees me out here without my sneaks on. But it was too late to turn back. He was closer to the mall than he was to the apartment. Who needs shoes anyway? Two. There were several scary looking doorways lining the alley, and a big marquee near the end that read Bijou Theater.            Three. Marty moved past the first of the ominous doorways and, as he did, he let out a little bit of the air. Not much further.            That’s when he heard a door scraping open up ahead. It startled him, the scraping sound in the quiet alley, like something out of a horror movie. His eyes grew wide as something emerged from the doorway, stepping into the alley. At first he thought it was a clown, but clowns are freakin’ scary and this thing wasn’t. This thing seemed warm, and cuddly, and friendly. Out of the doorway, down the alley, stepped a life-size blue teddy bear.             Marty knew it wasn’t a real bear. It couldn’t be. Right? It was a person in a bear costume, just like at the amusement park. Wasn’t it?            The giant teddy bear looked at Marty. It stopped moving, eyeing him cautiously, like a deer in the woods seeing a hunter for the first time.              Is it trembling?             At that moment the teddy bear seemed real. The teddy bear also seemed to be afraid of him. Marty started to call out It’s okay, don’t run, I’m not gonna hurt you.  But before he could speak, the teddy bear began to dance. It was a silly teddy bear dance and Marty was happy to see that the teddy bear had overcome his fear.             The teddy bear was a lot like Marty. Hadn’t Marty been afraid not too long ago? Now they were both in the alley, unafraid. The kindred bear danced his silly dance up the alley toward Marty, and for the first time since Allison had left him in the apartment all alone, Marty smiled.
About the Author:
E. Van Lowe is an author, television writer and producer who has worked on such TV shows as "The Cosby Show," "Even Stevens," and "Homeboys In Outer Space." He has been nominated for both an Emmy and an Academy Award. His first YA Paranormal novel, "Never Slow Dance With A Zombie," was a selection of The Scholastic Book Club, and a nominee for an American Library Association Award.  Included in his many books are bestselling novels, “Boyfriend From Hell” and “Earth Angel.” 
He is also, horror novelist, Sal Conte, author of the 80s horror classics “Child’s Play” and “The Power.”  Sal’s short stories “The Toothache Man,” and “Because We Told Her To,” are available as ebooks only on Amazon.
E lives in Beverly Hills California with his spouse, a werewolf, several zombies and a fairy godmother who grants him wishes from time-to-time.
Website: http://evanlowe.com
Twitter: @Evanlowe @SalConte1
Facebook fan: https://www.facebook.com/author.e.vanlowe
Amazon Author page: http://www.amazon.com/E.-Van-Lowe/e/B004IJHGQ0/
Sal Conte’s author page: http://www.amazon.com/Sal-Conte/e/B003ZLRXDI/
Goodreads:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25885956-the-secrets-of-love-and-death

Enter the  Sweet Chocolate Secrets  You Will Love to Death Giveaway featuring a grab bag of goodies worth over $100.  
The giveaway ends August 27th. The prize can be shipped anywhere in the US and Canada.  

Guest Blog with Lee French- Girls Can't Be Knights

Justin is a a good example of my favorite kind of male character. He's a noble dumbass, a guy who believes in doing the right thing and tries very hard to do the right thing, but isn't quite smart enough to grasp the full range of cause and effect possibilities. He's empathetic and strong, and often his own worst enemy.

Claire is more of a "what if" character. Orphans are fairly standard as teenaged main characters. After all, if they had parents, these kids wouldn't be running around saving the world, they'd be doing their homework. In Claire's case, the question is: What if there was an order of knights that's always been exclusively male, and suddenly a girl is thrown into it through no fault or action of her own?

In deciding how to have them relate to each other, romance was off the table from the beginning. With Justin being a responsible father of two young girls, I settled him at age 24, then got squicked out by the idea of him romancing a 16 year old girl. Ick. Claire does crush on him briefly, because I remember being a teenage girl and crushing on the dashing older guy type, but she's disabused of that notion quickly.

Instead, they have a mentor/apprentice relationship. He's there to teach her how to do their crappy job of ghost hunting, and to protect her from the things she isn't strong enough to handle yet. As the story progresses, it deepens into a father/daughter dynamic, which I found satisfying to write. It seems to be difficult to find fantasy stories about family bonds rather than romantic bonds, and I'm looking forward to exploring the theme further in the sequel, Backyard Dragons. I expect the sequel to be released sometime in 2016.

GIRLS CAN’T BE KNIGHTS, 
Lee French

Myrddin Publishing, June 12, 2015
Ebook ISBN: 9781680630312
Print ISBN: 9781680630305

228 pages 

Portland has a ghost problem.

Sixteen-year-old Claire wants her father back. His death left her only memories and an empty locket. After six difficult years in foster care, her vocabulary no longer includes “hope” and “trust.”

Everything changes when Justin rides his magical horse into her path and takes her under his wing. Like the rest of the elite men who serve as Spirit Knights, he hunts restless ghosts that devour the living.

When an evil spirit threatens Claire’s life, she’ll need Justin’s help to survive. And how could she bear the Knights’ mark on her soul? Everybody knows Girls Can’t Be Knights.

Available at Amazon



 
Author, Gamer, Squirrel Aficionado

Lee French lives in Olympia, WA, and is the author of several books, most notably the Maze Beset Trilogy, The Greatest Sin series (co-authored with Erik Kort), and assorted tales in her fantasy setting, Ilauris. She is an avid gamer and active member of the Myth-Weavers online RPG community, where she is known for her fondness for Angry Ninja Squirrels of Doom. In addition to spending much time there, she also trains year-round for the one-week of glorious madness that is RAGBRAI, has a nice flower garden with one dragon and absolutely no lawn gnomes, and tries in vain every year to grow vegetables that don’t get devoured by neighborhood wildlife.

She is an active member of the Northwest Independent Writer’s Association and the Pacific Northwest Writer’s Association, and serves as the co-ML for the Olympia region of NaNoWriMo.

How Horror Stories Saved A Lonely Kid with Michael J. Bowler

How Horror Stories Saved A Lonely Kid  From as far back as I can remember I loved horror films and scary stories. Back in the day when I was a child, I got hooked on the old Universal horror flicks from the 1930s, 40s, and 50s. My best friends were Frankenstein’s monster, the Wolfman, Dracula, the Mummy, the Invisible Man, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon . I watched these movies endlessly on the Saturday afternoon movie channels or on Creature Features. I had them memorized. No joke. I could recite complete scenes word for word, and perform the lines in the same accents as the actors. People like Lon Chaney, Jr., Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, and even Maria Ouspenskaya (I could remember the spelling of her name before I was ten) were the celebrities I favored, not the rock stars of the day like my peers. I fell in love with the music scores, most of which were composed by German-born Hans J. Salter. I’d put a cassette recorder up to the TV speaker and record the films onto audiocassette so I could listen to them over and over again. Okay, I was a weird kid. LOL
I didn’t understand until much later in life that my love of these films and characters fed the sense of isolation I felt from everyone around me. I was a shy kid, yes. But more than that, I was born with a hearing loss that impaired my ability to understand with clarity what people around me were saying. There were no hearing aids at the time that could help me, and no one in the family or at school had hearing loss like me. Even my grandmother could hear better than me when she was ninety years old! So I was very much in a world of my own, a true outsider that no one around me could fully understand.
Horror films are otherworldly, about people outside the “normal” spectrum, often shy loners like me who didn’t fit in. I felt immense empathy for The Creature from the Black Lagoon, uprooted from his home, brought to a strange place, and put on display for people to gawk at. Frankenstein’s monster, especially as portrayed by Boris Karloff in the first three films, was incredibly sympathetic. He was misunderstood by everyone. All he wanted was love and acceptance (like all of us.) His ugliness frightened people so they rejected him. Those films inspired me to read the original book, and through that story I felt an even greater kinship with the monster. I wasn’t physically ugly like him, no, but I was “weird” in the eyes of my peers. I would give strange answers to questions, or respond oddly to a statement, or react incongruously to something another child did simply because I couldn’t hear correctly. But because I wore no hearing aids and the disability was invisible, even I would forget it was there and think I was just stupid or dumb for how I responded or acted in a given situation. I struggled in every group activity because the noise and chattering from other kids made it much harder for me to understand them clearly. And team sports? Let’s not even go there!
So horror was, for me, an escape into a world where even weird people have a place and a purpose in life. Horror films helped me manage my own fear when I’d be confronted with something new and scary. My favorite TV show as a child was “Dark Shadows,” a daily soap opera populated with outsiders like me. The main character was a vampire who didn’t want to be a vampire, just like I didn’t want to be hard of hearing. Barnabas Collins tried so many ways to “cure” his vampirism, but they all backfired on him. The message to me, a young boy, was that even as a vampire he could still be a good person, successful and well liked. And that meant maybe I could be, too. Those characters got me through middle school. They were my friends when I didn’t have any. They taught me lessons about life and death, love and fate. Good horror always does this while also stimulating our imagination and filling our hearts with dread.

In Spinner, I attempted to create this kind of horror tale, one that will engage all the emotions, not just fear. The teen characters are like me, outsiders with disabilities who don’t fit the “norm.”  But they accept very quickly that something dangerous and otherworldly is happening to them and they use the skills they do have to solve the mystery and save lives. Spinnerhas lots of traditional horror “scare scenes,” but it also features action, excitement, sadness, the power of friendship and family, and the overriding need for all of us to find our place in the world. Horror helped one lonely boy find his way through life. Maybe, with Spinner, that boy can pay it forward to someone else.
SpinnerMichael J. Bowler
Genre: teen horror/mystery
Publisher: YoungDudes Publishing
Date of Publication: August 5, 2015
ISBN: 978-0-9946675-1-9
Number of pages: 464Word Count: 138K
Cover Artist: Louis C. Harris
Book Description:
Fifteen-year-old Alex is a “spinner.” His friends are “dummies.” Two clandestine groups of humans want his power. And an ancient evil is stalking him. If people weren’t being murdered, Alex might laugh at how his life turned into a horror movie overnight.
In a wheelchair since birth, his freakish ability has gotten him kicked out of ten foster homes since the age of four. Now saddled with a sadistic housemother who uses his spinning to heal the kids she physically abuses, Alex and his misfit group of learning disabled classmates are the only ones who can solve the mystery of his birth before more people meet a gruesome end.
They need to find out who murdered their beloved teacher, and why the hot young substitute acts like she’s flirting with them. Then there’s the mysterious medallion that seems to have unleashed something malevolent, and an ancient prophecy suggesting Alex has the power to destroy humanity.
The boys break into homes, dig up graves, elude kidnappers, fight for their lives against feral cats, and ultimately confront an evil as old as humankind. Friendships are tested, secrets uncovered, love spoken, and destiny revealed.
The kid who’s always been a loner will finally learn the value of friends, family, and loyalty.
If he survives…

Available at Amazon

Excerpt:
As Roy stepped into the room, flickering light from behind the door caught their attention. Alex swung the beam to his right, and stiffened.Roy’s breath froze as he followed the beam of light. Off to one side, against the same wall as the door, stood a kind of altar, with black candles flickering and guttering softly, casting a creepy glow on the contents of the table. Glancing around nervously, Roy hefted the slipping Alex a bit higher and inched toward this strange looking table with its weird items. He leaned closer to get a better view. There were two carved statues about as big as his hand, a male and female, but distorted and creepy, with jeweled eyes that flickered in the candle light and seemed to follow him as he moved. What looked like a goat skull sat in the middle with big curved horns. The white of the bleached bone sent chills down Roy’s spine. Several stone bowls filled with different colored powders were set on either side of the two statues. The candles were numerous, arranged in a triangle. Set within the triangle of candles was some kind of webbing, almost like spider silk, but thicker. And under the webbing, like food awaiting the spider, was Alex’s music box. “There it is!” Roy blurted, quietly cursing himself for the outburst. “Yeah,” Alex agreed with a nervous sigh. “And look what’s covering it.”Roy studied the webbing again, and something clicked in his memory, but before he could say it, Alex spoke again, “It’s the necklace, Roy, the one I found.”Roy stiffened. That was it! It was the same.“Put me on the bed,” Alex whispered urgently. Grateful for even a brief respite, Roy backed a few steps to the edge of the bed and sat carefully so as to not crush Alex with his weight. He released Alex’s legs and Alex let go, and then Roy was free. He scooted over next to his friend, feeling the warmth of Alex’s hand brush his as he did, and shuddered at the weird stuff laid out before him.Alex offered a grin. “Don’t tell Izzy we was on her bed. He’ll freak.”Roy almost laughed, and that felt good. His stomach was knotted up and his back ached from carrying Alex. That second of relief meant a lot.Alex slipped the medal out from under his shirt, and shone his flashlight beam on it. It was identical to the web protecting the music box. And then it began to glow.“Oh, shit!” Roy blurted, clamping a hand over his mouth as he recoiled.But Alex didn’t say anything. He just stared at the glowing medal in his hand and then looked at the larger version covering his property. It began to glow, too.“What do you think it means?” Roy whispered anxiously, his heart thumping.Alex turned to him. “An alarm maybe?”Roy’s eyes grew so wide the whites flashed. “You mean she knows we’re here?”Alex shrugged, shivering. “Somebody does. You feel it? We’re bein’ watched again.”Roy leapt up and snatched the flashlight from Alex, shakily waving its beam back and forth around the room. There was no one there. “Are you sure?”Alex nodded. “Sure.” He glanced at the table, and his music box. “Think you can get that out from under?”Roy swung the flashlight toward Alex so fast that his friend blinked furiously. Roy lowered the beam. “Sorry,” he said, his voice barely functioning as he gulped with terror. “You, uh, you want me to, like, reach in there?”Alex looked at Roy with obvious embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Roy. I would, but I can’t.” He indicated his position on the bed and the table several feet away.Roy gulped again, and nodded. He stepped forward slowly, half expecting something to come flying at him like the other night in his garage. But nothing moved except the candle flames. He stopped just before the table. The colored powders looked scary in the guttering candlelight, and he kept his eyes off the goat skull altogether. He examined the glowing web, and the fancy-looking music box beneath it.  “Think there’s electricity if I touch it?”Alex shrugged, glancing around nervously. Roy knew he could still feel eyes on them, and decided he’d better hurry. Turning to the web, he exhaled, fought his thrumming nerves, and reached out to touch the tip of his index finger to one of the strands. Revulsion filled him, and he yanked it back, his whole body trembling.“What?” He turned, his heart pounding, his eyes wide with disgust. “It felt like….” He couldn’t say it.“Like skin?” Alex offered flatly. Roy nodded with surprise. “Yeah. How’d you….”Alex held out the medal dangling from his neck. “This feels the same.”Heart thudding more desperately, Roy returned his gaze to the webbing, and the music box. He leaned down to get a side view, gauging how much space there was between the webbing and the table. The music box was at least as tall as his middle finger and the webbing didn’t quite touch the top of it. Yes, he could slide his hand under. But what would happen when he touched it? Would the webbing suddenly grab his hand and not let go?Alex’s eyes were fixed on the open door to the hall. Roy followed his gaze, but saw nothing. It was now or never. Sucking in another breath and releasing it slowly, Roy squatted on his haunches and slowly, with extreme care not to touch the webbing or the tabletop, slid his hand between the two and inched it closer and closer to the music box. Silence surrounded him. There was Alex’s breathing, and his own raspy, anxious breaths, but nothing else. He touched the plastic of the music box. Nothing happened. He exhaled and relaxed slightly. Cautiously wrapping his long, slender fingers around it, he slid the music box toward him.With a hideously loud screech, the cat landed on the table behind the webbing and swiped at his face with a massive forepaw.Roy yelped in surprise, yanked out his hand and tumbled back, landing on his butt and scuttling up against the bed. Alex’s leg brushed his shoulder, but he kept his eyes riveted to the massive, crouching animal before him. It opened its mouth. Sharp, jagged teeth gleamed in the candlelight, and it let loose with a fierce growl that sounded more like a tiger than a housecat.He jumped when Alex’s hand landed on his shoulder. “You okay?”Roy nodded.“Did it scratch you?”Roy shook his head. He wanted to look at Alex because that would make him feel strong. But no way would he turn away from that cat. And that’s when his phone vibrated insistently in his pocket. Oh, shit! He fumblingly slipped it out and opened the call. Izzy’s frantic voice poured forth, “She’s coming, she’s coming! Get the fuck outta there!”The voice was so loud even the cat looked momentarily startled. Alex reached for the phone and said, “Izzy, stay calm, man. Stop yelling or she’s gonna hear you. Where is she?”“Just went in the front gate,” came the frantic, but quieter response. “Hurry!”“Got it.” Alex ended the call and handed the phone to an anxious Roy. “We gotta jet now.” He glared fiercely at the cat. “Fuck you, bitch! I’m gonna get my music box back. You’ll see.”Roy turned to look at the cat. It titled its head. It was listening, and it understood.

About the Author:
Michael J. Bowler is an award-winning author of eight novels––A Boy and His Dragon, A Matter of Time (Silver Medalist from Reader’s Favorite), and The Knight Cycle, comprised of five books: Children of the Knight (Gold Award Winner in the Wishing Shelf Book Awards), Running Through A Dark Place, There Is No Fear, And The Children Shall Lead, Once Upon A Time In America, and Spinner.
His horror screenplay, “Healer,” was a Semi-Finalist, and his urban fantasy script, “Like A Hero,” was a Finalist in the Shriekfest Film Festival and Screenplay Competition.
He grew up in San Rafael, California, and majored in English and Theatre at Santa Clara University. He went on to earn a master’s in film production from Loyola Marymount University, a teaching credential in English from LMU, and another master's in Special Education from Cal State University Dominguez Hills.
He partnered with two friends as producer, writer, and/or director on several ultra-low-budget horror films, including “Fatal Images,” “Club Dead,” and “Things II,” the reviews of which are much more fun than the actual movies.
He taught high school in Hawthorne, California for twenty-five years, both in general education and to students with learning disabilities, in subjects ranging from English and Strength Training to Algebra, Biology, and Yearbook.
He has also been a volunteer Big Brother to eight different boys with the Catholic Big Brothers Big Sisters program and a thirty-year volunteer within the juvenile justice system in Los Angeles.
He has been honored as Probation Volunteer of the Year, YMCA Volunteer of the Year, California Big Brother of the Year, and 2000 National Big Brother of the Year. The “National” honor allowed him and three of his Little Brothers to visit the White House and meet the president in the Oval Office.
He is currently working on a sequel to Spinner.
His goal as a YA author is for teens to experience empowerment and hope; to see themselves in his diverse characters; to read about kids who face real-life challenges; and to see how kids like them can remain decent people in an indecent world.
www.michaeljbowler.com
FB: https://www.facebook.com/michaeljbowlerauthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/BradleyWallaceM
Blog: www.sirlancesays.wordpress.com
tumblr: http://michaeljbowler.tumblr.com/
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/michaelbowler/the-knight-cycle/
Freado: http://www.freado.com/book/16160/children-of-the-knight
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6938109.Michael_J_Bowler
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Michael-J.-Bowler/e/B0075ML4M4/

Paradise Rot by Larry Weiner

Paradise RotThe Island TrilogyBook OneLarry Weiner
Genre:  Satire/Dark Comedy
Publisher: Booktrope
Date of Publication: May 30, 2015
ISBN:  978-1-5137-0031-1ASIN: B00YLDWX66
Number of pages: 211
Cover Artist:  Larry Weiner
Book Description:
Kyle Brightman—late of the advertising industry and soon-to-be-late of the 5th floor psych ward—has a job offer he can’t refuse. A new resort in the Caribbean is looking for an art director.
Kyle soon finds himself on the Isle of St. Agrippina working alongside a beautiful copywriter with an icy handshake. Questions arise: Why does the resort management team sport spray-on tans in the Bahamas? How can the resort offer such cheap vacation packages? What does one do with vats of Astroglide?
To get the answers, Kyle must first navigate a series of wildly unpredictable events with a cast of even more wildly unpredictable characters, including a seductress jungle assassin, her partially paralyzed talking Chihuahua, an Ivy League Rastafarian seaplane captain, Kyle’s ex-psych ward roommate, a former Haliburton mercenary, and a French tavern owner with a fondness for goats, all set to the greatest hits of the 70’s. Pablo Cruise never felt so right.
Book Trailer:  https://youtu.be/Yxscfui-5Tg

Amazon    BN


Excerpt: Chapter One
 “THERE’S A REASON WE PUT PATIENTS IN RESTRAINTS THIS WAY,” Hap the orderly explained. “See before, when it became necessary to administer a four-point restraint on someone, we’d just do the standard two feet to each side of the gurney and two wrists by the waist. Now we have you done up with the POS 2206 restraint which you’d have to pretty much be motherfuckin’ Houdini to get out of, see what I’m sayin’? We got one arm up and one down so you don’t pop your shoulder out of your socket. Does that matter to the average whack job that comes through here all spun out screaming about the end times or how the government implanted tiny computers in their heads? Nuh-uh. They just keep wigglin’ around as if their super human powers are gonna set them free. Forget it, son. Your body belongs to the St. Eligius psych ward, fifth floor, Seattle, Washington, in these United States of America.”
It was true.
Kyle Brightman lay restrained on the gurney looking something like a flamenco dancer striking a pose horizontally. Unlike flamenco dancers and their elaborate sequined outfits, Kyle was in jeans and a faded Clash T-shirt covered in eggs, tapenade, and mace. Also unlike flamenco dancers, Kyle had been tased in a supermarket. But then it had been a weird week in an off kilter year, so in retrospect it seemed fitting to be held down to a gurney in a hospital corridor getting a lesson in the history and technique of human body restraint from Hap, the large African American orderly schooled in human confinement arts. Kyle fully submitted to the restraints, finding them rather soothing— Temple Grandin was on to something, he thought. He also thought about the starting place on the long road of his downward spiral: from being fired from his advertising gig as an art director, to mowing the grass for a local golf course, and finally to freaking out on a couple of elderly women blocking the aisle in a supermarket because they wouldn’t move their carts a few inches over when he’d asked.
All in three months’ time.
In truth, the brain lock up had been a long time coming. A bitter divorce that had cost him his waterfront condo and his cat, Lester. The passed over promotion at work to a younger junior art director. The diagnosis of Bipolar II. The drinking. The petty shoplifting at the local Rite Aid. It was a perfect storm of anxiety and neurosis crashing down upon an already paranoid and erratic man with authority issues and a tendency toward drama.
But the idea of his mental state as a tornado gathering energy as it swept across his life was nothing new to Kyle or those around him. His moods were a dangerous balancing act of wit, anger, and a general cluelessness that on the best of days came across as mercurial.
He knew this about himself, and though countless therapists had talked him through his childhood, his mother, his school years, and subsequent launch into adulthood, everybody had yet to find a cure. As a creative director with similar tendencies had once put it to Kyle, he’d best learn to be an asshole with serious repenting skills if he was to survive at all, let alone in advertising.
In Kyle’s mind, every time he met a woman, took a job, or made a friend, he imagined a stop watch starting, ticking off the days, hours, minutes, seconds until eventually they would learn the truth about him: that his moods were like forecasting the weather. It was a seemingly mundane twist of fate then that Kyle Brightman would completely lose his shit because two aged, upper crust cronies wouldn’t move their shopping carts over enough for him to pass. If only he had known what they had been discussing (the cost increase in septic pumping/ whose Mexican gardener was better) he might have picked a more symbolic moment to melt down. But then, he had realized as he began cursing at the top of his lungs that he really wasn’t in the driver’s seat. And when he began to throw eggs at them, followed by a jar containing tapenade while knocking over a display rack of various energy bars, it became clear that he was now entering new territory.
Territory that would require restraints.
“When do I get out of the restraints?” Kyle asked Hap.
“That depends on you,” Hap said. “If you cooperate and let us do our job and you do yours you won’t see restraints again. But if you start to go sideways, we put you in the metal room, hose you down and go to work on you with rubber Billy maces.”
 “What?”
 “I’m fuckin’ with you. You’ll be fine. We’re gonna take you to your room. You’ll meet your roommate and we’ll get you on the road to recovery.”
Kyle hadn’t thought about recovery until it was mentioned. It was a rare instance that he lived in the moment. He was aware, strapped to the gurney, that he was extraordinarily tired.
“What if I don’t recover?” Kyle asked.
“You will,” Hap said. “I been doing this a long time and I can tell the ones who are gonna make it and the ones who fall through the cracks. You’re the first one.”
“What do you tell the ones who you know are gonna fall through the cracks?” Kyle asked.
“Same bullshit I told you,” Hap said.




About the Author:
Larry Weiner is the author of PARADISE ROT (BOOK ONE), ONCE AGAIN, WITH BLOOD (BOOK TWO) and the forthcoming HINDU SEX ALIENS (BOOK THREE) that make up the Island Trilogy. Larry earned a degree in film from CSULA and was an award-winning art director. He lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, two kids and a gaggle of animals. He plays bass and thus has poor hearing.
Visit his site at: http://www.larrynweiner.com
Join his Twitter feed at: @LarryNWeiner
Like him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/larrynweiner
Goodreads- https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7256424.Larry_Weiner

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