Bertena Varney's Blog, page 16

Dragonfly Girl by Logan Lansing

 

Dragonfly GirlLogan Lansing
Genre: RomancePublisher: Can’t Put it Down BooksDate of Publication: May, 2021ISBN: 978-1736597927ASIN: B093WXQ439Number of pages: 206 pagesWord Count: 46,800Cover Artist: Eric Labacaz 
Tagline: One Woman’s Search for Real Satisfaction
Book Description: 
AROUSING, POIGNANT, PROVOCATIVE 
After seven years in an unhappy and abusive relationship, Suzanne leaves her alcoholic husband and returns to her hometown to begin again. But returning home doesn’t necessarily grant serenity and security, it means dredging up old wounds—from meeting her former boyfriend, now the owner of a “gentlemen’s club,” to dealing with her mother’s recently acquired lifestyle. 
Gathering wisdom from an unlikely source in unexpected ways, Suzanne makes new friends in unusual places. They confirm her conviction that real satisfaction is not just for men. Her sexual enlightenment leads to danger but the risk to right some age-old wrongs brings her into a deeper connection with friends old and new and leads her toward a future filled with magic. 
In her dryly-funny debut erotic romance, author Logan Lansing titillates, surprises, and satisfies.
Amazon

 

Excerpt:

Before getting on the Parkway, I took the scenic route along the ocean to clear my head and inhale the briny odor of salty sea air. The familiar cries of distant squeals of children, cawing of gulls and the peaceful repetition and rhythm of waves drew me in. As I relaxed and loosened my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, I caught a glint of the thin gold band around the finger on my left hand. The same gold band that had been waiting seven years for the promised matching wedding ring. Jamming the gearshift into park, I jumped out, sprinted over burning sand and yanked off the ring, flinging it far into the ocean. At the same time thinking I should’ve sold it for cash.

Yeah, that would’ve been the smart thing to do.

                                                       ***

          Loud music thumped from my car radio as I pulled into the middle lane heading north to Mom’s on the Garden State Parkway. Tears built up as I cranked open the window, blew out a deep breath and sucked in freedom!

But now what?

I could spend the entire trip up to Summit hoping to shake the picture of Frank’s beer bloated face. And try to remember why it took seven years of marriage to leave such a loser.

Or…

 I could review all the things I did before I left. Laundry washed. Garbage out. Food in fridge. Check. Check. Check. No leftover guilt, no remaining regrets. Nothing. Only anger.

At myself.

 But I didn’t want to think about any of it, not the dilapidated trailer we lived in until the house Frank promised to build was started or the dog who lovingly stayed by my side during the whole shit-show or the education I never finished. Not about our marriage that fell apart even before the honeymoon or all the nights of Frank’s lousy drunken sex moves until he passed out and I was left hanging and alone.

Or…

I could make a plan. A serious plan for my future. After all, I had two years of Community College. A good start. And Mom would be thrilled to know I’d dumped Frank and wanted to go back to school. She might even pitch in some bucks. But did I want to listen to “I told you so,” a million times and her ongoing insistence that I attend Al-Anon because it saved her life.

The traffic had picked up and I was in unfamiliar territory. Exit signs in the 130’s whizzed by for Linden, Rahway. Wait! Didn’t I read in the class newsletter that Jerry Spinella was now managing his uncle’s bar somewhere around here? Oh, man, Jerry, my boyfriend from Summit High School before I met that low-life, Frank on the beach at the shore and threw away my future. What was the name of that bar? An odd name. Oh, right, Dr. Unk’s. It spelled d-r-u-n-k-s. Guess that said it all.

One drink. I’ll stop off for one drink and do what I should have done years ago.

Directions on my phone led me to a brick store front building sandwiched between two tall factories, the location basically hidden and ugly. There were only two trees on the entire sidewalk, each shading front windows of one of the factories. With all the vacant parking spaces on the street, I slid into one, adjusted the rear-view mirror in my direction and swiped on some lipstick. Stepping down from the van, I stretched, squinted into the sunlight for a moment and shoved open the humidity-swollen door that said Dr. Unk’s in chipped black lettering. As I adjusted my eyes to the dim entrance, I put my over-sized sunglasses on my head pushing back my hair and blinked my way further inside. The room was wider than it looked from the outside with a huge bar that ran the length of the place. Tables for two or four lined the edges of what seemed like a deserted dump.

My eyes narrowed as a door swung open and a backlit body of a tall man came out from the far end.

“Jerry?” My voice echoed off the dingy walls.

“We’re closed. Who wants to know?”

“It’s me, Suzanne Quinlan.”

The figure paused. “Suzy Q? Best ass in the class?”

I laughed. “The one and only.”

I stepped closer. Wearing jeans and no shirt, he didn’t move. Was he still angry after all these years?

Screw it.

I ran toward him and folded into his broad sweaty chest. As he pulled me in a scent memory sliced through: Jerry, me, back seat of his truck. It was after he had worked out. I loved being with him then. No fake spicy men’s cologne. Just Jerry.

“Hey,” I leaned back and looked up into his clear steel blue eyes ringed with dark lashes. “Even after all this time you smell like yourself.”

“That’s the way you liked it. Manly, you said.”

And there it was. His wide grin framed by dimples, spreading sunshine through the windowless room.  

How could I have given him up for Frank?

Taking me all in, Jerry put me at arms length before giving me a quick little spin. His eyes hesitated at chest level then rested on my face. “Lookin’ good, Suzanne. But come on, there’s no way you were just passing through this neighborhood. Let’s sit down and catch up.” As he draped his arm around my shoulder and steered me toward one of the tables, his hand slipped down and brushed my butt. I sat while he brought over two bottles of water from the bar and tried to ignore the low-level volt that hadn’t left.

I licked my parched lips, gulped some water and opened up. “I made a BIG mistake marrying Frank Wilson. You knew it, my mother knew it, all my girlfriends knew it. But not me. I was blinded by his beach-body muscles and the fact that he had an auto body shop at the shore. He seemed like an uncomplicated, undemanding, fun guy who loved cars and had a good start-up business. Looking back, I think I was desperate for a getaway from mom’s control and Dad’s drinking.”

I braced myself for the usual wave of sadness that followed thinking about dad but kept going.

“Jerry, please know it had nothing to do with how I felt about you. Anyway you were set to go to Rutgers for the next four years. Frank’s proposal seemed like the easiest solution for me. I had no idea he was an alcoholic and big bull shitter. So, today I left him. It was time. Way past time.”

 “And you’re here because…”

“Because I owe you an apology.”

His eyes widened.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Jerry. Really sorry.”

“I thought we had a good thing going. So, okay, I’ll admit I was upset when you left but there was no use trying to stop you,” he swallowed hard. “Moving on, Suz, what are your plans?”

“That’s the problem. I’d go back home to Summit with my tail between my legs but I hate the thought of listening to my mother. My eventual dream is to have my own business but first I need to make some money. Big money. So, maybe I’ll…”

“So, stay here.”

“Here?” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. His fingers strong, his touch warm.

I scanned the empty room while his grasp remained. “You’ve got to be kidding. I don’t see any customers.”

“It’s Sunday. We’re closed. But during the week and Saturdays, it’s jammed.”

“Seriously? What’s the draw? This place is dark and uh, seedy. Don’t like to hurt your feelings but just sayin’.”

“Watch.” Jerry slid his hands away from mine then walked over to the sidewall with that solid, athletic stride of his and flipped several switches.

Whoa! A disco sound system kicked on in sync with revolving white and colored lights that flooded the entire bar. All the scuffed furniture and graffiti faded away. The run-down place took on a newer, almost high-end look.

“Ohmygod, Jerry, It’s beautiful. I’m impressed.”

“When my uncle died, family members asked me if I would help save the place from going under. I agreed because they didn’t want to let the liquor license lapse. I thought it would be short term but after I put in the lights and built a DJ booth,” he pointed to a small stage on the side wall, “and hired some girls who could dance, the rest is history. My aim is to turn this from a bar for tired factory workers into an upscale Gentleman’s Club for all men.”

“I’m interested but what would I do? I never bartended and I sure as hell never stripped or danced around a pole.”

“You’repretty.” He leaned forward and smiled as I imagined seeing the wheels turn behind his eyes. “That’s a big plus.So what are your other talents?”

“Organizing and managing people. So far in my life I’ve sold myself short and played small. Now I want to change. And as you remember,” I said in a joking, well, okay, flirty way, “I do a fairly decent blowjob.”

Did I just say blowjob?

“Couldn’t forget that, Suz.” Jerry’s grin grew as the memory sunk in. “Here’s the deal,” he cleared his throat. “What you’re willing to do is going to determine how much money you’ll make. Talk to my manager, Julia. She’ll fill you in.” He hesitated. “But I have a few ideas of my own. And, I sure as hell could use a blonde around here.”

About the Author:  
Logan Lansing currently lives in New Jersey, not far from New York City, and spends summers in the Adirondacks or at the Jersey shore. She loves every dog she ever met and every cat that jumps into her lap.
Although Logan has written in a variety of other genres, Dragonfly Girl is her first erotic romance. No matter what category, her writing always has purpose that defines, draws and guides.
When not at the computer, Logan does a high intensity-boxing workout, appreciates a deep tissue massage and enjoys a good breakfast and stimulating conversation at a local diner.
Every day is an adventure to Logan as long as it includes fun, friends, family and fantasy.
https://loganlansing.com/

Feature The Curse of the Werewolf

 

The Curse of the Werewolf 
The werewolf originated in the times of ancient Greece when their gods reigned supreme.  During one fateful festivity, Lycaon, the son of Pelasgus, was in need of a meat to serve.  Too lazy to go hunting for wild game or to slaughter a lamb, he served the Greek god, Zeus (who was the ruler of the sky and of all gods and mankind), a meal made from the remains of a sacrificed boy. This severely enraged Zeus. As punishment, the angered god turned Lycaon and his sons into wolves. They were to be looked upon by the rest of humanity as something to abhor. 
Zeus’ lover Selene (who was the goddess of the moon) took pity on Lycoan’s family.  She felt it unfair to make them pay for a sin that they had no part of.  After much effort, she convinced Zeus to shorten the curse and allow them to enjoy humanity until they were of age to wed and breed.  (This age, at that time, was their early teens when their hormones took over and a girl became a woman and a boy became a man).  Instead of the curse being a constant, it would activate only during the hours of the full moon. All other times they were allowed to be human.  
Although she campaigned for the pain that was involved in the shift to be eliminated, she was only able to have it become lessened over time.
As for humanity’s viewpoint on the werewolf, she was able to do nothing to change it.
As centuries passed, new gods came into play and Zeus’ power faded enough to allow certain branches of Lycaon’s bloodline to  breed out the curse enough so that it often skipped generations. In some, it would afflict only one or two per generation.  In others, it remained dormant unless they were exposed to a werewolf’s venom or scratch.  
Because humanity abhorred and hunted them, they kept to themselves and hidden as best as they could.  This meant that many with a dormant werewolf curse in their genes never encountered a werewolf.  They had the good fortune to go through life never knowing their true selves.  
Those who were less fortunate and encountered a werewolf had the curse awaken in them.  As did those of a generation that followed one that was skipped, leaving them without others nearby to aid them in their shift.
Such is the curse of the werewolf.

Jasper: The BeginningBook OneEileen Sheehan
Genre: Paranormal Romance ThrillerPublisher: Earth Wise BooksDate of Publication: June 29, 2021ISBN: 979-8527979565ASIN: B097XFT4VTNumber of pages: 162Word Count: 55,511
Tagline: Taking a shortcut through a dark and remote alley on Halloween night proved to be a life changing decision of research scientist, Jasper Greene.
Book Description: 
Bitten by a zombie and brutally attacked by a group of werewolves, he was left for dead only to be discovered and rescued by a vampire king who took him home to heal. 
Delighted to discover that Jasper's research was on genetics with a focus on elongating life (for which he often used himself as a test subject due to lack of money), the vampire king assigned him the task of shifting the vampire DNA so that it was less obvious what they were when in the company of humans. 
With his assistant, Lila, in tow he was provided a lab and set to work. With toxins from werewolves and zombies mingling with the vampire blood he was provided during his healing time, Jasper struggled to adjust to his new body while he did his best to accommodate the vampires until the opportunity to escape presented itself. But, where does a man who has vampire, werewolf and zombie traits go?
The Beginning, is book 1 of the Jasper series.
Amazon      BN     Kobo     Apple     Smashwords

Excerpt… Even though he’d drawn blood, it wasn’t the zombie character who pummeled him to the ground. He was still trying to piece it together, but he was certain that the beating came from another source. Two. No, three men.

They came out of nowhere in wolf-like costumes and sliced off the head of the zombie dressed character with a large sword while Jasper was struggling to be free of him.  Jasper’s first thought was that he’d stumbled into a gang war zone of some type.  Gang battles were nothing to take lightly.  Although death was often a result of such battles, beheading wasn’t something that he’d read about in the news.

Traumatized to the point of being immobilized by what he’d just witnessed, he was unable to fight back when the three men proceeded to tackle him to the ground and pummel his body with fists, rocks, and, finally, a crowbar. It wasn’t until much later that he questioned why they’d left his head intact.

The attackers desire to closely mimic the character of the costumes they wore was both frustrating and shocking.  He could only reason that there was some sort of contest or gang challenge that they were participating in to make them behave with such dedication even while mugging someone.  If memory served him right, he was clawed and bitten by one of them as well.  

Left broken and barely holding onto life, he felt certain that he wouldn’t survive more than a few hours.  The possibility of someone of strong moral character stumbling upon him in that dingy alley and calling for medical help was bleak. If by some miracle someone did come along to rescue him in time, he’d definitely have to get tested for diseases that could have entered his bloodstream via these wounds.

He grew weaker and weaker as he faded in and out of consciousness. Whenever his mind got coherent enough to realize his situation, he was surprised to discover that he was still able to inhale life giving air.  He shouldn’t have survived such a brutal attack.  Yet, the searing pain that coursed through every inch of his body told him that he’d done just that.  

The question was… for how much longer?

Summoning enough strength to move his hand to his pants pocket, he was surprised to discover that his money was still there. He could feel that the designer watch that he’d purchased to replace the watch he’d inherited from his grandfather and had been stolen in a mugging while in his early twenties had also been left on his wrist.  Things weren’t making sense. Getting drunk and, then, acting in character and attacking in such a way was one thing, but since when did robbers beat a man to mere inches from his life and then not rob him?  Then, were they really robbers?  They’d beheaded a man, after all.  

About the Author:

Eileen Sheehan primarily writes hot, steamy romances (mostly New Adult) with a sexy male and strong female. A few are steamier than others (see their description). The majority of her novels are paranormal, but some are just plain novels about people in love (contemporary or historical with the author name of Ailene Frances). ALL of her stories have a bit of naughtiness, some excitement, a few thrills, and maybe a touch of mystery mixed in with sometimes naughty, sometimes sweet lovin'. She strives to write a novel length that will allow the busy woman to be able to sit down in an evening or two and be taken on a romantic journey without having a week go by before she gets to the end of the story.
An incurable romantic, she has a love affair with at least one of her characters... one book at a time. She hopes the same thing happens to you.
www.sheehan-author.info

https://www.facebook.com/groups/162542557665509


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Far Beyond Woman Suffrage by David McCracken

 

Far Beyond Woman Suffrage The Prices of the VoteBook OneDavid McCracken
Genre: Alternative HistoryDate of Publication:  8/25/21ISBN: 979-8464929616ASIN: B09DPSTN35Number of pages: 104Word Count: 32,514Cover Artist: PixelStudio
Tagline: “It isn’t just about women in long skirts finally voting!”
Book Description: 
It isn’t just about women in long skirts finally voting. The racists and the rich know that, and the politicians worry.
Mercy Martin has an inside view as the battle for woman suffrage nears a climax, but she encounters many puzzles.
So many women and Southern states oppose votes for women.  
So many people are afraid it would bring on free love, abandonment of family, economic catastrophe, or communism.
So many suffragists are willing to abandon black women voters.
From an innocent teen to a young adult, Mercy has a central role in the campaign. She advances from confinement in a suffragist jail cell to the national campaign for the suffrage amendment. She campaigns around Tennessee, ending at the capitol for the explosive climax in the last state that might ratify the amendment and grant the vote to women. 
Why should something so clearly right be so hard, and why were some bitter compromises made? Mercy is right in the middle, relied on by key players. Along the way, she acquires a husband, a baby, and better parents than she was born with.
This is an intimate view via alternative historical fiction, as accurate as it can be and as thoughtful and moving as it must be. In this first novella of a series, Mercy jumps into the campaign for woman suffrage and prepares for a vital role in the coming decades. She’ll continue on into the wider civil rights struggle growing out of woman suffrage. 
Amazon

Excerpt  

Anita and I have taken a circuit northwest from Knoxville and back around to the northeast. We’re canvassing as many legislators and their key supporters as we can track down. Finding them is the tricky part. Sometimes we go as far as the road goes and finish the journey to an isolated farmstead on foot, with our dresses trailing in the dust. We’ve been drenched by rainstorms, chased by watchdogs, and even had to change a flat tire, which isn’t that easy in a long dress, but we find our men.

Some seem to be avoiding us, like Representative Cletus Jacobs. He keeps barely visible off in his woodlot. We mark him as a “no.” Senator Phil Gridley graciously, really graciously, says we are communists betraying our gender, our state, and the country. Fortunately, the next two are warm and positive. However, Sen. Billy Broadus says he is nervous the women’s vote will support that anti-American League of Nations. He seems mollified when we point out it would first have to go through a vote in the U.S. Senate, where it is sure to fail.

“Anita,” I ask, back in the car, “why is there such a fear of communism here?”

“Well, with the recent Russian Revolution and the widespread unrest in European countries after the war, people are nervous, especially people with property. You may not realize that Communism seemed on the verge of sweeping across Europe after the war, with uprisings all over. I guess women are considered softies who might vote communists in or go easy on them. Maybe they’re especially sensitive in the South on the loss of property since their human property, slaves, were ‘taken’ at the end of the Civil War.”

“I guess big business is hyping the fear for their own purposes, against labor unions.”

“You’ve got it, Honey!  That started before the Russian Revolution, as a way to smear and foil labor unions.”

“I don’t guess we could ever reach people so concerned about communism, however they got concerned!"

“ ’Not bloody likely,’ to use a term  Alice Paul picked up from a friend over from England. (The shocking phrase was uttered by Eliza Dolittle in George Bernard Shaw’s new hit play, Pygmalion. Alice loves throwing  it out.)”

Driving east from Livingston, on a dim overcast day, we have a scare. Three white-robed riders and horses are moving into position as if to stand astride the road and block our path. Behind us, we see three more horsemen trotting out of a grove we had just passed and following us.  We look at each other and gulp. It doesn’t look good, even if their robes look rather shabby. A lonely road doesn’t seem ideal for a twilight chat with six mounted Klansmen. Luckily, they hadn’t reckoned how fast our Blue Knight moves or how well Anita can handle it. Just as the ones in front are getting into position, Anita swerves far over onto the left edge of the road and races onward. The nearest horse nervously dances back, then rears and throws his rider as we roar around them.

“I thought the Klan was dead,” I say.

 “Apparently, that Birth of a Nation propaganda film of a few years back is reviving them. Next, they’ll burn a cross.”

 “Well, they’re eating your dust. Great driving!”

“I hope we’ve seen the last of them. How’d they know where we were?”

I think and respond, “Was Senator Broadus actually less friendly than he seemed?”

“I wondered why he spent so long in idle chatter before he let us go,” offers Anita.

About the Author:

David McCracken became a political activist when the Supreme Court ruled against school segregation. Fellow students joined him in urging the school board in Winchester, KY, to integrate immediately. He campaigned for a Democratic governor and joined the ACLU before he graduated from the University of Kentucky. After debating at U.K., he got a degree in economics and a job with the U.S.  Department of Commerce.

When his daughters approached school age, he became increasingly concerned with how he wanted them schooled. Researching that, he decided teaching was what he really wanted to do. He got a master's degree in elementary education at Murray State University. He taught for several years, until the fact that his girls qualified for reduced-price lunches based on his salary got to him. Ronald Reagan's anti-government policies prevented him from returning to government work, so he took programming courses and shifted careers again. Programming was like being paid to solve puzzles all day, but teaching eventually drew him back until retirement.

For many years of this time, he was working intermittently at a novel that became Fly Twice Backward: Fresh Starts in Times of Troubles. This concerned his waking on his twelfth birthday, trying to figure out what had happened, following his new opportunities, and ultimately outliving an evil president resembling Donald Trump. After thirty-six years, David finally published it as an interactive alt-history Kindle novel. He soon started Far Beyond Woman Suffrage: The Prices of the Vote, an alt-history novelette dealing with the campaign for woman suffrage. He finished this piece in just ten months. At 81, he is bold(?) enough to plan this as the first of a six-volume set dealing with the far-reaching results and implications of woman suffrage. His completed novels and another in the works are presented for discussion on a new website, DoFancifulFlights.com

David now lives with his third wife, stepdaughter, and step-grandson near Winchester, VA. He has a son from his second marriage, six grandchildren, and two stepchildren. And a funny black dog with four white feet.
https://dofancifulflights.com

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Tales from The Foxes of Foxham ZANI’s Tales Trilogy by Matteo Sedazzari

 

Tales from The Foxes of Foxham ZANI’s Tales TrilogyMatteo Sedazzari
Genre: Light Fantasy, Humour, Young Adult. Publisher: ZANI ISBN: 13-978-1838462420Number of pages:207 Word Count: 60428 
Tagline: A magical adventure story, packed with colourful characters and exciting situations, in a battle of good versus evil. Set in 1950’s Naples and Norfolk.
Book Description:
It is the late fifties and the Witches of Benevento are determined to plunge the world into darkness by kidnapping and sacrificing the jolly and young Neapolitan fox, Alberto Bandito, in a sinister ritual.
Yet, fortunately for Alberto, he is rescued, then guarded, by his loving mother Silvia and mob boss father Mario with his troops, a good witch Carlotta with an uncanny resemblance to Marilyn Monroe, the Bears of Campania, the boxing wolves’ brothers Francesco and Leonardo, and other good folks of Naples and beyond.
However, their protection is not enough, for Alberto has been cursed. So, the young fox, along with his family, has to travel to the village of Foxham in Norfolk, the spiritual home of foxes across the world, to rid himself of this spell. The ritual has to be performed by a good fox witch, Trudi Milanese, but there is a problem, Trudi doesn’t know she is a witch….
Tales from The Foxes of Foxham is a magical adventure story, packed with colourful characters and exciting situations, in a battle of good versus evil.

Amazon UK     Amazon     Blackwells    Hive

WHSmith     WorldOfBooks     BookDepository

Excerpt 1
Upon hearing the conceited tone of Andriana’s declaration, Carlotta glances at Francesco and Leonardo, and says, ‘Which one of you fancies your chances then?’
Leonardo, the elder of the brothers, slowly takes off his three-button tailor-made jacket, neatly folds it, places the item of clothing slowly on the ground, then valiantly declares, ‘I do.’
Then the fearless wolf runs towards the red-capped goblins, who quickly disperse upon seeing the oncoming, scary-looking animal. Andriana gazes at Leonardo with astonishment, which turns to shock as Leonardo leaps high into the air, grabbing the front handle of Andriana’s broomstick.
‘Get off me, you crazy filthy wolf,’ Andriana screams, yet the courageous and strong Leonardo shakes her broomstick so hard in mid-air, regardless of his own safety. Leonardo has one thing on his mind—for Andriana to drop her leather satchel of spells.
His bravery pays off, as he rattles the flying broomstick so hard that Andriana has no choice but to use both her arms to steady it, allowing the bag to slide all the way down her left arm and into the cypress trees sloping on the roadside.
‘No!’ screams Andriana, as she sees her weapons of mayhem drop with so much force that they break many branches before hitting the dusty and hard soil, which explodes upon impact.

About the Author:
Matteo Sedazzari developed the zest for writing when he produced a fanzine entitled Positive Energy of Madness during the height of Acid House in 1989.  
Positive Energy of Madness dissolved as a fanzine in 1994 and resurfaced as an ezine 2003 which became ZANI, the ezine for counter and pop culture in 2009,  promoting online optimism, along with articles, reviews and interviews with the likes of crime author Martina Cole, former pop star and actor Luke Goss, soul legend Bobby Womack, Clem Burke of Blondie, Chas Smash of Madness, Shaun Ryder of Black Grape/Happy Mondays and many more.
After producing and writing for his own publication, Matteo’s next step was to pen a novel, A Crafty Cigarette – Tales of a Teenage Mod.
Matteo is influenced by Hunter S Thompson, Harlan Ellison, Kenneth Grahame, Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Twain, Irvine Welsh, DH Lawrence, Alan Sillitoe, Frank Norman, Joyce Carol Oates, Mario Puzo, Iceberg Slim, Patricia Highsmith, Joe R. Lansdale, Daphne du Maurier, Robert Bloch, George Orwell, Harry Grey and many more.  American comics like Batman, Superman and Spiderman, along with Herge’s Tintin, also provide Matteo with inspiration.
Matteo also finds stimulus from many films like Twelve Angry Men, A Kind of Loving, Blackboard Jungle, Z, Babylon, This Sporting Life, Kes, Midnight Cowboy, Scum, Wild Tales, The Boys, Midnight Express, La CommareSecca, Dr Terror’s House of Horrors, so on and so forth.
As for music, anything that is passionate, vibrant and with heart is always on Matteo’s playlist.
Matteo Sedazzari resides in Surrey, which he explores fanatically on his mountain bike. Matteo supports Juventus, travels to Italy and Spain, eats and dresses well, as he enjoys life in the process.
https://www.zani.co.uk/
https://www.facebook.com/zanionline  
https://www.instagram.com/zanionline/ 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Matteo-Sedazzari/e/B01DO6ZJ5M/   
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15092835.Matteo_Sedazzari

A Few Good Elves Toy Soldier Saga Book One by Diane Morrison

 

A Few Good ElvesToy Soldier Saga Book OneDiane Morrison
Genre: Science fantasy, military science fiction, space opera, epic fantasy, dark fantasy, blackpowder fantasyPublisher: Aradia PublishingDate of Publication: September 7, 2021ISBN Ebook 978-1-9995757-5-5ISBN Hardcover 978-1-9995757-4-8ISBN Paperback 978-1-9995757-3-1ASIN: B09D79BJW1Number of pages: 490Word Count: 155kCover Artist: Cayotica
Tagline: A dark blackpowder fantasy military space opera
Book Description: 
Toy Soldier: A derogatory slang term for an elven marine.
Battles great and terrible, small and bitter, raged across Known Space as the wars of Elves and Orcs played out their legacy of hatred across the stars themselves. Epics would be written, songs would be sung; but wars are fought by real people with loves and families and homes.
All Shaundar Sunfall ever wanted to be was a Star-Pilot. Raised on his father's ship, he has found an affinity for the stars -- although as a mixed-race elf and a bit of troublemaker, he often runs afoul of his commanding officers.
Now the orcs have returned to once again wage war on their ancient enemies. The fate of his people is at stake. Although he is too young, Shaundar lies about his age to join up. But he is about to learn that no matter what the sagas say, war is no great adventure.
A bit like what would happen if Horatio Hornblower met the Honorverse, met Lord of the Rings, met Game of Thrones, A Few Good Elves is part naval adventure, part high fantasy, part space opera, and part war novel.
CW: graphic violence, sexual violence, torture, war, genocide
Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/7LG4_Jp9yfw
Amazon     Books2Read

Excerpt
All about on the decks of the Queen’s Dirk, the crew were running and screaming. There were too many dead and wounded to count, and the Chiurgeons had elves spread out over the tables in the mess, the garden, even the Captain’s bed.

Shaundar sensed Lieutenant Sylria on the remains of the fo’c’sle, now mostly a debris field, commanding the mages to ready spells and the weapons crews to continue their attack. He could also see the gravity well of the Vengeance, just now coming about on their starboard side, though he was certain that it had been much longer than they needed.

“I have the helm!” Shaundar cried.

“Get us out of here, Shaundar!”

He turned his head and studied the rapidly oncoming Balorian ship through both the hole in the starboard wall, and Queenie’s senses. Even with Sylria’s magical boost, he knew this to be hopeless.

“I can’t do it, Sylria,” he said in a hollow voice. “They’re just too fast.”
Sylria looked down at her feet for a long moment. She squared her shoulders. “Then we shall die with honour.”

Shaundar nodded. Amazingly, there was no fear, just sadness, that he would not see his family or Narissa again. “Sails, evasive manoeuvres!” Shaundar commanded. “Hard down!”

As the insectoid ship neared, it closed those claw-like limbs to grapple them. But under Shaundar’s power and direction, they dodged the attempt. Shaundar saw a whole army of armoured Balorian warriors pour out onto the deck and stand to the rails.

Sylria shrieked, “Mages, fire!” and she let off a lightning bolt herself. There were only a couple of elves left alive topside to obey Sylria’s command, but they responded. Flames and electricity washed over the orcs, enough that it stopped them in their tracks and aborted their boarding attempt.

“Bring ‘er about,” Shaundar ordered. “Hard astarboard!”
Queenie answered sluggishly with all the shorn rigging and shorthanded crew, but she came back around. As they swooped back towards each other, Sylria’s command rang out. Defiantly, the Queen’s Dirk fired another volley.

The Balorians greeted it with a broadside of their own as they both swung starboard at the last moment. The larboard ballistae both missed, but two of the three others dented the hull. The third pierced it once more on their larboard side with a ringing tear of sheet metal.

Their catapult did not fire at all. Whether it was because it was damaged, or because there were too few crew left to man it, Shaundar would never know.

The decapitated Vengeance had only one gun it could bring to bear on the pass, but it fired that larboards bombard at point blank range. The fo’c’sle simply collapsed like a sandcastle. Sylria was swallowed into the sinkhole. Shaundar roared in horror and pain but could not hear his own voice in the overwhelming noise.

There was no sail crew left to command, but hoping against hope, Shaundar bellowed anyway,

“Hard aport!” The mizzenmast was shorn away, and he knew it, but knowing there was nothing else to be done, he yelled out, “Prepare to ram! All hands brace for impact!” just as Garan had attempted.

He didn’t flinch as the Queen’s Dirk collided head-on with her foe.

About the Author:

Diane Morrison lives with her partners in the Okanagan Valley, BC, where she was born and raised. She has been published in SFF markets such as Terra! Tara! Terror!, Air & Nothingness Press, and Cossmass Infinities. Under her pen name “Sable Aradia” she is a successful Pagan author, a musician, and a Twitch streamer and podcaster.  She likes pickles and bluegrass, and hates talking about herself.


https://dianemorrisonfiction.com/

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https://www.goodreads.com/sablearadia

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https://www.worldanvil.com/w/toysoldiersaga

https://www.amazon.com/author/dianemorrison

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https://www.bookbub.com/authors/diane-morrison

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Grenade Bouquets Runaway Train Book Two by Lee Matthew Goldberg

 

Grenade BouquetsRunaway TrainBook Two Lee Matthew Goldberg
Genre: Young AdultPublisher: Wise Wolf BooksDate of Publication: August 5, 2021ISBN: 978-1953944078ASIN: B093G4T9PLNumber of pages: 286Word Count: 70,000
Tagline: “I’m a time bomb, a cannonball, I destroy everything around me.”
Book Description:
I had stars in my eyes and I couldn't see around them...
The year is 1995 and my parents have finally allowed me to take the summer to tour in a VW van across the country with my boyfriend Evan and our band. Yes, my dream to be a singer became reality. Even with Clarissa, Evan's jealous ex-girlfriend, as the lead singer, it's my presence on stage that led us to a major record deal. There are moments you'll always remember in life, but I can't imagine anything more cool than hearing your song on the radio for the first time.
But being a Rockstar isn't as easy as it sounds. Using alcohol and drugs as coping mechanisms, nothing but tension surrounded me, hurting my still blossoming relationship, and continued grieving over my sister's death.
A love letter to the nineties and a journey of a girl becoming a woman, Grenade Bouquets charts the rollercoaster ride of a band primed to explode on the scene, as long as they keep from actually exploding.
Amazon

Excerpt:

I’m barefoot on a roof deck, maybe it’s my own, I dunno. Life has been a series of tour buses and motels recently, but I think this is that place the band rented down on the Lower East Side. Everyone hates me and I’m left alone in a huge railroad apartment with a fire escape that twists up to a roof and barely any railing to keep me safe. I have a joint in one hand that’s surprisingly still lit in the rain and a trusty bottle of Absolut Citron in the other. I’m wearing a baby doll pale blue dress, the one I rocked during the Grenade Bouquets set when the A&R manager said he was gonna make us stars. I once heard that when you’re looking at stars in the sky, you’re already looking at the past and they’re already dead. I’m seventeen and I can completely relate.

I’m over myself and have been looking into the past so much, I might as well be dead.

I chug from the bottle, the excess liquid spilling down my cheeks like hot tears. What lands in my throat, burns and my eye twitches...I’m so bombed. My makeup has run all over my face and made me into a clown. I pity whoever will find my ghastly remains. I bring the joint to my lips and suck as the cherry flares, the smoke streaming through my nostrils. I’m a dragon in pursuit. Three stories down below, a sea of umbrellas await. I think of Kristen.

Her spirit no longer visits and I understand. She has better things to do than deal with the living. My sister has been gone now for over a year, and sometimes I forget the sound of her voice. I wake up in the middle of the night frantic that I’ve lost it, and then a glimmer reappears—a whisper in her high pitch calling me back to sleep, aware of how my insomnia can plague me. She would be so proud of my success as a singer and for me to live my dream, not realizing that it was killing me as well. I don’t remember the last time I went to bed sober. I feel distant from everyone I used to care about. Evan can’t even look at me anymore. I’m Nico the Beast, a whirlwind intent to destroy.

If you heard me on the radio, you’d be jealous. I’m that girl you wish you could be. My song like a spit in the face, a baby Courtney Love with scabbed knees, dark red lipstick, hairdyed so much it’s fried, a scowl for a smile. And then in the next song, I’m scrubbed clean, my dress full of flowers rather than ripped, my bruises bandaged, my makeup a light touch rather than an onslaught, singing about love and hope and everything that grunge is not. Because grunge is dying. Kurt Cobain solidified its end and the record companies can smell it. A future of sugary happy pop awaits. What will they do with me, with any of us? We’re already that dying star. Might as well help give them a push.

The rain has risen in tempo, a drumbeat on my skull. The joint has gone out and I toss it into the crowd. It disappears into the ether, like I will soon. I picture my obituary, the phrase ‘One Hit Wonder’ highlighted. All I’ll ever be. But I don’t have any more songs in me. My quill is broken, my heart has followed—I’m sick of myself.

I raise my arms like Brandon Lee in The Crow. Evan and I saw that at the Angelika, an artsy movie theater down on Houston St., which I mispronounced like it was the city Houston. We toured Manhattan that day, the first time either of us had been: hand in hand through The Met and wandering down paths in Central Park, sneaking through the Plaza and pretending I was Eloise, hot chocolates at a place called Serendipity, his blue eyes never letting me out of his sight. I never imagined I could be so in love. Only a short time ago but might as well be a lifetime, those blues will never look at me in the same way again. I’m tarnished, I’m filth. I heard a song called “Only Happy When It Rains,” and it couldn’t be truer. Miserable people feed off misery and that’s all I have to give.

I wonder what my mom and dad will say when they have to identify my body. They’ve both found new lives with new loves that will be a shoulder for them. Maybe they’ll be relieved.

Back home, my friend Winter has her own shit to deal with and brought Jeremy into her drama, so they’ll mourn but are preoccupied enough to only think of me in passing. I know that’s what they do now. They are still in high school and I’ve dropped out, promising my folks I’d get my GED, but I never did. And high school seems so pointless and far away. I’ve lived in the real world. I’ve skipped down New York City streets with crack vials crunching under my feet. Out of spite I’ve let a man inside of me whose name I didn’t even know. I’ve crowd surfed over a hundred bodies chanting my name. I thought I was in love and never want the pain of it ending ever again. I’d rather be numb. I’d rather be gone.

My feet are cold against the tar of the roof, the toenail polish chipped and starting to fade. I give another swig until the bottle is empty. I aim to launch it into the sky, not caring who I’d hit down below. I climb onto the edge, wobbling, teeth chattering, knees knocking, singing a Matthew Sweet song to the world, to this dark city where I never belonged, so far from a home. “But I’m sick of myself when I look at you, something is beautiful and true. World that’s ugly and a lie, it’s hard to even want to try.”

My vocal chords are raw from the vodka and pot, my tears make everything blurry. I go to pitch the bottle and my foot slips from a slick of water. I lose my heart as it leaps out of my throat and I think I’ve gone over the edge, plummeting headfirst to my death. But I fall backwards, smacking my head on the tar. The grey clouds above go in and out of focus until they disappear entirely. My eyes have shut but I can see the night sky, and one little star, so dead but so bright, guiding me not to slip into unconsciousness, praying for my survival. Like a diamond it glows brighter, and I think that maybe it’s Kristen’s eye, somewhere up in heaven, winking at me to stay on Earth for a little longer because I haven’t finished all I intended to do, as the rain washes me pure, its drumbeat now playing Letters to Cleo’s beautiful, simmering song, “Here and Now,” while I travel back to what led me to become these twisted remains once called a girl. 

About the Author: 
Lee Matthew Goldberg is the author of seven novels including THE ANCESTOR and THE MENTOR, currently in development as a film off his original script, and the YA series RUNAWAY TRAIN. He has been published in multiple languages and nominated for the Prix du Polar. After graduating with an MFA from the New School, his writing has also appeared in The Millions, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, LitReactor, Monkeybicycle, Fiction Writers Review, Cagibi, Necessary Fiction, Hypertext, the anthology Dirty Boulevard, The Montreal Review, The Adirondack Review, The New Plains Review, Underwood Press and others. His pilots and screenplays have been finalists in Script Pipeline, Book Pipeline, Stage 32, We Screenplay, the New York Screenplay, Screencraft, and the Hollywood Screenplay contests. He is the co-curator of The Guerrilla Lit Reading Series and lives in New York City. 
Follow him at: http://leematthewgoldberg.com/
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https://www.linkedin.com/in/lee-matthew-goldberg-558758178/
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56045373-grenade-bouquets



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This Morbid Life No Rest for the Morbid Book One by Loren Rhoads

 

This Morbid LifeNo Rest for the Morbid Book OneLoren Rhoads
Genre: Non-Fiction/Memoir/HorrorPublisher: Automatism PressDate of Publication: August 22, 2021ISBN:  978-1-7351876-2-4 (paperback)ISBN: 978-1-7351876-3-1 (ebook) ASIN: B09C11J43WNumber of pages: 200Word Count: 58 KCover Artist: Lynne Hansen
Tagline: What others have called an obsession with death is really a desperate romance with life.
Book Description:
What others have called an obsession with death is really a desperate romance with life. Guided by curiosity, compassion, and a truly strange sense of humor, this particular morbid life is detailed through a death-positive collection of 45 confessional essays. Along the way, author Loren Rhoads takes prom pictures in a cemetery, spends a couple of days in a cadaver lab, eats bugs, survives the AIDS epidemic, chases ghosts, and publishes a little magazine called Morbid Curiosity.
Originally written for zines from Cyber-Psychos AOD to Zine World and online magazines from Gothic.Net to Scoutie Girl, these emotionally charged essays showcase the morbid curiosity and dark humor that transformed Rhoads into a leading voice of the curious and creepy.
Amazon

Excerpt from "Anatomy Lesson":

I had a lot of preconceptions when it came to handling corpses. I’d imagined myself standing before a wall of stainless-steel freezer drawers like at the Mortuary College in San Francisco. In my imagination, the cadavers were draped with crisp white sheets. The bodies would be antiseptic. I expected them to be frozen. I thought everything would be as clean and neat as a television morgue.

The cadavers would be male, of course. I thought I could depersonalize a dead man more easily; I might empathize too much with a woman as the scalpel in my hand sliced her flesh.

Tom quickly rearranged my expectations. “Three of the four cadavers here are female,” he said. “I usually start people out with the women, since they’re the most taken apart. That’s a little easier for people to deal with.”

The bodies weren’t kept in refrigeration units. Instead, they were already waiting in the front of the classroom, lying in long stainless-steel bins with wheeled legs and a hinged two-piece top. When Tom folded the top open, clear fluid spilled onto the floor.

“Condensation?” I hoped.

“And some preservative,” he answered. When the worst of the runoff had stopped, he let the top hang down and opened the other side.

I was amazed we’d been in the room with the bodies all along. One of my memories still clear from ninth grade dissection was the horrible, headache-inducing smell of formaldehyde. I was glad preservative technology had improved.

A length of muslin floated atop the brownish red liquid. Blood, I thought immediately, and recoiled. Too thin for blood, it looked more like beef broth. Pools of oil slicked the surface.

“See that handle there? You can help me by turning it.” Tom moved to the far end of the tank.

There should have been scary music playing as we cranked the cadavers out of the fluid. As the bodies slowly rose, the muslin took on their outlines. Through the shroud, I saw bared teeth and the flensed musculature of jaw. Two corpses lay head to feet. The skin had clearly been flayed from their muscles.

If Tom had made them twitch, I would have leapt out of my own skin.

He pulled on some heavy turquoise rubber gloves and folded the muslin so it shrouded both faces and one entire body. The other lay revealed. Her skin had been stripped away. She had no breasts. The muscle fibers of her chest were very directional and clear, the raw color of a New York strip steak. Some of the muscles on her arms had been removed to show the bones and tendons beneath. Her fingertips still had nails and skin. The skin was the color of dried blood.

About the Author:
Loren Rhoads is the author of 199 Cemeteries to See Before You Die, Wish You Were Here: Adventures in Cemetery Travel, a space opera trilogy, and a duet about a succubus and her angel. She is also the editor of Morbid Curiosity Cures the Blues: Tales of the Unsavory, Unwise, Unorthodox, and Unusual and Tales for the Camp Fire: An Anthology Benefiting Wildfire Relief. This Morbid Life, her 15th book, is the first in the No Rest for the Morbid Series. Book 2, Jet Lag and Other Blessings, will be out in 2022.
Home: https://lorenrhoads.com/
Blog:  https://lorenrhoads.com/blog/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/morbidloren
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/morbidloren/
Newsletter: https://mailchi.mp/aa9545b2ccf4/lorenrhoads
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LorenRhoadsAuthor/
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Loren-Rhoads/e/B002P905PE/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/976431.Loren_Rhoads



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Beyond the Song by Carol Selick

 

Beyond the SongCarol Selick
Genre: Autobiographical FictionPublisher: BookBabyDate of Publication: July 13, 2021ISBN: 978-1-09838-369-5    eBook:  978-1-09838-370-1ASIN: B099GNT5F2Number of pages: 284Word Count: 74,000
Tagline: A classic tale of a girl-gone-wrong-gone right.
Book Description: 
Beyond the Song is an autobiographical novel based on the author's coming of age in the 'sixties and early 'seventies. A singer-songwriter like her alter-ego Carol Marks, Carol Selick begins each chapter with lyrics she wrote and still performs today. Taken together, the songs introduce the themes of her story and trace the development of her character as she rebels against her strict suburban upbringing to join the counter-culture in hopes of fulfilling her dream of making it in the music business
The narrator relates her tale in a warm, vulnerable, and irrepressibly zany voice as Carol goes to school in Washington DC, drops out to take a pilgrimage to Berkeley, and eventually winds up living in New York in pursuit of making it in the music business. Torn between romance and career, she continually wavers. Her quest for freedom lands her in a series of dangerous situations and narrow escapes: she hitchhikes in California at the time of the Manson murders, attends anti-war demonstrations that turn violent, and is nearly arrested when her boyfriend is nabbed in a drug raid. 
Along the way, the narrator also meets two important guides who help her sort her priorities, take herself seriously, and develop her considerable talents: Rose, a pioneering black woman songwriter based on hall-of-famer Rose Marie McCoy, Carol's real-life mentor; and Bruce Pasternak, a fictionalized psychoanalyst who helps her establish the self-assurance to stand on her own two feet at a time when female singer-songwriters had few role models. All inform the heroine's lyrics and narrative voice as she gradually learns to believe in herself, discipline her talent, and turn her heartbreak into song.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE
NEW YORK CITY, 1971
 
When I was just a little girl, my Daddy said to me,

“A man’s gonna come and love you some,
That’s your Daddy’s prophecy.”
But it keeps on a-worryin’ me,
Oh Lord, it keeps on a-worryin’ me.

I stood on the corner of 72nd and Columbus Avenue feeling like a human want ad. I had a copy of the Village Voice in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. I was out of matches. And then I heard a voice behind me. “Looking for an apartment?”

I turned around. He was older than me and definitely not my type with his professional, straight look and short brown hair. But he had a sweet smile and his round, wire-rimmed glasses revealed soft blue eyes.

“How did you know?”

“I saw the paper. Do you need a place to make some calls? I live right up the street.”

“Why not?”

It wasn’t the first time I’d gone with a stranger to his place, and the July heat of the city was getting to me.

We exchanged names on the way to his apartment. Marvin Silverman—lawyer, liberal, almost thirty and climbing. Linda Marks—hippie, singer, twenty-two and drifting.

“Far out, you have a nice place!” It was on the third floor of a classic brownstone very close to Central Park.

“Thanks. It’s small, but I like the neighborhood.”

I walked toward the bay windows in the living room where a telescope was mounted on a tripod. There were no curtains or blinds. I wondered what that was about, but didn’t want to ask.

“What’s that building across the street?”

“That’s the Dakota. A lot of famous people live there like John and Yoko.

“I love New York! I can’t wait to move here!”

“Where do you live? On the Island?”

“No way! I live in Jersey with my parents, but that’s only temporary.”

I fumbled in my bag for a cigarette and started to feel nervous.

He was pretending to be hipper than he really was. He probably got stoned on the weekend and came to work on Monday wearing a three-piece suit. It’s as if he climbed to thirty and didn’t know whether to lead those behind him or follow those in front. I was glad that I didn’t have an identity problem. I did have an apartment problem, though, and couldn’t get side-tracked by this weekend hippie.

Ten calls and five lewd propositions later, I was still without a place. I thanked Marvin for the use of his phone.

“Next time you’re in the city, give me a call. Maybe we can do something.”

“Sounds good, Marvin.” I knew what “do something” meant. I threw his business card in my bag, the purple woven one I’d bought from a street vendor in Berkeley the day I’d left California, and ran down the stairs to meet my friend. I hoped she’d had better luck than me finding a place.

I rushed to catch the Broadway uptown bus, and by the time I got off at 86th Street, Marvin Silverman had completely left my mind.

I was meeting Nina at Professors, a typical uptown neighborhood bar. People dressed down and the prices climbed up. Its inhabitants were considered native New Yorkers. That meant they’d lived in the city for at least one year, but not necessarily in the same apartment.

“Any luck?” I asked Nina. I knew what her answer would be by her tired look and the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray. Even her curly red hair looked droopy.

We’d been friends since eighth grade and had managed to stay in touch throughout college.

We’d rebelled in different ways. Nina was very serious when it came to politics. She sometimes asked her friends, “Are you political?” If someone answered, “a little,” she would ask, “Can you be a little pregnant?”

Nina also had a fun side and we laughed a lot. Like the time we were hanging out in my bedroom at my parents’ house and my father knocked on the door. He walked in wearing my mother’s blue and green paisley tent dress. It was 1968, and bell bottoms were all the rage. “Do you see how silly you girls look wearing bell bottoms?” Dad asked with a straight face. “Just as silly as I look wearing a dress.” Nina and I were hysterical. In a couple of years Dad would change his mind about bell bottoms and the Vietnam War.

Three rounds of sodas and one heaping ashtray later, Nina and I headed out of the bar to Port Authority. Sitting on the downtown bus, I remembered meeting Marvin.

“I met a really nice guy today,” I informed Nina.

“Oh yeah?” she kidded me.

No really, he let me use his apartment to make phone calls.”

“I bet that’s not all you made.”

“You have a dirty mind! Look! He gave me his card and asked me to call him the next time I was in the city.” I started digging around in my bag. “I can’t find it!” I exclaimed hopelessly, looking up at Nina sitting by the window, skeptically arching her eyebrow at me. “Hey, wait! This is his street! Let’s get off the bus—let me run up and say hi.”

I recognized the brownstone and ran up the steps leaving Nina waiting on the sidewalk. Why was I even bothering? Was I flattered that an older man had shown interest in me?

When I rang the doorbell Marvin opened the door wearing a half-buttoned shirt and a confused look on his face.

“Gee Marv, I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just that I lost your card and I was passing by and—”

“Yeah kid, that’s okay. I just can’t talk to you now. Give me your number. I’ll call you up sometime.”

I scribbled my number on the back of a matchbook and caught up with Nina who was already halfway down the block.

“I’ll probably never hear from him again. He wasn’t my type anyway, too straight,” I told her but I secretly wanted him to call.

It seemed like Nina and I were spending most of our time in Port Authority. It was the dirtiest gate to the city, a haven for every degenerate and vagabond. I took a deep breath and boarded the Suburban Transit bus back to the ’burbs.

I was twenty-two, had dropped out of college, moved to California, run out of money, and moved back home. I hated riding on any kind of public transportation. It was sort of a phobia. I had a lot of fears, like being stuck in an elevator—or worse, a subway. Sometimes I had trouble eating in restaurants. But nothing was going to stop me from living in the city. My one goal was to make it in the music business and New York was the place to be. I was taking my music seriously, practicing my songs every day on the French Provincial piano at my parents’ house that I’d unfortunately branded with a cigarette burn. Carole King, Laura Nyro and Carly Simon were my idols and I was determined to follow in their footsteps.

My mother, a junior high social studies teacher, described my life as “the Perils of Pauline.” My father, a self-made business man, just thought I was lazy. Both were relieved I hadn’t found an apartment in the city. They were waiting for the day when I would wake up and come to my senses. They told the relatives that I was finding myself and wondered when they had lost me.

They’d told me many times that I was a follower and that my friends were the reason I’d dropped out of college, wore bell bottoms, smoked cigarettes, and wanted to live in the city with no cross-ventilation in the middle of July.

“Linda, telephone!” I heard my mother shout the next evening. She put her hand over the receiver and whispered, “It’s a boy.”

“Linda, this is Marvin. You know, we met on the corner of 72nd Street?”

“You really did call! I thought you were just giving me the brush.”

“I wouldn’t do that—I’m a lawyer, remember? We always keep our word. What are you doing Friday night? You want to go to dinner and a movie?”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“No. I don’t go on them anymore. I’m being spontaneous.”

“Far out, Marvin! I’ll be there.”

He was my first older man and I was ready for him! I’d always been drawn to stories like My Fair Lady, Pygmalion and Gigi, where older, more worldly men influenced younger, naïve women and then they fell in love.

Getting ready to go to Marvin’s, I looked in the mirror and ran my fingers through my hair. Nearly black, contrasting sharply with my light, freckled skin, it was long and wavy in winter, but frizzy in summer. I’d given up trying to straighten it and just let it go à la Janis Joplin. I’d read that she ironed her hair on an ironing board. Since I rarely ironed my clothes, I decided that wasn’t an option.

It was liberating not to worry about my hair, and so was not wearing a bra. Liberated women everywhere were giving them up and burning them. Besides, I was thin enough to get away with it. The Indian print tops I wore with my jeans looked fine without one. I felt perky, sexy and hip.
I checked myself out in the mirror. My lips were small and I never bothered with lipstick. I picked up my eyeliner, the one makeup I always used, and underlined my hazel-green eyes with black pencil on the lower lids. One of my college boyfriends had described my eyes as sideways exclamation points. Of course, he was stoned at the time.

“This is the first apartment in New York that hasn’t given me claustrophobia,” I announced, sitting on the couch at Marvin’s. The kitchen was small, but the living room was large with high ceilings and two bay windows. I hadn’t seen the bedroom yet. The telescope was still pointed towards the undraped windows. I had to ask.

“What’s with the telescope, Marv? Are you into astronomy?”

“You might say I’m into sociology. I like to check out the people in the apartments across the street. Everyone does it in New York.”

“Oh. So you let them study you, too? There’s no drapes on your windows.”

“Sometimes. It doesn’t matter. No one knows who I am.”

I tried to hide my nervousness. I was in a strange man’s apartment in the middle of a strange city. I reminded myself it was nothing compared to all the hitchhiking I’d done in California a couple of years ago, back when the Manson murderers were still on the loose.
“I really should be a good boy tonight, Linda.”

“What do you mean, Marv? I thought you were a man.”

“I should take you out to dinner and to a movie.” And then he kissed me.

What happened next was every girl’s fantasy from the first time she practices kissing her favorite movie star’s face in her pillow. The faces change and the movie stars become rock stars and radicals. But the plot is the same and every Gothic novel describes the hero and heroine’s all-consuming passion.

The speed of our attraction felt like two magnets rushing without question to be one. Of course, in Gothic novels, it always took at least half an hour to get your clothes off, thanks to laced corsets and rows and rows of buttons. But it was 1971 and women went braless, men wore no jockey shorts under their jeans, and clothes were meant to be thrown on the floor.

“Oh, Marvin!” I screamed and Marvin exploded in a fit of laughter. We were positioned like two trapeze artists getting ready for the final jump. The bed was not very high but the risk of falling was tremendous.

“Why did you start laughing? I was almost there!” I couldn’t decide if I was hurt or angry.

“That voice! It was so loud it startled me.”

“I told you I was a singer. And I always bring my voice to bed with me.”

“Sorry, Linda.”

But this was no time for talking. We both remounted our imaginary trapezes, took a few low rides, and started pumping.

I could hardly wait to tell my friends all about it. “Nina, it was the best! And he couldn’t believe I’d been celibate for four whole months! I think it did something to his male ego. He’s definitely not my type, but he’s got money and he wants to show me around the city—if we ever get out of bed!”

We were hanging out at our friend Stevie’s college apartment in New Brunswick. Stevie wasn’t her real name, Marilyn was. I never asked her why she picked Stevie for a nickname instead of Mary, but there were a lot of things I didn’t understand about her. Like why she called her latest painting “Early Morning Blues Sculpture.” I never could figure out why she had stopped seeing her cute astrologer boyfriend, the one who told me that I had divine discontent, to be with a married, forty-something professor. Maybe she liked the challenge, or maybe she’d just listened to too much Janis Joplin. With her platinum blonde Marilyn Monroe haircut and blue-violet eyes, she certainly didn’t have any problem attracting men.

I stopped to take a gulp of coffee. This wasn’t the first time I’d sat at Stevie’s old Formica kitchen table swapping stories about the night before. Instead of housewives trading recipes, we were independent women sharing our sex lives. Women our age all over the country were holding their own roundtable discussions. The men we slept with would have blushed if they knew how thoroughly we scrutinized their sex techniques, no pubic hair left unturned.

After a couple of months, our “morning after” coffee klatches started to influence the “night before.” Nina confessed that the last time she’d had sex with her boyfriend she thought she’d heard the sound of coffee percolating. At first, she thought Louie, an ex-acid rock guitarist who had found peace by playing country music, had the hiccups. Then she realized her mind had started editing, rewriting a blow-by-blow account of the evening’s events. She vividly reenacted how he’d screamed her name at the crucial moment, then afterwards denied it, blaming his questionable utterance on a sore throat from smoking too much pot. He said two people had to be very serious before they called out to each other in bed and he was positive that married people stopped using each other’s names after the first year of marriage. By then they were too busy fantasizing.

“He was just getting scared,” I told Nina. I secretly envied her ability to hold on to men for longer than six months. My record was three months, but who was counting?
Marvin and I were meeting spontaneously on a regular basis. We went to the movies and tried going out to dinner, but I was having trouble eating in restaurants again. Most of the time, we ordered Chinese take-out.

Sex was still exciting and he had gotten used to the sound of my orgasm voice. Sometimes we would stand nude together in front of the living room windows and give the neighbors a show. Then one night we were sitting on the couch and he popped the question.

“I’m thinking of taking a few months off and going to California. Do you want to sublet my apartment?”

“Making the pilgrimage to paradise? If I’d found a job there, I would still be in Berkeley.”

“So, do you want the apartment or not?”

“Yes!”

Nina and I still hadn’t found a place and this was the answer to our prayers. I couldn’t wait to tell her the good news.

“Oh, and Linda—you know your eating thing? I have a friend who could help you with that.” Marvin offered. “He’s the best shrink in the city. Here’s his number. When I get back from California, I’m taking you out to dinner.”

“Thanks Marv. Maybe I’ll give him a call.”

My father packed up his station wagon with Nina’s and my things and reluctantly drove us into the city. It was a sweltering hot Sunday in July and no one felt like talking. I knew my father wasn’t happy about the move, but I was twenty-two and desperately seeking my independence. I’d saved enough money working temp jobs to pay my share of the rent for the next few months.

By then, I hoped to have a job in the city. Even if I had to work a day job in an office
We miraculously found a parking spot right in front of the apartment. Everything was going smoothly until I handed my father the key to the front door of the building.

“Are you sure this is the right key, Linda? It won’t open.” Before I could answer, he yelled, “It’s stuck! I think I broke the key!”

I didn’t need a shrink to figure out the symbolism of my father breaking the key that opened the door to my freedom.

I went down to the corner phone booth and called Marvin. He was staying with his mother in Jersey until he left for California the next day. He said he could get to us in under an hour.
When he arrived, Marvin was a perfect gentleman. He managed to get the old key out of the lock and used his spare to unlock the door. He even helped bring some of our things up to the apartment. Before he left, he told my father in his most serious lawyer voice, “I want you to know, Mr. Marks, that I was never ‘romantically involved’ with your daughter” (code for “I never slept with her”). “We just went out a few times.”

My father grabbed his hand and thanked him.

Just before my father left, he handed me an envelope. Inside was a hundred dollars in cash and a handwritten note:

Linda,
Boys must play and grow
Before they fall in love and know
The beauty and the longing theme
Of a girl’s aching heart and dream.
So, my dear Linda, until then,
Until boys learn to be men,
Please accept a father’s love
That’s as old as you and a true love.

About the Author:

Singer-songwriter Carol Selick performs a repertoire of jazz, rhythm and blues, pop, and her own work, and appears as a vocalist with her husband, jazz trumpeter and vocalist Gordon James. A gifted lyricist, she partnered with Hall-of-Famer Rose Marie McCoy, a songwriter for Nat King Cole, Louis Jordan, Maxine Brown, Ike and Tina Turner, and Elvis Presley.  

Carol co-founded and directed The New Jersey Garden State Opry and New Jersey Children’s Opry, where she wrote and performed original songs. She holds a degree in Early Childhood Education and Music from Rutgers, and taught piano and voice for many years.

Her recordings, Life is Believing in You and Just Gonna Think About Today, feature a mix of standards and originals, and she performs the bluesy vocals on James’s 2019 release, Come on Down, praised in Blues Blast as “piping-hot New Orleans fare, satisfying and spicy with just the right amount of sweet dessert!”
Website:   https://carolselickmusic.com/ 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/carol.selick

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The Accidental Psychic Annie Prior Series Book One by Carol-Anne Mason

 

The Accidental PsychicAnnie Prior Series Book OneCarol-Anne Mason
Genre: Paranormal Murder MysteryDate of Publication: 20th August 2021ISBN: 978-1-8384305-0-4Number of pages: 424Word Count: 89,560Cover Artist: Miblart
Book Description:
A horrific train crash turns Annie Prior’s life upside down, by triggering an extraordinary psychic ability that had lain dormant since her childhood.
After being rescued in more ways than one by a dark haired stranger from the train, two fatalities from the accident return to haunt her; and as Annie’s new Clairvoyant and Mediumship abilities grow, she is immersed into a realm of both needy and malevolent souls.
Despite an ongoing battle with her narcissistic family, and a boss with a dark past which continues to plague her, she comes to realise her strange new powers are also there for reasons beyond the present.
She embarks on a life journey helping both the living and the spirit world to gain closure.
But, not all are happy with Annie’s new vocation.
https://carolmasonauthor.com 

Excerpt

Prologue Southampton

A cold morning in early spring 2017

Unbeknownst to Annie, a mundane commute to London on a train — will change her life forever. A fatigue crack in one of the front wheels of the train’s control car had started to open up, and further up the frozen track, a set of points were waiting for the fail...

Chapter 2 The Crash

The previous babble of voices had now risen to a headache-inducing hullabaloo, prompting Annie to put her earphones in to listen to her favourite track ‘Human,’ from the new Rag’n’Bone Man album. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the haunting words.

Suddenly, the train shuddered, then jerked violently. Annie sat bolt upright and yanked her earphones out. The carriage had fallen silent, everyone froze; all eyes widened just before fear kicked in. Then, an unprecedented sound as loud as an overhead thunderclap exploded through the carriage. The screeching of brakes set the students screaming and running for the exits, tumbling over each other like waves. Some commuters stood still, straddling the aisles, and holding onto anything that was bolted down.

Annie could only watch in terror and disbelief; none of it seemed real.

Then, the impact came. A jolt so violent it sent bodies crunching onto the floor of the carriage. Annie was forced backwards with a massive thud into her seat, knocking the wind out of her. If she had she been facing forwards, she would have been horribly smashed.

The screaming in the carriage had become unbearably loud, with commuters slamming into solid objects. The train rocked on its tracks and tilted violently over to her side; and just—kept— tilting.

Annie grabbed a pole on the aisle side of the seat and instinctively lifted her legs from the footwell below the table, tucking them under her. There was a combined screeching and scraping, whilst brakes and metal sparked and twisted, before the train succumbed to gravity.

About the Author:
Carol-Anne Mason is an artist, writer and at the age of 64, author of the new award winning novel The Accidental Psychic.
She has lead a busy and full life with many professions under her belt including: dancing, writing songs and performing. Hair salons, tutoring at college, running a night club and antique shop. Although, has continued throughout the years with her painting and writing.
Her strong belief in spiritualism has grown since her early teens, after realising her premonitions and intuitiveness was a family trait going back many generations. And after immersing herself into the paranormal world and researching all aspects of spiritualism, she felt herself well equipped to write on the subject. Also her love for reading horror stories from the likes of Stephen King and James Herbert has also influenced her writing.
Carol-Anne works from her home in the rural Hampshire countryside of The New Forest UK. Where she lives with her eccentric husband and Maltese terriers, and spends much of her time with her two grown children and new grandson. Also, res- cuing any animal in need—large or small—often to the annoyance of her patient husband.
Website: https://carolmasonauthor.com 
Twitter: https://twitter.com/CarolAnneMason3
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/camasonauthor  
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/carolannemasonauthor/ 
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/carol-anne-mason-71216b131/ 





Spotlight HTML 2

The Accidental PsychicAnnie Prior Series Book OneCarol-Anne Mason
Genre: Paranormal Murder MysteryDate of Publication: 20th August 2021ISBN: 978-1-8384305-0-4Number of pages: 424Word Count: 89,560Cover Artist: Miblart
Book Description:
A horrific train crash turns Annie Prior’s life upside down, by triggering an extraordinary psychic ability that had lain dormant since her childhood.
After being rescued in more ways than one by a dark haired stranger from the train, two fatalities from the accident return to haunt her; and as Annie’s new Clairvoyant and Mediumship abilities grow, she is immersed into a realm of both needy and malevolent souls.
Despite an ongoing battle with her narcissistic family, and a boss with a dark past which continues to plague her, she comes to realise her strange new powers are also there for reasons beyond the present.
She embarks on a life journey helping both the living and the spirit world to gain closure.
But, not all are happy with Annie’s new vocation.
https://carolmasonauthor.com 

Excerpt from chapter 19 The Open Platform

‘Would it be okay for me to continue with this message, Sam? I think I know who’s here for her.’ Sam was clearly relieved. ‘Oh, yes … thank you, my dear.’

Everyone in the hall was relieved too. Annie took the reins, and without faltering continued with the message.

‘I believe your husband is here for you; in fact, he’s standing behind you with his hands on your shoulders. He seems to be steering you in the right direction.’

The lady touched her shoulder, as if to feel her husband’s unseen hand.

Annie smiled whilst she listened to the spirit convey his message. ‘Okay, so this is slightly awkward, your husband has just told me something which I believe is personal to you. Are you okay for me to continue?’

The woman simply nodded, she had never received a message of any consequence before. ‘Well, according to your husband you’re wanting to get married again, but you’re feeling
terribly guilty about it as it’s only been two years since his passing.’

The woman's mouth dropped open. ‘Oh my God, you’re right. How on earth …?’

‘I think you mean he’s right,’ Annie said with a broad smile. The congregation laughed quietly. ‘Actually, he’s giving you his blessing, and really likes your future husband. Was he one of your husband’s friends?’

The lady nodded again in affirmation and put her hands over her face—her emotions erupted. It seemed that everyone in the congregation sighed and teared up too, including most of the men.

Annie began to feel an overwhelming surge of spirits pushing their way in, they had been patiently waiting for years to get their messages across and now finally had someone who truly understood them.

About the Author:
Carol-Anne Mason is an artist, writer and at the age of 64, author of the new award winning novel The Accidental Psychic.
She has lead a busy and full life with many professions under her belt including: dancing, writing songs and performing. Hair salons, tutoring at college, running a night club and antique shop. Although, has continued throughout the years with her painting and writing.
Her strong belief in spiritualism has grown since her early teens, after realising her premonitions and intuitiveness was a family trait going back many generations. And after immersing herself into the paranormal world and researching all aspects of spiritualism, she felt herself well equipped to write on the subject. Also her love for reading horror stories from the likes of Stephen King and James Herbert has also influenced her writing.
Carol-Anne works from her home in the rural Hampshire countryside of The New Forest UK. Where she lives with her eccentric husband and Maltese terriers, and spends much of her time with her two grown children and new grandson. Also, res- cuing any animal in need—large or small—often to the annoyance of her patient husband.
Website: https://carolmasonauthor.com 
Twitter: https://twitter.com/CarolAnneMason3
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/camasonauthor  
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/carolannemasonauthor/ 
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/carol-anne-mason-71216b131/ 

Illusions: Ravens of Darkness Ravens of Darkness Book One by Elle Preston

 

Illusions: Ravens of Darkness Ravens of Darkness Book OneElle Preston 
Genre: Young Adult; Paranormal Romance Publisher: Lark Publishing Crew Date of Publication: November 14, 2020 ISBN: 978-0578661230 ASIN: B08NGC23MS Number of pages: 269 Word Count: 84,000 Cover Artist: Lark Publishing Crew 
Tagline: Nothing is what it seems. Not even love. 
Book Description: 
An ancient cult. A supernatural addiction. A forbidden love. Sixteen year old Evie Willow is terrified of drowning but she's even more afraid of her own feelings. 
When the charismatic and telepathic lifeguard, Talon Renwyck, suddenly turns his affections toward her, Evie’s ability to rein in her feelings is threatened. Talon knows a secret which plunges Evie into the deep waters of her hidden emotions. As she drifts away from the life she knows into Talon’s beckoning arms, Evie learns that Talon is much more than just the handsome guy she’s falling in love with. Caught in a dark and supernatural addiction and tied to a secret cult, Talon is crying out for help. Can Evie save him from himself? 
Is their love the real deal or is it an illusion? 
Nothing is what it seems.
Illusions is the first book in the Ravens of Darkness Series. 
If you like character driven, paranormal romance sagas with supernatural elements, darkly dynamic love relationships, and a hint of magic and mystery, then you'll love the Ravens of Darkness Series. 
Book Two, Reflections, to be released November 2021 

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/EpJdxBUs4Ac 

Amazon      Apple     Kobo     BN

Excerpt

It's freezing here at the top of the sand dune in the dark with the wind off the lake. Alex pulls a hoodie out of his backpack and tosses it to me. I put it on and get a sudden shiver through my body. I tighten my arms around my knees to keep warm. He leans closer to me,

"What are you thinking?" Alex says for the second time tonight. I laugh at that.

“You’re a telepath.  Don't you know what I’m thinking all the time?”

"You wonder why Talon chose you?” he says.

“Maybe.”

“My guess is he’s hung up on you because you’re wound so tight."

"Are you insulting me?"

"No. Just making an observation. Your repressed feelings; not crying for ten years. That’s a lot of tension. You’re a whole bunch of canned heat. You’re probably an amazing rush."

That sounds vaguely obscene like something scratched into the wall of the men’s room at the Cosmic Bowl. For a good rush call, Evie. I shudder to think. “Rush. Why do you call it that?"

"It’s the feeling you get as the energy sweeps through you. There’s nothing like it." Alex looks me in the eyes. I was addicted. I was a morphi, He thinks to me.

Was. Alex said he was an addict, but doesn't that mean he’ll always be one? I ask him how it works. How does a person take another person’s energy? What are the mechanics of it?

What’s the procedure? He says that the human body has energy vortices just like the Earth does. There are seven of them, basically starting in the pelvis and going up the spine to the crown. Morphi (energy addicts) access energy through the vortex at the neck. The throat is the easiest portal to access.

That sounds a lot like vampires to me.

"You girls and your vampire fetish,” he rolls his eyes. “I think it’s where vampire mythology started,” Alex says. “Morphi are the real vampires. Psi vamps. Cultures evolved the myth over time into bloodsuckers, but it all started with energy.”

“Describe it. What happens?"

He tells me to imagine what it’s like to be gasping for air and just when you think you can’t hang on anymore someone gives you oxygen. "It’s insanely satisfying, but hard to explain." He rubs his hands together.

"C’mon, I want to know," I pester him.

He takes my hand and rolls back the sleeve of his sweatshirt I’m wearing. He gently turns my palm face up. “Here.” He rubs his thumb in a circular motion on my inner wrist. "You put your pulse point on the base of the throat near the thyroid gland. It’s one of seven energy pools on your body." He touches his own throat, guides my wrist toward it, holds it against his skin for a moment. His skin is soft against the inside of my wrist.

"After a few seconds your wrist gets warm, your pulse quickens, your nerve endings start to tingle, your blood feels hot." He stretches my arm across his lap and squeezes my wrist. His grasp is strong. "The tingling feeling starts to move, slowly at first, all the way up, getting stronger and faster as it travels."

He slides his finger up my arm, holding me with his eyes and rests his hand on my shoulder. "It overwhelms you as it shoots through your heart and lungs. You gasp for breath and for a moment it feels like drowning. Scary, blurry, helpless. Then you stop gasping and you breathe deep."

Alex closes his eyes and I notice the corners of his mouth turn up as he remembers. "Electric energy floods your body from the top of your head to the bottom of your spine. It rushes through your mind, stimulates the pleasure center of your brain and suddenly you have unbounded energy to do whatever it is you will: manipulate water, control fire, levitate." His hand is still palm to palm with mine and he looks at me with those strange grey eyes. "When it’s over, you can’t think of anything else except how much you want it. Do you know what it’s like to want something so bad?” “Oh...um...I don't know," I lie.

I slide my hand away and wrap my arms back around my knees, but I’m no longer cold.

About the Author:

Elle Preston is the author of the Ravens of Darkness series, a young adult, paranormal romance saga. Illusions, Book One, is her debut novel. Book Two, Reflections, is set to be released November 2021. She is currently working on the third book in the series. Elle lives with her husband, five kids and several fur babies near the shores of Lake Michigan and the Indiana Dunes where she sets her novels.
http://ellebooks.com

https://bit.ly/Ellesnewsletter

https://twitter.com/preston_elle

https://www.facebook.com/EllePrestonAuthor/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14124966.Elle_Preston

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