Jamie Marchant's Blog, page 25

Guest Author, Barnaby Hazen

Delve into the strange world of the convenience store with my guest today, Barnaby Hazen.

Barnaby Hazen is an author and a musician. He sees his indie publications, Seven Eleven Stories and The Bud Hawthorne Revue as revolutionary movements in, accordingly, literature and education. He is currently working on a series called Misfortunes of T-Funk, describing the adventures of two friends following their hearts into the precarious music industry set in the near future. It is scheduled for release in April of 2017.

Barnaby lives in Taos, NM with his wife, Sarah, plus a dog, a cat and a turtle--and sometimes these grown up and surrogate kids who have decided to continue blessing his life with visits and
shenanigans.

InterviewWhat are your biggest literary influences? Favorite authors and why? I have been stuck in the late 19th – early 20th centuries for a long time as a reader, and this could explain some things about my writing. Existentialism kept me in bed for quite a while—say through much of my 20s, so you know, Dostoyevsky, Kafka, for poetry Emily Dickinson was a thing. I read some strictly philosophical books—like Sartre, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche—as well but I’m starting to think that was more an extension of drug experimentation at that time. I got a lot out of it for perspective, but at the same time a lot of it was just internal and intellectual twists and turns I was getting off on. Slightly more recent authors I’ve taken influence from are Hemingway, John Barth and Nathaniel West—but I haven’t read their catalogs very comprehensively or anything. I got self-conscious about the fact that these are mostly male authors, so what did I do? Went backwards in time again. I read Pride and Prejudice, then Kate Chopin’s Awakening. Awakening left a strong impression on me, Jane Austen had less of an impact on me personally. But the thing about that was people were still writing letters in her time, and I enjoyed that in Pride and Prejudice. I miss letters. Whenever I write short stories I think of Hemingway at some point—I think that was his playing field and I love and recommend those stories of his with all my heart.Finally, I’ve started reading some indie writers on the scene now. I find these publishers on Facebook that look interesting, and so I’ve dug into some of what’s happening now, and I’ve been very impressed. 20th-- 21st centuries, I am on my way. An irreverent indie publisher called Dostoyevsky Wannabe caught my attention for example, and I just happen to love everything I’ve bought from them so far. What are you reading at the moment? Would you recommend it to readers of this blog? Why? Here we are again with books from long before I was born. I’m re-reading The Brothers Karamatzov, and of course I’d recommend it to anyone. I read it in high school—it was assigned to me what would it be now? Around thirty years ago. I am surprised by how much stayed with me through the years from that book, and of course, at that age, how much I missed. I blew right past all the religious philosophy which is huge for Dostoyevsky’s work, this book especially, but I guess it didn’t interest me at the time, when I was sixteen or whatever. But I have a lot of Russian blood in me and the relationships and the details and these things just strike me very close to home somehow. Tell us something about how you write? i.e. are you a plotter or a pantser? Do you have any weird or necessary writing habits or rituals? One of the things I love about writing is how little is needed to up and do it. I carry notebooks with me everywhere, and that’s the requirement full stop. I love that. I scribble and try to type anytime I’ve filled a couple notebooks because I don’t like doing too much typing all at once. I play guitar, and it’s very bad for my tendons to type for that long. Forgotten was not planned out at all. I wrote the first short stories about Alex sometime a couple years before I knew where it was going, then slowly “Seven Eleven Forgotten” started happening and really did surprise me. My latest project has a blueprint already—it’s a three book series, and I know basically what’s happening with all three books, even though I’ve only finished the first one as far as the writing is concerned. But mainly what I do is scribble, type, edit. Of all the characters you have created, which is your favorite and why? I really loved writing Alex Aronovich—the recurring character in my collection, Seven Eleven Forgotten and Other Stories. I don’t give a lot up about his past until it’s hitting him in the face, and then only the bare, visceral facts. He can’t see past his own drunken distorted efforts to make sense of things and though I don’t drink (anymore), I had a lot of fun putting him through that otherworldly depiction of Moscow, set in an undetermined time. That was the whole point—disorientation. He is a very heavy thinker yet he can’t see out—that’s the flaw—and to me that’s just juicy good fun. Plus I get to compare my life to his favorably. Well usually. So that’s a plus. What was the hardest part of writing your book? Editing. With this book it was an extremely arduous process. I’ve learned from it, and work differently now, but it’s hard not to think what an idiot I was for not hiring someone--I just couldn’t have been much less efficient. I went through and through, and I’d find something wrong and distrust the whole thing, start all over. But I’m happy with it now and that’s the idea I think. Titles have always been extremely difficult for me. How do you come up with yours? You know when I mostly wrote songs I used to like making up names almost more than writing the songs. I liked looking at them on paper in the order they might appear on an album. Now that I’m writing books it’s different. I let the book come out of me and figure I’ll come across a moment that is worth naming it after, so I guess it’s not something I think about too much. But I do think it’s interesting—this difference between naming different forms of art. I don’t paint or do any form of visual art really, so now I have to wonder, what is it like naming a photograph or a painting? I’ll have to ask my wife.Where can we find you online? Website: www.sevenelevenstories.comFacebook: : https://www.facebook.com/sevenelevenshortstories/ Twitter: : https://twitter.com/BarnabyHazen
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Barnaby-Hazen/e/B017JRRUCWSeven Eleven Forgotten and Other Stories
The innovative use of convenience store phenomena weaves these nine strange tales together. The book follows a recurring character throughout the collection, Alex Aronovich, whose knack for romantic folly plagues him from L.A. to Moscow.Excerpt
“To fluent readers, the Cyrillic alphabet is said to differ from the Latin-Roman alphabets in how they are each decoded. While the native Spanish speaker, for example, may look at words and recognize their shapes at a glance, those who read in Russian are reading in blocks, particularly the non-cursive writing most often used for signs and billboards in the cities. Walking around and looking up at all the messages, some lit, some painted, some faded and others inescapably gosh in color and brightness—it can feel as if one is surrounded, especially in one’s first few days off the plane.
Though the same sky is above those words as it is above New York, Los Angeles, or Paris, the colors within the atmosphere of Moscow mingle and taint the eyes. The toxic fumes and endlessly bright lights cities have in common seem to differ from one to the next, yet infinitely more so in Moscow, as the sky reflects back on the messages the signs sent up to that open space at an incomprehensibly fast rate; only to be sent back down making even less sense at the leisure of the atmosphere. The clouds, neither entirely natural nor manmade are therefore illusions of unfamiliar shades of purple, red, pink and black, depending on the mood of the city. One’s own moods and emotions are tiny yet intertwined with the scenery; one’s own thoughts, dictated by the atmosphere and emotions in response, seem more insignificant the longer one gazes; yet those thoughts are the only tool available in the seductive struggle to comprehend where one stands, and what one is doing there.

All the while the smells, the industry, the pastries, the meats; the sewage, the cars, the perfumes and the sweat; the taste in one’s mouth mingles with every molecule the nostrils endure and produces something at the back of the throat—a mixture of manic wonder and desperation as such has been tasted maybe twice in one’s life, yet it is so familiar, so familiar to the tongue it has to indicate something regarding one’s destiny—a great change or even death—it has to be just around the corner. But maybe not this corner; maybe the next.”

If the excerpt interest you, comment below. Book can be purchased using the following link.

The Goddess's Choice audio, Chapter 12

This week listen to Robbie finally being able to see his power. Let me know what you think.



If you can't wait for the next chapter, you can always buy it on Amazon.

Rogue One: Movie Review

**** Warning: Contains Spoilers ****



My husband and I went to see Rogue One on opening night, and I'm afraid I was less than thrilled. When we went to see The Force Awakens, I had low expectations. I hated Episodes I, II, and III, and Disney has never been high on my list of good movie makers. To my surprise, I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. Yes, it was derivative of The New Hope, but it had great characters. I loved seeing Hann and Leia again. (I was shocked and saddened by Carrie Fisher's death this past week.) I cried when Hann was killed. The new characters Rey and Finn I also loved and look forward to seeing more of them in Episode 8.

Because of The Force Awakens, I approached Rogue One with higher expectations, and I was disappointed. Yes, the special effects were pretty great, but I have never cared very much about special effects. To me the most important element of any story is characters. If I don't care about the characters, I don't care about anything, and Rogue One did not make me care about any of the characters beyond the most superficial emotions. When they all die in the end, which should be a poignant moment, I shrugged and didn't feel a thing. I cry very easily in movies, and as I said, I wept when Hann died. Not even the slightest moisture in the eyes for Jyn, Cassian, or any of the others.

This was regrettable. Many of the characters had the potential to be truly great characters, but the movie spent too much time of special effect and not enough developing any of them. We never really understand why Jyn was in prison or why her life took such a disastrous turn after she was rescued as a child. We never really understand the relationship between Jyn and her foster father. Her mother's death was simply dumb. The father was sacrificing himself to give them time to get away, and instead of making sure her child was safe (which is what any mother would actually do), she does something suicidal stupid with no chance of success to try to rescue him. There are hints of Cassian having committed bad acts in the name of the cause, which could add a lot of depth to his character, but it was never developed. The minor characters weren't any better developed.

Because I cared about none of them, their success in getting the plans meant next to nothing to me, and their deaths even less.

Overall, I think this was a missed opportunity for the franchise. The movie had a lot of potential, and it simply fell flat.

If you've seen Rogue One, share your thoughts in the comments. If you agree with me, let me know. If not, why am I wrong?

Captain Hawkins Book Tour & Giveaway

Captain HawkinsThe Jamie Hawkins Sage Book 1By H. Peter AlessoGenre: SciFi ,Action, Adventure, Thriller
Action packed battles - plus an alien mystery with an original twistJamie Hawkins was living on an obscure planet in the twenty third-century when on one fateful night--his life changed forever. His heroic effort to save the lives of innocent women and children, caught in the cross-fire of war, placed him squarely in the cross-hairs of avenging soldiers.A former marine, Hawkins was stunned when his rescue effort was seen as treachery. Unfairly convicted of treason by a corrupt judge, he was sentenced to life imprisonment at hard labor on an infamous penal colony.Once in prison, his courage and perseverance won him the admiration and trust of his fellow convicts. While he was plotting his escape, an enemy attacked the planet--giving this daring warrior his chance. Together with his fellow prisoners, he launched a bold assault and high-jacked an enemy warship.From then on, Captain Jamie Hawkins on his ship, the Indefatigable, fought in ship-to-ship and fleet actions against the government--only to discover that something insidious was behind the war--a mysterious alien presence with a original twist.
Goodreads * Amazon



As a scientist and author specializing in technology innovation, H. Peter Alesso has over twenty years research experience at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory (LLNL). As Engineering Group Leader at LLNL he led a team of computer scientists, engineers, and physicists in innovative applications across a wide range of supercomputers, workstations, and networks. He graduated from the United States Naval Academy with a B.S. and served in the U.S. Navy on nuclear submarines before completing an M.S. and an advanced Engineering Degree at M.I.T. He has published several software titles and numerous scientific journal and conference articles, and he is the author/co-author of nine books.He's grateful to those who have posted favorable reviews of his work. He encourages those who would like to receive email notification of future books to click the Follow button on the Author's page.
Website * Amazon * Goodreads * Facebook


The black of night had fallen, but Jamie Hawkins couldn’t sleep.Though the surgeons had patched up his many wounds, the remorseless pain persisted, even now, months after his medical discharge from the Marines.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Despite his desire to ignore the unwelcomed thundering blows, he answered the door to his country home and found his neighbor, tall scrawnyseventeen year old Joshua Morgan, gasping for breath.
“Captain Hawkins, come quick! Come quick, or they’ll all be killed!”
“Who? What are you talking about, Joshua?”
“I’ve just come from the city—it’s a war zone. People are dying,” Joshua’s voice broke. “The hospital is taking care of the wounded and sheltering women and children, but its force shield is buckling.” He finished in a breathless rush, “It’s only a matter of minutes before it fails.”
A troubled frown creased Hawkins’s face. Their mothers had been friends and he had known Joshua since he was born.
Has the boy been drawn into the turmoil? He wondered.
Hawkins had listened to the broadcasts throughout the day, absurd in every detail; demonstrators declared that they were only protesting injustice, while the government insisted the violence was a last resort against rebels.
Which is the greater lie?
“I told one of the doctors, I knew someone who could help. My flyer’s right outside, sir. You must come,” begged Joshua, his expressive eyes pleading.
A more kindhearted man, who possessed his insight, might have agonized over what was happening in the capital city, but though Hawkins was not unsympathetic, past adversity had left him more hardboiled and cynical than most.
“That’s not my concern anymore,” he said.
Joshua’s desperate voice squealed, “You’re a veteran. You could make a difference, sir.”
Hawkins put his hand on his hips, threw his head back, and barked, “Ha!”
Then, giving vent to a deep inner passion, he demanded, “What difference can one man make?”
As a Marine, Hawkins had been a hot-blooded warrior, always quick to action, so at this moment of great upheaval, while frenzied violence was playing out in the capital, he surprised himself with his reluctance to act. As he ran his hand over the long jagged scar that marred his chest, one thing was certain, the foolish mutinous passions of the people could only lead to ruin.
But the look that spread across the boy’s face was indescribable—it was as if he had just lost his hero.
“Alright, if you won’t come, at least tell me how to maintain the shield,” said Joshua, showing a daring and persistence beyond his years. “I’ll go back alone, but you must tell me what to do.”
“You have no idea what you’d be getting yourself into. All hell has broken loose. Can’t you see, you can’t contribute anything worthwhile, and most likely something terrible will happen?”
“I must go back, my mother is a volunteer at the hospital,” said Joshua. Throwing back his shoulders with a determined jerk of his chin, he challenged Hawkins’s jaded gaze, pleading, “Please. Tell me how to fix the shield.”
Hawkins opened his mouth, but the words froze on his lips. The boy’s courage was a splash of cold water in his face, stinging his sense of honor. It wasn’t in his nature to send this boy to certain death—for Joshua could never accomplish what had to be done—nor it was in his makeup to let innocents be condemned to death with the hospital’s destruction.
A gritty resolve washed over Hawkins. He said, “Let’s go.”
***
Wearing a brown pilot jacket, tanned rawhide trousers with knee-high leather boots, calfskin gloves, and goggles, Hawkins skillfully maneuvered thWhat they saw was a madhouse--Newport was ablaze with savage fires that lit up the horizon--scores of them. Just hours before it had been a vibrant city, the capital of Jaxon, renowned for its culture and history, thriving with business and commerce, home to over a million inhabitants going about their ordinary daily lives, now it was a battlefield.
Though his home was a mere two dozen kilometers outside the city, it was impossible for him to fly directly there. There were several sharp mountain peaks in their way, one tremendous one, flanked by two smaller ones, causing Hawkins to race the engine of single-seat turbojet to gain altitude. The noise and vibration of the straining sputtering engine roared into the dark rainy night until they were able to ascend to three thousand meters.
When they reached the outskirts of the city, they descended to a hundred meters, but skyscrapers rose in their path causing them to fly directly over a paved highway that connected the planet's capital to the suburbs. It was swollen with traffic--pedestrians, motorcycles, trucks and cars--choking the road. There were people of every description; disheveled housewives and construction workers, unskilled laborers and local tradesmen, reeking hobos and sharply dressed businessmen, young and old, men and women alike, all seeking safety. Some carried cherished possessions while others brandished antiquated bullet guns, since the government had already confiscated most laser and plasma weapons. This crowded mass of human unhappiness snaked its way along its ill-chosen path intent on escaping the terrifying violence.
Is Joshua's mom in that mob? Hawkins wondered.
Those remaining in the city suffered under a shower of high explosive aerial bombs intermixed with artillery shells. With sirens wailing, Hawkins saw bombers overhead dropping death from the skies and heard the repeated firing of artillery in the distance. He couldn't tell who was doing the shooting.
After his initial reluctance to come, he agonized over whether he would arrive in time. A nearly impenetrable wall of smoke, flame, debris, and explosions added extra heart wrenching minutes to the journey.
Every two minutes a new wave of jets would be overhead and a new barrage of artillery shells would join in. The roaring fires pulsed, like the blind fury of an agitated buzzing beehive. Little fires grew into big ones, right before his eyes. Big ones died down under the valor of firemen, only to break out again a few moments later.
Hawkins saw the panic in the street. The city's civil-defense included shelters that were now overflowing with refugees. Many had left their homes and defied the flames to run to the bomb shelters distributed throughout the city, only to find there was no room for them. In addition to the death and injury, everywhere there was evidence of psychological trauma--children sat in rubble--their dead parent's bodies nearby. It was impossible to gauge how much more the citizens could take. Panic and raw nerves grew tighter with each passing minute. The people prayed for a respite--but there was little hope for mercy on this night.
Hawkins heard the crackling of the closest flames and the screams of victims and firemen, alike. Smoke blurred his vision and seared his lungs. Nevertheless, he kept going with Joshua clinging to his waist.
"Arf! Arf!" choked Joshua.
"Here cover your mouth with this handkerchief," yelled Hawkins over the uproar around them.
EEEEEEERRRR!!!
The sirens wailed.
Hawkins cursed.
"Oh, no," said Joshua. "Are we too late?"
"We're almost there," said Hawkins.
They heard detonations high in the air. The sky was alive with a deadly dance of destruction.
BOOM!
Then another--
BOOM!
Farther down the street, Hawkins could see soldiers breaking through the defensive ring of some diehard demonstrators, sending them fleeing in every direction. He couldn't quite make out what the people were yelling, but he could see one oversized banner fall to the ground.

It read, "Beware the Wrath to Come!"

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Blood Cursed and Other Tales of the Fantastic

I have returned from the wilds of Pennsylvania. This week I thought I post one of my short stories from my short story collection, Blood Cursed and Other Tales of the Fantastic. Read about the very unlucky day of the thief, Phineus.



As Luck Would Have ItBy: Jamie Marchant
The trouble started this morning when I was making my way to back to my hovel. I was nearing my neighborhood when I heard the unmistakable m-m-m-r-r-o-o-w of a cat fight. Out of an alley shot a grey tabby chased by a large tom as dark as midnight. I’m not normally a suspicious person, and a black cat crossing my path wouldn’t normally bother me, but in pursuing his rival this black cat twined himself around my legs, causing me to trip and slam my head into a three-foot high brick wall. Since I was already so close to the ground and the world was spinning, I deemed it appropriate to continue the rest of the way and lay still for a moment. At the time, I didn’t realize the fall had torn my shirt, revealing a gold chain I had recently acquired.
“Are you alright, sir?” called a street urchin who’d been sleeping in the alley.
I groaned in response, certain I’d fractured my skull. Before I realized what was happening, little hands tugged at the chain, the clasp broke, and little feet took off running. I stumbled to my feet to see the child disappear around the corner. I’d scaled a five-story building and sneaked through a window into a lady’s chamber to acquire that chain, risking arrest and hanging, and I wasn’t going to let some street child steal it from me. Besides, I couldn’t countenance theft in one so young.
I had two problems in my plan to apprehend the villain. One was the cut above my eyebrow, causing blood to flow into my right eye, and the second was the still-spinning world. You must take this into account and not blame me too heavily for what happened next. Gamely, I took off in pursuit of the thieving scoundrel and rounded the corner. I did not see the ladder until it was too late to stop. Now, as I’ve said, I’m not normally a superstitious person, and I have run under many a ladder with impunity, but this time, because of the blood in my eye and my none-too-steady balance, I rammed my shoulder against one of the rungs, causing the ladder to topple and the workman using it to fall. I did my best to cushion his fall, seeing that he landed on top of me. Not only did this knock the air completely out of my lungs, but as I fell, my purse caught on the ladder and tore, scattering rings and other baubles.
The noise—the workman howling at the top of his lungs, as I might have been if I could catch a breath—drew a small crowd. “Well, well, well, what have we here,” a voice said, as the workman was helped off of me. “If it isn’t young Phineus.”
To my horror, I discovered the voice belonged to Constable Rawlins. The good constable had been trying to apprehend me for some time, but when the world was not spinning and I could see out of both eyes, I was—and I can say this without boasting—the fastest runner in the city of Longston Beachidea. A hand grabbed me and hauled me roughly to my feet while I was still struggling to get air back into my lungs.
Believing my neck sufficiently long without having it stretched, I desperately scanned my surroundings for a way to extricate myself from my predicament. That was when I saw it. An owl flying in the daylight is the worse kind of luck and a sure death omen, but since I’m not a superstitious man, I didn’t fear for myself. Instead, I pointed. “Hey, look, it’s an owl.”
The owl conveniently hooted to confirm its identity. Fortunately, the crowd, especially Constable Rawlins, was superstitious, and while they were busy making the sign against evil, I was able to wriggle free.
I never saw the hole until I was through it. Now, I’m not talking about a hole in the ground or any benign hole in a wall. I’m talking about a gaping hole in reality—a rip, if you will, in the space-time continuum. I know you are going to say: “How could you not see a ragged rift of absolute darkness and horror? These holes have been around for the last twenty years, virtually your entire life.”  And yes, on two previous occasions I have had the misfortune to fall through such holes. But please take into account my diminished eyesight, the continued spinning of the world, and the pursuit of the angry constable.
With the proper application of magic, people have always been able to open a passage between Aracidia, my home realm, and Earth, Aracidia’s technological sister realm, but it took a wizard of enormous power. For the last twenty years, however, holes have been randomly opening both here in Aracidia and on Earth, and people inadvertently crossing between realms has not been an uncommon occurrence, although believe me, it is dangerous and most unpleasant. It’s estimated that one of every two people who enters a rift doesn’t appear on the other side. What happens to them no one knows. Why these rifts in reality have started to occur is also a mystery. Some believe the use of nuclear weapons on Earth is responsible. Others think it was out of control, power-mad wizards here that did it. Or perhaps the two forces combined to disrupt the space-time continuum. I don’t care why. I just know that falling through a hole hurt.
One minute I was barreling down the street, hoping to duck into a convenient alley and lose the constable, and the next I was having every atom in my body thrown about in ways atoms weren’t supposed to be thrown. Then I was lying on my back, surrounded by a bunch of men in orange jumpsuits. Somehow I had landed straight in the middle of the Long Beach city jail. What were the odds of that happening?
I’ve had the misfortune to end up in Long Beach twice before. The second occasion I fell through such holes, I spent time in the jail—all because of a misunderstanding, I assure you—before I was lucky enough to find a hole in the space-time continuum to take me back to Aracidia.
“Wow, man!” one of the prisoners said. “It’s that dude from Aracidia.” At least I think that’s what he said, my atoms still trying to resemble themselves.
I blinked and wiped the blood out of my eye. I noticed a rabbit’s foot hanging from the zipper of another prisoner. As luck would have it, he also had a tattoo of a four-leaf clover on his wrist. While rabbit’s feet and clovers are supposed to be signs of luck, this combination was certainly not lucky for me. You see, I recognized that tattoo. Its owner and I had had a slight misunderstanding. He seemed to be under the impression that I had stolen a gold ring he used to wear on his right hand while, I assure you, I had merely borrowed it to check the quality of the workmanship, which, actually, was very fine.
“Martin,” I said, using my most charming smile. “So nice to see you again.”
Martin smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of friendly greeting. Instead, it was the same smile he had worn while beating me to a bloody pulp over the misunderstanding regarding the ring. I was contemplating whether Martin or Constable Rawlings was a bigger threat to me when the hole closed as abruptly as it had opened, trapping me in the prison yard. “I told you if I ever saw your face again I was going to break every bone in your body.”
I stumbled to my feet and noticed that Martin was surrounded by twelve of his friends. I quickly added this up and determined that made thirteen of them. Now, as I have said, I’m not normally a suspicious man, and the number thirteen usually meant no more to me than any other number, but being outnumbered thirteen to one did seem a tad unlucky. “Ah, yes, I believe you did, but I assure you I had no intention of coming here. I didn’t notice the hole.”
Martin raised his eyebrows. “How could you miss seeing the hole?”
“Well . . er . . . I was kind of being chased at the time.” I explained all about the cat, the street urchin, the ladder, and the constable who wanted to see me hang.
“What were you thinking?” said the tallest of Martin’s friends. “Everybody knows black cats and ladders are the worst kind of luck.”
Martin laughed. “Very bad luck for scrawny here.” He gave me a light push in the chest.
I looked around frantically for a prison guard, the only time in my life I’ve desired to see a representative of the law. But the guards were on the far side of the yard and had not noticed my arrival.
Tall pulled out a sharp piece of glass, and I realized it was a piece of a broken mirror. “I say we carve up his face.”
Now, as I have said, I’m not a superstitious man, but even a non-superstitious man will find his beauty marred by a broken mirror. “You said break every bone in my body. Nothing was said about carving up my face.” I objected, trying to back away.
As luck would have it, the broken mirror caught the sunlight and reflected it into the eyes of another group of prisoners—a gang of the Aryan Brotherhood. I should perhaps explain that my skin is none too light. Besides, I recognized the head Brother from my prior stint in the Long Beach city jail. His name was Justin, and we too had had a misunderstanding, my having made some remark about his parentage involving a dog and a baboon.
He signaled to the other members of the Brotherhood, and they too converged on me. I counted quickly and discovered there were also thirteen of them. I racked my brain for something clever to say to avoid getting every bone in my body broken and my face carved like a pumpkin. The best I could think of was a joke about why the Nazi crossed the road that I didn’t think either group would appreciate.
They stopped advancing about two feet from me. “Here’s ours,” said Martin, staring at the head Brother.
“You can have what’s left of him when we’re through with him,” Justin said.
I put up a hand toward each of them. “Now, ladies, no need to fight over me.” This may not have been the smartest thing to say because both men stopped glaring at each other and turned their full attention to me. But at that moment, I saw a penny lying face up at my feet. Now, I’m not normally a suspicious man, and I have left many a penny lie, but today I reached for it. At that exact moment, both men swung for me, but because of the penny, I was no longer there, and they hit each other instead.
An all-out brawl erupted, and I was able to crawl free of the fray with scarcely a bruise to show for it. While I was congratulating myself on my escape, I looked down and saw the crack in the concrete directly under my feet. Not knowing who my mother was, I was not much concerned with breaking my momma’s back, but I noticed the crack start to widen and realized it was not an ordinary crack, but another rift in the space-time continuum. What are the odds of encountering two on the same day?
Before I could decide whether to jump aside or allow myself to fall through it, I was sucked into the fathomless void to have my atoms thrown about again. I nearly laughed in relief when I found myself on my back on the streets of my beloved Longston Beachidea.

Then I glanced to the side and saw a pair of boots. I looked up to find that they belonged to—you guessed it—Constable Rawlings. 

If you enjoyed this story, let me know in the comments. You can find more like it in the collection. The eversion is only $2.99.

Eve The First Book Tour and Giveaway

Eve the First:A Fairy Tale Revisionby Teresa Edmond-SargeantGenre: Fantasy, Fairy Tale Retelling
A retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tale "The Wicked Prince," "Eve the First" introduces a princess unlike any other in popular fairy tales: ruthless, power-hungry and ambitious enough to conquer Heaven. After successfully monopolizing the known world, Eve lays her eyes on taking down God so she can reign supreme over Heaven and Earth.
Goodreads * Amazon

She was called Eve the First.

And once upon a time, that name, and its infamy, petrified the hearts and minds of anyone familiar with her conquests, capabilities, and cunning tenacity fueled by her volatility.

Eve’s innocent beauty belied her passion to conquer the world. Her doe-like eyes concealed the twinkle that reflected her megalomaniacal thirst for power. With her youthfully plump, pink lips, Eve barked demands at her subjects and soldiers, threatening to execute them if they failed to carry out her commands. She wore her lustrous locks in braids and pinned up into exquisite loops with hair ornaments crafted from the bones of her enemies and decorated with precious jewels like pearls, diamonds, and sapphires.

In Eve’s kingdom of Regnum, the populace sought for worldly knowledge, wealth, and prestige. Above all, the people pursued the supreme form of existence: immortality. To these ends, they excelled in architecture, arts, music, literature, alchemy and science. With the practices of Pagan worship, drunken orgies, and human sacrificing, they prided themselves on being their absolute best in knowledge and wealth, while their crude and barbaric natures situated them at the bottom of human existence.

Eve ruled the land of Regnum with the utmost passion of all kinds: love, fear, cruelty, and intensity, but mostly the last three. Every day she studied maps of foreign kingdoms, plotted her next conquest, and trained her soldiers until their feet bled and their sanity broke. Wherever she went, her subjects genuflected and lowered their heads, averting eye contact. If Eve caught anyone sneaking furtive glances at her, she screamed the dreaded words, “Away with him and off with his head!”

The next time that person was seen, his headless body was at the bottom of a ravine near Eve’s castle.

As she brandished her sword and ambition, Eve led her army all over the world, from the nearest to the most remote lands. She left behind trails of bloodshed, death, and tears. With every swing of her sword—a stab here, a beheading there—Eve radiated joy as blood splattered all over her armor and corpses piled up. Villagers said their bountiful fields, once ripe with harvest, were cultivated with the blood of the dead. Whole carcasses and body parts littered the meadows, turning them into rolling graveyards, as though the dead had been dug up.

“I have unyielding determination that cannot be matched,” Eve once said. “If that makes me an evil woman, so be it.”

Once Eve conquered a village, she marched into its public square and staked her coat of arms into the soil. Her soldiers kept the crowd back while the crowd admired Eve’s glorious beauty sullied with dirt and blood. Clutching the flagpole, Eve placed her right hand over her heart.

“Today’s victory is in memory of my dear mother, the late Queen Catherine the Third,” Eve said to her new subjects. “She would have been proud to know that I will bestow upon all of you a new day, a new life, and a new era. I acknowledge that from this day forward, this is the age we start to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, and heal the sick. I have ushered in a Golden Era of Peace where the sun will always rise in the east, trees shall forever bear fruit, and harvest season shall forever be abundant. This is the time when we unite as one to remake this land so it will transcend our utmost expectations and ideal selves.”

Eve then signaled her soldiers to present her newly conquered subjects with baskets of bread and meat and vessels of cider.

“Today, what I have done was quite a sacrifice, but it was all done for you my beloved people,” Eve continued. “I will give you whatever you yearn for—food, shelter, clothes—and promise to alleviate you of the agonies you long suffered at the hands of your demon of a king. That will happen if — and only if — you crown me your ruler and allow me to erect my statues everywhere in your village.”

Then her soldiers demanded that the peasants form lines in front of them. Cries of “Long live Eve” rang throughout the land as soldiers passed out equal rations of food and drink to the peasants.

Teresa Edmond-Sargeant is an Orlando, FL-based poet, author and journalist originally from northern New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies featuring NJ poets. During her time as a reporter in Jersey, she won two NJ Press Association awards.In 2006, she published her debut poetry book, "How Fate's Confusion Connects"; the book's second edition will be released later in 2014. She is the author of three (so far;-)) Amazon Kindle ebooks: "Eve the First," "An Estella Exclusive" and "Ethical Strains," all short stories.Edmond-Sargeant is a member of the Florida State Poets Association. She is now a staff writer for The Apopka Chief, a newspaper that covers the Apopka, FL, area (http://www.theapopkachief.com).
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Dark Fey Book Tour and Giveaway

Welcome to mythical, enchanted forest of Jyndari and the Village of Hwyndarin where The Fey of the Light, who are Light loving Fey, reside. 
Where there is Light there is also darkness and the Fey of the Light live in careful vigilance, protecting themselves from the Dark Fey, known by many names, such as the Fallen, the Dark Ones, and most particularly The Reviled, who live in a realm of darkness and shadow known as the Uunglarda. Although their two realms exist in close proximity, most Fey of the Light have never seen an actual Dark Fey and many Dark Fey only encounter very young Fey of the Light; yet crossings and abductions happen every day. 
As their temples are desecrated, homes are pillaged and plundered, and the peaceful tranquility so important to the Fey of the Light is repeatedly shattered, the Fey Guard stand as protectors. They are mighty in battle and fierce in their vigilance to protect the fragile balance of life for the peaceful Fey of Light. 
All Fey are born with special abilities, or gifts, such as telepathy, empathy, discernment, or the ability to dream walk. Many also have a gift of magic, though not all, such as spell-casting, enchantment, light bending or element wielding. While the Fey of the Light are beautiful and live harmoniously, the Reviled Fey are the opposite; they revere darkness and fill their lives with cruelty and evil, but all Reviled Fey begin their lives as Fey of the Light. The change comes only if they are abducted as childfey and forced to undergo the Integration, a process of intentional neglect and cruelty designed to twist them away from the Light.
This level of horror is not incorporated into the Dark Fey Trilogy simply for the sake of it. One does not need to open the pages of a book to discover the unthinkable, as the darkness typically embodied in fantasy genre stories by some terrifying being or creature is very much alive in our own reality and this is the underlying motivation for the darkness woven into Dark Fey.   It was based in great part on the terrifying, yet true-life events of the Lord’s Resistance Army or LRA, a rebel militant group in Uganda that has for over 20 years abducted children from their homes; forcing them to commit horrifying acts of violence against each other and their own people. These children suffer a very real Integration and, like the childfey of Jyndari, they endure violence and cruelty at the hands of truly sadistic overlords.  This is how the Reviled came to life and became the horrifyingly cruel beings depicted in Dark Fey. 
This story shares the Power of Hope, Acceptance and Forgiveness through the ideal that you can change the world, if you take Positive Action to Create Change through doing what is Right.  
Many times during your journey through the Dark Fey Trilogy, you will encounter words that seem to be capitalized for no apparent reason; yet, it should be noted, these capitalizations are anything but random. They mark either proper nouns, such as Fey of the Light, the Temple, Fey Guards, the Reviled, or the Light, which is not simply a glimmering of illumination, but a connotation that is highly important in the spirituality of Fey. If a word holds specific meaning, it may also be capitalized, such as See, Know, or Understand. You may encounter such words when they are in reference to a Fey gift, such as telepathy, empathy, or discernment, and they carry significant weight so, in order to emphasize their importance, capitalization is used.
Join me as we embark into this realm of Light and Dark. Allow your imagination take over as you experience the Jyndari forest and The Fey of the Light's struggle with The Reviled. Let the Light reach outward from these pages and draws you into on a journey that promises to change your way of thinking.

Ayla is one of the lead characters of Dark Fey.  She was present in my thoughts from the initial dream that Inspired the story; yet she is very often misunderstood by readers.  Although the story could not progress without her, even I find myself frequently annoyed by her overly emotional volatility, so I decided to give my readers a bit of background about her, as well as, perhaps, an explanation.  
******* Born with extraordinary gifts, Ayla can easily distinguish truth from lies.  She can look into the eyes and see the soul, Discerning beyond all the complications of guise. Empathy runs so deeply within her that she can even take on the pain of another and she is able to hear thoughts through Telepathic connection. This rare combination of gifts first drew attention to her as a youngling; then isolated her when she was sent off to the Temple, dedicated to a life as a Guardian of Childfey.
There she was guided by scholars who filled her mind with images of good and evil.  While her friends sat in cheerful classrooms and played with other childfey, she learned about secret arts and magic.  She also learned that using her gifts drains her own energy by an equal proportion to that which she extends to heal or ease anothers suffering.  As a result, she tried to learn to protect herself from her own Empathic inclinations, but blocking the thoughts, emotions and pain of others remained a constant challenge for her and when she reached her eighteenth birthday and took her place amidst the communal life of the village of Hwyndarin, this difficulty compeled her to keep others at a distance.
Beautiful, yet socially awkward and frequently overwhelmed by those sentiments and passions of others that she was never able to fully master blocking, she has only one friend, but when this friend introduces her to a young malefey close to her age of eighteen summers Ayla discovers magic of another kind; the enchantment of first love. Even his love, however, cannot alter her feelings of peculiarity and isolation.
Only when she hears the whispers of one who comes in shadows and silence does she begin to understand her own strengths and her own desires.  When he steps from the darkness, he throws her world in chaos, requiring her to make decisions she never thought possible; asking her to face dangers she only ever read about, and altering the course of her life forever.  Yet, in the process, he helps her to understand the truth about her gifts, which have set her apart for so long.
***A Snippet from Dark Fey The Reviled ***
“You are the only person who can help me, Ayla, because you are the only one who can know with absolute certainty what I say is the truth; that I am not deceiving you to serve my own evil purposes.” Gasping in fear, she shook her head, but Gairynzvl would not accept her refusal.
“It is your gift, Ayla, and your purpose.” She stared at him silently as tears slipped over her flushed cheeks, utterly overwhelmed by him.
“Read me, Ayla!” He growled impatiently, but she reached up and shoved him away from her with as much force as she could manage.
“I cannot!” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“You will not.”
“You are overpowering me!” She snapped back acerbically, “I cannot read through all that emotion.”
He fell silent, considering, but he did not move away and he did not release her from the intense stare he had fixed upon her that pierced into her very essence and made her shudder. After a prolonged moment, he closed his eyes and slowly drew a deep breath; visibly calming himself before he stepped closer and re-affixed her with his resolute gaze. She watched him hesitantly, released from the waves of despondency and resentment he had again opened to her, yet still fearful of what he might do next. Unhurriedly, he reached out for her hand, patient in a way he had not been before when she started away from him to search his eyes nervously for any indication of reassurance she might find there before offering her small hand to him. Holding it lightly in his warm clasp, he reached out for the other hand, waiting just as patiently for her to understand that he would do nothing atrocious should she give it to him as well. When she did, he drew both to himself, laying her hands upon his chest, palms down over his heart, before releasing his grasp upon her. Spreading his wings wide then, he turned his face upward, closed his eyes, and opened himself to her fully.
Ayla gasped in surprised revelation. She had never done such a thing before; never physically touched someone to read them while they stood, silently surrendered to her, revealing themselves in a manner that was intensely stirring and intimate......





The ReviledDark Fey Book 1By Cynthia Morgan Genre: Fantasy, Romance
In the mystical realm of Jyndari, a relationship blossoms between two unsuspecting, yet kindred souls.Ayla, a Light-loving Guardian of Childfey, hides more than a few secrets — ones which isolate and set her apart from the rest. Yet Ayla’s veiled confidences entice one who lurks in the shadows. Silent and watchful, this dangerous presence knows all too well the secrets she wishes kept hidden.
The Darkness-revering Fey bids his time, waiting for the ideal moment to step away from the shadows and reveal himself to Ayla. But doing so will irrevocably alter the course of their lives, and shatter both their worlds.
Brimming with magic and mystery, beauty and enchantment, The Reviled is a fantasy novel like no other; an adventure for both mind and spirit.

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Standing in ShadowsDark Fey Book 2
After escaping captivity, Gairynzvl has been rescued by the Light-loving Fey. Now, he wants to return into the dark realm of The Reviled and rescue the innocent childfey trapped there.
But it will take strength, courage and more than one Fey to breach the borders of The Uunglarda, and to slip past the legions of Dark Fey who abide there. The daring mission will shake the foundations of everything The Fey of The Light have accepted as truth for thousands of years, but Gairynzvl knows the secret ways in and out of the dark realm.
Slipping into the darkness through darkness is easy; escaping with the childfey is another matter. Should they be captured, his band of liberators will pray for death long before it comes. Even is success, their deeds could spark a full scale war, unleashing the barbaric hatred and viciousness of The Reviled upon the peace-loving Fey of The Light.
Will the Fey of the Light risk a savage war in order to rescue the innocent childfey, and who are prepared to join Gairynzvl's quest to the realm of shadows and fear?

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Book Three- Breaking into the Light coming soon!


Cynthia A. Morgan is the creator of the mythical realm of Jyndari and author of the epic fantasy Dark Fey Trilogy, which is based, in part, upon the true-life events surrounding the Lord’s Resistance Army in Uganda and draws readers into a mystical realm of primordial forests, magic and the lives of Light-loving and Darkness-revering Feykind. Not to be confused with pixies or “Tinkerbell” type fairies, the feyfolk of Jyndari are winged beings the size of any human who live in a realm where tradition, magic, and spirituality are fundamentals of everyday life. 
Dark Fey has earned many 5 stars reviews, including one of the leading industry review organizations, Readers Favorite. Dark Fey The Reviled was also awarded the New Apple Literary Agency 2016 Book Award for Excellence in Fantasy. Compared to a fantasy version of a play by Shakespeare, Dark Fey is a brutally beautiful story of Love, Hope, and finding Peace in the Darkness. Published by Creativia Publications in January 2015, Dark Fey is already among the top #50 in several Fantasy genre categories on Amazon.
Morgan is also the author of the popular blog “Booknvolume” where her ever-increasing number of followers are regularly treated to Morgan’s own brand of poetry, English Sonnets, and musings about life. She is a current member of the Poetry Society of America; is ranked among the top authors on the Independent Author Network; has had poetry published on numerous poetry websites and is rapidly becoming an Author to keep your eye on. 
Some of her other interests includes a deep love for animals and the environment. She is passionate about music and theatre; is frequently heard laughing; finds the mysteries of ancient times, spirituality, and the possibilities of life elsewhere in the cosmos intriguing. Morgan Believes in the power of Love, Hope and Forgiveness, all of which is reflected in her lyrically elegant writing style. 

You can find Morgan through social media in the following places:

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Dark Fey The Reviled has been nominated for the Golden Book Annual Awards for Fantasy and is now a Semifinalist!!!!Help the author out and vote for it!! http://www.goldenboxbooks.com/golden-book-award-contest.html

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Shadows of Atlantis Blog Tour

Shadows of Atlantis 
Awakening
By Mara Powers 
Genre: Fantasy Atlantis is a luxurious paradise run by crystal technology built in alignment with nature. For thousands of years, Atlanteans have powered their cities with a Crystal Grid fed by psychic mindlight.But the Grid has been infiltrated by parasitic shadows that feed off the negative emotions of humans - an epidemic called “the madness.” D’VINID, a dejected musician, is consumed by his personal problems. He meets Brigitte as she seeks to uncover the corruption in the Grid. Their magnetic attraction forces him to face his past and accept his future. He is among those born with a gene unlocking mystical powers once believed to be the birthright of all humans. 
As Atlantis slowly drowns in the trap of hubris and self-indulgence, he is faced with the shocking realization that his life may be mirroring Atlantis itself - he must choose to awaken or face destruction.

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MARA POWERS has been researching Atlantis avidly since she was a teenager. Mara Powers is a true Gen X American nomad. She has managed to establish a life of travel, moving around all her favorite cities on a quest to chase the perfect weather. She discovered the myth of Atlantis at age 16, and has made it her life work to unravel the riddle. She studies both esoteric and secular theories, and incorporates them all in her stories. In a way, her Atlantis series is a dissertation on the knowledge and experience she has accumulated over almost 3 decades. Also a social butterfly, Powers spent the early part of her career as an event manager. She has worked at resorts, on boats, restaurants, in the festival circuit, and underground clubs as a promoter of bands, performers and electronic music. Her many travels have been incorporated into her work. For instance, her time spent as a denizen of Venice Beach is represented by the dog-town-style hover tricksters who have plagued the streets of Atlantis. 
She loves hearing everyone’s past life memories of Atlantis. Shoot her an email with yours.

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Music began. Atlantean classical music was designed to weave the delicate harmonies of nature and emulate frequencies from the universal spheres. It had evolved in modern times to a more primal reminder of human existence, with multi-layered rhythmic pulses as its basis. It had become popular at revelries to feature the dark, grooving textures of percussive instruments run through resonance amplifiers. The dance style to this tribal heartbeat music was an individualized expression of character and personal power. D’Vinid, like all dabrina players, studied classical music. His unique musical contribution in his day was to run his instrument through the same resonance amplifiers to modulate universal frequencies. The ensuing melodic textures created a juxtaposition over the fierce pulsing rhythms. His legendary ingenuity had started a trend, and he was well known as the inventor of the fusion. He struggled with his vow to avoid the Watchers as he fiddled with the dabrina peg he now wore around his neck. They knew him all too well. His thirst to play for the gathering courtiers tugged at his every step. But if he played, he would willingly offer himself to Pan’s plan. The last thing he wanted was to be in Kyliron’s sights. His desire for this not to occur far outshone his desire to play music. The garden had been set up with swirling lights and long, draping streamers to disorient revelers and give the feeling of walking in dreamsight. Reveries were a cultural mainstay all through Atlantean history. They believed it to be their birthright as humans to enjoy the pleasures of sensory perception, while reaching for the bliss of higher consciousness. They had found the best way to do this was through revelries. D’vinid wandered aimlessly, pacing through the gardens in unsettled thought. He lowered his head to avoid laughing courtiers as they chased through the garden pathways. He thought perhaps an elixir would soothe his torment. Just as he had the thought, the path emptied into a small patio where a mixologist had set up a portable case of tiny glass vials. Some of the courtiers were relaxing on cushions around the woman’s tiny costumed form. She had a painted face which glowed in the twinkling lights, and an intricate, feathered head-dress. Her eyes landed directly on D’Vinid as he appeared on the patio. She gestured a delicate hand toward an empty cushion. The other courtiers gazed up at him with eager eyes and mimicked her gesture, urging him to join in their intoxication. “What is your pleasure?” she asked in a sing-song voice. “Are you sad and lonely?” She waved her hand over the vials, pushing their tops gently to make a fragile chiming sound as their various glass shapes clinked together.“Do you need me to slip you a feeling of sexual arousal? Are you longing to see the other side? Or perhaps you need some excitement and adrenalin!” D’vinid carefully thought of his answer. Pan had the best elixir mixologists, and any feeling he wished to have, she would deliver. “I need to not care.”Her expression darkened. “This is a specific feeling you ask for. You have many things haunting your thoughts. Do you wish to forget? I can give you temporary amnesia.” One of the courtesans rubbed his thigh and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Go for arousal. I will help you forget.” She giggled and fell back, landing in the arms of the man behind her, who caught her up in a greedy kiss.
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Teresa Edmond-Sargeant, Ethical Strains Blog Tour

 Ethical Strains:A Short StoryBy Teresa Edmond-SargeantGenre: Dystopian, Fantasy SciFi

In a dystopian future, a rogue journalist uncovers what may be a revolutionary scientific discovery: a way for DNA to be extracted from the bodies of 'morally sound' people and injecting them into criminals as a way to reduce recidivism, and therefore the overpopulated prison system.
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The street was as quiet as the dead that lay in the cemetery. Jacob crouched outside the metal gate in the shadows. The moonlight waxed silver onto the graveyard’s greenery, giving off a choral glow of peace and terror. Jacob’s heart pounded, refusing to allow the silence to tease him into thinking the street was empty. He moved his hand to his side, above the holster that cradled his gun around his waist.

Jacob extended his arm – covered with the sleeve of his leather jacket – and glanced at his digital wristwatch. 10:10. He returned his attention to the street. The wind escorted the fallen leaves along the deserted sidewalk, scratching the pavement.

She said she’d be here at 10. She did say she’ll be late.

He moved his hand away from the gun and adjusted his collar. He paced in front of the cemetery gate, his mind an agitated rush of thoughts.

Down the street, two uniformed soldiers with ammunition strapped to their bodies marched on opposite corners of the intersection. Emotional rigidity hardened their faces, while the shadows that their hulking physiques cast swept the concrete. Jacob tried to study the face of one of them, but it was difficult with the masked helmet obscuring the soldier’s face.

For twenty years I haven’t seen a street without soldiers. Doesn’t matter if I’m a kid or I'm now working as a reporter underground – things haven’t changed. Those government goons are always on people’s backs, always patrolling these streets. The beatings, the arrests, the murders. It’s a miracle I’m still alive.

Receding further into the shadows, Jacob pressed his back against the cemetery gate’s brick wall.

So many laws I’m breaking –hanging out in the streets after 10, meeting with someone crazy enough to tell me at this time she has an exclusive. What’s next? Grave robbing?

The soft shuffle of footsteps made Jacob look up. Across the street, a woman broke through the screen of darkness and crossed the street. Her low heels tapped on asphalt, while the faint moonlight unveiled her petite hourglass frame cloaked in a trench coat. A purple floral scarf covered her head, face and neck; only her eyes revealed a personal aspect.

“Jacob? Jacob Franklin?”

Jacob nodded. “That’s me.”

The woman untied her scarf and presented a gloved hand. “I am Dr. Sydney Pelham. We have spoken over the telephone. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I apologize for my tardiness. I had an imperative appointment that ran long. This this meeting is unusual, but given the nature of my overall work, we have to be discreet. Although I work for the government counseling prisoners, the information I’m about to disclose with you is quite crucial.”

Jacob nodded. Discreet. Somehow by the time I’m done here, that word will reek of irony.Dr. Pelham began walking. “Follow me. I know a way underground that will lead us to my experiments.”

Jacob shadowed her. “Experiments, yeah, I remember you mentioning about them.”

Dr. Pelham chuckled. “Actually, it is more than that. It is a cause. I could not divulge the details to you over the phone because someone might have tapped the lines. You have reservations about meeting a mad scientist, quote-unquote. But given that we have so many problems surrounding us – with the rampant criminal activities and the federal government demanding the construction of more prisons at taxpayers’ expense – you will understand there is a method to my alleged madness.”

Jacob wondered if it were possible to withhold his sweat from bursting onto his forehead, similar to how people could hold back tears. As a self-proclaimed maverick journalist working with a ring of underground reporters, he didn’t dare to give Dr. Pelham the impression he was shaken at the ideal of being among “experiments.”

Their footsteps crunched the fallen leaves under streetlights that cast a dim, bluish-white glow on the foliage. Both turned a corner and into the woods behind the cemetery. They walked another few yards, and then Dr. Pelham stopped. Jacob almost bumped into her.

“We’re here,” Dr. Pelham said.

She looked around and crouched down; her modest length skirt rode up her leg. With her gloved hands, she cleared the leaves to reveal a wooden trap door. She retrieved some keys on a chain from her coat pocket and unlocked the door. The pair descended the staircase into a brick tunnel. Water drops echoed and the coldness bore down on Jacob.

Teresa Edmond-Sargeant is an Orlando, FL-based poet, author and journalist originally from northern New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies featuring NJ poets. During her time as a reporter in Jersey, she won two NJ Press Association awards.In 2006, she published her debut poetry book, "How Fate's Confusion Connects"; the book's second edition will be released later in 2014. She is the author of three (so far;-)) Amazon Kindle ebooks: "Eve the First," "An Estella Exclusive" and "Ethical Strains," all short stories.Edmond-Sargeant is a member of the Florida State Poets Association. She is now a staff writer for The Apopka Chief, a newspaper that covers the Apopka, FL, area (http://www.theapopkachief.com).

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Crown of Stones Book Tour

From a land long-divided by prejudice and fear, comes the story of Ian Troy, a magic-user bred for war. Reviled for their deadly addiction to magic, Ian’s people suffer in slavery. Drugs suppress their wills and their magic. Their once great empire lies buried, lost beneath the sand and a thousand years of secrets—until Ian unearths the Crown of Stones. Ignorant of its true purpose, Ian wields the circlet’s power and brings peace to the realms, but at a terrible price.A decade later, scarred and guilt-ridden, Ian has rejected his heritage and his magic. Old enemies have resurfaced and new ones have risen to seize the Crown of Stones. Unwittingly drawn into the conflict, Ian’s addiction reawakened.Caught in a web of obsession and lies, Ian returns to the past to save the future in a time-spanning journey fraught with loss, betrayal, torture, friendship and love. His beliefs and convictions, his knowledge of magic and history are challenged as Ian unlocks the mysteries of The Crown of Stones. Despite devastating personal consequences, he clings to a hope for peace. But how much is he willing to sacrifice? How much burden can he carry? And how far can a man fall before he can’t rise again?
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Magic Price
The Crown of Stones Series - Book 1
By C.L. Schneider
Genre: Epic Fantasy Ian Troy is one of the Shinree, a fallen people with an inherent addiction to magic. Scorned and reviled for the deadly side of their spells, the Shinree are bred as slaves. Their magic is suppressed by drugs and used only as it serves the purposes of the other races. Descended from a long line of soldiers, Ian is conscripted into the Rellan army and made to fight in their longstanding conflict against the ruthless Langorian invaders. The downfall of Rella imminent, Ian goes against orders and turns to the Crown of Stones, an ancient Shinree relic of untold power. Ignorant of its true purpose, Ian uses the crown to end the war, and pays a terrible price.A decade later, still tortured by the aftermath of that day, Ian lives as a bounty hunter in self-imposed exile. Having renounced his magical heritage, he curbs his obsession with a steady stream of wine and regret. He struggles to put it all behind him, until a fateful encounter with a pretty assassin brings Ian’s past crashing into the present. 
Targeted by a rogue Shinree, and a ruthless old enemy, Ian is forced to use magic again. His deadly addiction is rekindled and his life of isolation is brought to a swift end. With the land he gave up everything to protect once more in jeopardy, and his people’s future at stake, Ian becomes embroiled in a violent race for control of the Crown of Stones. To save the realms and those he cares for, Ian must embrace the thing he fears most: his own power.

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Magic Scars
The Crown of Stones Series - Book 2 Magic doesn’t wound the same as a sword.The story of Ian Troy continues in Magic-Scars, the second installment in C. L. Schneider’s riveting epic fantasy trilogy, The Crown of Stones.Captured by his old enemy, King Draken of Langor, Shinree magic user Ian Troy was sentenced to prison. Tortured and drugged, robbed of his will, his memories, and his magic, Ian was made to do unspeakable things. Rescued, as his body slowly rids itself of the drug, Ian realizes he has returned to an unfamiliar world gripped with fear. In the wake of his fall, those he cared for were left to their own grim fates. Draken has seized control of the realms and named himself High King. His brutal rein has sparked a desperate rebellion that Ian now finds himself a part of. His one task: recover and repair the Crown of Stones, in hopes it will tip the balance in the revolution that is brewing. In pursuit of the reason behind the artifact’s strange loss of magic, Ian is driven to release an explosion of retribution and power that leaves him irrevocably scarred.Struggling to reconcile the man he has become with the man he once was, Ian strives to understand the growing number of magic-scars adorning his body. He searches for the truth behind his link to the Crown of Stones and uncovers shocking secrets buried for generations beneath the sand. To become the weapon the resistance needs, he must assume responsibility for his magical inheritance. But can he curb the destructive appetite that comes with it? 
The price of Ian’s magic and his addiction have never been higher.

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Magic-Borne
The Crown of Stones Series - Book 3 No other Shinree has borne as much of magic's weight, its pleasure, or its guilt.The fate of Ian Troy is revealed in the final installment of C. L. Schneider's epic fantasy trilogy, The Crown of Stones. In one fell swoop, the resistance was shattered. Lives were taken. Hope was lost. Peace slipped like grains of sand through his fingers. So did the Crown of Stones. Now, forced into hiding, Ian Troy grapples for a way to save the realm—and free its people—from the sadistic clutches of Jem Reth; Mirra’kelan’s new self-appointed emperor. Plagued with the knowledge of a tragic future, he strives to influence events and save those he cares for. But his magic has betrayed him, and Fate has other plans. Marked by the crown, hindered by the transformation spell contained within, each cast brings Ian one step closer to becoming more beast than man. Each move brings the death and destruction foretold in his vision inexplicably nearer. With Langor on the brink of war, and King Malaq’s plan for peace hanging in the balance, Ian returns to the ancient past; seeking an end to the eldring spell and a means to thwart Jem’s growing domination. What he finds there sets off a chain of revelations that leads Ian places he never thought to go.
Entrusted with the future of his race, Ian becomes the linchpin for lasting change. But how much weight can one man carry? And how much is he willing to sacrifice in the name of peace?

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Born in a small Kansas town on the Missouri river,I grew up in a house of avid readers and overflowing bookshelves. My first full-length novel took shape while I was still in high school, on a typewriter in my parent's living room. My main focus is adult epic and urban fantasy, but I also dabble in the occasional science fiction or post-apocalyptic story. Though I have been writing all my life, The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price was my first published novel. Completing the trilogy has been an amazing experience. While I am sad to see Ian and his friends go, I'm also looking forward to breaking new ground.
You can learn more about me and my work at clschneiderauthor.com where you can read reviews, excerpts, sneak peeks and teasers, subscribe to my newsletter, and follow my journey as an indie author on my blog, "Heading Down The Yellow Brick Road". I love to chat with fellow authors and readers, so please connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, and Google+, where I spend most of my time talking about books, zombies, coffee, and the wonderful roller coaster of a writer's life.

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The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price (Book 1)Prologue Excerpt
Bodies pressed in on me on all sides. More were piled up beneath my feet. The grass, gorged with assorted fluids and trampled remains, squished under my boots as I carved open my opponent’s chest, pushed him aside, and moved onto the next.
There was always a next. The Langorians were a swarm…an inexhaustible, savage, mindless swarm. And we had no choice but to become like them to survive. To become animals, going at each other, mechanically pushing against the tide, battering whatever stood in our way with whatever we had; clubs, axes, swords, knives—our bruised, bleeding bare hands. Fighting for days, months, years, striving to hold out against an enemy that knew nothing of mercy, an enemy stronger, and far more brutal than us, we’d become something less than we were.
And we were still losing.
I grabbed the Queen’s arm and steered her out of the fray. “We can’t take much more of this.” Needing to be heard, I drew her close. “We should pull back.”
“Pull back?” Queen Aylagar Arcana yanked herself free. She gave me a wild, defiant look. Full of passion and reckless resolve, it made her exotic features come alive. “My order stands. We press on, Troy. As always.”
 I shook my head. “Our numbers are dwindling too fast. We can’t win this.”
“We can and we will.” Aylagar raised a hand. She touched my face, and the sound of metal clashing and men screaming seemed to fade away. Brushing back the blood-splattered white strands that had come loose from my braid, she ran a finger down the strong line of my jaw. “Trust me, Love. The Langorians will not have Rella.”
“How can you still believe that?”
“Because I must. Because I have faith.”
“Ayla…” I hesitated. But it had to be said. “I saw the messenger arrive from Kabri. I know he carried orders from the King. You can’t keep ignoring them.”
She dropped her hand and backed up. “My husband is a fool. I don’t care how many messengers he dispatches from his throne, he is not out here. The blood of these men bathes my skin, not his. This is my war, Troy. Mine!” she cried. “We fight. We die. We go on until we prevail—by my command. I will not surrender. That is the way of it. That is the only way.” 
My throat went dry at the fire in her. The way she stood, outlined by the backdrop of chaos, flanked by the crackling flames that consumed our camp, with sweat beading on her dark skin and battle-lust glazing her stare, I wanted to pull her into my arms. I wanted to go back to this morning, on the furs of her tent, when Aylagar’s flawless ebony skin was on me. Where status and race didn’t matter and death felt far away. Mostly, I wanted to believe her as I had so many times, that every battle brought us closer to victory. That persistence was our greatest strength, and it would carry us through.
But this was it. King Draken of Langor was throwing everything he had at us, making one final push to wipe us all out. To once and for all lay claim to the land his forefathers had sought, and failed, to conquer. Surrendering was unacceptable; she was right in that. Yet, Aylagar had lost her way. Somewhere along the line, the outcome had stopped mattering to her as much as the fight, and my affection, my awe of her, had blinded me for far too long.
“Give me the order,” I demanded. “Let me shift the odds.”
Her dismissal was quick. “No.”
“We can’t keep going like this, sword for sword, day after day, until there’s none of us left. Let me cast hell down on these black-hearted bastards.”
“I have given you my answer. And it is no different than the last hundred times.”
I moved closer. “You know what I can do. My magic can give us an advantage the Langorians can’t match. We can stop this fucking, never-ending war, Ayla. We can stop it together, with steel andmagic. If you’ll just—”
“You are Shinree,” she hissed. “Your kind are meant to do as they are told. Yet, after six years in the ranks you still push for something that I will never bend to.”
“Then you’re as big a fool as the King.”
Her hand, that only a moment ago had caressed me, struck my face. “My husband forced your service in this army upon us both. And from day one, when you stood in my tent, a young man, eager to please, drooling with the urge to cast, I made it plain that this conflict would not be solved with magic. It’s dishonorable. I don’t trust it. I forbid it. You are my best soldier, Troy. I have given you free reign in my bed, but not out here. Not in battle. Ever. Is that clear?”
Staring at her, my heart went cold. “I don’t think I can do this anymore. Fighting as half a man. Ashamed of what I am because you don’t approve. I’m not just a soldier.” I held up the sword in my hand. I called to the stones embedded in the leather-wrapped handle and they began to glow. Their vibrations pressed in through my skin, down into my veins, and the uncertainty washed away. “I’m a Shinree soldier.”
“Put that magic away,” she scolded. “Do you want to kill us all?”
“I can control it.”
“Can you?” Her eyes were harsh. “Can you promise that when your spell steals the strength it needs to be born, that it won’t steal from my men? That it won’t steal from me? Your magic is a disease, Ian. Your need for it, your addiction, clouds your judgment. It threatens us all and undermines my orders.”
“Your orders contradict my duty to keep Rella safe. I’ve tried to pretend they didn’t. I’ve tried to be what you wanted. But I can’t. I’m Shinree, Ayla. I am magic. And if you don’t untie my hands, we will all die here today.”  a Rafflecopter giveaway