Anna Butler's Blog, page 16

Erin Keller’s “Elias” Out Now! Plus Giveaway

 

Buy Links: Amazon US | Amazon UK | JMS Books
 
Length: 37,000 words approx.
 
Publisher: JMS Books
 

Blurb

Detective Thomas Doyle has been living a lonely, compartmentalized life ever since the death of his life partner, Aiden. He vowed never to let anybody get close to him again — the pain of losing a loved one is too much to bear. Despite his vow, Thomas is lonely, and has a number of one-night stands, sexual encounters with unnamed men he doesn’t care to remember. Then he meets Elias.



Elias Byrne knows the pain of abuse and rejection intimately. Unable to escape the clutches of his older brother, Elias dreams of someone to love, and of being loved in return. He admires Thomas, but the detective never pays him any notice. In a desperate attempt to get closer to him, Elias steals his wallet, then gives it back the next day.

Pretty soon, Thomas feels a strong attraction to the fiery, arrogant, younger man. Elias intrigues him, but he resists his growing feelings because he doesn’t want to get hurt again.



When Thomas rescues Elias from his abusive brother, can he also rescue them both from the loneliness that threatens to consume them? Can Elias conquer the detective’s hardened heart and find the love he always longed for? Or will Thomas stubbornly refuse to give himself another chance at love?

 

Excerpt

[image error]The Black Sheep’s lights were soft; people’s shadows moving inside seemed like dark souls waiting for a body to enter. In fact, people came to this specific pub for that reason. He wasn’t the first to use the privacy given by the place to find a hot body to lose himself in. Thomas entered and looked around, a worried expression of his face. His fists clenched, arms stiff at his sides. He headed to the bar and leaned an elbow on it, observing the surrounding people, the darkest corners, the private rooms, and the dance floor, a small area that only fit a few people. The music was rhythmic but not too fast. It was kind of sensual, so different from the folk music you usually heard in most Irish pubs.

Adrian, the barman, slid a glass in his direction.

“Here you go, the usual,” he said, winking.

Thomas nodded and answered with half a smile, putting the money on the counter. He turned away for a few moments before looking back at Adrian.

“Do you know Elias?” he asked.



Adrian seemed to think for a moment. “Thin, black hair, even darker eyes, sexy as hell?”

Thomas blinked. From the description, it sounded like Elias, even if Thomas didn’t personally find him sexy as hell. That is, he couldn’t deny what he’d seen under those long locks was something magnetic, that his body seemed thin but not skinny, but …



Thomas shook his head. He was a boy. And a thief. And a stalker. And who knew what else? And he wasn’t interested in him in that way.

“I think so,” he finally replied.

Adrian smiled and gestured to a hidden corner of the tiny dance floor. There, wearing a pair of tight jeans and a white T-shirt, was Elias, dancing with a guy behind him who had one hand on his chest and the other on his belly. His eyes were closed, and he was moving his pelvis. Sexy as hell, actually. His head was reclined, leaning on the shoulder of the man behind him, and he had his hand by his side as he swayed.

Thomas picked up his drink and took a long sip. That boy owed him an explanation. Suddenly, he realized he couldn’t accuse him of anything without some kind of evidence. For a very short moment, doubt ran through his mind: had it really been Elias, or had Thomas finally lost it? Maybe when he’d been twirling under the rain like an idiot fighting his panic attack?

When he looked at the dance floor again, Elias had disappeared.

“What the fuck!” he burst out, frustrated, a second before feeling somebody touch him, a solid body pushing against his back and a voice speaking in his ear, softly enough so as not to be heard by anyone else.

“If they told me to choose who to fuck, I would choose you.”

Thomas turned suddenly and almost spilled his Guinness on himself.

There he was — Elias.

Thomas observed him for a few moments, and his brain registered different things. This time, he could see Elias’s face, even if it was barely lit. It was a very unusual face: thin, big black eyes, a sharp nose, and a large, full mouth. Elias wasn’t as thin as he first seemed. Or, yes, he was thin, but the right definition would have been slim. The stretch T-shirt highlighted his long muscles, as well as his tight jeans, which underlined the contour of his hips, molding his legs. His hair was long at the front and really, really black. His gaze in that moment was particularly intense. The corners of his mouth were turned up in half a smirk.

Thomas suddenly looked away from his lips, the taste of which he could still feel on his mouth, and took a sip of beer.



“I saw you while I was dancing. You came looking for me,” Elias continued.



It wasn’t a question. It was an assertion.

“No. I came looking for my wallet.”

Sure, he could have beaten around the bush, but this guy somehow got on his nerves, and he wasn’t in the mood for acting kindly. He waited for a question from him, even outrage. What he wasn’t expecting was Elias taking his hand, turning it over, and putting the wallet in it.

“And what does this mean?” Thomas growled. “If this is a joke, it’s not funny.”

“Isn’t that your wallet? Didn’t you come here for it? Here it is. No joke.” Elias’s expression was unperturbed.

“You stole it.”

“Had it on loan.”

“I could report you.” Better yet, I could arrest you. But he didn’t say that out loud because he didn’t want Elias to know anything else about him.

“Does it look like I’m stopping you from doing anything you want to do?”

 

 

Giveaway 
To win a copy of the ebook of “Elias”, enter this    Rafflecopter giveaway



Author Bio

Erin is Irish in her heart and soul, and she hopes she’ll move to the Emerald Island one day. She lives with her husband and their cats in a house near a wheat field.

She has been writing for years, but admits she is a very undisciplined writer. The problem is that handling a couple of jobs makes it almost impossible to write every day. She loves letting her mind wander through the real world. She likes to write contemporary M/M romance because she loves love. And men. 

For more information, please visit erinekeller.com.

 

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Happy Holidays!

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I’m looking forward to Christmas this year.

It’s been a difficult year. The political situation both here and in the US is depressing and imbuing me with both hopelessness and resentment, not to mention fear that all the gains we’ve made in a humanitarian sense in the last few decades — women’s rights, LGBT rights, steps towards racial equality — are under threat by angry, impotent old white men who are making their last gasp effort to hold onto power. We can’t let the bastards win, but they’ve stacked the deck and all we can do is hold fast to what’s right and what’s moral, and keep putting one foot in front of the other, slogging on until we prevail.

On a personal level, I’ve spent the last six months trying to help an elderly aunt and uncle, who can’t live independently any more. Months of driving up and down the A46 (90 minutes each way on a good run), to hospitals and care homes. Finally, at the beginning of December, I moved them to a residential home near me, and they’re settling in. I still have a lot of running about to do, but at least I can get there in 15 minutes. It makes life a bit easier. But it’s been stressful and time-consuming, and I’m only just starting to draw breath and look about me and think about getting back to my normal life. My one and only resolution for next year is to get back to some focused writing. Poor Rafe Lancaster has been looking out of a window for days now, giving me sidelong glances and complaining that he’s fed up with the view and would I just blooming well get on with it? Poor lamb. I’ll rescue him after the holiday and send him off to Aegypt for an adventure. That’ll perk him up.

One bright spot this year has been decorating the house for the holidays. I’m an unashamed lover of all things glitzy and bright, so here are a few photos to share the glitter with you in an environmentally friendly way (!):

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Have a great holiday, whichever one you celebrate at this time of year, and here’s to every happiness in the coming year. A sentiment very ably captured by this Victorian Christmas card of bicycling owls, to match the rabbits at the top.

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J Scott Coatsworth’s casting Spells and Stardust…

J. Scott Coatsworth has a new queer sci fi/fantasy anthology out: Spells & Stardust. This is Scott’s first anthology – eight sci fi and fantasy shorts that run the gamut from regeneration to redemption:

     The Bear at the Bar: A gay fish out of water tale with a pinch of magic.

     Tight: What happens when your lover disappears in midair?

     Morgan: The year when everything changed.

     Re-Life: What if you were reborn in a strange new future?

     A New Year: They met every eleven years. And each time, Hank’s life changed.

     Repetition: What if you wanted to go back in the closet?

     Gargoyle: Sometimes you get what you deserve. Sometimes it happens on All Hallows Eve.

     Avalon: A few bright moments in the sun, stolen from outside time.

Most of these stories have been previously published in various anthologies and journals. This is the first time they have all been collected in one place.

 

Buy Links

Amazon eBook  |   Amazon Paperback  |  Kobo  |   iTunes   |  Barnes & Noble

 

Giveaway

Scott is giving away a $20 Amazon gift card with this tour. Enter via a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Excerpt

From “A New Year”

The edge of the old cement pediment crumbled away beneath Hank’s feet into the river far below, glistening in the light of the almost-full moon. The bridge railing was cold at his back—he could feel it all the way through his jacket and shirt to his skin. He could see his breath glowing in the night air.

The nearly-frozen water rushed by in the river below, flowing under the bridge behind him and on toward the ocean far away in a steady flow, silver in the moonlight and heavily laden with winter rain. As soon as he gathered his courage, Hank would let go of his grip on the railing and fall into those icy waters, to disappear forever from the world of men.

It was New Year’s Day, 1986, an hour after midnight, and it was the end of things for Hank.

Or it should have been.

It was also the night he first met Dale.

 

Author Bio

[image error]Scott lives with his husband of twenty-five years in a Sacramento suburb, in a cute little yellow house with a brick fireplace and two pink flamingoes out front.

He inhabits in the space between the here and now and the what could be. Indoctrinated into science fiction and fantasy by his mom at the tender age of nine, he quickly finished her entire library. But he soon began to wonder where all the queer people were.

After coming out at twenty-three, he started writing the kinds of stories he couldn’t find at Crown Books. If there weren’t many queer characters in his favorite genres, he would will them into existence, subverting them to his own ends. And if he was lucky enough, someone else would want to read them.

His friends say Scott’s mind works a little differently than most – he makes connections between ideas that others don’t, and somehow does more in a day than most people manage in a week. Although born an introvert, he forced himself to reach outside himself and learned to connect with others like him.

Scott’s stories subvert expectations that transform traditional science fiction, fantasy, and contemporary worlds into something different and unexpected. He runs both Queer Sci Fi and QueeRomance Ink with his husband Mark.

His romance and genre fiction writing brings a queer energy to his stories, filling them with love, beauty and power. He imagines how the world could be – in the process, he hopes to change the world, just a little.

Scott was recognized as one of the top new gay authors in the 2017 Rainbow Awards, and his debut novel “Skythane” received two awards and an honorable mention.

Author Website: https://www.jscottcoatsworth.com

Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/jscottcoatsworth

Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/jscottcoatsworthauthor/

Author Twitter: https://twitter.com/jscoatsworth/

Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8392709.J_Scott_Coatsworth

Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/j-scott-coatsworth/

Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/J.-Scott-Coatsworth/e/B011AFO4OQ

Jamie Deacon’s “Defensive Play” out now!

Title: Defensive Play

Series: A Boys on the Brink Novella

Author: Jamie Deacon

Publisher: Beaten Track Publishing

Cover Artist: Natasha Snow

Release Date: November 30, 2018

Genre: Gay YA Sports Romance

Length: 21,500 words

Add to your Goodreads shelves

About the Book
Blurb

One glance is all it takes to bring his defences crashing down…

Seventeen-year-old Davey has never made friends easily. Shy, geeky, crippled with social anxiety, he feels isolated from his peers, and only his position as defender for the school football team fills the void of loneliness. On the pitch, his deft footwork has earned him the respect and acceptance of his squad, though at a price. Desperate to hold onto this camaraderie, Davey conceals the truth from everyone, even his own family.

Then, during the annual Brookshire football tournament, his eyes meet those of a rival player across the field and a spark flares between them, one neither boy can deny. Adam is everything Davey longs to be—confident, popular, comfortable with his sexuality. Davey aches to explore their connection, to discover where it might lead, but how can he follow his heart and risk rejection by his teammates, the closest thing to friends he has ever known?

Excerpt

The rain has stopped. A soft mist hangs in the air, turning the distant streetlights a hazy orange. After the stuffiness of the clubhouse, the night is bitterly cold and I pull on my sweatshirt against the chill. I sit on the steps overlooking the car park, heedless of the damp that seeps through my jeans. Elbows on knees, I rest my chin in my hands and close my eyes, attempting to clear my mind. I don’t want to think anymore. I just want to sit with nothing but the dark and the quiet for company.

I haven’t been hunched there long when the door opens, ejecting a stream of warmth and thumping bass. I glance behind me, although I know who it will be. My body goes still. Adam lets the door swing shut and, just like that, we’re alone.

He doesn’t seem surprised to find me on the steps. Perhaps he saw me leave. Has he followed me? My insides clench. What if Adam thinks I did it deliberately, that I meant to lure him out here. Maybe I had. Maybe, deep down, a part of me hoped Adam might come, even while the rest of me prayed he wouldn’t.

This time, when our gazes connect, there’s no one to see, no football match to act as a buffer. I drink him in. Even in the faint glow filtering through the frosted pane in the door, his eyes are a vivid blue.

“Hey,” Adam says. Such a simple word that expresses so much. There’s recognition there, like we’re childhood friends meeting after years apart, but uncertainty, too. He has a nice voice, I register through my turbulent thoughts—warm and slightly husky.

“Hey.” My reply emerges somewhere between a croak and a squeak. Cringing, I stare down at my feet.

“It’s Davey, right?”

I fling him a startled look. Had this boy—this confident, gorgeous boy—actually gone to the trouble of finding out my name?

One side of Adam’s mouth lifts in a crooked smile. “Well, I had to know who the lunatic was who almost took my leg off.”

“God.” I bury my face in my hands. Of course Adam was going to ask about me after what happened on the pitch. “I’m so sorry.”

He laughs and nudges my thigh with the toe of his trainer. “I’m kidding. Seriously, you did us a favour.”

I dare a peep at him, unable to rid myself of the thought that he has pursued me out here to take the piss. That wouldn’t be anything new, after all.

“It’s true.” Adam crouches on the step beside me, his expression amused but without malice. “Rob warned me about you. He said the rest of your defence was pretty solid, but probably weren’t quick enough to catch me. You were the real threat.”

I grimace. “I’m guessing he wasn’t expecting me to take you out quite so spectacularly, though.”

“Funnily enough, that wasn’t included in the pep talk. Still, I should be thanking you. You made our job a whole lot easier.”

“Don’t remind me. You should’ve heard the guys after the match. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Adam laughs again, and I can’t hold back a smile. Here I am, having an actual conversation with an amazing-looking boy—a boy who’d caught me checking him out, no less—and I’m not making an ass of myself.

The door behind us bursts open and several guys spill out. I tense, guard raised. Will they think it odd us sitting out here alone? I scan their faces, but none are from Farnstead. A moment later, they barrel down the steps without giving either of us a second look and head for one of the cars parked nearby.

As they pile in and the engine growls to life, I exhale, shoulders slumping. I can feel Adam studying me and keep my gaze lowered.

“You’re not out,” he says, “are you?”

“What?” My entire body goes rigid. He knows. I’d already guessed as much, but suspecting it is one thing; being confronted with the indisputable truth sends me spiralling back into panic mode. Why had he really followed me out here? I’d thought…been sure I’d read something in his eyes when they locked with mine, but what if I’m wrong? Do I truly believe someone like Adam, someone popular and self-assured, would have sought me out? Unless…

I see again the Brookminster players in their huddle, sniggering, moments after Adam caught me staring. I’d reassured myself they weren’t laughing about me, but perhaps my fears had been well founded. The cold certainty settles like a snowball in my gut. I’d given myself away, and now the other lads have sent Adam out here to chat me up, trick me into an admission I won’t be able to take back. For all I know, his mates are somewhere close by as we speak, listening in.

“Hey.” Adam extends his palms in what is probably supposed to be a calming gesture. “It’s all right. I know and it’s all right.”

“You don’t know anything,” I snap. The instinct for self-preservation, to keep my protective wall intact at any cost, propels me to my feet. “You hear me? You don’t know anything about me.”

Before he can respond, I’m down the steps and sprinting into the darkness, phone already out to call my parents. All I want is to go home, crawl into bed, and forget today ever happened.

 

Purchase Your Copy!

Kindle UK | Kindle US | Nook | Apple Books | Kobo | Smashwords | Beaten Track Publishing

 

Giveaway

To celebrate the release of Defensive Play, Jamie Deacon is giving away a $10 Amazon Gift Card. For your chance to win, simply enter via the Rafflecopter below. The giveaway is open to entrants world wide, and closes at midnight EST on Friday December 7, 2018.

Good luck!

Enter to win.

 

About Jamie Deacon

 

Jamie lives in a tranquil spot close to the River Thames in Berkshire, England, and has always been just a little out of place—the only redhead in a family of brunettes; an introvert far more at ease with dogs than with people; a connoisseur of simple pleasures in a society intent on the quest for wealth and fame. Despite an outward cynicism, Jamie is a romantic at heart, and, when not immersed in a book, can mostly be found writing emotional stories where young men from all walks of life are forced to navigate the sometimes painful reality of growing up, coming out, and falling in love.

Connect with Jamie

Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

 

The colour of autumn

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This is, to be honest, a rather pointless post. An excuse for photobombing.

I’ve had a difficult few weeks dealing with a frail and very vulnerable pair of elderly relatives, and while that’s thankfully looking as though we’ll have a resolution soon (moving them into a care home much closer than the 120 miles each way that I’ve been driving weekly) I’ve noticed that it’s been little things that have helped keep me on an even keel. One of those things has been autumn.

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We’ve had a spectacular autumn in the UK so far. The cool spring, long hot summer, and the Indian summer that was September have all contributed to an intensity of yellows, oranges and reds that I just don’t remember seeing before. This is autumn+. Rich, glorious hues everywhere. And I live near Sherwood forest—yes, that Sherwood forest – in the most wooded, forest-y part of the country I’ve ever lived in.  I’ve got nearly 50 trees in my garden alone, for heaven’s sake. Everywhere I look, there are trees. Everywhere I look. there’s an explosion of colour.

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The wood in these photos is five minutes walk from the edge of my village. That’s me and the dogs you can see there, btw, Molly being the larger brown speck and Mavis the almost invisible gold one. Both of them are well camouflaged at this time of year. The woods are our favourite walk, and I hope you can see why from these pictures. That you can see why these ‘little things’ help unstress me—you, me, everyone —and lift the heart. Just for a moment or two, nothing matters but the wonderful colours and the very ordinary, every day, nothing at all unusual beauty of an English wood in autumn.

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As for Mr Butler who took these photos, I’ve found that living with someone so compatible that we can say in unison, as if with one breath, “Just look at that yellow!” or “Toadstools!” with the same level of delight at the discovery despite our ages and the long years together… well, that’s pretty heart up-lifting too.

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Have a lovely autumn, people.

J. Scott Coatsworth’s “Rising Tide”

Eddy Tremayne rode his horse, Cassiopeia, along the edge of the pastures that were the last official human habitations before the Anatov Mountains. Several ranchers along the Verge—the zone between the ranches and the foothills—had reported losses of sheep and cattle in the last few weeks.

As the elected sheriff of First District, which ran from Micavery and the South Pole to the mountains, it was Eddy’s responsibility to find out what was going on.

He had his crossbow strapped to his back and his long knife in a leather sheath at his waist. He’d been carrying them for long enough now—three years?—that they had started to feel natural, but the first time he’d worn the crossbow, he’d felt like a poor man’s Robin Hood.

He doubted he’d need them out here, but sheriffs were supposed to be armed.

He’d checked with Lex in the world mind via the South Pole terminal, but she’d reported nothing amiss. In the last few years, she had begun to deploy biodrones to keep an eye on the far-flung parts of the world, but they provided less than optimal coverage. One flyover of this part of the Verge had shown a peaceful flock of thirty sheep. The next showed eight.

The rancher, a former neurosurgeon from New Zealand named Gia Rand, waited for him on the top of a grassy hill. The grass and trees shone with bioluminescent light, and the afternoon sky lit the surrounding countryside with a golden glow. The spindle—the aggregation of energy and glowing pollen that stretched from pole to pole—sparkled in the middle of the sky.

The rancher pulled on her gray braid, staring angrily at something in the valley below. “Took you long enough to get here.”

“Sorry. The train was out of service again.” Technology was slowly failing them, and they had yet to come up with good replacements.

She snorted. “One helluva spaceship we have here.”

He grinned. “Preaching to the choir.” Forever didn’t have the manufacturing base yet to support anything close to the technology its inhabitants had grown used to on Earth. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, if you asked him. With technology came new and better ways to kill. He’d seen it often enough in the NAU Marines. “What did you find?”

“Look.” Her voice was almost a growl.

Eddy looked down where she was pointing. “Oh shit.” Her missing sheep were no longer missing. They had been slaughtered.

He urged Cassiopeia down the hillside to the rocky clearing. A small stream trickled down out of the mountains there. He counted ten carcasses, as near as he could tell from the skulls left behind. Someone had sheared a couple of them and given up. It looked like they had skinned and cut the rest up for meat, the skin and bones and extra bits discarded.

Gia rode down the hillside behind him.

“Didn’t you report twelve sheep missing?”

She nodded. “Bastards took the two lambs. Probably for breeding.”

“That actually might help us.”

“How’s that?”

He dismounted to take a closer look at the crime scene. “They’ll have to pasture them somewhere. May make it easier to track them down.”

“Maybe so.” She dismounted and joined him. “This was brutal work. Look here.” She picked up a bone. “Whatever cut this was sharp but uneven. It left scratch marks across the bone.”

“So not a metal knife.”

“I don’t think so. Maybe a stone knife?”

He laughed harshly. “Are we back to caveman days, then?” It wasn’t an unreasonable question.

She was silent for a moment, staring at the mountains. “Do you think they live up there?”

“Who?” He followed her gaze. Their highest peaks were wreathed in wisps of cloud.

“The Ghosts.”

The Ghosts had been a persistent myth on Forever since their abrupt departure from Earth. Some of the refugees had vanished right after the Collapse, and every now and then something would end up missing. Clothes off a line, food stocks, and the like.

People talked. The rumors had taken on a life of their own, and now whenever something went missing, people whispered, “It’s the Ghosts.”

Eddy didn’t believe in ghosts. He personally knew at least one refugee who had disappeared, his shipmate Davian. He guessed there must be others, though the record keeping from that time had been slipshod at best. He shrugged and looked at the sky. “Who knows?” It was likely to rain in the next day or so. Whoever had done this had left a trail, trampled into the grass. If he didn’t follow it now, it might be gone by the time he got back here with more resources.

Gia knelt by one of the ewes, staring at the remnants of the slaughter. “Could you get me some more breeding stock? This… incident put a big dent in my herd.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He took one last look around the site. It had to have taken an hour or two to commit this crime, and yet the thieves had apparently done it in broad daylight. Why weren’t they afraid of being caught? “I’m going to follow the trail, see where it leads.”

Gia nodded. “Thanks. We’re taking the rest of the herd back to the barn until you get this all figured out.”

“Sounds prudent. I’ll let you know.”

Slipping on his hat, he climbed back up on Cassie and followed the trail across the stream toward the Anatov Mountains.

 

Author Bio

Scott lives between the here and now and the what could be. Indoctrinated into fantasy and sci fi by his mother at the tender age of nine, he devoured her library. But as he grew up, he wondered where the people like him were.

He decided it was time to create the kinds of stories he couldn’t find at Waldenbooks. If there weren’t gay characters in his favorite genres, he would remake them to his own ends.

His friends say Scott’s brain works a little differently – he sees relationships between things that others miss, and gets more done in a day than most folks manage in a week. He seeks to transform traditional sci fi, fantasy, and contemporary worlds into something unexpected.

A Rainbow Award winning author, he runs Queer Sci Fi and QueeRomance Ink with his husband Mark, sites that bring queer people together to promote and celebrate fiction reflecitng their own reality.

Website: https://www.jscottcoatsworth.com

Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/jscottcoatsworth

Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/jscottcoatsworthauthor/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/jscoatsworth

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8392709.J_Scott_Coatsworth

QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/j-scott-coatsworth/

Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/J.-Scott-Coatsworth/e/B011AFO4OQ/

Amir Lane’s Panther Queen out now – with Giveaway!

Amir Lane has a new queer/transgender paranormal book out: Panther Queen.

When cattle rancher Lenna Alvarez rescues a black jaguar, she discovers there’s more to the animal that meets the eye. Bonding with a centuries-old Aztec Warrior wasn’t part of her plans. Then again, neither was simultaneously facing off against an American businessman and poachers encroaching on her family lands.

With her newfound powers, Lenna is sure the poachers don’t stand a chance. Only, Lenna isn’t the only one bringing strange animal powers to the game. The poachers have them too, led by businessman Ansen Peters. Lenna is in over her head, and not even the jaguar can save her.

Ansen Peters doesn’t want the ranch. He wants the jaguar. And he’s willing to kill her for it.

 

Format: Paperback, eBook

Word Count: 55000

Cover Artist: Covers by Combs

Get It On Amazon

Giveaway

Amir is giving away a Morrighan House Witches prize pack – paperbacks, bookmarks, and magnets – enter via Rafflecopter for a chance to win:

 

Excerpt

Night fell around Lenna, and her ass had long since gone numb. Her camera was full of new pictures but she didn’t have anything for night photography. The equipment was bulkier and heavier than she was willing to carry through the Pantanal.

As she prepared to dismount from her tree, she tried to see how awake her legs were. Not very, judging by the tingling in her feet. She scanned the riverbank for her boat while she kicked her heels against the tree trunk and spotted two others. That was odd. When had someone else shown up? Maybe it was Valente and Luciano looking for her. But she had taken their only boat, and they would never venture this deep into the Pantanal unless she’d been missing for at least a day, not just a few hours. They didn’t know their way around like she did.

It was probably just wildlife photographers trying to get shots of the nocturnal animals. Something made her feel uneasy, though. She looked around for the occupants of the boats and spotted them approaching her jaguar.

The two men were not wildlife photographers. She knew hunting equipment when she saw it. She also knew the hunting regulations for the area. The regulations were pretty simple: no fucking hunting.Which meant there was no way these men were allowed to be killing anything out here. Which meant they were poachers. Their faces were only just visible in her camera. She doubted anything would happen to them if she reported them. Nothing ever happened to poachers.

The poachers found a spot close enough to the jaguar to hit it, but not close enough to attract its attention. She had to do something before they fired. At this distance, they wouldn’t miss.

She thought of her own shotgun tucked uselessly in the back of Luciano’s truck. She’d never needed it before, and there didn’t seem to be any point lugging it with her. It would have done her a hell of a lot more good than the machete at her hip. It looked like she was going to have to get creative.

“Hey!”

Her voice carried over the Pantanal, farther than she would have thought possible. The deep shout certainly got their attention. They shot at her, grazing the trees around her.

“Shit!”

Lenna couldn’t stay up here. She’d be a sitting duck. She climbed down the top branches to avoid breaking her legs and jumped down from the tree. It was still too high, and she hit the dirt with bruising force. She pushed herself back up without a moment of hesitation. She could have lost them in the wooded area, easy. But the odds of getting lost or eaten by an anaconda were higher than the odds of getting shot before she made it to her boat.

Hopefully.

Camera still in hand and binoculars thumping painfully against her tattooed chest, she took off across the grassy plains of the Pantanal. The silencers on the guns muffled the shots, making them sound more like thumps than bangs. Though, that might have been her heart pounding in her ears. The still-rational part of her brain that was still working told her to run in a zig-zag to make herself harder to hit. The animal part of her brain told her the shortest distance to her boat was a straight line run as fast as physically possible. She had no idea where the bullets were or whether or not they were even close to hitting her, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to stop to check.

A roar that sounded more like a throaty cough filled her ears. For a split half-second, she thought the jaguar was on her. But that wasn’t her screaming. No, it came from behind her. She didn’t dare look back, not even as she heard more gunshots, not even as she heard the jaguar cry out in pain.

They shot it! They shot her jaguar!

Rage filled her, and she had half a mind to turn around, but self-preservation won out. Her boat was right there. Right there, just eight, six, four feet away. Keys, where the hell where her keys? Where were her goddamn fucking—

Found them.

Lenna shoved her keys into the ignition, her eyes scouring the Pantanal for the jaguar and the poachers. The jaguar was limping away, and the poachers’ bodies were lying on the grass. One was shifting, dragging itself away from the animal. The other was not. Lenna had no sympathy for them, and she wasn’t about to stick around to make sure they were okay. They could be eaten by caimans for all she gave a fuck.

The boat started without any issue. Though the poachers were down and the jaguar was obviously in no state to come after her, Lenna couldn’t wait to get as far away from here as possible.

She ran on foot through the brush, never wanting to leave her horse alone with the night predators, until she found her truck, the green paint chipping to show the silver metal underneath, in the same place she always left it. The roar of her engine drowned out the shriek of birds. Muscle memory alone guided her back to the ranch house. She practically threw herself through the front door and slammed her bedroom door hard enough to rattle the walls.

“Lenna?” Vidonia called.

Lenna leaned against the door. She knew Vidonia wouldn’t hurt her. Nobody in this house would, and not just because she could practically bench press one of their cows. She was safe here. So why did she feel the urge to push the dresser against the door and hide under the bed?

“Lenna? Honey are you okay?”

No, no she wasn’t.

She slumped down against the door and pressed her forehead to her knees. Exhaustion washed over her. This day suddenly felt so long. The solace she’d found watching the Pantanal was gone. She just wanted to curl up somewhere safe. Home should have been safe, but the memory of Ansen Peters’ standing just down the hall from her room with that sly smile made her shudder.

“Lenna, please talk to me. Did something happen? Luciano!”

There was panic in Vidonia’s voice. She was afraid for Lenna.

This place was safe, Lenna reminded herself. Nobody would get past Vidonia and Luciano. Nobody could hurt her here.

“I’m fine,” Lenna said, though her voice cracked and she wasn’t sure she believed herself. “I’m fine, I’m just tired.”

There was a long silence. Lenna struggled to keep her sobs quiet. She didn’t want them to know. She didn’t want to get in trouble.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, auntie.” Her voice trembled, and cleared her throat. “I’m— I’m going to sleep. I have an early morning.”

She changed into a pair of boxers, crawled into bed, and pulled the pillow over her head to drown out the screams ringing in her ears.

Author Bio

Amir Lane is an LGBT+ supernatural and urban fantasy writer from Northern Ontario. Engineer by trade, they spend most of their writing time in a small home office or in front of the TV watching every cop procedural on Netflix. They live in a world where magic is an every day occurrence, and they strive to bring that world to paper.

When not trying to figure out what kind of day job an incubus would have or what a Necromancer would go to school for, Amir enjoys visiting the nearest Dairy Queen, getting killed in video games, absorbing the contents of comic books, and freaking out over how fluffy the neighbour’s dog is.

Author Website: http://www.amirlane.com

Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/amirlaneauthor/

Culture Vulture Or Inspiration?

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It’s a little while since I posted anything substantive here—and yes, I do feel guilty about that, but non-online-life (if that’s the correct term) has been difficult this year, with the care and safety of elderly relatives falling on the shoulders of my sister and me. Believe me, that cuts into your free time! So to mark what I hope will be a return to blogging about more than other writers’ books, I thought I’d start with something meaty. This is a version of a post I made at the Love Bytes Reviews blog a couple of months ago, expanded slightly to take in some of the points made in the comments.

So, here’s the question: where is the line regarding legitimate inspiration for writers vs the accusation they appropriate the lives and experiences of others?

It’s an old argument and an old dilemma. Not even the very great and famous have avoided the accusation of stealing from other cultures. There’s always an imbalance of power involved, tilted away from the culture in question because of race, wealth, sexuality or whatever aspect being used. It’s an issue loaded with emotion and privilege.

For me personally, the idea of gingerly opening this can of worms was sparked at EuroPrideCon in Amsterdam back in July, when a question during the Ask an Author slot asked me if I’d consider writing more diverse characters in future stories. Now then, no matter how I parsed the question—more characters who were ‘diverse’, or characters who were more diverse than I’d managed so far?—it left me reflecting hard over the following weeks on writing diversity in fiction. And, of course, the issue really blew up post-Amsterdam for the entire genre, when a gay male writer wrote about his anger and hurt that his experience and life were, he felt, appropriated by (in his view) mainly straight female authors writing for straight female readers in order to titillate.

I won’t delve further into that particular incident—except to say three things. First, as a straight woman, I do not get to tell gay men what constitutes m/m sex or m/m culture and how that intersects with other queer cultures. Second, this is by no means the first outing for the expressed views, and the reaction is the same each time: personalised outrage that shuts the discussion down. Third, if the genre sincerely believes in encouraging ‘own voices’, then it behoves us to listen and engage even when those voices generalise in a way that infuriates us, or express views and emotions that make us uncomfortable or with which we vehemently disagree. Listen, don’t dismiss out of hand but respectfully and courteously agree or disagree as the case may be. A bit of mutual respect goes a long way.

[image error] Tim Green, Flick (CC BY 2.0)

Anyhow, back to inspiration vs. appropriation.

What it all boils down to is this. Is writing about the experiences of a group you don’t belong to, one that’s ethnically or socially or economically or sexually or physically/mentally different than the one you’re in, intrinsically wrong and hurtful? Do we writers have the right to use in our stories racial issues, or disability, or sexuality, or gender, or mythology, or religion, or anything else you can think of that characterises specific groups of humans, if we don’t live and experience those issues ourselves? Does the fact that I—a milky-white straight woman—write about gay and bisexual men (one of whom is biracial, and another having Anglo-Indian roots at a time when that was even more problematic than race is today) mean I’m appropriating the lives of people who live that as a reality and somehow stops them from voicing their own experiences? Am I silencing them by having my characters speak as though they were one of them? Does it choke off or drown out the culture’s own voices? Is using any influence from another culture, no matter how transformed in the imagination and reinvented in the writer’s thoughts and prose, a crime? Are we usurping that culture for personal gain?

Bottom line: am I and other authors stealing gay culture? Are we truly culture vultures who don’t have the right to appropriate in this way?

Loaded questions, right? There’s so much privilege, entitlement, oppression and emotion bound up in them that this topic is a real minefield, because how you view it is going to be heavily coloured by where you stand.

I don’t think I’m stealing. I don’t think that ‘culture’ is susceptible to theft, though I don’t deny the power/privilege dynamic going on there since no cultural flow is on a level playing field. But in writing my books, I haven’t silenced anyone. I haven’t denied them their right to speak and write. I’ve actually been careful to avoid some topics that I think ‘own voices’ are far better at telling, issues where they’re far more powerful: coming out, for instance, or transitioning. The mere act of writing about gay male relationships doesn’t mean I’m preventing anyone else from writing about them. And if that ‘anyone else’ is an own voice, then it can only be more authoritative and more authentic than mine, no?

Yes, many of the writers in our genre are women writing about gay men, but cultural flow is at the heart of creativity. Honest, if all I could write was my own experience, who wants to read about that milky-white straight woman living in a little village in the heart of England, who is slightly deaf, and doesn’t do a lot? Not much of a creative bloom on that, I can tell you. Instead, I hope what most of us do, whether we’re male or female, gay or straight, is take that cultural flow, as messy and imperfect as it is, and treat it with empathy and respect, aim for depth and substance, avoid stereotypes, and build connections to the community we acknowledge as our influence, while vociferously denying a platform to anything that objectifies, mocks or caricatures.

In short, we must not be jerks.

More than that. The more we’re exposed to the cultures that are ‘not me’, the better our understanding, the stronger the sense that we’re all just humans of different shades, shapes and sexuality. Cultural flow creates a great many allies who are passionate and vocal about human rights at all levels.

Author Sarah Madison said, in response to the Love Bytes post, “…stories in general should be more reflective of the population around us–which means including characters of different races or backgrounds, characters who are disabled, or have mental illnesses, characters with different sexual orientations, religions, and so on. I think we can even make them our main characters, if we do so with respect for their different experiences.”

Amen, sister. And we’re back to the word respect.

[image error] Image Flickinpics on Flickr, CC BY-SA 2.0

It’s all about challenging the default settings, isn’t it? And in films and books, default is white, straight and able-bodied. You’re often asked to justify a departure from that. You’re never asked to justify why a character is set to default. If the plot doesn’t hinge on white straight abled-bodiedness, why the hell not have a biracial bisexual main character or one with a visible disability? What possible difference can it make, other than ensure a better representation of real life? It’s not like I’m inventing something. I’m just not using the default model—no justification needed.

I’m still wary about getting something catastrophically wrong. I want to write about any and every human condition, but I don’t want to be actively hurtful. Who would be? So the answer for me is to work bloody hard at it: think, reflect, research, discuss, and listen to the voices of those living the experience I want to depict. And then roll all of this into a sort of synthesis that is thoughtful and, above all, respectful.

That’s the key. Respect. Mutual respect.

And lots of it.

 

 

 

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Archer Kay Leah’s Soulbound

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A big welcome to Archer Kay Leah, who’s dropped by today to talk about Soulbound.

Archer Kay Leah has a new MM/MMF fantasy romance book out:

In a relationship that violates rules and expectations, Mayr and Tash have found their perfect match in each other. Despite their fears and difficult pasts, they hope for a shared future with security and a family. When Mayr’s secret first love, Arieve, proposes they create that family with her, it seems dreams could become reality.

But life is complicated, and so is the delicate balance between duty and love. While Mayr protects the Dahe family at all costs, Tash is determined to succeed as a priest. Both positions require sacrifice, forcing their relationship into painful choices. To make matters worse, criminals lurk in the shadows, seeking revenge on them and those they guard.

The life they want risks losing everything—including Arieve and each other. Even if they can have it all, keeping it may take more than they can give.

Warnings: “Soulbound” contains some explicit content, references to self-harm, suicide, and mentions of suicide-related behavior and intent. This story also contains instances of graphic violence, references to rape and domestic abuse, and depictions and mentions of depression.

 

About the Series: With the right people and the right price, the Republic of Kattal can be brought to its knees. But for every line crossed, someone waits on the other side, ready to push back.

Armed and ready to defend their lives, these heroes are not afraid of the fight. They stare adversity in the eye and dance with the darkness within. But in their justice, there is wisdom. In wisdom, there is protection. In it all, there is love. Sometimes it’s a matter of saving a village; sometimes it’s a matter of saving the one they can’t live without. Sometimes it’s just about doing the right thing and learning to love oneself.

Magic may lurk in the shadows. Crime may never sleep. But love doesn’t back down.

Buy Links

Less Than Three Press | Amazon | Amazon CAN | Amazon UK | Amazon International | Bookstrand | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | QueeRomance Ink | Smashwords | Goodreads

Giveaway

Archer is giving away three $10 Amazon gift cards with this tour – enter to win via Rafflecopter

 

Excerpt

Silence fell, deep with meaning conveyed by long gazes and soft smiles. Why had he expected Aeley to say anything different?

Three loud knocks rapped the door, scaring them both. Cursing under his breath, Mayr opened the door.

Arieve.

Every foul word tumbled back down Mayr’s throat. “Hey.” He leaned against the door, one arm sliding up the side.

In an instant, he tripped on his own feet and stumbled into the door, swinging it open further.

“You can’t possibly be drunk already.” The corners of Arieve’s eyes crinkled with her smile, her glossed lips painted pink like her cheeks. Dark curls and plaits cascaded over her shoulders, the firelight lending a golden hue to the white-blonde streaks in the fringe of hair across her forehead. She held a silver tray, presenting two glass goblets filled with a bluish-purple drink and fragments of gold leaf sprinkled on top. “Otherwise, this might be a bad idea.”

“What’s a bad idea?” Mayr grimaced, his mouth suddenly dry as if filled with pillow stuffing. Quick to recover, he smoothed his shirt, resettled his belts, and slicked back his hair, pretending he meant to be clumsy.

“Your after-dinner drinks. Lira was going to bring them, but I thought I’d save her the trip. She’s having fun trading stories with your mother.” Arieve cleared her throat. “I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.”

The tray rattled in her hand. The drinks threatened to slosh over the rims.

Mayr steadied the tray. “Thanks for that. This. These.” He offered her an awkward smile and took the goblets. “I’ll let you get back.” So you won’t see me kick my own ass for being completely inappropriate.

“Thanks, Arieve,” Aeley called from her desk.

“You’re welcome.” Arieve hesitated as she lowered the tray. She swayed gently, the rich green layers of her tiered, ruffled skirts moving with her. “I’ll let you finish.”

Before Mayr could say anything else, Arieve hurried down the hall and around the corner.

“I wonder what the mix is this time.” Aeley snatched one goblet to sniff it. “Hint of gaffa nectar, soured pamolea extract, and a bite of fulore. Plus maybe, probably—” another sniff “—syrup from the Sailor’s Sweetheart bush.” She took a sip and nodded. Flakes of gold leaf clung to her top lip. “Not as fun as last night’s concoction, but I could get used to it.”

“That’s what you always say.” Mayr brushed the flakes from Aeley’s lips with his thumb.

Aeley wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Not always, just a lot. Cook knows her stuff. To be fair, she’s known me since I was three, getting into her puddings and tarts anytime she turned around. I trust that when she serves up a hodgeypodgey drink, it’s got personality.” She tapped her goblet against his. “I’m heading back to our guests. You should, too, considering it’s yourparty. We can resume this conversation later.”

After a kiss to his cheek, Aeley flounced out the door and through the corridor, humming to herself.

Mayr stared into his goblet, watching the gold swirl in an abstract pattern. My stomach. My head. I can’t even…

He set the goblet on Aeley’s desk. He needed Tash’s forgiveness more than he deserved a fancy drink.

As he exited the room, questions assaulted him hard enough to drown the sound of the door latch as it caught. One question practically shouted above all the others: how much had Arieve heard of his conversation with Aeley?

His heartbeat faltered. He was mortified. The door was not impervious to sound. What would Arieve think of him had she heard…

Hey, stupid! It doesn’t matter.Mayr grumbled and hooked his thumbs around the back of his belts. It still comes out to you’re taken and happy, so shut up.Dragging his heels, he wandered through the corridor and turned into the next, towards the ballroom.

Around the corner, Arieve leaned against the wall, head bowed, with her face hidden by her hair. She twined the trailing black laces of her bright green tunic around her fingers and pulled taut, then released them only to repeat the process. The empty tray rested beside her, abandoned against the wall.

“Hey.” Mayr stopped, careful to leave two foot lengths between them. “I thought you went back?” He toyed with his marriage ring, twisting the band nervously. Memories of Tash surged forward, the airy weight of his kisses almost real enough to feel.

“I wanted to wait for you.” Arieve raised her head and offered a tender smile. “I probably won’t get a word in the rest of the night given the company, so I thought…”

She was in his arms before he could reply. Her hug stole his surprise, shredding it until all that remained was stunned.

“Congratulations,” she murmured, her forehead tucked beneath his chin. “He’s got a good heart, solid. You’ve found your match. If the Four could grant me one wish tonight, it’d be for you two to have everything you desire.”

Mayr hesitated, his hands hovering over Arieve’s back. Touching was a bad idea, especially while he kept Tash from the truth. “Thank you.” Quick as he could, he embraced Arieve and pushed her away, feeling worse than the coward he was. “Let’s go back. I need to stop my mother from revealing every baby story she has or everyone’s going to hear about my naked backside and trailing diaper crowns.”

Arieve picked up the tray and started up the hall. “I’m sure Tash is soaking them up as we speak.” She laughed, the joyous sound digging up a dozen memories.

Memories he needed to lock up and burn down.

He followed Arieve and cast his gaze to the ceiling. Please, Reverent Goddesses, get me through tonight. Then let’s talk about strength of will, because one of these days I’m going to have to confess everything and it’ll hurt more than scorching my pride.

Author Bio

Archer Kay Leah was raised in Canada, growing up in a port town at a time when it was starting to become more diverse, both visibly and vocally. Combined with the variety of interests found in Archer’s family and the never-ending need to be creative, this diversity inspired a love for toying with characters and their relationships, exploring new experiences and difficult situations.

Archer most enjoys writing speculative fiction and is engaged in a very particular love affair with fantasy, especially when it is dark and emotionally charged. When not reading and writing for work or play, Archer is a geek with too many hobbies and keeps busy with other creative endeavors, a music addiction, and whatever else comes along. Archer lives in London, Ontario with a bigender partner and rather chatty cat.

Author Website: http://archerkayleah.wordpress.com/

Author Facebook (Author Page): http://facebook.com/archerkayleah

Author Twitter: https://twitter.com/archerkayleah

Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/ArcherKayLeah

Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/archer-kay-leah/

Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/archerkayleah

A. Nybo and the Three Bears

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Spiffy cover, eh? I’m delighted to have A. Nybo dropping by today to share the cover and tell us a bit about her new release, Three Bears. So, drag your eyes away from those delectable water droplets covering that delectable skin, and read on to find out more.

 

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At Three Bears surf break, the attraction between a group of friends is anything but “Luke warm….”

Dan goes to stay with his best friend Josh in Margaret River, the surfing capital of Western Australia, to sort out his sexual confusion. But his best friend is the source of that confusion. Having never been attracted to a man other than Josh, Dan fears risking their friendship just to discover men aren’t his thing.

Within the first few days, Dan meets Luke, a local barista who offers him surf lessons. Dan soon finds himself emotionally coveting not one, but two men. When they go to Three Bears, his hidden desires begin to emerge. As the ambiguity of Dan’s mixed signals clears, it becomes apparent both of his surfing companions want him—badly.

It is only when Luke and Josh hook up that they formulate “Operation Three Bears,” an adventurous plan that might lead to a satisfying outcome for all of them.

 

Cover Artist: Alexandria Corza

Publisher: Dreamspinner Press

Publication Date: 05 October

 

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Dreamspinner  |  other outlets to follow

 

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I decided to take Luke up on the surfing lessons, so we organized to meet that afternoon down at Redgate, a local beach he called a “beginner’s break.” I assumed that meant the waves were small—for which I was grateful. My knowledge of the ocean was limited. I knew enough to know how quickly it could take you and never give you back—not alive anyway. Not only that, but there was the myriad of ocean wildlife to deal with, such as great whites, blue-ringed octopuses, and all the other beasts that weren’t keen on intruders.

I texted Josh to see if I could borrow one of his surfboards. He told me to take one from the quiver in the shed, as those in the house were the ones he currently used.

I spent the intervening hours on the internet learning what I could about surfing. By the time I was to meet Luke, so much surfing lingo was running around in my head, I couldn’t remember what any of the terms meant. Not that it mattered. It was really only a way to while away time I normally would have spent alternately questioning my feelings toward Josh and lamenting my cowardice.

When I arrived, Luke was standing on top of a sand dune looking down at the beach. He turned and waved before heading toward me. I released the bungee cords and took the board from the roof of my station wagon before going to meet him. “Hey,” he said as he neared me. “Glad you made it.”

“I said I would.”

“Not everyone does what they say they’re going to do.” He looked at my board. “A single-fin?” He was trying really hard to hide his amusement.

“It’s okay if you laugh,” I assured him. “I’m under no misapprehensions that I know what I’m doing, so go ahead. I’ve only surfed a couple of times, and they were kind of under duress.”

He did laugh as he ran a hand over the board. “Where did you get this? I haven’t seen one of these for years. Is it yours?”

“No. It belongs to my housemate.”

“Not much of a surfer then, your housemate?”

“Yeah, he is. He told me to take one of the ones out of the shed, so I just grabbed the one closest to the door.”

For whatever reason, that seemed to spark new interest in the board. “One out of the shed, eh?” He looked it over. “Who is your housemate? Has he been in Margs for long?”

I shrugged, “Josh Stern. Been here a few years I guess.”

“Josh Stern.” Luke said it like he was sifting through an interesting catalogue. “Josh,” he tried. “Does he have shoulder-length blond hair?”

“No. Black.”

“Does he work in Margs?”

“Are you a detective?”

His frown of confusion was washed away by a sassy smile. “They get paid more than coffee-swirlers, don’t they?”

“I can’t say I’m all that familiar with the pay grades of either.”

He laughed. “I like you.”

I liked him too, but if I was to say so, it would come out weird and awkward. I couldn’t get away saying things like that. It wasn’t my style.

“No, I was simply trying to place him.” He paused. “I know most of the locals, but they tend to get a little mixed up in my head.”

“That must be painful.”

“It can be. Not to mention embarrassing.”

“Sounds like a story lurks there.”

“One or twenty.” His lewd grin made it clear he was referring to something sexual, so I let the conversation drop. Since sexual confusion was circling me like a shark, the last thing I wanted to speak of was blood.

 

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A. Nybo has tried conventional methods (a psych degree and a GC in Forensic Mental Health) but far prefers the less conventional, such as the occasional barbecue in the rain, 400km drives at 1am for chocolate, and multiple emergency naps in any given 24hr period. Favourite things to do include that which can be seen (e.g. reading, writing, drawing, walking the dogs, travelling) and that which can’t, such as dreaming (both awake and asleep).

Western Australian born, she has been spotted on the other side of the planet several times–usually by mosquitoes.  And discovered Amazonian mosquitoes love her just as much as they do in her home state.

She can be contacted at:  Twitter  |  Email  |  Goodreads