Mara Valderran's Blog, page 33
August 26, 2013
Blog Tour: Excerpt from Reaper by LS Murphy
Time for another addition to your To-Be-Read lists!
Reaper
by L.S. Murphy is available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. As a special treat, I've also got an excerpt below!
There's no way sixteen year old Quincy Amarante will become the fifth grim reaper. None. Not over her shiny blue Mustang. Her Jimmy Choos. Or her dead body.
She’s supposed to enjoy her sophomore year, not learn about some freaky future Destiny says she has no choice but to fulfill.
It doesn’t take long for Quincy to realize the only way out of the game is to play along especially since Death can find her anyway, anywhere, anytime. And does.
Like when she’s reassuring her friends she wants nothing to do with former best friend Ben Moorland, who’s returned from god-knows-where, and fails. Miserably.
Instead of maintaining her coveted popularity status, Quincy’s goes down like the Titanic.
Maybe ... just maybe ... that’s okay.
It seems, perhaps, becoming a grim reaper isn’t just about the dead but more about a much needed shift in Quincy’s priorities—from who she thinks she wants to be to who she really is.
L.S. Murphy lives in the Greater St. Louis area where she watches Cardinals baseball, reads every book she can find, and weaves tales for teens and adults. When not doing all of the above, she tends to The Bean (aka her daughter), her husband and a menagerie of pets. “A Reason to Stay”, a contemporary romance novella, is available as of November 2, 2012. Reaper is her debut young adult novel and will be released on January 7th, 2013.
She is a co-rep for the Southern Illinois region of Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) and a member of the St. Louis Writer’s Guild.
Links: Blog: http://lsmurphy.comTwitter: https://twitter.com/LSMurphyFacebook: http://www.facebook.com/LSMurphyAuthorGoodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5046440.L_S_MurphyPublisher: http://www.jtaylorpublishing.com/
ExcerptA spitball stops in mid-air less than an inch from my nose. It hangs there. I assume everyone else notices the wet wad of paper too, but when I turn to my bestie Jordan, her mouth is stuck open with her eyes half closed. She was just laughing. Now she’s ... frozen? The sudden silence is louder than a room full of gossiping teenagers. Mini-quakes creep up my spine like a centipede hurrying toward my hair. I’m not entirely sure my heart is beating. I wave my shaking hand in front of Jordan, hoping this will break her free of whatever happened. No reaction. Why am I moving? So many times, I wished Jordan would stop talking. Now is the one time I need her high-pitched voice to pierce my ears. Quin, relax. It’s okay. No way this is real. I pinch my arm hard, but it doesn’t change anything. A loud pop makes me spin around in my seat. A man stands in front of the chalkboard in a bluish-white robe staring at me through blizzard white eyes. He holds a staff in front of him that looks like melting glass. “Hello, Quincy,” he says in a deep velvet voice. “How would you like to see your future?” I stand and stumble toward the back of the room. “Who are you supposed to be? Gandalf?” I’m unable to keep the tremor out of my voice. “One person dresses up like me in a movie, and that’s all I hear.” He leans back on Mr. Spragg’s desk. “I’m far more attractive than him and so much more fun.” He winks and lifts his robe, revealing a pair of yellow and red striped Bermuda shorts and orange flip-flops. My eyes pop wider at the mismatched mess, but I keep my thoughts about his sense of fashion to myself. “Who are you?” His sigh echoes off the walls. “I’m Destiny.” “Who?” Rolling his eyes, he raises the staff high to his left. Like a swordsman, he stabs and swooshes it down in an arch. The air ripples as a dark slit opens. A man in a deep brown pinstripe suit steps through. His cheap sneakers don’t match the formality of the tan fedora and horn-rimmed glasses. A pony-sized white German shepherd saunters in behind him, and I take an automatic step back. The dog turns his head, black orbs where its eyes should be.
Pinstripe man glances my way before turning toward the person who calls himself Destiny. His features contort and a maroon tint creeps over his face. “What the f—” Destiny flips his finger and the new guy shuts up. After a moment, he does another finger move. “We said when she was eighteen, Des.” “I’m aware of that, Forsyth.” “She’s not eighteen.” “Really? I never would have guessed.” Sarcasm fills each word as Destiny raises his eyebrows like a flag on the Fourth of July. Forsyth glares. “Then why am I here?” “I let you pick the date, but I never agreed to honor it.” Destiny pats the dog on the head with sneer and wipes his hands on his robe. “Now is the time. Teach her.”
There's no way sixteen year old Quincy Amarante will become the fifth grim reaper. None. Not over her shiny blue Mustang. Her Jimmy Choos. Or her dead body.She’s supposed to enjoy her sophomore year, not learn about some freaky future Destiny says she has no choice but to fulfill.
It doesn’t take long for Quincy to realize the only way out of the game is to play along especially since Death can find her anyway, anywhere, anytime. And does.
Like when she’s reassuring her friends she wants nothing to do with former best friend Ben Moorland, who’s returned from god-knows-where, and fails. Miserably.
Instead of maintaining her coveted popularity status, Quincy’s goes down like the Titanic.
Maybe ... just maybe ... that’s okay.
It seems, perhaps, becoming a grim reaper isn’t just about the dead but more about a much needed shift in Quincy’s priorities—from who she thinks she wants to be to who she really is.
L.S. Murphy lives in the Greater St. Louis area where she watches Cardinals baseball, reads every book she can find, and weaves tales for teens and adults. When not doing all of the above, she tends to The Bean (aka her daughter), her husband and a menagerie of pets. “A Reason to Stay”, a contemporary romance novella, is available as of November 2, 2012. Reaper is her debut young adult novel and will be released on January 7th, 2013.
She is a co-rep for the Southern Illinois region of Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) and a member of the St. Louis Writer’s Guild.
Links: Blog: http://lsmurphy.comTwitter: https://twitter.com/LSMurphyFacebook: http://www.facebook.com/LSMurphyAuthorGoodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5046440.L_S_MurphyPublisher: http://www.jtaylorpublishing.com/
ExcerptA spitball stops in mid-air less than an inch from my nose. It hangs there. I assume everyone else notices the wet wad of paper too, but when I turn to my bestie Jordan, her mouth is stuck open with her eyes half closed. She was just laughing. Now she’s ... frozen? The sudden silence is louder than a room full of gossiping teenagers. Mini-quakes creep up my spine like a centipede hurrying toward my hair. I’m not entirely sure my heart is beating. I wave my shaking hand in front of Jordan, hoping this will break her free of whatever happened. No reaction. Why am I moving? So many times, I wished Jordan would stop talking. Now is the one time I need her high-pitched voice to pierce my ears. Quin, relax. It’s okay. No way this is real. I pinch my arm hard, but it doesn’t change anything. A loud pop makes me spin around in my seat. A man stands in front of the chalkboard in a bluish-white robe staring at me through blizzard white eyes. He holds a staff in front of him that looks like melting glass. “Hello, Quincy,” he says in a deep velvet voice. “How would you like to see your future?” I stand and stumble toward the back of the room. “Who are you supposed to be? Gandalf?” I’m unable to keep the tremor out of my voice. “One person dresses up like me in a movie, and that’s all I hear.” He leans back on Mr. Spragg’s desk. “I’m far more attractive than him and so much more fun.” He winks and lifts his robe, revealing a pair of yellow and red striped Bermuda shorts and orange flip-flops. My eyes pop wider at the mismatched mess, but I keep my thoughts about his sense of fashion to myself. “Who are you?” His sigh echoes off the walls. “I’m Destiny.” “Who?” Rolling his eyes, he raises the staff high to his left. Like a swordsman, he stabs and swooshes it down in an arch. The air ripples as a dark slit opens. A man in a deep brown pinstripe suit steps through. His cheap sneakers don’t match the formality of the tan fedora and horn-rimmed glasses. A pony-sized white German shepherd saunters in behind him, and I take an automatic step back. The dog turns his head, black orbs where its eyes should be. Pinstripe man glances my way before turning toward the person who calls himself Destiny. His features contort and a maroon tint creeps over his face. “What the f—” Destiny flips his finger and the new guy shuts up. After a moment, he does another finger move. “We said when she was eighteen, Des.” “I’m aware of that, Forsyth.” “She’s not eighteen.” “Really? I never would have guessed.” Sarcasm fills each word as Destiny raises his eyebrows like a flag on the Fourth of July. Forsyth glares. “Then why am I here?” “I let you pick the date, but I never agreed to honor it.” Destiny pats the dog on the head with sneer and wipes his hands on his robe. “Now is the time. Teach her.”
August 24, 2013
How Patton Oswalt's Defense of Ben Affleck Applies to a Self-Published Writer
Thought I would share part of Patton Oswalt's status today concerning Ben Affleck as Batman, but not because of the whole Ben as Batman bru-ha-ha. I'm sharing this because I think it applies to so many of us, and I think we could learn a thing or two from what Patton Oswalt is saying about Ben Affleck. I know it applies to me, as a writer. And one self-publishing, especially. I'll explain after.
"Plus, everyone seems to forget that he had the world dropped in his lap when he was YOUNG. And, judging by how other suddenly-famous youngsters do in the same situation, he fared pretty well. Even when it went wrong, he seemed to keep a self-deprecating, long-view philosophy about the burning freak carousel he'd found himself on.
And then what happened? I mean, he'd fallen from a HEIGHT. You know what happens to 95% of people who weather a descent that steep? They come apart, fray at all of their sanity nodes, and give up.
But then there's the 5% who embrace crushing defeat and see it for the gift it is. And here's the gift: when you fail, and fail UTTERLY, you wake up the next morning and see that the world didn't end. And then the fear of failure is gone. And you're free. You're free to proceed on your own terms and pace -- if you have the ego that permits you to.
Ben brushed himself off, realized he'd kept his eyes open on the movies he'd done, and started directing. And he's become a damn good one."
Starting out in the publishing world, we are riding high after high. We finished a novel! We let people read our novel! People liked our novel! We're going to publish our novel! (Or someone wants to publish it for you--which can be a much bigger high than just doing it yourself.) We're scheduling our blog tours! We're getting likes on our Facebook pages! People are adding our books to their Goodreads lists!
From http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/feels
Then what happens? We hit "publish" and hopefully don't hear crickets. But chances are we won't be overnight success stories. The truth of gaining any footing as a published writer is that it takes time and perseverance. It takes getting one star reviews and watching sales dwindle. It takes more than one book, most people say. In a lot of ways, our first books can feel like failures, unless we have realistic expectations. And even then, can we fight against the hope those expectations will be surpassed by a long shot? I'm not sure I can, no matter how many times I say I'll be happy if I just sell ten copies.
So what do we do when we feel like we've failed? Like Patton Oswalt says: We wake up the next morning, realize the world hasn't ended, and move forward with a since of freedom. We are artists. We are here to express ourselves. Sales should come second to that, and it's important to keep that in mind as we venture forth to our next books and keep riding the roller coaster of the literary world, embracing every up and down along the way. And maybe even squealing like the little Geico pig all the way to our next release.
From astridonacid's tumblr
"Plus, everyone seems to forget that he had the world dropped in his lap when he was YOUNG. And, judging by how other suddenly-famous youngsters do in the same situation, he fared pretty well. Even when it went wrong, he seemed to keep a self-deprecating, long-view philosophy about the burning freak carousel he'd found himself on.
And then what happened? I mean, he'd fallen from a HEIGHT. You know what happens to 95% of people who weather a descent that steep? They come apart, fray at all of their sanity nodes, and give up.
But then there's the 5% who embrace crushing defeat and see it for the gift it is. And here's the gift: when you fail, and fail UTTERLY, you wake up the next morning and see that the world didn't end. And then the fear of failure is gone. And you're free. You're free to proceed on your own terms and pace -- if you have the ego that permits you to.
Ben brushed himself off, realized he'd kept his eyes open on the movies he'd done, and started directing. And he's become a damn good one."
Starting out in the publishing world, we are riding high after high. We finished a novel! We let people read our novel! People liked our novel! We're going to publish our novel! (Or someone wants to publish it for you--which can be a much bigger high than just doing it yourself.) We're scheduling our blog tours! We're getting likes on our Facebook pages! People are adding our books to their Goodreads lists!
From http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/feelsThen what happens? We hit "publish" and hopefully don't hear crickets. But chances are we won't be overnight success stories. The truth of gaining any footing as a published writer is that it takes time and perseverance. It takes getting one star reviews and watching sales dwindle. It takes more than one book, most people say. In a lot of ways, our first books can feel like failures, unless we have realistic expectations. And even then, can we fight against the hope those expectations will be surpassed by a long shot? I'm not sure I can, no matter how many times I say I'll be happy if I just sell ten copies.
So what do we do when we feel like we've failed? Like Patton Oswalt says: We wake up the next morning, realize the world hasn't ended, and move forward with a since of freedom. We are artists. We are here to express ourselves. Sales should come second to that, and it's important to keep that in mind as we venture forth to our next books and keep riding the roller coaster of the literary world, embracing every up and down along the way. And maybe even squealing like the little Geico pig all the way to our next release.
From astridonacid's tumblrBlog Tour: Catalyst by Jennifer Snyder
Can I just say that I love this cover? It is gorgeous. And the blurb is really good, too. Definitely on my TBR list! See for yourself!
Sometimes who we really are lies buried just beneath the surface…
After learning she’s inherited a house in the beachside town of Soul Harbor, Georgia, Addison Harmon and her best friend decided to take a much needed vacation before the pressures of life after high school suffocate them too heavily.
But what Addison finds isn’t a chance to recoup from a bad break up and hang out with her best friend while she decides what she wants to do with her future. What she finds is Kace Sullivan—a sexy guy she can’t seem to get enough of—someone who with one touch reveals a seductive world full of magick and secrets Addison isn’t sure she’s ready to be a part of.
(New Adult/Mature Young Adult: Contains sexual situations, mild language, and underage drinking.)
Purchase links:AmazonB&N
Jennifer Snyder lives in North Carolina where she spends most of her time writing new adult and young adult fiction, reading, and struggling to stay on top of housework. She is a tea lover with an obsession for Post-it notes and smooth writing pens. Jennifer lives with her husband and two children, who endure listening to songs that spur inspiration on repeat and tolerate her love for all paranormal, teenage-targeted TV shows.
Find Jennifer Snyder on:Facebook Twitter
Sometimes who we really are lies buried just beneath the surface…After learning she’s inherited a house in the beachside town of Soul Harbor, Georgia, Addison Harmon and her best friend decided to take a much needed vacation before the pressures of life after high school suffocate them too heavily.
But what Addison finds isn’t a chance to recoup from a bad break up and hang out with her best friend while she decides what she wants to do with her future. What she finds is Kace Sullivan—a sexy guy she can’t seem to get enough of—someone who with one touch reveals a seductive world full of magick and secrets Addison isn’t sure she’s ready to be a part of.
(New Adult/Mature Young Adult: Contains sexual situations, mild language, and underage drinking.)
Purchase links:AmazonB&N
Jennifer Snyder lives in North Carolina where she spends most of her time writing new adult and young adult fiction, reading, and struggling to stay on top of housework. She is a tea lover with an obsession for Post-it notes and smooth writing pens. Jennifer lives with her husband and two children, who endure listening to songs that spur inspiration on repeat and tolerate her love for all paranormal, teenage-targeted TV shows. Find Jennifer Snyder on:Facebook Twitter
August 23, 2013
Cover Reveal: The Second Shadow by Elizabeth Arroyo
Cover reveal! I always wish I had some kind of graphic for drawing back a curtain (accompanied by some really exciting music) for these. But I don't, so you'll just have to imagine it alongside me!
TA-DA! And now for more on the book:
THE SECOND SHADOW(Book 2 of The Second Sign series)Dark YA Paranormal RomanceAvailable September 5, 2013Sapphire Star Publishing
Jake thought being demon meant a shredded humanity, stripped of all human emotion. Chaos and self-preservation dominates a demon’s instincts. But Jake feels every ounce of pain and despair around him. And it’s driving him deeper into Hell.Gabby’s choice to save him last summer left a fissure in Hell’s gate that released a malevolent evil. When Jake’s given a mission by the demons to shadow a human girl who may know the whereabouts of an ethereal weapon, he doesn’t expect to see Gabby. But Fate has her own agenda.When Jake and Gabby are thrown together on a camping trip with a group of delinquent teens, Jake begins to grapple with the haunting choices he made in the past. When the evil finds them, the group begins to battle for their lives, alliances are made, and truths revealed. As the evil begins to influence Jake, he questions his link to the demons, his purpose, and his love for Gabby. But the answers to those questions are only found in Hell. And it may cost him his soul.You can find the first book, The Second Sign, on Goodreads. The Second Shadow will be released September 5th, 2013!
Elizabeth has worked in the community for the bulk of her professional career. She enjoys quiet moments, action flicks, and dancing with her four-year-old.
You can find more information about Elizabeth at http://www.elizabetharroyo.com.
TA-DA! And now for more on the book:
THE SECOND SHADOW(Book 2 of The Second Sign series)Dark YA Paranormal RomanceAvailable September 5, 2013Sapphire Star Publishing
Jake thought being demon meant a shredded humanity, stripped of all human emotion. Chaos and self-preservation dominates a demon’s instincts. But Jake feels every ounce of pain and despair around him. And it’s driving him deeper into Hell.Gabby’s choice to save him last summer left a fissure in Hell’s gate that released a malevolent evil. When Jake’s given a mission by the demons to shadow a human girl who may know the whereabouts of an ethereal weapon, he doesn’t expect to see Gabby. But Fate has her own agenda.When Jake and Gabby are thrown together on a camping trip with a group of delinquent teens, Jake begins to grapple with the haunting choices he made in the past. When the evil finds them, the group begins to battle for their lives, alliances are made, and truths revealed. As the evil begins to influence Jake, he questions his link to the demons, his purpose, and his love for Gabby. But the answers to those questions are only found in Hell. And it may cost him his soul.You can find the first book, The Second Sign, on Goodreads. The Second Shadow will be released September 5th, 2013!
Elizabeth has worked in the community for the bulk of her professional career. She enjoys quiet moments, action flicks, and dancing with her four-year-old. You can find more information about Elizabeth at http://www.elizabetharroyo.com.
August 22, 2013
Cover Reveal: Slick as Ides by Chanse Lowell
The release for Chanse Lowell's Slick as Ides is just around the corner. If you like New Adult Romance, you might want to add this to your To-Read list on Goodreads.
[image error] What happens when a germophobe, elusive computer hacking genius has to stop to fuel up her car and it’s stolen right from under her nose by a handsome vagrant? Revenge of course.
Only he’s no vagrant...
He’s a computer hacking genius, too, and her competition. Curses along with inhibitions—fly out the window and through the phone when he calls repeatedly to harasses her. Who will win the upper-hand, if there is such a thing, between these two stubborn, obnoxious people?
The last thing she ever thought she’d do was pursue her dream to be a writer since her family tends to keep her busy. When she was introduced to fan fiction, she realized she wanted to see more science fiction and historical fiction to fill in the gap with lots of naughtiness thrown in, of course. Her true passion is creating her own worlds from scratch, letting her imagination go and take her to another place.
She has two novels coming out soon, Sleeves a science fiction erotica and Knots, a contemporary BDSM that shows the softer, tender side of a Dom/sub relationship. Having recently entered the lifestyle and discovering she’s a submissive herself has opened her eyes to how few stories there are exploring the softer side of the lifestyle. She enjoys chatting online with others with similar kinky interests and has advisers in the lifestyle that help make sure her stories remain true and don’t veer off into outer space. Although aliens probably enjoy kink, too, since they like to dress in rubber fetish-wear while traveling. At least that’s her argument for why her new genre she’s created is valid.
Website: http://chanselowell.blogspot.com/Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/#!/chanse.lowell.1Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/ChanseLowellWritesTwitter: https://twitter.com/ChanseLowellGoodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/ChanseLowell
[image error] What happens when a germophobe, elusive computer hacking genius has to stop to fuel up her car and it’s stolen right from under her nose by a handsome vagrant? Revenge of course.
Only he’s no vagrant...
He’s a computer hacking genius, too, and her competition. Curses along with inhibitions—fly out the window and through the phone when he calls repeatedly to harasses her. Who will win the upper-hand, if there is such a thing, between these two stubborn, obnoxious people?
The last thing she ever thought she’d do was pursue her dream to be a writer since her family tends to keep her busy. When she was introduced to fan fiction, she realized she wanted to see more science fiction and historical fiction to fill in the gap with lots of naughtiness thrown in, of course. Her true passion is creating her own worlds from scratch, letting her imagination go and take her to another place.
She has two novels coming out soon, Sleeves a science fiction erotica and Knots, a contemporary BDSM that shows the softer, tender side of a Dom/sub relationship. Having recently entered the lifestyle and discovering she’s a submissive herself has opened her eyes to how few stories there are exploring the softer side of the lifestyle. She enjoys chatting online with others with similar kinky interests and has advisers in the lifestyle that help make sure her stories remain true and don’t veer off into outer space. Although aliens probably enjoy kink, too, since they like to dress in rubber fetish-wear while traveling. At least that’s her argument for why her new genre she’s created is valid.
Website: http://chanselowell.blogspot.com/Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/#!/chanse.lowell.1Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/ChanseLowellWritesTwitter: https://twitter.com/ChanseLowellGoodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/ChanseLowell
August 21, 2013
Blog Tour: Wail of the Banshees by Robert Poulin
Remember that awesome guy I interviewed last week? The one who struck an inspirational chord in your writerly lives? Well, today I am spotlighting Robert Poulin's book,
Wail of the Banshees
, available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, and Kobo. You should definitely check it out. But until you do, you can check out the first three chapters below!
My name is Veronika Kane and dying, dying was just the beginning.
How was I supposed to know that getting smashed on my 21st birthday would lead me to becoming the 9th victim of a serial killer that’s been stalking Philadelphia’s streets for months? Now I’m a ghost and unlife is pretty scary. Reapers, wraiths, ghouls, gargoyles: all of the monsters that I thought were storybook characters are real! On top of it all, the powers that be in the ghost world want to enslave me and use me in their own diabolical plot to manipulate the people of the living world. Too bad I didn’t turn out to be the kind of ghost they wanted me to be, and I’m not about to let them turn me into one of their puppets. These ghosts are responsible for my murder and the murders of eight other women.
A rebellion is coming, and the ghosts that run this place are about to find out just how big a mistake they made when they had me killed.
My name is Veronika Kane and being murdered isn't the end of my story.
Wail of the Banshees is an Urban Fantasy Novel and the first book in the exciting Ghost Wars saga which features paranormal horror and action set in living Philadelphia and the ghostly world of Limbo.
Excerpt:
1
Getting your throat slit in a dark alley really sucks.Even worse than that is having to watch your blood spill onto the garbage strewn pavement of that dark alley and being powerless to do anything about it.I stood above my crumpled form watching in sick fascination as a dark pool of blood gathered around me. It really is amazing how much blood there is in a human body; you really can’t imagine it until you’ve seen it.I was rooted to this spot from the first instant following the brutal attack. I was forced to watch as I died at my own feet. I wanted to cry out for help but my throat refused to produce any sound, and I couldn’t seem to move my new spirit body. It was after three in the morning and the shadowed streets of West Philadelphia were quiet; no one came to help as I watched myself gasp for the last time.I waited for the white light, for my spirit to rise up into the celestial city of the Almighty. When this didn’t happen, I braced myself for the impending descent into the fiery pits of hell. Still nothing happened.A half hour passed before I saw the flashing lights of a slowly moving patrol car. An officer was moving along the sidewalk peering into the dark alleyways of the street while his partner trailed in their squad car. After a few more minutes of searching, a beam of light swept over my still body. The young cop let out a cry of discovery and ran forward drawing his pistol while calling out to his partner. Philadelphia’s finest had found me; unfortunately they were too late.My name is Veronika Kane and I guess I’m a ghost now. Today, or I should say yesterday, was my twenty first birthday.I’d gone out with some of my friends from the University of Pennsylvania to celebrate my now legal drinking age. We’d partied late into the night, getting smashed and having fun doing it. As the night wore on, friends left and new ones arrived, but in the end I was the last to say goodnight to my favorite club: The Electric Factory in Center City. I rode the bus back to West City where my apartment was located, but rather than transfer to a second bus I decided to walk the remaining seven or eight blocks to my home. The fall evening was comfortably cool and I wanted to sober up a little before bed. This was only my second time getting drunk, and I wasn’t used to the dizzying feeling that came with it. My ears were buzzing like the crackling speakers before Motley Crew took the stage, and the earth wouldn’t stop moving even when I paused to catch my breath.The attack came suddenly, without warning. I was grabbed from behind by powerful arms. One quickly wrapped around my neck while the other pinned my arms to my sides. The man was tall. I’m five-nine but he towered at least six to eight inches over me. He picked me up off the ground and whispered in my ear.“Shhhh…be a good girl and be still,” his voice was gruff and he stank of onions and rotten meat.Fear washed over me like a bucket of cold water being dumped over my head. My stomach lurched and sudden nausea threatened to make me puke. I tried to struggle, but the intense fear that wracked my gut and the sickening vertigo that was overwhelming my senses conspired to make the attempt at resistance futile. I fought against the rising panic that threatened to engulf me and tried to calm myself through meditation exercises. It was the most difficult thing I’d ever done, but the years of grueling training in my dad’s dojo kicked in and I was able to calm myself enough to think past the terror that made it near impossible for me to breathe without hyperventilating.The man slung me over his shoulder and I promptly barfed all over his back. He growled in anger and disgust but didn’t flinch or put me down to clean himself off. He just started walking. He carried me several blocks until he turned into the dank alley that I now found myself in. Throwing up had made me feel a little better. The world wasn’t spinning anymore, but I still felt weak and sick. Once we reached the back of the narrow alley, he swung me back around to his front but didn’t put me down. Instead he maintained a tight hold on me with one powerful arm. I heard him fumbling around for something in his coat, and I instinctively knew that I had to get away now. This was probably the only chance I’d get; I slumped against him as if I’d fainted. Fear and hope warred over me and threatened to make me puke again as the man loosened his grip on me and began lowering me to the ground. As soon as my feet hit the dirt and garbage strewn pavement I shot my right elbow back and connected with his ribs. He let go of me in surprise, and I launched myself forward, running for the street. But I was still intoxicated, and he was quicker than me. He cried out in rage and caught me from behind before I could escape. I whirled around and tried to push him back with a front kick but he sidestepped my clumsy move, and I stumbled past him and fell into a pile of garbage. Desperation overwhelmed the hope that had filled me just a few moments ago. I scrambled ungracefully back to my feet and started run- ning. Laughter chased me and all hope died when I realized I was going the wrong way. The back of the alley was blocked off.My attacker didn’t bother trying to catch me this time though. He simply came up behind me as I desperately searched for another escape route: perhaps a basement window that I could crawl into. He reached around me and slit my throat with the long knife that he’d drawn from a concealed sheath. I watched, stunned, as my body fell forward. My spirit though remained erect, rooted to the spot.I got my first glimpse of my attacker’s features as he stared down at me with wide and unblinking eyes. He was a giant of a man, standing almost six foot five and muscled like a body- builder. He was quite handsome with long, chestnut brown hair that was bound in a ponytail. His nose was long and narrow, while his cheeks were dimpled. He had a sharp chin and full lips; straight white teeth gleamed in the darkness as he smiled down at my crumpled form. His eyes were midnight black and seemed to hold a madness that was all consuming. He licked the blood coated knife that he’d slit my throat with and shook his head at me.“That’s what you get bitch,” he said. “I could have taught you so much. You would have screamed so prettily, and you would have learned so much. But you had to ruin it all by trying to escape. I couldn’t let that happen. There’s still too much work to do, so many pretty things to teach how to scream. I can’t serve the Dark Master if I get caught. It’s such a waste, I know, but I just couldn’t take the risk with you.”He removed a thin brush from an inner pocket of the jeans jacket he wore and dipped it in the expanding pool of blood at his feet. He then used the brush to write words upon the wall of a nearby building. I stared at the writing in surprise; it appeared to be in Akkadian, one of the later cuneiforms. Ancient languages were a particular interest of mine: Akkadian culture had figured prominently in several of my projects at Penn. I didn’t know what the words said though. I wouldn’t be able to decipher them without a few books that were in my apartment. As you might imagine, dead languages take a very long time to master. I couldn’t begin to imagine how this guy could write this language, let alone understand it.Satisfied with his handiwork, the killer surprised me once more by looking directly at me: the ghost me, as if he could see me. He grinned and then walked out of the alley leaving me alone to die.2
The young officer bent over my still body reaching for my wrist to check my pulse. After a moment he rose, shaking his head at his partner who had parked the police cruiser facing into the alley so that its headlights could offer more light. The second officer used his hand radio to call for the forensics team and a homicide detective. The two men then set about making sure that the area was secure. I watched numbly, still unable to move or make a sound. Within minutes of the call-in, distant sirens could be heard; they grew louder as the emergency crews approached the crime scene.The ambulance crew was the first to arrive on the scene; jumping out of their vehicle they rushed forward, medical kits in hand. The officers tried to wave them off but one of the EMTs, a young lady about my age, ignored them and continued to move towards me while her companion, an older male, changed directions and ambled over to talk to the officers. The female medic froze when she saw the pool of blood around me, and I saw the light of hope die in her eyes. She came forward anyway and checked my pulse before withdrawing and beginning the long wait for the forensics team to start their work. Once all the evidence was gathered from the crime scene, the EMTs would transport my body to the city morgue. Two more sector cars arrived on the scene next, followed by a homicide detective in an unmarked vehicle, and finally the forensics team was last on the scene. A crowd of onlookers had begun to form on the opposite side of the street. They were kept at bay by a uniformed officer.The homicide detective, wearing a cheap dark suit, entered the alley as soon as he arrived. He inspected the scene without touching anything. He was of average height with piercing blue eyes, curly dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He stayed near me until the forensics crew arrived. He had a sad but determined look about him; his presence somehow comforted me. The forensics team did their work quickly but carefully, taking photographs of the scene and then collecting various samples. The city medical examiner took charge of my body: he was a pudgy balding man with glasses. He examined my body thoroughly and spoke quietly into a mini-recorder. The detective had moved off to consult with the original officers on the scene and he was joined by a second detective. She was a tired looking woman in her middle to late thirties. As soon as the forensics team was done with the preliminary cataloging of the scene, the detectives joining the medical examiner and began to search through my pockets and hand bag.“Hey Bob,” said the male detective. “How’s it fucking hanging?”“Still got that potty mouth I see,” Bob, the Medical Examiner, retorted. “I would have thought you’d have cured him of that by now Wendi.”The female detective, Wendi, shook her head with a sigh of the long suffering.“Not fucking likely,” the male detective replied. “You find anything unusual?”“Not really,” Bob answered with a shake of his head. “It’s what it looks like: her jugular was slashed with a very big knife. She bled out. The attacker was strong and big and knew how to use a knife; the cut was clean and very precise. There’s bruising consistent with large hands on her arms and shoulders. She was killed here in the alley but was probably grabbed elsewhere. There are also signs that she vomited recently.”“Veronika Kane, age 21,” said the male detective as he read my license. “God damn it. It was her fucking birthday.”“Hold it together, Frank,” said Wendi. “At least this one didn’t have to go through what the other ones did. I wonder why he killed this one so quickly.”The male detective, Frank I guess, didn’t say anything for a moment. As he continued to search through my purse, Wendi searched my body; both wore latex gloves.“I’ll leave the rest of this in your capable hands,” Bob said standing up and heading off towards his car. “Come by tomorrow for the autopsy report. Maybe preliminaries will be ready from toxicology.”Wendi waved goodbye to the departing medical examiner, but Frank didn’t seem to notice his departure.“I’m guessing she put up more of a fight than our guy is fucking used to,” Frank finally said in reply to Wendi’s question. He’d retrieved another card from my wallet. “She’s a fucking jiu-jitsu master with credentials from the University City Dojo according to this.”All those years working out, learning to defend myself, the competitions, the grueling hard work, the broken bones, all of it had been a waste. Why was God punishing me? Why had He let me be killed in such a brutal way without even a chance to fight back? Why was I being forced to stand here, unable to move or speak? Why was I being forced to watch this horrific scene out of a Law & Order episode? I suddenly recalled what a born-again friend had once told me, “Hell isn’t a fiery pit. It’s existence without God, all alone for eternity.” Was I in Hell? Had I truly been so bad that I deserved this end?I had worked hard my entire life, earning A’s and always com- ing near the top of the class in school. I was athletic. I had played several sports but favored the martial arts, both hand-to-hand and sword forms. My parents were immigrants from Russia; they had fled the Iron Curtain of the early sixties to find a new life in America. My father opened the University City Dojo and my mother worked for a telecom company. I was a lone child. Now my parents would have nothing. I never did drugs, and last night had only been the second time I’d ever gotten drunk. I had overcome the teenage peer pressure to have sex, saving myself for someone I truly loved. Was it because I went to church infrequently, didn’t confess my sins every day, wasn’t born again, wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness or a Mormon? Somehow, I’d always believed that being a good person was good enough, that God as a loving father would accept me for who I am. Apparently I was wrong.“It’s really a shame,” said Wendi. “She might have been able to kick his ass or at least get away if she hadn’t been drunk.”“How do you know she was fucking drunk?” Frank asked. “A little deductive reasoning,” Wendi answered. She raised my limp hand and turned it over so that the purple entrance tattoo that had been stamped there was visible to Frank. “She spent some time at the Electric Factory. The stamp is dated. We can start tracking her movements from there. I’ll bet you twenty bucks that when toxicology comes back it will show that she was drunk. It was her twenty first birthday after all, and Bob said she’d vomited recently.”Frank shook his head, a sad expression on his face.So, a short life’s hard work came down to one mistake. One failure. Some people spend a whole lifetime avoiding consequences; apparently I wasn’t so lucky. The truth of what Wendi said hit me hard. Though my attacker had been much bigger and stronger than me, I knew that things would have been different if I hadn’t been smashed. The chances of my having been able to escape were very high; I had managed to free myself of his grasp twice. With my full faculties I was sure that I could have eluded him. I wanted to cry, to scream, but neither tears nor sound would come. I just stood there frozen, surrounded by lights and people, but I was dead and alone now. I would never see my parents again, never hold my mom or laugh with my dad. A whole life of promise and hope was lost to me. I’d never marry or have kids of my own.“Hopefully the fucking forensics team will turn something up,” said Frank. “If Veronika’s death gets us the fucking clue we need to nail this asshole, her death won’t be completely meaningless, though I fucking doubt that that will be much of a consolation to her parents.”Frank stood and moved to the nearby wall where my assailant had written on it with my blood. He withdrew a sheaf of paper from his pocket and compared the notes on it to the writing on the wall.“It’s fucking exact,” he said. “The wails of the spirits shall herald the Dark Master’s victory over death.”“I still think there’s something wrong with that translation,” said Wendi. “It just doesn’t sound right.”“Look Wendi, we’ve fucking been through this before,” exclaimed Frank in exasperation. “If you want another fucking translation bring it up to Templetown. Just because Penn is preeminent in archaeology doesn’t mean they fucking know everything. Since there might be a fucking religious context involved in this case maybe your old man will be able to help.”Wendi grimaced in frustration but finally nodded. She was a pretty woman in that girl next door sort of way and unlike her partner, she was dressed elegantly in a grey Theory suit with red silk blouse and stylish but utilitarian shoes that matched the suit. Her eyes were brown as was her curly, shoulder length hair.“Alright,” she replied dejectedly. “I’ll take it over in the morning. I think we’re done here.”“Rest in peace Veronika Kane,” said Frank as he looked over my fallen body one last time before he and Wendi withdrew from the alley and headed for their respective cars.The paramedics were finally allowed to come forward. I watched with a sense of finality as they lifted my body onto a gurney, wheeled it to the ambulance, and a few moments later quietly drove away. The forensics team returned to bag all of the trash and debris they could lay their hands on. When they’d taken everything that wasn’t nailed down, a clean-up crew was called in to get as much of the blood off the ground as they could. The result was that this alleyway was now the cleanest in the city, though it was now haunted by a ghost and marked with a water proof chalk outline of a body. The writing on the wall was also cleaned away, it had been extensively photographed, and the ubiquitous yellow police crime scene tape remained as evidence that a crime had taken place here recently. Once the clean-up was completed, I was again left alone, still unable to move or call for help.
3.
I waited for hours, alone with my thoughts. I feared that I would be stuck to this place for eternity. As the hours passed and dawn approached, a mist began to fill the alley. Within minutes the street was obscured and the buildings around me were barely visible; their looming shadows seeming to brood over the landscape. I shivered as a sense of dread washed over me.Another hour passed. Dawn bloomed over the city, but the mist did not die out. The city was strangely quiet; no traffic seemed to move on the street beyond the alley. Suddenly two large shapes appeared at the mouth of the alley. They looked vaguely human but something was weird about their forms. They were dark and massive, probably around seven feet tall, and their shape reminded me of the Thing from The Fantastic Four comic books. I wanted to run, to scream for help, but I was still stuck in place, unable to do either. I closed my eyes tightly, praying that I would wake up from this obvious nightmare.“Here it is,” one of the monstrous creatures said in a deep guttural voice. “It be another shade.”“This be the last one to harvest,” said the other creature, this one’s voice was grating, like fingernails on a chalkboard. “This one not banshee like supposed to be. Great Master will be angry.” “Yup,” echoed the first black monster. “We hurry now; tellGreat Master what we find.”I opened my eyes futilely hoping that I would be back in my apartment. The things were standing just a few feet from me now; one of them reached an enormous clawed arm towards me. The creatures were black as night with glowing red eyes, no noses that I could see, and red gaping mouths with unnaturally white, jagged teeth that a great white shark would be jealous of.I was still clearly in the nightmare.I tried to shy away from the things touch but was still unable to move. I convulsed in agony as the creature’s claws tore into me; they sank deep into my ghostly body. I was finally able to scream; all of my fear, anger, frustration, and pain bubbled up in a long wail that seemed to shake the buildings around us.The demonic apparition that held me paused to peer more closely at me.“This one scream like banshee,” it said.“It be a shade,” said its companion. “See it? It not a pretty banshee; it all foggy like a shade. Now we go.”I looked down at myself, noticing for the first time that my body was different. In life I’d been beautiful: long straight black hair and piercing blue eyes had framed a delicate face. My lips had been full, my nose perfectly shaped. I had an athlete’s body with long, perfectly toned legs, small hips, a flat stomach, and boobs that guys couldn’t take their eyes off of. Now, my body was wreathed in a grey, misty fog. My features weren’t visible beneath the thick cloak of fog that wreathed my form. The brute that held me had buried its claws deep into me; there was no blood, but it still hurt like hell.The ghostly thug pulled on me. There was resistance for an agonizing moment and then a tearing feeling. Once more I screamed, more in hopelessness than pain. As the creatures carried me to god knows where, I wept, the tears finally flowing. I also found that I was able to move, for all the good that did me now. I knew instinctively that the tearing that I’d felt a moment ago was my last connection to the living world. I was in hell or something near enough to it. My life was over; there was no going back now.
My name is Veronika Kane and dying, dying was just the beginning. How was I supposed to know that getting smashed on my 21st birthday would lead me to becoming the 9th victim of a serial killer that’s been stalking Philadelphia’s streets for months? Now I’m a ghost and unlife is pretty scary. Reapers, wraiths, ghouls, gargoyles: all of the monsters that I thought were storybook characters are real! On top of it all, the powers that be in the ghost world want to enslave me and use me in their own diabolical plot to manipulate the people of the living world. Too bad I didn’t turn out to be the kind of ghost they wanted me to be, and I’m not about to let them turn me into one of their puppets. These ghosts are responsible for my murder and the murders of eight other women.
A rebellion is coming, and the ghosts that run this place are about to find out just how big a mistake they made when they had me killed.
My name is Veronika Kane and being murdered isn't the end of my story.
Wail of the Banshees is an Urban Fantasy Novel and the first book in the exciting Ghost Wars saga which features paranormal horror and action set in living Philadelphia and the ghostly world of Limbo.
Excerpt:
1
Getting your throat slit in a dark alley really sucks.Even worse than that is having to watch your blood spill onto the garbage strewn pavement of that dark alley and being powerless to do anything about it.I stood above my crumpled form watching in sick fascination as a dark pool of blood gathered around me. It really is amazing how much blood there is in a human body; you really can’t imagine it until you’ve seen it.I was rooted to this spot from the first instant following the brutal attack. I was forced to watch as I died at my own feet. I wanted to cry out for help but my throat refused to produce any sound, and I couldn’t seem to move my new spirit body. It was after three in the morning and the shadowed streets of West Philadelphia were quiet; no one came to help as I watched myself gasp for the last time.I waited for the white light, for my spirit to rise up into the celestial city of the Almighty. When this didn’t happen, I braced myself for the impending descent into the fiery pits of hell. Still nothing happened.A half hour passed before I saw the flashing lights of a slowly moving patrol car. An officer was moving along the sidewalk peering into the dark alleyways of the street while his partner trailed in their squad car. After a few more minutes of searching, a beam of light swept over my still body. The young cop let out a cry of discovery and ran forward drawing his pistol while calling out to his partner. Philadelphia’s finest had found me; unfortunately they were too late.My name is Veronika Kane and I guess I’m a ghost now. Today, or I should say yesterday, was my twenty first birthday.I’d gone out with some of my friends from the University of Pennsylvania to celebrate my now legal drinking age. We’d partied late into the night, getting smashed and having fun doing it. As the night wore on, friends left and new ones arrived, but in the end I was the last to say goodnight to my favorite club: The Electric Factory in Center City. I rode the bus back to West City where my apartment was located, but rather than transfer to a second bus I decided to walk the remaining seven or eight blocks to my home. The fall evening was comfortably cool and I wanted to sober up a little before bed. This was only my second time getting drunk, and I wasn’t used to the dizzying feeling that came with it. My ears were buzzing like the crackling speakers before Motley Crew took the stage, and the earth wouldn’t stop moving even when I paused to catch my breath.The attack came suddenly, without warning. I was grabbed from behind by powerful arms. One quickly wrapped around my neck while the other pinned my arms to my sides. The man was tall. I’m five-nine but he towered at least six to eight inches over me. He picked me up off the ground and whispered in my ear.“Shhhh…be a good girl and be still,” his voice was gruff and he stank of onions and rotten meat.Fear washed over me like a bucket of cold water being dumped over my head. My stomach lurched and sudden nausea threatened to make me puke. I tried to struggle, but the intense fear that wracked my gut and the sickening vertigo that was overwhelming my senses conspired to make the attempt at resistance futile. I fought against the rising panic that threatened to engulf me and tried to calm myself through meditation exercises. It was the most difficult thing I’d ever done, but the years of grueling training in my dad’s dojo kicked in and I was able to calm myself enough to think past the terror that made it near impossible for me to breathe without hyperventilating.The man slung me over his shoulder and I promptly barfed all over his back. He growled in anger and disgust but didn’t flinch or put me down to clean himself off. He just started walking. He carried me several blocks until he turned into the dank alley that I now found myself in. Throwing up had made me feel a little better. The world wasn’t spinning anymore, but I still felt weak and sick. Once we reached the back of the narrow alley, he swung me back around to his front but didn’t put me down. Instead he maintained a tight hold on me with one powerful arm. I heard him fumbling around for something in his coat, and I instinctively knew that I had to get away now. This was probably the only chance I’d get; I slumped against him as if I’d fainted. Fear and hope warred over me and threatened to make me puke again as the man loosened his grip on me and began lowering me to the ground. As soon as my feet hit the dirt and garbage strewn pavement I shot my right elbow back and connected with his ribs. He let go of me in surprise, and I launched myself forward, running for the street. But I was still intoxicated, and he was quicker than me. He cried out in rage and caught me from behind before I could escape. I whirled around and tried to push him back with a front kick but he sidestepped my clumsy move, and I stumbled past him and fell into a pile of garbage. Desperation overwhelmed the hope that had filled me just a few moments ago. I scrambled ungracefully back to my feet and started run- ning. Laughter chased me and all hope died when I realized I was going the wrong way. The back of the alley was blocked off.My attacker didn’t bother trying to catch me this time though. He simply came up behind me as I desperately searched for another escape route: perhaps a basement window that I could crawl into. He reached around me and slit my throat with the long knife that he’d drawn from a concealed sheath. I watched, stunned, as my body fell forward. My spirit though remained erect, rooted to the spot.I got my first glimpse of my attacker’s features as he stared down at me with wide and unblinking eyes. He was a giant of a man, standing almost six foot five and muscled like a body- builder. He was quite handsome with long, chestnut brown hair that was bound in a ponytail. His nose was long and narrow, while his cheeks were dimpled. He had a sharp chin and full lips; straight white teeth gleamed in the darkness as he smiled down at my crumpled form. His eyes were midnight black and seemed to hold a madness that was all consuming. He licked the blood coated knife that he’d slit my throat with and shook his head at me.“That’s what you get bitch,” he said. “I could have taught you so much. You would have screamed so prettily, and you would have learned so much. But you had to ruin it all by trying to escape. I couldn’t let that happen. There’s still too much work to do, so many pretty things to teach how to scream. I can’t serve the Dark Master if I get caught. It’s such a waste, I know, but I just couldn’t take the risk with you.”He removed a thin brush from an inner pocket of the jeans jacket he wore and dipped it in the expanding pool of blood at his feet. He then used the brush to write words upon the wall of a nearby building. I stared at the writing in surprise; it appeared to be in Akkadian, one of the later cuneiforms. Ancient languages were a particular interest of mine: Akkadian culture had figured prominently in several of my projects at Penn. I didn’t know what the words said though. I wouldn’t be able to decipher them without a few books that were in my apartment. As you might imagine, dead languages take a very long time to master. I couldn’t begin to imagine how this guy could write this language, let alone understand it.Satisfied with his handiwork, the killer surprised me once more by looking directly at me: the ghost me, as if he could see me. He grinned and then walked out of the alley leaving me alone to die.2
The young officer bent over my still body reaching for my wrist to check my pulse. After a moment he rose, shaking his head at his partner who had parked the police cruiser facing into the alley so that its headlights could offer more light. The second officer used his hand radio to call for the forensics team and a homicide detective. The two men then set about making sure that the area was secure. I watched numbly, still unable to move or make a sound. Within minutes of the call-in, distant sirens could be heard; they grew louder as the emergency crews approached the crime scene.The ambulance crew was the first to arrive on the scene; jumping out of their vehicle they rushed forward, medical kits in hand. The officers tried to wave them off but one of the EMTs, a young lady about my age, ignored them and continued to move towards me while her companion, an older male, changed directions and ambled over to talk to the officers. The female medic froze when she saw the pool of blood around me, and I saw the light of hope die in her eyes. She came forward anyway and checked my pulse before withdrawing and beginning the long wait for the forensics team to start their work. Once all the evidence was gathered from the crime scene, the EMTs would transport my body to the city morgue. Two more sector cars arrived on the scene next, followed by a homicide detective in an unmarked vehicle, and finally the forensics team was last on the scene. A crowd of onlookers had begun to form on the opposite side of the street. They were kept at bay by a uniformed officer.The homicide detective, wearing a cheap dark suit, entered the alley as soon as he arrived. He inspected the scene without touching anything. He was of average height with piercing blue eyes, curly dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He stayed near me until the forensics crew arrived. He had a sad but determined look about him; his presence somehow comforted me. The forensics team did their work quickly but carefully, taking photographs of the scene and then collecting various samples. The city medical examiner took charge of my body: he was a pudgy balding man with glasses. He examined my body thoroughly and spoke quietly into a mini-recorder. The detective had moved off to consult with the original officers on the scene and he was joined by a second detective. She was a tired looking woman in her middle to late thirties. As soon as the forensics team was done with the preliminary cataloging of the scene, the detectives joining the medical examiner and began to search through my pockets and hand bag.“Hey Bob,” said the male detective. “How’s it fucking hanging?”“Still got that potty mouth I see,” Bob, the Medical Examiner, retorted. “I would have thought you’d have cured him of that by now Wendi.”The female detective, Wendi, shook her head with a sigh of the long suffering.“Not fucking likely,” the male detective replied. “You find anything unusual?”“Not really,” Bob answered with a shake of his head. “It’s what it looks like: her jugular was slashed with a very big knife. She bled out. The attacker was strong and big and knew how to use a knife; the cut was clean and very precise. There’s bruising consistent with large hands on her arms and shoulders. She was killed here in the alley but was probably grabbed elsewhere. There are also signs that she vomited recently.”“Veronika Kane, age 21,” said the male detective as he read my license. “God damn it. It was her fucking birthday.”“Hold it together, Frank,” said Wendi. “At least this one didn’t have to go through what the other ones did. I wonder why he killed this one so quickly.”The male detective, Frank I guess, didn’t say anything for a moment. As he continued to search through my purse, Wendi searched my body; both wore latex gloves.“I’ll leave the rest of this in your capable hands,” Bob said standing up and heading off towards his car. “Come by tomorrow for the autopsy report. Maybe preliminaries will be ready from toxicology.”Wendi waved goodbye to the departing medical examiner, but Frank didn’t seem to notice his departure.“I’m guessing she put up more of a fight than our guy is fucking used to,” Frank finally said in reply to Wendi’s question. He’d retrieved another card from my wallet. “She’s a fucking jiu-jitsu master with credentials from the University City Dojo according to this.”All those years working out, learning to defend myself, the competitions, the grueling hard work, the broken bones, all of it had been a waste. Why was God punishing me? Why had He let me be killed in such a brutal way without even a chance to fight back? Why was I being forced to stand here, unable to move or speak? Why was I being forced to watch this horrific scene out of a Law & Order episode? I suddenly recalled what a born-again friend had once told me, “Hell isn’t a fiery pit. It’s existence without God, all alone for eternity.” Was I in Hell? Had I truly been so bad that I deserved this end?I had worked hard my entire life, earning A’s and always com- ing near the top of the class in school. I was athletic. I had played several sports but favored the martial arts, both hand-to-hand and sword forms. My parents were immigrants from Russia; they had fled the Iron Curtain of the early sixties to find a new life in America. My father opened the University City Dojo and my mother worked for a telecom company. I was a lone child. Now my parents would have nothing. I never did drugs, and last night had only been the second time I’d ever gotten drunk. I had overcome the teenage peer pressure to have sex, saving myself for someone I truly loved. Was it because I went to church infrequently, didn’t confess my sins every day, wasn’t born again, wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness or a Mormon? Somehow, I’d always believed that being a good person was good enough, that God as a loving father would accept me for who I am. Apparently I was wrong.“It’s really a shame,” said Wendi. “She might have been able to kick his ass or at least get away if she hadn’t been drunk.”“How do you know she was fucking drunk?” Frank asked. “A little deductive reasoning,” Wendi answered. She raised my limp hand and turned it over so that the purple entrance tattoo that had been stamped there was visible to Frank. “She spent some time at the Electric Factory. The stamp is dated. We can start tracking her movements from there. I’ll bet you twenty bucks that when toxicology comes back it will show that she was drunk. It was her twenty first birthday after all, and Bob said she’d vomited recently.”Frank shook his head, a sad expression on his face.So, a short life’s hard work came down to one mistake. One failure. Some people spend a whole lifetime avoiding consequences; apparently I wasn’t so lucky. The truth of what Wendi said hit me hard. Though my attacker had been much bigger and stronger than me, I knew that things would have been different if I hadn’t been smashed. The chances of my having been able to escape were very high; I had managed to free myself of his grasp twice. With my full faculties I was sure that I could have eluded him. I wanted to cry, to scream, but neither tears nor sound would come. I just stood there frozen, surrounded by lights and people, but I was dead and alone now. I would never see my parents again, never hold my mom or laugh with my dad. A whole life of promise and hope was lost to me. I’d never marry or have kids of my own.“Hopefully the fucking forensics team will turn something up,” said Frank. “If Veronika’s death gets us the fucking clue we need to nail this asshole, her death won’t be completely meaningless, though I fucking doubt that that will be much of a consolation to her parents.”Frank stood and moved to the nearby wall where my assailant had written on it with my blood. He withdrew a sheaf of paper from his pocket and compared the notes on it to the writing on the wall.“It’s fucking exact,” he said. “The wails of the spirits shall herald the Dark Master’s victory over death.”“I still think there’s something wrong with that translation,” said Wendi. “It just doesn’t sound right.”“Look Wendi, we’ve fucking been through this before,” exclaimed Frank in exasperation. “If you want another fucking translation bring it up to Templetown. Just because Penn is preeminent in archaeology doesn’t mean they fucking know everything. Since there might be a fucking religious context involved in this case maybe your old man will be able to help.”Wendi grimaced in frustration but finally nodded. She was a pretty woman in that girl next door sort of way and unlike her partner, she was dressed elegantly in a grey Theory suit with red silk blouse and stylish but utilitarian shoes that matched the suit. Her eyes were brown as was her curly, shoulder length hair.“Alright,” she replied dejectedly. “I’ll take it over in the morning. I think we’re done here.”“Rest in peace Veronika Kane,” said Frank as he looked over my fallen body one last time before he and Wendi withdrew from the alley and headed for their respective cars.The paramedics were finally allowed to come forward. I watched with a sense of finality as they lifted my body onto a gurney, wheeled it to the ambulance, and a few moments later quietly drove away. The forensics team returned to bag all of the trash and debris they could lay their hands on. When they’d taken everything that wasn’t nailed down, a clean-up crew was called in to get as much of the blood off the ground as they could. The result was that this alleyway was now the cleanest in the city, though it was now haunted by a ghost and marked with a water proof chalk outline of a body. The writing on the wall was also cleaned away, it had been extensively photographed, and the ubiquitous yellow police crime scene tape remained as evidence that a crime had taken place here recently. Once the clean-up was completed, I was again left alone, still unable to move or call for help.
3.
I waited for hours, alone with my thoughts. I feared that I would be stuck to this place for eternity. As the hours passed and dawn approached, a mist began to fill the alley. Within minutes the street was obscured and the buildings around me were barely visible; their looming shadows seeming to brood over the landscape. I shivered as a sense of dread washed over me.Another hour passed. Dawn bloomed over the city, but the mist did not die out. The city was strangely quiet; no traffic seemed to move on the street beyond the alley. Suddenly two large shapes appeared at the mouth of the alley. They looked vaguely human but something was weird about their forms. They were dark and massive, probably around seven feet tall, and their shape reminded me of the Thing from The Fantastic Four comic books. I wanted to run, to scream for help, but I was still stuck in place, unable to do either. I closed my eyes tightly, praying that I would wake up from this obvious nightmare.“Here it is,” one of the monstrous creatures said in a deep guttural voice. “It be another shade.”“This be the last one to harvest,” said the other creature, this one’s voice was grating, like fingernails on a chalkboard. “This one not banshee like supposed to be. Great Master will be angry.” “Yup,” echoed the first black monster. “We hurry now; tellGreat Master what we find.”I opened my eyes futilely hoping that I would be back in my apartment. The things were standing just a few feet from me now; one of them reached an enormous clawed arm towards me. The creatures were black as night with glowing red eyes, no noses that I could see, and red gaping mouths with unnaturally white, jagged teeth that a great white shark would be jealous of.I was still clearly in the nightmare.I tried to shy away from the things touch but was still unable to move. I convulsed in agony as the creature’s claws tore into me; they sank deep into my ghostly body. I was finally able to scream; all of my fear, anger, frustration, and pain bubbled up in a long wail that seemed to shake the buildings around us.The demonic apparition that held me paused to peer more closely at me.“This one scream like banshee,” it said.“It be a shade,” said its companion. “See it? It not a pretty banshee; it all foggy like a shade. Now we go.”I looked down at myself, noticing for the first time that my body was different. In life I’d been beautiful: long straight black hair and piercing blue eyes had framed a delicate face. My lips had been full, my nose perfectly shaped. I had an athlete’s body with long, perfectly toned legs, small hips, a flat stomach, and boobs that guys couldn’t take their eyes off of. Now, my body was wreathed in a grey, misty fog. My features weren’t visible beneath the thick cloak of fog that wreathed my form. The brute that held me had buried its claws deep into me; there was no blood, but it still hurt like hell.The ghostly thug pulled on me. There was resistance for an agonizing moment and then a tearing feeling. Once more I screamed, more in hopelessness than pain. As the creatures carried me to god knows where, I wept, the tears finally flowing. I also found that I was able to move, for all the good that did me now. I knew instinctively that the tearing that I’d felt a moment ago was my last connection to the living world. I was in hell or something near enough to it. My life was over; there was no going back now.
August 20, 2013
The Importance of Genuine Online Friends in a Writerly World
I'm reading Kristen Lamb's book
Rise of the Machines: Authors in a Digital Age
, and something I just read really resonated with me.
"When we make friends online, we need to be authentic and we need to set aside our agendas. We must make friends because we value people, not because we want to get something out of the relationships."
This is something I've been thinking about a lot lately as I prepare for my book release. Why? Because now is the time when you contact your online friends and ask them to take part in your blog tour or cover reveal, or just help you spread the word in general.
Image from cheezburger.com (It's a cute cat, where else?)
But when I was planning my blog tour, I left a lot of my online friends off that list. I went through The Blog Tour Exchange to get a list of potential hosts and mentioned it on Facebook, but I didn't actively seek out any of the connections I've made over the past year. Why? Because I value those connections too highly and I don't want to ever feel like I am abusing it.
I'm highly grateful for the online friends I've made in the writing community. Without people like Stephanie and Jessica, who willingly beat my MS to a pulp in order to make it better (and I like to think they succeeded), or people like Krystal and James who mentored my newbie self, my book wouldn't be ready to be published. Without my critiquing group and my friends over at There & Draft again, I wouldn't have a clue what I was doing and I'd probably be insane, having no one to talk to about all this writerly stuff. Instead, I have people like Priya, who barely knew me and yet willingly talked to me on the phone for an hour, sorting through my jumbled questions about self-publishing.
I don't do very well in public groups where I don't really know anyone. I'm part of a local writing group, but I can't help but feel like the odd man out. They're great people, don't get me wrong. And they've offered me some really sound advice. But I'm not the overly social butterfly I was in my younger years, so I don't really know them all that well, and haven't really given them the chance to get to know me. I don't come across as shy, but most of the time I really am. I'm still an actor at heart and I tend to slip into that when I'm in uncomfortable social settings (which can be a lot of the time if I am surrounded by people I don't know).
So the online writing community, for me, is like heaven.
It's a cheezburger.com kinda day.
These people know me. They see the silly things I say, they listen to (er, read) about my rants, and they've been here with me through just about every step of the process. I don't want to ask favors from them because I already feel like I owe them so much, and to ask anymore would be taking them for granted.
One of the reasons I'm so lucky to have so many awesome friends is because my writerly friends get it. They probably read that quote and shouted "AMEN!" because so many of us grow tired of the spammers out there. I'm not overly active on Twitter or blogging (meaning I don't actively check my feeds to see what others are up to--Twitter overwhelms me and I only last week got around to starting up with a new RSS feeder since Google Reader went away months ago), but I do try to use both for conversations. Read: Actual conversations between myself and another person. I don't want to spam with links all day long. I use them to be social, and my friends do too. In fact, if I get a follower on Twitter, I tuck the notification email away until I have time to go back and look at that person's profile. Because if all they are doing is posting links or talking about their own books all day long (meaning nothing personal at all--not even a mention of a TV show they might enjoy. Nothing.), I am not gonna follow them.
I did at first. I followed everyone who followed me because I thought that was proper Twitter etiquette. Kinda like accepting a friend request on Facebook. But...As time went on and my newbie clouded glasses began to clear, I became aware of the apps that follow then unfollow you in the hopes of tricking unsuspecting and polite people like me into becoming another faceless follower. That's probably why my feed is so overwhelming. And I think this is also why I grind my teeth every time I see someone do a self promotion post in the World Literacy Cafe group on Facebook (The rules are pinned at the top, people! No self promotion is clearly stated! If you are going to be a writer, learn to READ!).
*Breathe*
Whew. My point in all this is simple: If you want to build a following, build friendships first. Friendships are two sided streets, meaning you need to care about the people you interact with and be willing to learn from them. Appreciate them. And check their blogs more regularly than I check my friends' blogs (sorry guys!). The writing community is huge, but if you abuse it then it will be nothing more than a vast wasteland to you. You get what you put in.
Oh, and go read Kristen Lamb's book so you can get a better understanding of all this.
Afternote: Wow, does this post apply even more today as I wake up to find so many shares for my Pre-Release contest. I really do have the most amazing group of online friends ever!
"When we make friends online, we need to be authentic and we need to set aside our agendas. We must make friends because we value people, not because we want to get something out of the relationships."
This is something I've been thinking about a lot lately as I prepare for my book release. Why? Because now is the time when you contact your online friends and ask them to take part in your blog tour or cover reveal, or just help you spread the word in general.
Image from cheezburger.com (It's a cute cat, where else?)But when I was planning my blog tour, I left a lot of my online friends off that list. I went through The Blog Tour Exchange to get a list of potential hosts and mentioned it on Facebook, but I didn't actively seek out any of the connections I've made over the past year. Why? Because I value those connections too highly and I don't want to ever feel like I am abusing it.
I'm highly grateful for the online friends I've made in the writing community. Without people like Stephanie and Jessica, who willingly beat my MS to a pulp in order to make it better (and I like to think they succeeded), or people like Krystal and James who mentored my newbie self, my book wouldn't be ready to be published. Without my critiquing group and my friends over at There & Draft again, I wouldn't have a clue what I was doing and I'd probably be insane, having no one to talk to about all this writerly stuff. Instead, I have people like Priya, who barely knew me and yet willingly talked to me on the phone for an hour, sorting through my jumbled questions about self-publishing.
I don't do very well in public groups where I don't really know anyone. I'm part of a local writing group, but I can't help but feel like the odd man out. They're great people, don't get me wrong. And they've offered me some really sound advice. But I'm not the overly social butterfly I was in my younger years, so I don't really know them all that well, and haven't really given them the chance to get to know me. I don't come across as shy, but most of the time I really am. I'm still an actor at heart and I tend to slip into that when I'm in uncomfortable social settings (which can be a lot of the time if I am surrounded by people I don't know).
So the online writing community, for me, is like heaven.
It's a cheezburger.com kinda day.These people know me. They see the silly things I say, they listen to (er, read) about my rants, and they've been here with me through just about every step of the process. I don't want to ask favors from them because I already feel like I owe them so much, and to ask anymore would be taking them for granted.
One of the reasons I'm so lucky to have so many awesome friends is because my writerly friends get it. They probably read that quote and shouted "AMEN!" because so many of us grow tired of the spammers out there. I'm not overly active on Twitter or blogging (meaning I don't actively check my feeds to see what others are up to--Twitter overwhelms me and I only last week got around to starting up with a new RSS feeder since Google Reader went away months ago), but I do try to use both for conversations. Read: Actual conversations between myself and another person. I don't want to spam with links all day long. I use them to be social, and my friends do too. In fact, if I get a follower on Twitter, I tuck the notification email away until I have time to go back and look at that person's profile. Because if all they are doing is posting links or talking about their own books all day long (meaning nothing personal at all--not even a mention of a TV show they might enjoy. Nothing.), I am not gonna follow them.
I did at first. I followed everyone who followed me because I thought that was proper Twitter etiquette. Kinda like accepting a friend request on Facebook. But...As time went on and my newbie clouded glasses began to clear, I became aware of the apps that follow then unfollow you in the hopes of tricking unsuspecting and polite people like me into becoming another faceless follower. That's probably why my feed is so overwhelming. And I think this is also why I grind my teeth every time I see someone do a self promotion post in the World Literacy Cafe group on Facebook (The rules are pinned at the top, people! No self promotion is clearly stated! If you are going to be a writer, learn to READ!).
*Breathe*
Whew. My point in all this is simple: If you want to build a following, build friendships first. Friendships are two sided streets, meaning you need to care about the people you interact with and be willing to learn from them. Appreciate them. And check their blogs more regularly than I check my friends' blogs (sorry guys!). The writing community is huge, but if you abuse it then it will be nothing more than a vast wasteland to you. You get what you put in.
Oh, and go read Kristen Lamb's book so you can get a better understanding of all this.
Afternote: Wow, does this post apply even more today as I wake up to find so many shares for my Pre-Release contest. I really do have the most amazing group of online friends ever!
August 19, 2013
Heirs of War Pre-Release Giveaway
Less than four more weeks until Heirs of War is officially released! To celebrate, I'm going to be posting one teaser each week leading up to the release, September 13. Oh, and I'm starting a giveaway that won't finish until September 14! Who doesn't like free stuff, right?
What can you win?
One copy of Heirs of War in the format of your choice (print or ebook: Kindle, B&N, or PDF)*One large Heirs of War poster (24x36in)One $25 Amazon giftcardOne character named after you in the next book*If you would like an autographed copy, let me know. For those choosing e-books, a large postcard with the cover image can be signed and sent as well.
How can you win? Easy. In fact, so easy you can earn more chances to win. Tweet about the giveaway, follow me on Twitter, like my Facebook page, or follow There&Draft Again on Twitter to earn more entries. Just follow the directions with Rafflecopter below.
And about that teaser image...
a Rafflecopter giveaway
What can you win?
One copy of Heirs of War in the format of your choice (print or ebook: Kindle, B&N, or PDF)*One large Heirs of War poster (24x36in)One $25 Amazon giftcardOne character named after you in the next book*If you would like an autographed copy, let me know. For those choosing e-books, a large postcard with the cover image can be signed and sent as well.
How can you win? Easy. In fact, so easy you can earn more chances to win. Tweet about the giveaway, follow me on Twitter, like my Facebook page, or follow There&Draft Again on Twitter to earn more entries. Just follow the directions with Rafflecopter below.
And about that teaser image...
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Blog Tour: Excerpt from Life on the Edge by Jennifer Comeaux
Another day, another tour! I love excerpts. I really do. It's like getting a preview of a new item on the menu at your favorite restaurant (oh, how I wish they would do that where I live!). Today I am featuring Life on the Edge by Jennifer Comeaux. I am a sucker for ice skating ("Toe pick!"), so I am really looking forward to this one! Jennifer's bio is below, or you can find her on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads. You can pick up the book from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.
Genre: NA contemporary romanceSynopsis: Nineteen-year-old Emily is new to pairs skating, but she and her partner Chris have a big dream–to be the first American team to win Olympic gold. Their young coach Sergei, who left Russia after a mysterious end to his skating career, believes they can break through and make history.
Emily and Chris are on track to be top contenders at the 2002 Winter Games. But when forbidden feelings spark between Emily and Sergei, broken trust and an unexpected enemy threaten to derail Emily's dreams of gold.
LIFE ON THE EDGE Excerpt
The wind picked up, rustling the trees and sending my empty cup skittering over the table. Sergei snatched it and noticed the time on his watch.“Oh, wow, it’s two thirty. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stay this late.”“No worries. I can sleep till noon tomorrow.”He rose from his chair, stretching his arms. “Do you think they all killed each other downstairs?”“My guess is they played so hard they passed out at some point. That’s been known to happen.”I got up and smoothed my skirt. I’d kicked off my sandals hours ago, and the weathered wood of the patio was cool under my bare feet.Sergei took a step toward me. “Thanks again for the great meal. And the even better company.”“You’re very welcome. I’m so glad you came.”I stood on tippy-toes to give him a quick hug, but Sergei’s strong arms held me against him, enveloping my small frame. His body exuded warmth. I closed my eyes and breathed in the woody scent of his cologne. We’d shared plenty of hugs at competitions, but this felt so different, like we belonged nowhere else but in this embrace.After what seemed like both an eternity and a split second, Sergei pulled away, his hands brushing down my back. He glanced downward and gestured to the door.“I can let myself out.”My head bobbed weakly. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday.”“See you.” He held my gaze a moment longer than necessary. Then he was gone.I stood paralyzed, listening to the blood pulse in my ears. My heart beat so fast I thought it might pound out of my chest. I couldn’t have imagined the electricity I’d felt in Sergei’s arms. It was too real. And I had no idea how I could ever forget it.
Bio: Jennifer Comeaux earned a Master of Accounting from Tulane University and is a Certified Public Accountant in south Louisiana. While working in the corporate world, she sought a creative outlet and decided to put on paper a story that had played in her head for years. That story became Life on the Edge, her first published novel.
When not working or writing, she is an avid follower of the sport of figure skating, traveling to competitions around the country. Those experiences allow her to see another side of the sport and serve as an inspiration for her writing.
August 17, 2013
Review: Coldness of Marek by Rachel O'Laughlin
Coldness of Marek by Rachel O'LaughlinMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
I haven't felt this immersed in the world of a book in a long time. Rachel O'Laughlin's attention to detail is amazing. She doesn't spend pages upon pages describing the world to you, but does an excellent job of letting you see it all through each character's eyes. The changes in POV were fluid, the overall voice never faltering, but still giving you a feel for the differences in the characters and their views. There were times I would come back from a reading break and forget that the story wasn't written in first person because of how strong of a feel I had for the characters, particularly Trzl.
The story has a great build, right from the action at the beginning. The intensity never seems to let up as you piece together what happened in the 10 years since Trzl and Mikel first met. I love the changes you can see in Trzl from that stubborn and somewhat naive rebel using her feminine wiles to aid the cause she so believed in, to the protective mother she is today, willing to anything and everything to keep her child safe.
Reading the fight scenes felt like watching a dance. They were easy to follow, but not mechanical in any way. Some writers can get a little too caught up in the action, making the fights too busy. But Rachel did an excellent job writing descriptions that might cause you to wince, but not scratch your head in confusion.
The romantic undertones were very well written and distinguished from the usual cliches you might find in fantasy novels. Trzl is not a damsel in distress by any stretch of the imagination, and Mikel is very much so the reluctant hero. The conflict between these two somehow manages to play a minor and major role in the overall story. It is a card that is never over-played by Rachel, which made the story all the more enjoyable. There might not be any actual hope for these two to get together with everything that has happened, but watching them fight against their own hearts is very compelling.
I was also very pleased with how Malcolm was written. He's a brave young boy instead of one hiding behind his mother's skirts. I loved how tough and intelligent he is. He picked up on a lot more than the adults gave him credit for, with the exception of perhaps Marek. The minor characters were all very well distinguished from one another, with their own sets of goals and problems. The twist with Tev really caught me offguard, which was great.
There isn't a dull moment in this book. Every chapter, every scene--something is always happening. I really can't sing enough praises for this book. I can't wait to see what happens with the sequel!
View all my reviews
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