Second Chances, ($14.95, 264 pp., ISBN: 978-1-60381-876-6), by Jeff Erno, is a gay science fiction romance about a dying billionaire whose consciousness is transferred into the body of a young man.
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A+: “Very gripping, some amazing scenes (not least of all the love scenes) and I got everything I wanted from this story. It was one of those tales that made me want to go out and change the world when I put it down.” Read more …
—Jamie, Man oh Man Reviews
“Jeff Erno is a wonderful writer and I can tell you that because I have read seven of the eight books he has published …. There are several motifs here—romance, passion, emotions, life and death and there is a villain …. If you have not yet taken a chance on Erno, now is the perfect time to start.” Read more …
—Amos Lassen
“Second Chances has everything a good book should have, good guys, bad guys, a
storyline with plenty of twists and turns and of course a love story. To boot, it was entertaining to read!”
The author of eight novels, Jeff Erno has a major following. Here is a sampling of his reviews:
Dumb Jock: “If someone were to tell me I had to spend three months on a deserted island and I could have ten books … Dumb Jock would be one of those books.”
Puppy Love 2: “Jeff has done a splendid job …. One of my favorite gay series.”
—Three Dollar Bill Reviews
Bullied: “These stories … made me think and broke my heart …. Excellent job, Mr. Erno.”
—Book Wenches
Harold Wainwright is dying. At seventy-nine, stricken with cancer, the billionaire insurance mogul has much to regret. In his youth he rejected his only true love, Jacob, because the young artist was distracting him from the pursuit of wealth and success. Now Harold is alone, rich beyond his wildest dreams … and his life is over.
Doctor Timothy Drayton has found a way to prolong human life. He has created a computer chip that can be implanted into the human brain, allowing consciousness to be transferred from a dying patient into the mind of a donor subject.
Jesse Warren is eighteen years old. He’s a track star, model student, and the typical all-American kid. Then tragedy strikes. After a terrible accident, Jesse is pronounced brain dead. His devastated family is ecstatic when Dr. Drayton offers a “new treatment” for brain injury. Convinced that God has sent a miracle, the Warrens are overjoyed when their son wakes from his coma. They hope and pray the amnesia is not permanent.
But the real Jesse is gone, his consciousness replaced by Harold Wainwright’s. Will Harold make the same mistakes this time around? Or will he take advantage of this rare second chance to find the love that was missing from his former life?
Says Erno, “About two years ago, a story idea came to me. It was such a light bulb moment that I had to rush to my office and lock myself inside. I wrote out a synopsis for a science fiction story: The Rebirthing Project. I’ve been a reader and fan of sci fi for many years, but I never expected to be able to come up with the technical and scientific details necessary to build a sci-fi plot. I decided to give it a shot. Once the characters began to come alive for me, I knew that the novel would have to include romance. I chose a different title … Second Chances.
“What if we could be young again? Would we do it right the second time, or would our characters lead us down the same path as before? I believe that human beings want to be better. All of us make mistakes, and for many of us, the biggest fear is that we will reach the end of our lives and look back with only regret.
“This novel includes many of the elements my work is known for: romance, emotional intensity, scenes of intimacy and passion. But this story also features a thriller plot, an evil villain, and a fantastical premise I hope readers will embrace. Second Chances may be aptly named for more than one reason. I hope it will give readers a chance to see another side of me and my writing.”
Jeff Erno became a published author in 2009 with his first novel, Dumb Jock. He has written a total of eight novels to date. He currently lives in Michigan and writes full-time. You can find Jeff on the Web at www.jefferno.com.
Second Chances is available on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram and Baker & Taylor, or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Other electronic versions can be purchased on Smashwords, BN.com, Google eBooks or at any of the major online eBook stores.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
Jesse’s heart continued to beat rapidly as he stared up into the eyes of his friend—this one who bore such a striking resemblance to the only man he’d ever loved. The only man Harold Wainwright had ever loved, that was. It was all so bizarre. It seemed too much of a coincidence that he could possibly encounter this remarkable soul in not just one, but two lifetimes.
“Are you okay?” Phillip asked him. The soothing and compassionate tone of his voice aided Jesse greatly in his efforts to calm himself. He nodded.
“Yeah. I don’t know why I’m having these horrible dreams …”
“Oh Jesse,” the boy reassured him, “you’ve been through so much. It’s probably normal. Were you dreaming about the accident?”
“Jacob,” he responded.
“The one you talked about earlier?”
“He looks like … or you look like him. Like he used to look.”
“Jesse, where did you know him? It’s so weird, because you never talked about him before.”
“Where are my parents?” he asked, changing the subject. “What time is it?”
“It’s like around seven o’clock. They went home to eat, but they’re going to come back to pick me up and check on you … unless you want me to stay. I know I can stay all night with ya. I’ll just go talk to the nurses. I’m sure they’ll let me.”
“Really?” Jesse asked. “No … I don’t want you to have to do that.”
“I want to!” he exclaimed. “Jesse, you’ve been away for so long. You were in a coma. I wanna spend as much time as I can …”
“But I’m back now, and both of us need our rest.”
“What if you have another nightmare? I wanna be here for you.”
Jesse smiled up at him. “Thank you,” he said, “but it’s okay. It was just a dream. Everything’s going to be fine now. It’s gonna be perfect.”
His friend returned the smile and gently placed his hand on Jesse’s arm. A shiver traveled through his body in response to the tender touch. “Have we always … um … been close like this?”
Phillip’s face suddenly looked flushed. “I’ve … um … well, I’ve always cared about you. Like I said, we’ve been best friends for years. I’m sure you’ll remember soon.”
“Maybe you can remind me,” Jesse said. He sensed there was more. He could see it in the boy’s eyes. He knew that Phillip wasn’t telling him everything.
“Are you hungry? They brought you your dinner.”
“Didn’t I just eat?”
Phillip laughed. “Dude, that was like seven hours ago. It was your lunch, and you’ve been sleeping ever since.”
“I have to use the bathroom,” Jesse confessed.
“I don’t know how to tell ya this, man, but … um … you have a catheter in ya. It’s like a tube that goes into your bladder. If you feel like ya gotta go, just let ’er rip.”
Jesse cracked up. “You’re not serious!”
“I am! Man, I’m sorry. I know it’s gross. I’ve had that before myself, when I was in the hospital. You get used to it though. It sorta feels like you gotta go all the time.”
“That nurse earlier, she told me I’d be able to get out of bed today and walk around.”
“I think they decided to let you sleep. I bet they’ll take out your catheter tomorrow and let you get up. You just had brain surgery, ya know. You should just chill.”
“No more chilling! I’ve been chilled for the past … well, since God knows how long.”
“Twelve weeks. You’ve been in a coma all that time. It’s a miracle you survived the accident.” Phillip’s voice cracked slightly, and his eyes were moist with tears.
“Thank you,” Jesse whispered. “Thank you for caring so much. I can’t tell you what it means to me …”
This time Phillip boldly grabbed his friend’s hand and squeezed it. “Like I said, I care about you. I … um …”
“W-what’s for dinner?” Jesse asked, knowing his new friend was struggling to say something and wanting to spare him the discomfort.
Phillip pulled away and turned to the tray beside him. “Let me see. I think it’s probably cold by now. It’s been sitting there awhile. Looks like tuna casserole.”
“Oh dear God,” Jesse said.
“Oh dear God?” Phillip repeated. “I can’t believe some of the expressions you use … you’re so funny.”
“I didn’t used to talk like this?”
“It’s cool, man. It’s like you’ve become so grown-up all of a sudden. I guess maybe it was from being unconscious. You matured in your sleep or something.”
“What else is on that tray? Any vegetables?”
“Green beans, it looks like.”
“Okay, I’ll have them.”
“Seriously?” Phillip asked. He laughed as he pushed the cart closer to his friend. “I guess your taste has changed, too. You used to hate vegetables.”
“You can have the casserole if you want,” Jesse offered.
“I had pizza from the cafeteria. I was gonna bring you some …”
“This is fine,” Jesse assured him. “So tell me about us. How did we meet? How’d we become such close friends?” And why do you look so damned much like Jacob Klein??
“I don’t exactly remember when we first met,” Phillip said. “Seems like we always knew each other. I’ve lived in the same house all my life, and I think you have, too. You’ve been my neighbor for as long as I can remember.” Phillip stepped over to the other side of the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, allowing Jesse to continue to eat.
“You used to have really big birthday parties. I think you were like eight or nine the year you had a huge outdoor party. Your birthday is in the spring, and it was really nice weather. It was a slumber party, and we slept outdoors in tents. You and me slept in the same one, and I got scared in the middle of the night. This is kinda embarrassing …”
“Please go on! Don’t be embarrassed … please.”
“Well, I was crying, and I wanted to just go home. I was gonna get up and go back across the street to my house, but you wouldn’t let me. You told me to crawl inside your sleeping bag with you.”
“I did?” Jesse smiled. “And did you?”
Phillip smiled back at his friend and nodded. “Yeah. It was so warm, and you made me feel so safe. I think that was when I first knew …”
“What do ya mean?” Jesse asked.
“I mean … um … well, that’s when I first knew we were gonna be best friends. It always felt like you kinda looked out for me. You were always the one who was so fearless. You never seemed to be afraid of anything, and just knowing you made me feel braver.”
“So you were kind of insecure, then? I mean, when you were on your own.”
Phillip paused a moment before answering. “Yeah, I guess I was, actually. I just think you were the outgoing one. I was always a little more cautious, but you were the daredevil. You had so much confidence. I’m the type who wants to do a lot of different things, but all I really do is think about them. I’m a dreamer, I guess. For you, though, to imagine something is to do it. Once you decide you want it, you will eventually get it. I always admired that about you.”
The boy’s honesty was tugging at Jesse’s heartstrings. As he looked into his friend’s big brown eyes, he felt the sincerity of his words. He wanted to touch him. He had to, and he reached out and gently took his hand into his own as the boy continued to talk.
“Jesse, the day of your accident, I saw you right before it happened. I saw you as you ran by my house on your way to practice. You waved at me, and I decided something. I knew I had to tell you how I felt, and I planned to do it that night.
“I was too late though. When I found out about what had happened, I was afraid I’d missed my chance.” Big tears streamed down Phillip’s face as he squeezed Jesse’s hand. “Jesse, I love …”
Phillip immediately pulled his hand away as he heard someone enter the room. He turned to see Margo in the doorway. Paul was behind her. “Someone’s awake?” she asked.
Big Leagues ($14.95, 274 pp., ISBN: 978-1-60381-870-4), by Jen Estes, is a mystery featuring a female sportswriter who doesn’t realize her exciting new high-profile job is fraught with danger. Big Leagues is the first book of a new series featuring sportswriter Cat McDaniel.
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Also available in Kindle and other eBook editions on Smashwords.
“If you want to know what really goes on behind the scenes in baseball, and also be entertained by a wickedly funny, juicy mystery, Big Leagues is your ticket to the ballpark. Cat is the kind of character you’ll want to see a lot more of. She’s brilliant but flawed, awkward yet graceful, strong but endearingly vulnerable. I rooted for her, feared for her and in the end fell in love with her. As a sportswriter who covered the Yanks and Mets for 19 years, I can say without question Jen Estes covers all the bases in showing fans a world they never get to see. She throws high hard ones at players, flaks and front office big wigs—and it all rings true. I can’t wait to see what Jen Estes has on deck for us in the next book in this series. Big Leagues is a walk-off home run!”
— Nat Gottlieb, Reporter, HBO Sports
“Jen Estes hits a scorching home run with her debut novel, Big Leagues, and proves baseball isn’t the nation’s only pastime. So are corporate greed, blind ambition, conspiracy and murder. Readers will cheer plucky hero, Cat McDaniel, as she risks her career and her life, determined to maintain the integrity of the game she loves and unravel a web of mystery and deceit through the final pulse pounding pages.”
—Michael Murphy, Mystery/Suspense Novelist
Rookie sportswriter Catriona McDaniel is on deck in Sin City for the job of a lifetime with baseball’s hottest team. The Las Vegas Chips have the best record in baseball, snagging two trophies in their first three years. Two men are vying for the position of “boyfriend of summer.” Her new boss, Erich König, is a German wunderkind and the Desert’s most eligible bachelor. Then there’s her neighbor—a biology professor whose fetal pigs know more about baseball than he does. Not all the men admire Cat. As the team’s junior reporter, Dusty Carlyle was on-deck for her position. Now he’s desperate to get her out of the lineup. Save for the scheming coworker, Cat has everything she ever wanted … until a star outfielder’s heart stops. Suspecting that his death was no accident, she starts nosing around, becoming the newest player in an extreme game of hardball. Will Cat become the next member of the team to be taken out of the lineup?
Says Estes, “Why do I love baseball? The heartwarming stories, the behind-the-scenes gossip, and the journey from Opening Day to the trophy. The idea for this series came to me in the offseason. As usual, my Cubs’ season had ended sooner than the fans wanted and I was staring at my bookshelf, looking for something to fill my afternoons. I’m a mystery lover as much as a baseball fan, and it dawned on me that not many novels combine the two. So, instead of reading a book, I wrote one. As far as plotlines go, I didn’t have to look far for inspiration: every season the scandals come to us.”
Born and raised in Illinois, Jen Estes started her writing career as a baseball blogger in 2007 and expanded to freelance sports writing in 2009. She is an active member of the Society of American Baseball Research (SABR), Springfield Poets & Writers and the National Writers Union (NWU). Big Leagues is Jen’s debut novel and the first in a three-book series featuring sassy sports writer Cat McDaniel. When she isn’t writing, Jen enjoys running, yoga, traveling and watching baseball with her husband and cat. You can find Jen on the net at www.jenestes.com and on Twitter @jenestesdotcom.
Big Leagues is available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram, Baker & Taylor or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Other electronic versions will be for sale on Smashwords, BN.com, Google Ebooks or at any of the major online ebook stores.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
She thumbed through the package Lynette had sent her. The guard in the booth opened his window and smiled, revealing a pair of stained dentures. “What can I do for you, little lady?”
“Uh, hi there. I’ve got a parking pass in here somewhere, just a sec.”
“Oh! You must be our new reporter. You certainly are a lot prettier.” His face fell. “Sure was awful what happened to the last one, a damn shame. You don’t even listen to the rumors, you hear me?”
“Oka— Wait, what rumors?”
He waved his hand nonchalantly. “People like to stir up trouble. Got nothing better to do than turn a tragedy into a scandal. Maybe it helps them cope, I don’t know. But you don’t mind them none, just do your job and I’m sure you’ll be fine here.”
“Oh uh, okay.”
His face lightened up. “Now I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. McDaniel something, wasn’t it?”
Cat returned his kind smile. “Uh-huh. I’m Catriona McDaniel. I just got into town, and I was kinda anxious to see my new office. Is that okay?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled again. “Of course, dearie. You can park anywhere in the lot. Do you know where you’re going?”
Cat blushed. “Not really.”
“Well, don’t fret none. That’s what I’m here for. Now what you’re gonna wanna do is go through those doors right there.” He pointed to a set of double steel doors. “Now those don’t open without a key code. You have to punch in your employee number before they’ll unlock. Did they give you your employee number yet?”
“Uh …” Cat fumbled through her pile of paperwork. “Ah, here we go.”
He nodded. “Okay, good. Punch that in the keypad; then you’ll hear the door unlock. Follow the tunnel on through ’til you get to a hallway. You’ll go past, oh gee, I believe it’s four doors. They’re labeled ‘groundskeeper,’ ‘maintenance’ and so on. I’m sure you know the drill.”
He stopped. She nodded confirmation, and he smiled.
“Then you’ll come to the hallway. There’s a set of elevators to the left, just before the clubhouse and player areas. Take the elevator up to the fourth floor. That’s where you’ll find your office.”
“Thank you so much, Mr., uh …”
“Oh, dearie, you can call me Winston.”
“Winston. Nice to meet you.”
He hit a button in his booth and the striped gate lifted. They exchanged a wave as she passed through.
The elevator doors opened with an echoing ding. Cat gingerly stepped into the fourth floor lobby. The lights were off and there wasn’t a single person in sight.
Okay, kinda creepy.
Her frazzled nerves welcomed the quiet, albeit ominous, calm of the vacant department. She strolled down the corridor and eyed the various cubicles and desks. Each space was stacked with papers and decorated with photos of loving spouses, adorable kids and happy pets. As she stepped into the back corner of the floor, her eyes were riveted to the nameplate on the mahogany door.
Catriona McDaniel, Senior Reporter.
A small smile formed on her lips, and she brought her fingers up to the door to caress the polished brass.
My own office? I’ve never even had my own cubicle before.
Truthfully, she’d written most of her Bulldogs articles at home in her pajamas with John Fogerty blaring in the background, but Cat wasn’t about to turn down a corner office. Her fingers squeezed the doorknob. Fumes of fresh paint emanated from the beige walls. She forgot about the chemical stink and dull shade of paint when she spotted the splendor on the right wall—a window with a view of the field. The possibilities that window presented flooded into her mind.
No more guessing if the sluggers have started batting practice, wondering if the team is sporting their alternate uniforms, questioning if the seats are filling up or debating if we’re looking at a rain delay.
She watched the grounds crew tending to an extensive irrigation system in the outfield.
I guess that last one probably won’t be an issue.
“Boy you don’t waste any time, do ya?”
Cat shot up three inches and spun around at the sound of the voice booming behind her. A tall man with thick glasses framing a set of glowering brown eyes stood in the doorway. He crossed his skinny arms and gaped at her. She squinted through the faint daylight in the office and attempted to place his familiar face.
“Dustin Carlyle. Junior reporter.” He laced the junior with thick contempt, as though Cat had just carved the word into the rusty blade of a dagger and shoved it between his shoulder blades. His snotty tone triggered memories of their first meeting.
She cleared her throat. “Y-yeah. I believe we’ve met before.”
He ignored her. “If you’re wondering why there’s no welcome wagon waiting for you, the reason would be because everyone’s at Brad Derhoff’s wake.”
Her mouth formed a silent “oh.” She should have known there weren’t many reasons for an entire office to be empty at four o’clock in the afternoon on a gameday. That the reason might be Brad’s wake hadn’t even occurred to her. Suddenly she felt very much like the vulture Dustin was implying she was. Cat knew nothing about the deceased reporter, other than the impressive credentials listed in the team’s media guide. She’d met Brad Derhoff only once at the beginning of the season and he’d treated her, along with the rest of the minor league staff, with the same condescension affected by every other visitor from the Las Vegas team. Cat had excused his superior attitude since, given his status with the team, he was indeed superior.
“He’s a real reporter,” she’d prattled to Tamela after Brad turned up his nose at their break room coffee pot and requested that she fetch him a caramel macchiato.
Tamela was unimpressed by anyone from the parent club, unless his signature appeared on her weekly paycheck. “So are you.”
No. I’m just taking a break from slinging hot dogs.
Back then, Cat couldn’t have fathomed that the ace reporter might have been dealing with his own inadequacies too; that was shockingly clear now. Her eyes registered their concern for the sneering coworker in her new office.
“Uh, I’m sorry for your loss. Were you and Brad close?”
Dustin raised an eyebrow. “Close? Well, let’s see, Derhoff and I have been a team since the franchise formed. Worked together every day, side by side. I saw him as my mentor, and he was grooming me to one day fill his shoes as senior reporter. Guess he overlooked a minor league reporter with a whopping eight months of tenure. You never know. Since apparently Erich König likes to promote from below—er, I mean, within—maybe they’ll ask me to be general manager instead.”
Cat clenched her jaw upon hearing his insinuation. She got the message. Dustin was the veteran pitcher and she was a rookie slugger crowding his plate.
What Happens in Vegas, Dies in Vegas ($15.95, 302 pp., ISBN: 978-1-60381-868-1), by Mark Everett Stone, is a paranormal suspense thriller about an ex-government super-agent whose battles with the supernatural world take him first to Las Vegas and then back into the past to World War II Germany. What Happens in Vegas is the second book in the series: From the Files of the BSI (Bureau of Supernatural Investigation).
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**Also available in Kindle and in other eBook formats on Smashwords**
5 Stars: “Things To Do In Denver When Your Un-Dead was one of the most refreshing and original books I have read in a long time and the sequel is just as exciting as the first. In fact it may just be better than the first …. Exceptionally well-written and entertaining.”
“Vegas is non-stop action that will leave you with whiplash …. Stone leaves you gasping for breath by the end and of course, enjoys taunting the reader with the prospect of a third book in the series, which I will be waiting anxiously to read.”
—Shay Fabbro, award-winning author of the Portal of Destiny series
5 Stars: “No reader could possibly feel slighted when all is read and done. It is a cracking good yarn from first to final page, no question …. Mark has cemented himself solidly into the position of Master in my self-created niche of Paranormal Suspense Thriller writing. His command of his art grows exponentially with each work of his that I read ….Two very enthusiastic thumbs up for a job well and properly done.”
“Don’t expect a minute of down-time, for Stone is a zero tolerance taskmaster who brings a complicated plotline and well fleshed-out characters to heel and makes it look easy. What you can expect is for Stone to surprise you repeatedly, satisfy you completely and leave you wanting more.”
—AJ Aalto, author of Touched
After faking his own death, Kal Hakala is free of the Bureau of Supernatural Investigation and can finally focus his energy on destroying the monster that murdered his sister. With the help of trusted former teammates, he embarks on a quest to find an artifact to activate a magical Tesla Coil, the only device powerful enough to kill a legend. But wherever Kal goes, trouble isn’t far behind. It’s not easy to locate an artifact without alerting the BSI. Kal narrows his search to Las Vegas, where he and his friends encounter the greatest peril ever to threaten our world—a threat found only in Sin City but rooted in World War II Germany, site of the past’s most heinous crimes. Can Kal overcome an enemy so diabolical, so evil, that annihilating millions is merely one phase of its master plan? The task seems impossible, but for Kal Hakala, the best agent in the BSI’s history, the impossible only requires patience and careful planning. Patience is not Kal’s strong suit.
Says Stone, “I wanted to integrate aspects of the worst time in modern history (WWII) in this book because it is an era that people under forty are in danger of forgetting. It is too easy to let time numb us to the horrors of the past. For a few months during my research of Nazi Germany and the Final Solution, I felt like I had to shower just to scrub the evil off of my skin. I will carry some of the images that research planted in my brain to the grave. In the book, as in real life, I attempted to leaven the darkness with humor. I wanted to show that, even during their darkest hours, people can still laugh and spit in the eye of evil. Readers who enjoyed the first book will still see an emotionally damaged, cynical Kal along with some terrific monster ass-kicking.”
Born in Helsinki, Finland, Mark Everett Stone arrived in the U.S. at a young age and promptly dove into the world of the fantastic. Starting at age seven with the Iliad and the Odyssey, he went on to consume every scrap of Norse Mythology he could get his grubby little paws on. At age thirteen he graduated to Tolkien and Heinlein, building up a book collection that soon rivaled the local public library’s. In college Mark majored in Journalism and minored in English. Mark’s first book, Things to Do in Denver When You’re Un-Dead, was published by Camel Press in July of 2011. The Judas Line will be released in 2012. Mark lives in Denver with his amazingly patient wife, Brandie, and their two sons, Aeden and Gabriel. Check out Mark’s website and his blog.
What Happens in Vegas, Dies in Vegas is available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Other electronic versions are for sale on Smashwords, BN.com, and any of the major online eBook stores.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
Nope. Not gonna happen. Kal was the only cat I knew who could eat nails and crap bullets, so he was gonna come back and do it soon. Yeah. Soon.
Unbidden, a welling of sadness, of raw fear and despair, began to rise up in my heart. With a force of will—will that had been iron-forged during years in the Bureau—I shoved those emotions down. Down into the dark recesses of my soul and buried them there. No time for weepy, girly shit, only stoic resolve.
Winch, God bless her, said nothing—letting me deal with my issues—and followed me back to the larger cavern. “Let’s check the crates.”
“No need, Canton,” Winch said through pursed lips. “My guess is that we’ll find modern weaponry that doesn’t use computer chips. Wouldn’t be surprised if there are chemical and bio weapons as well. Things that kill with the least amount of effort.”
I thought furiously. “The Nazis fought for about six months in Stalingrad before they were defeated. What do you bet that there are enough weapons here to tip the balance?”
“Crap.”
“You got that right.” I spied a silver briefcase wedged between two crates near a dead henchman. A heave tore it loose and I was surprised at how heavy it was. Flipping the catches, I opened the lid.
What the hell?
“Oh my God!” breathed Winch from beside me.
“What? What is it?” LED display, a keypad and a cylinder about a foot long and six inches wide. Didn’t look like much.
“I think …” she began. “I think it’s a nuke.”
I slammed the lid shut with a clang. Where the hell did they get a nuke? Not something you order from a J.C. Penney catalog.
Waitaminute! “How the hell do you know that?”
Her small, but strong hand smacked me on the back of the head. “Dope. Remember, I was CIA before Bureau. Geez, don’t you ever listen to me anymore?”
Oh, yeah, right … CIA, she could probably MacGuyver up a nuke from a paper clip and bubble gum. As for the listening part … well, to be perfectly honest, it wasn’t listening we’d been doing for the past few months, but even I wasn’t brave enough to say that out loud. She’d been trained to kill people with things like forks, spoons, toothpicks …
“Canton, hon,” she said with an edge to her voice that told me she’d read my mind … as usual. “We have to call someone about this.”
I frowned. “We ain’t calling anyone, kid. Not until Kal gets back.”
“Canton—”
“No!” My voice had turned savage. Hell, I liked Winch, maybe even loved her, but Kal was … Kal. The world was better with him in it.
“Canton, he might not come back.” No fool she. She’d figured it out.
“He will.”
“How do you know?” Those soft eyes bored into mine, pleading to be convinced.
“He’s my friend.”
“That’s an answer?”
I stared at the mass of crates with their deadly payloads, the aluminum case that could unleash hell, and searched my soul for a better answer, but there was none. “It’s the only answer I’ve got.”
Crack!
The shot took Winch down, but I didn’t have time to worry. Years of training had already set my body in motion. Pushing off a crate with my foot, I was airborne for a split second as I cleared the stack, drawing my Glock in mid air.
Crack! A bullet spun past the tip of my nose, nearly blistering the skin. I landed and rolled as more shots rang out … five, six, seven. From the sound of it, at least three different pistols. That meant more than one shooter. Damn. Wildly, I swung an arm toward the genny that was chugging away nearby. My fingers touched the power button. With an asthmatic rumble, the little machine died and the bulbs overhead slowly dimmed.
Lights out everyone, and Canton was in the house. I felt my lips part in an evil smile. I’d just leveled the playing field.
“He killed the generator, sir!” spat a high, clear voice.
“I can see that!” came the reply in a thick German accent.
Another German. Starting to really hate these guys.
“We should leave it off!” said another voice,
“Nein, the dark will help him,” the German answered.
That right, I thought. Keep talking. Adrenaline began to fizz through my veins as I carefully drew my Bowie from its sheath. Fourteen inches of razor sharp death. My people, the Mescalero Apache, had been the greatest guerilla fighters the U.S. government never wanted to face and it was about time I showed those assholes what that meant.
No time to worry about Winch. She was either dead or she wasn’t. If she was I’d mourn later. At that moment I needed to be cold, hard, emotionless. I needed to be iron and to do iron work.
The ambushers had stopped talking, maybe in an effort to locate me. It wouldn’t help them much. They were sly, but so was I.
I slipped a hand into the front pocket of my jeans and pulled out a quarter. Quietly I slipped out of my boots and pulled free my socks, then tossed the quarter high up over the crates to the left.
Tink … tink … tinkety-tink! Shots rang out and muzzle flashes strobed through the darkness as the men fired toward where the quarter had landed. I was already in motion, bare feet padding silently across the cavern floor.
The gunfire stopped and so did I. The air was thick with propellants and the stale exhalations of desperate men. I inhaled slowly, deeply. Underneath, the chemical smell and halitosis was the faint odor of … cologne. Flowery, soft and almost lemony.
Perfect.
I slid forward while sweat dripped from my eyebrows and stung my eyes. Blinking rapidly, I took another low, crouching step. The smell—the cologne—was closer and I could hear someone breathing harshly. Another clue to home in on.
A low scuff of leather on rock, the soft rustle of fabric. Only a few feet ahead and to my left. My hand reached out and didn’t find wood. I must have just passed the crates.
Close … I crouched lower, slowly so as not to emit a sound. Whoever was breathing was trying to control himself, but I smelled panic-sweat under that soft cologne. He was scared.
Good. He or one of his butt-buddies had shot Winch and they would pay.
The Bowie leapt forward as if it had a will of its own, and my arm was only an extension of that will. An initial resistance, than a sudden give … all fourteen inches of blade sheathed itself in flesh and my hand became drenched in hot liquid. A muffled grunt and a body fell into my arms. A hand clawed at my shirt and I lowered the dead weight gently and quietly to the ground.
“Karl?” The voice low, barely slithering across my ears. Maybe four, six feet away. Sorry, Karl wasn’t here anymore, please leave a message at the beep and don’t bother waiting for a call back. Beeeep.
I stepped over the body, still at a crouch, the quiet drip, drip, dripping from the knife barely audible even to my trained ears. Closer … closer …
“Karl?” Again, with a bit more urgency. Keep calling out, I know where you are. Another step. Very close. No panic sweat from this one. He was cool as a cucumber, a trained killer.
Like me.
Once more I struck, but some sixth sense must have alerted him because the Bowie screeeeched across the length of a pistol and sheared off, missing the man by a fraction.
I dropped, only thing to do because I knew what would come next … and it did. Multiple flashes seared my eyes as the German fired four times, clean misses all, but the light was enough for me to see a pair of big feet in Italian leather not more than a foot away. Not one to waste an opportunity, I stabbed down and felt the Bowie slide, slide, slide into flesh and grate against bone.
It had the result I’d hoped for. A scream like a cat being strangled and the pistol clattered to the ground next to my ear. The scream became more high-pitched as I drew the Bowie down, cutting the foot in half lengthwise. It cut short to a gasping sob as I pulled the knife free and stabbed upwards. Teeth shattered and rained down on my face as the thick steel cut through tongue and back of throat before exiting out the man’s neck in a spurt of blood.
Two down, unknown number to go, but it was a good start.
From far back in the cavern, from beyond the crates, came an eerie green light, like the shining of damned souls.
5 out of 5 stars: “When reality television replaces justice, Danny Manning is forced to play the game. Death Island follows Danny as he’s sentenced to the Titular TV show, wrongfully convicted of slaying his wife. Facing psychopaths, TV hosts, the clergy, and much more, Danny’s struggle to survive is anything but normal. Death Island is a humorous and suspenseful novel, sure to entertain for hours.”
—Midwest Book Review
“The drama and action were well-mixed with the emotional aspects which resulted in an excellent book. Death Island will definitely be enjoyed by fans of reality shows, but it will appeal to adults of all ages.”
Death Island (ISBN: 978-1-60381-849-0, 232 pp., $13.95), by Joan Afman, is a suspense novel about a wrongly convicted prisoner who must fight for his life on a reality TV show.
“Be prepared for twists and turns—a psychologically complex plot that will keep you guessing what’s going to happen until the very end!”
—Award-winning Romantic Suspense author Mary Buckham
“Death Island is a fast-paced, engaging story with a riveting plot, well-drawn characters, and a premise that is sure to entertain. Ms. Afman has created a fascinating read that will keep you awake at night.”
—Patrice Wilton, author of Replacing Barnie and The Hero Collection
“Joan Afman has taken reality television to the next level, penning an intriguing tale guaranteed to keep readers on the edge.”
—Traci E. Hall, author of Boadicea’s Legacy
“Death Island grabs the reader from the onset, with an innocent man condemned to live out his life on an island for convicted criminals. The pace of the story never lets up, with heart-pounding action and drama, as Danny, an innocent man, faces unbelievable odds just trying to survive. In the meantime, a minister’s wife sets out to prove he is innocent, while unaware that the real murderer is stalking her! The drama builds to an exciting and surprising conclusion. This is one of those rare ‘can’t put it down’ books.”
—Tricia Lee, author of contemporary romances: A Caribbean Summer, Amorous Ambush and Colorado Destiny
Wrongly convicted of the brutal murder of his wife, Danny Manning is exiled to Death Island, the site of America’s favorite reality TV show. Death Island is Hell disguised as Paradise, a place where no one gets off alive unless the audience vote goes his way. Danny’s day-to-day survival depends on a brilliant and hilarious psychopath who knows the ropes. But his ultimate fate lies in the hands of a clergyman’s quirky wife, a smarmy TV host, and Death Island’s fickle home viewers. If voted “off the island,” he will be free, innocent or not. Can he stay alive that long? And will he ever discover the identity of the real murderer?
“I took the idea from something my mother once said,” says Afman, “that the government should take all the convicted rapists and murderers and drop them off on a deserted island to let them fend for themselves. As for choosing a minister’s wife as my heroine, I know something about that life, because I was one. I thought she would be the least likely to help a convicted felon, but also the most likely, if she had a strong sense of right and wrong.”
Joan Conning Afman grew up in central New York State and Western Massachusetts and attended schools in both regions. She has an AA degree from SUNY, Farmingdale, a BFA from the Hartford Art School, University of Hartford, and an M.A.Ed. degree from CCSU in New Britain, Connecticut. For sixteen years she taught art in the Hartford Public School System before retiring to Florida, where she taught as an adjunct for Northwood University. Joan now divides her time between painting and writing, enjoying the Sunshine State’s balmy weather and various social activities. The cover of Death Island is her art work. She has often been told that she “has quite an imagination,” and Death Island is certainly a testament to that. She has written one previous novel, The Last Time We Were Here. Joan has four wonderful children and six beautiful grandchildren, is thoroughly enjoying life, and continues to believe that the best is still ahead. You can find Joan online at Afman.camelpress.com.
Death Island is available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order by contacting info@camelpress.com or through Ingram. Other electronic versions can be purchased on Smashwords, BN.com or at any of the major online ebook stores.
Keep Reading for an excerpt:
Charlie and the others laughed as the screen faded out, then blinked on again, showing a view of Death Island from space.
“There are the infamous red cliffs,” Charlie noted. The camera skimmed along the river, headed toward the cliffs like a bird heading home, then froze. A view of a cave carved into the cliffs appeared.
“Where is Danny?” asked Heather. “Didn’t he find the cave?”
The camera peered closer, probed the areas around the cave. Nothing, no one. It was obvious Danny Manning had eluded them. Charlie felt a nudge of apprehension. She just wanted a glimpse of him, just to know he was okay.
The camera skipped along until it came to a thread of a small meandering stream, thinly bordered by woods, with patches of brambles along its banks. A movement in one of the thickets caused the camera to pause.
“We’ve hit pay dirt!” Heather exclaimed.
It’s Tom,” Sarah said, leaning forward. “He’s pushing his way out of that bed of brambles he slept in.”
“Who cares about him?” Mindy asked. “We want Danny!”
There was a chorus of “yeahs,” but the women watched as Tom looked warily around, then made his way to the edge of the brook. He bent heavily, splashed water over his face and arms, cupped his hands and drank some of it. With effort, he straightened up and again looked around. Suddenly his face collapsed like a doughy cookie, and tears gushed from his eyes. He threw his arms up toward the sky and implored, directly into the tiny camera hidden in the tall, tropical palm tree, “Do you think I deserve this? To die all alone here, to be murdered in some horrible way for what I did? Was what I did so bad?” He lowered his arms and spread them wide, palms open. “Nobody got hurt. Not like Danny’s victims! I’m not like Danny! I don’t deserve to die here!”
Tom collapsed to the ground in a rumpled, rounded heap. Sobs shook his corpulent body. Fascinated, they watched him cry.
“This is good dip, Charlie,” Mindy commented. She dug a corn chip into the colorful mixture. “What’s in it?”
“Oh, cream cheese, chili sauce, onion—”
She was interrupted by Sarah. “Look! Over there, at the edge of the woods …”
The camera sought a slight movement in the trees. They caught a fleeting glimpse of a man’s shape, but it drew back into the dark of the woods almost immediately.
“Danny?” breathed several of the women together.
Charlie wondered why she didn’t feel her usual thrill of satisfaction watching one of these pathetic guys getting just what he deserved. Instead, her apprehension about Danny grew. Was he all right? He seemed like such a nice guy—could they have made a mistake in branding him the killer?
They watched the camera shift back to Tom, who had blocked his eyes with his fists. As if sensing the figure in the woods, he swiveled around on his ample bottom, and gazed toward the tree line. Had he heard a sound, seen a hint of movement? He rose slowly, his eyes fixed on the trees. He picked up his knapsack and back-walked to the bramble patch, his eyes never leaving the woods. He tossed his backpack into the center of the thicket. Tom stood and gazed in all directions for several minutes. Then, shuffling like an old man, he began to retrace his steps.
Charlie, eyes glued to the screen, had only one thought: where was Danny? Was he all right?
“It’s kind of boring tonight,” Mindy said. “I think I’ll head out. I really have to have this recipe Charlie—”
She was interrupted by a combined whoop from Charlie and Sarah. “Look! There’s Danny!” Sarah leapt up and bounced around like the vivacious cheerleader she had once been. “Give me a D!”
A dark figure emerged from the woods, stood there and stared after Tom’s retreating figure.
It wasn’t Danny. They watched as the man inched his way out of the copse of trees and observed Tom as he trudged off in the direction he had trekked the day before. He strode easily to the brink of the little brook and, like Tom, bent down, cupped his hands and drank. They stared, entranced, as he stood, and for one mesmerizing moment, appeared to gaze directly into the camera lens.
Charlie gasped, and heard Mindy’s “Oooh,” a long sigh from Heather, and Sarah’s quick intake of breath all at the same time.
His golden hair crowned a chiseled face, and his sky-blue eyes stared defiantly into the camera. Tall, taut, and rangy, he was muscular but thin. His clothing was worn and shabby. A large rip exposed one brown shoulder, jutting through a hole that looked like it had been cut with pinking shears.
“Martin Sicilia, might have known,” Charlie said. “We haven’t seen him in a while.”
“I wonder why he doesn’t have a beard,” Heather mused. “How does he shave it off?” Her question went unanswered.
Martin hesitated a moment, then grinned, as if knowing he was being watched.
Slowly, pantomiming a striptease, he pulled off his shirt, moving in time to some unheard music. He raised one sinewy shoulder, than the other, turned slowly around, assumed a Greek statue pose, like a discus thrower, then another, like a hero accepting a laurel wreath.
The women laughed and clapped their hands. “He always puts on such a show!” Heather said.
Martin slowly, with great deliberation, removed his shorts. He wore nothing underneath. He stood there, preening, in his naked glory, his grin wide as all the earth, as he turned to show them all views of himself.
“Why do they always put a blur over the private parts?” Sarah asked with a tinge of irritation. “We’re all grownups here. It’s nothing we haven’t seen before, and besides, we paid for it.”
Mindy seemed to have forgotten about leaving. Heather sat with a hand over her mouth, appalled, but also laughing. Sarah and Charlie stared, fascinated.
“He’s gorgeous, just gorgeous!” Sarah breathed, and everyone else nodded in spellbound agreement.
Martin strolled over to the waterfall and let the cool water flow over the taut, muscled contours of his body. If anything, the water falling over his bronzed muscles made the scene even more erotic. Martin mimed for the camera, pretending to rub soap on his arms and legs then rinse it off. Pretended to shampoo his hair, lather it up, and rinse it off. It was only when he began to masturbate that the camera cut away, back to the show’s host in the studio.
“Well,” Pierre LeGrande said, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smirk, “that Martin Sicilia, he never disappoints! Now, before we return to Death Island for tonight’s final glimpse into the lives of these unfortunate condemned men, let’s hear this important message from our sponsor.”
Heather flicked open the tab on her Diet Coke. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure they could use some blood pressure meds.”
“Dancing with Eternity flows very well on the page and both the universe and the characters are revealed slowly with moments of tension, adventure, desperate situations and escapes, while twists and turns abound. The novel so impressed me that I had to reread it immediately after finishing it and then I appreciated even better the little tidbits whose full import the reader won’t realize until much later. Overall Dancing with Eternity (A++, top 10 novel of 2011) is a stellar debut that shows why science fiction is still the most interesting genre of today.” Read more … —Liviu Suciu, Fantasy Book Critic
“This truly is a fascinating take on our future and is something I think many people will enjoy with John’s imaginative (and at times almost foreshadowing), expansive and engaging storytelling. Needless to say, the reader is in for a fast-paced, fun and intelligent ride that never seems to let up. With the witty characters and detailed story, it will keep anyone reading it engaged and wanting more. For a first-time author, Mr. Lowrie knocked it out of the park like a true veteran of the genre. I highly recommend this book to any fan of science fiction or a fan of adventure in general as it delivers on all fronts.” Read more … —Mike Angileri, Rely On Horror.com
“Every once in a while, a new novel comes along that is both epic in scope and, at the same time, focused on a very personal, human drama. John Patrick Lowrie’s characters do indeed dance with eternity …. This dense story is far richer than a capsule summary can suggest. In the best tradition of the best science fiction, the galactic setting is painted with vivid, believable detail …. I suspect many readers will find themselves holding on to their copy so they can return to this adventure at least one more time. Dancing with Eternity can’t be fully absorbed in one go. You’ll want to re-boot yourself—back to the first page.” Read more ….
—Dr. Wesley Britton, BookPleasures.com
“Dancing with Eternity crackles on every page … Lowrie has written an amazingly bright and witty story about our distant future.” Read more … —Chuck Sigars, Mukilteo (WA) Beacon
“Humorous and thoughtful, Dancing with Eternity [is] a fun read for science fiction fans with a strong interest in deep space travel and other elements of the far flung future.”
—Midwest Book Review
** VISIT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE OR CLICK THE COVER IMAGE TO ORDER **
“As an ex-NASA tether specialist and consultant on the Shuttle tether missions, I found this a refreshingly accurate narrative of what it might be like to experience such life and related activities that [are] outside our normal realms.”
—Dave Lang
“This novel is lush and highly imaginative, and backed by the author’s encyclopedic knowledge of our world and his deep understanding of what makes us human.”
—Jerry Stubblefield, author of Homunculus
“A very thought-provoking novel of ideas. I spent many hours contemplating the moral, ethical and social challenges of ‘rebooting.’ Anyone who enjoys reading either Kim Stanley Robinson or Neal Stephenson will get a big kick out of this book!”
—Hugh Hastings, Actor
What would happen if Odysseus met Captain Ahab in the Fortieth Century? Only Captain Ahab is a beautiful woman named Steel who owns her own starship, and Odysseus is an unemployed actor named Mohandas who’s stuck on the backside of a backwater moon because he won’t pay his taxes. Oh, and everybody—well, almost everybody—lives forever, did I mention that? And there’s a telepathic Internet that allows the entire population of the galaxy to communicate at will and even experience the world from another person’s perspective.
Dancing with Eternity ($17.95, 416 pp., ISBN: 978-1-60381-810-0), by actor John Patrick Lowrie, is a sprawling galactic odyssey that takes Steel, Mo and the crew of the starship Lightdancer on an incredible voyage of adventure, self-discovery, and revelation.
John Patrick Lowrie and his wife, actress and voice artist Ellen McLain (the voice of GLaDOS in the video games Portal and Portal2) will read excerpts and sign books on the following dates/Washington locations:
As a man of many talents, John Patrick Lowrie has put considerable thought into the relationship between his skill sets. “The one craft that all of these arts share is listening,” John says. “Listening is central to the actor’s craft. It is vital to composers. And it is crucial to any writer who wants to illuminate human behavior. The task—the obligation of the actor, the composer, the musician, the writer—is to let the audience see themselves, laugh at themselves, grieve for themselves, applaud themselves.”
In Dancing with Eternity, Lowrie has created a thrill ride of adventure, space travel, new worlds, and hard science projections. This thought-provoking novel explores timeless philosophical questions that challenge our traditional beliefs about love, sex, and spirituality.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Patrick Lowrie was born in Honolulu and raised in Boulder. At 16 he left home to make his way as a singer/guitarist/flautist/ trombonist in a rock ‘n’ roll band, sleeping in parks and communes. After surviving the draft, he graduated with highest distinction
from the Indiana University School of Music and for a few years managed to make a living as a composer and guitarist in his acoustic fusion duo, The Kiethe Lowrie Duet, garnering critical acclaim. He then decided to become an actor because the pay was better and the work was steadier (truly!). He and his wife, Ellen McLain, now reside in Seattle where they divide their professional time between acting in live theater and voice-acting for computer games and radio dramas. You may know him as the voice of the Sniper in the computer game Team Fortress II. You can find John on the Web by visiting his blog or his website.
For review copies, please contact Catherine Treadgold at Camel Press: Catherine@camelpress.com, (206) 414-7673.
To schedule an interview, please contact Jen Richards at Over the River Public Relations: Jennifer@otrpr.com, (201) 242-9637.
Read on for an excerpt:
I could see her relax, like she’d just found out she wasn’t going to have to shoot her dog after all. It made me tense up. I wasn’t sure I liked being that important to her, or anyone.
I was already second-guessing myself. What kind of job was it that made a person act like that when they found someone to do it? I couldn’t read anything in those liquid eyes but relief—a lonely, exhausted relief propped up and propelled forward by an almost frightening determination. For a moment we just stood there with the wind massaging us and roaring in our ears, the moss green cliffs arcing away to the north and south, cut here and there by lacy cataracts and free-falling horse-tail flumes. I could barely hear the pulsing white noise of the surf—far, far below us. I wanted to say, “Listen, Cat-Eyes, why don’t we forget about your little project and set up shop right here? We could have a nice little surf ‘n’ turf place at the end of the rail and sell shells to the tourists that say ‘I saw the other Vesper—Nohili Point!’ when you hold them to your ear.” I wanted to say it. But I didn’t.
It was interesting to watch her compose herself. She was very efficient at it. One or two short breaths and poise slid back over her like a curtain. “I’d like to leave right away,” she said. “You don’t need to go back for anything, do you?”
I looked at my new boss, trying to bury any romantic fantasies. “No,” I said, “I imagine I can get along without anything I’ve left behind.”
“Good. We have about five hours of daylight left and I’d like to use it.” She gave me one look of generalized approval, turned and walked briskly back into the forest. Ham lumbered after her.
“I’ll just follow along, shall I?” I said to where they’d disappeared, and started walking.
I caught up with them at the entrance to the tube. It was just a few meters down the trail to the beach, right under the monorail platform. It descended inside the cliff to the desalinization plant at the foot of the point. You wouldn’t think they’d have to distill salt water right in the middle of a rain forest, but the magma sink heat exchangers had a thirst that matched the temperatures they dealt with. Cat-Eyes (I didn’t know if I could ever think of her as “Steel”) looked at me as I walked up.
“We’re under a fairly acute time constraint,” she said, and she looked at the tube entrance. Then that wry smile came back. “But I need to see what kind of shape you’re in. Come on.” She started off down the trail.
In a few meters we came to the edge of the gorge cut by the waterfall we’d ridden over. The trail switchbacked down the south wall. “Trail” may be an exaggeration. It dropped the thousand meters to the beach in just over a kilometer, a meter down for every meter forward. But some stretches were fairly level, which meant other parts were watch your feet and hope the root you’re clinging to doesn’t pull out of the cliff. It had never been built, just worn into the rock and jungle by the employees. This was before the syndicate, in its infinite mercy, decided to let them use the tube to go swimming. I guess they finally figured out that it was cheaper than re-booting them when they fell off the trail.
I’d been down and up it before—one of the things I did to keep healthy after I got kicked off the net. I didn’t know how she knew about it, I didn’t know why she wanted to use it, and I didn’t know why we were going down to the beach in the first place. All in all I felt the master of my own destiny.
The work started right away. To get over the lip of the gorge and onto the south wall you had to scramble fifteen or twenty meters, maybe the height of a six-story building, down a web of strangler fig roots to the first ledge. Twenty meters of root ladder can be kind of airy in any circumstances, but this one was at the top of a thousand meter drop, with a jet of water off to our right that we could watch falling and falling and falling, down and down until it shattered in a small pool that was still only a third of the way down. Then another long fall into another tiny pool and the final, timeless plunge to the minuscule strip of sand at the base of the cliff. The hammered steel ocean was softened at the shore by tiny white fingernails of surf.
Steel hesitated at the edge. “Wow,” she said.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
She just stood there for a moment. I think she was hesitant to show any weakness to me. “When we came up this it was foggy. You couldn’t see anything but the route in front of you.”
“Why didn’t you take the tube?”
“I didn’t know about it.” Determination hardened her. “Let’s go.” She grabbed a handhold and swung down onto the web, picking her footing, but moving with speed and grace.
And why were you down there in the first place? And how did you get there? And where were we going, and why? And several other questions of that general ilk. I waited for her to get a safe distance below me and started to descend, Ham bringing up the rear.
Everything was still wet from the rain; it made the bark as slippery as a politician’s promise. There’s nothing quite like the rush you get when your feet start to slide with nothing under you but air. Your arches cramp, it shoots up your calves, through your inner thighs to your groin, your stomach does something very strange and then—POW! Your pulse rate triples, it zings down your arms, and your palms and inner wrists ache from how hard your fingers are gripping. I made it down to the ledge with my dignity fairly intact. Ham climbed like his arboreal progenitors. Of course, he had two more thumbs than I did.
The ledge at the bottom was comfortably wide and descended steadily but moderately for a while. Cat-eyes, or “Steel,” or “Captain Steel” led us downward, sometimes with staggering views of the falls and the ocean, sometimes burrowing through leafy tangles of shrubs and vines. As often as not we would be scrambling down root ladders or bare rock. The roar of the falls would crescendo as we approached, then recede when the trail switched back the other way, in a regular, soothing rhythm. Steel kept up an impressive pace.
The gorge enfolded us like a green womb. Each measured negotiation of a fractured rock face, each heart-pumping glissade down the grease-slick, ropy chaos of a root system pushed the lip of the falls farther above us. Each quiet, leafy tunnel, each thundering, misty turn behind the diamond column of water brought us closer to wherever we were going. As the silver ribbon of the monorail bridge receded above me so did the last ten months of my life. ’Burbs place and vacant idleness, Sheila’s room and the sad, mechanical physicality that never would have blossomed into intimacy, the oppressive, corrosive sterility of the ’works. Time had stopped for me in Spam-town, and Cat-eyes had started it again.
And what would I do with that time? Before Spam-town had been Shaughnessy and the show. We’d played forty cities on fourteen worlds in the last five years. And before that, other companies and other shows, other tours, other cities, other planets. I’d been an actor for most of the twenty years since I’d last re-booted in Palermo on Mondoverdi. Before that … Before that was the last time I’d been old, truly old.
Oliver Pepper’s Pickle (ISBN: 978-1-60381-857-5, 288 pp., $14.95), by award-winning playwright John C. Picardi, is a novel about a New York City prep school teacher whose comically messy life comes together when he starts teaching in an urban public school.
Pick of the Week—Boston Sunday Globe (10/23/2011):
“Caitlin Doggart of Where the Sidewalk Ends Bookstore in Chatham recommends Oliver Pepper’s Pickle by John C. Picardi (Camel): ‘In this vibrant, funny, and heartfelt novel, a self-described ‘boring’ 36-year-old ‘privileged white man’ named Oliver Pepper endures a stretch of failures before he’s hired as a substitute teacher in a violent New York City middle school. His new job begins as a way to catch the eye of the sexy principal but becomes an unexpected boost to Mr. Pepper as he influences his students in surprising ways.”
“The book has a comfortable, compelling rhythm. It’s an interesting one-man study of how parents and childhood experiences can have an enduring affect on later lives, and how it’s possible for even the most distorted of human beings to find salvation in self-examination and hope for the future. An amusing read, Oliver Pepper’s Pickle serves up both extremely light and extremely heavy moments until the very end.” Read more ….
–Leia Menlove, ForeWord Reviews
Click here to read an article about John and his book in the Patriot-Ledger.
** Buy Oliver Pepper at your local bookstore or click the cover image to order **
** Buy the Kindle version or other eBook formats on Smashwords **
Says Kate Christensen, Winner of the 2008 PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction: “Oliver Pepper Pickle is the story of a man who bellies up to the bar of self-loathing self-destructiveness and is pulled instead, in spite of himself, into a brave new world—friends emerging from closets, fish-sauce-flavored Thanksgivings, special-needs ghetto kids at the Met, growing new sets of balls … It’s a touching love story that will make you spit out your food laughing when you least expect it. John C. Picardi is an original.”
“Who hasn’t wanted to step into the mind of a beloved teacher?” says Paul Lisicky, Author of Lawnboy and The Burning House. “With Oliver Pepper’s Pickle, you can do just that, with a guide who’s irreverent, kind, and smart – eager to wake you up to the world.”
“Picardi has created a delicate yet emotional story that sneaks up on you like a lovely relationship, evolving slowly and gracefully, ‘peppered’ with hope and despair, and above all, humanity,” says Steven Cooper, Author of Deadline and Saving Valencia. “Picardi reveals his characters so subtly, so artfully, that suddenly you realize they are a part of your family. I loved this book.”
First-time novelist Picardi has received lavish praise for his work as a playwright. Here is a sampling:
“Often humorous, eventually gripping,” wrote Lawrence Van Gelder in the New York Times. “Mr. Picardi renders his characters timeless.”’
“Picardi’s comedy-drama … has plenty of laughs along with a gut-wrenching emotional wallop,” wrote LA Times critic F. Kathleen Foley of Picardi’s play, The Sweepers.
Oliver Pepper leads a simple life. Each night he can be found sitting alone, taking nips from his flask, in a cluttered study he alone finds appealing. His contemplation ends abruptly when his wife reveals an extended cyber-affair and he is fired from his job teaching Art History at a girls’ prep school. Crushed by his wife’s infidelity, suffocated by his sister and her new-age boyfriend, and harassed by all the friends and strangers who think his salvation depends on a crazy self-help book—The Castration of the 20th Century Man: How to Grow a New Set for the 21st Century—Oliver Pepper’s life is in comic disarray. Then, at an AA meeting, he meets Rosa, a sexy public school principal. Hoping to date her, he agrees to teach a riotous middle-school class. At Rosa’s school, Oliver meets two troubled boys. By helping them, he comes to terms with the traumatic death of his father and discovers a capacity for bringing unadulterated goodness—even beauty—into his world.
“When I taught in New York,” says Picardi, “I would walk to work from York Avenue to 86th Street, passing a well-known private girls’ school. Each morning I saw a man in a very fine tailored suit entering the school. He seemed curiously strange to me—he appeared proper, stoic, always preoccupied. He reminded me of Chauncey Gardiner, the odd and fun character in Jerzy Kosinski’s classic novel, Being There. It didn’t matter who he was; I imagined him as an art teacher at this fancy girls’ school. He was Mr. Chips! He was going to be in my book.”
John C. Picardi is the author of the awarding winning play, The Sweepers, and Seven Rabbits on a Pole. His plays are published by Samuel French and have been produced off-Broadway and across the United States. He is a graduate of Johnson & Wales University, where he majored in Culinary Arts. He later graduated from the University of Massachusetts at Boston with a degree in English and Creative Writing and earned an MFA from Carnegie Mellon University. He lives in Massachusetts. Click here to access John’s website and here to read his blog.
Oliver Pepper’s Pickle is available in Kindle ($5.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order by contacting info@camelpress.com or through Ingram. Other electronic versions can be purchased on Smashwords, BN.com or at any of the major online eBook stores.
Keep reading for excerpts:
I stopped on the stairwell. Fired fired fired fired! It ran through my head. It swallowed me up. I went up to the library. Piper Bergman was reading Memoirs of a Geisha. She stood up upon seeing me. Her deep brown eyes scanned me; she shifted her lower jaw.
“I wanted to come by and say goodbye,” I said. I told her what had happened, and she promised she would harass Amy Cumberland in her Library Science class. I thanked her for that.
Miss Bergman’s eyes had pity in them; she took my hand and brought me to a small back room filled with old books. She locked the door behind us. The sun streamed through a small single window, and dust mites danced in its beam. Miss Bergman’s face was half lit. I kept my eyes on her as she slipped off her dress, and I whispered, “God!” She came toward me, her body half in darkness and the other half lit in the right places, mainly her lovely breasts and full hips.
****
I felt the Castration book in my back pocket. It was pressing against my butt, nagging at me, saying to me, “Pull me out and read me.”
Then I thought about the sex I just had. I felt guilty. Was it my Catholic upbringing? Had I objectified a woman whom I respected? Had she objectified me? Why was the sex so animalistic?
I felt weird. Was it that book that was stirring all these raw emotions in me. Beth. Damn Beth!
***
Then the sun broke though, and sparkled so brightly through the branches I was blinded. A hopeful sight, yet so incongruous, because I was shivering uncontrollably, horrified at the reality that I’d been cuckolded, dumped, and canned. I opened my briefcase, took out the silver flask, and examined it carefully. How awfully clever I’d thought I was being when I’d bought it! It was unusually small, as far as flasks go, but large enough for my needs. I never dreamed that this lovely little silver flask—my friend the flask—would become the vessel of my disgrace.
***
During the day I watched television. My favorite show was The Price Is Right. At first, I thought the show ridiculous, but after a while, I actually enjoyed it. I played along and did not like to miss my program. I guessed the prices, and when I was wrong, I’d throw my slippers or any handy item at the television screen. I gave myself bonus points if I hit Bob Barker’s face. Sometimes I read my art books. Other times, now that I’d discovered the many uses of the Internet, I’d go online and enter chat rooms. That didn’t last long, after I accidentally entered a site for men who enjoyed having sex with butchered whole goats. (There was an entire page about where to buy the goat, too; some place in Queens where they kept the innards intact if asked.) It made me vomit. This was a good thing because afterwards I didn’t feel so bad about eating my second family size tray of Stouffers Macaroni and Cheese and a pan of brownies and a package of Kaiser Rolls and half a jar of Marshmallow fluff.
***
As I passed the diner on the corner of Eighty-Sixth and York, I saw Rosa sitting alone eating a dessert glass filled with red JELL-O and taking quick sips from a mug. Seeing her eat JELL-O was reassuring. If we became an item, maybe I wouldn’t have to hide the fact that I like fried Spam on toast. I stopped for a brief moment to look at her. She took a mouthful of the JELL-O and examined a chart, keeping the spoon in her mouth. She checked things off and wrote quickly. She must be working on some sort of project. I wanted to go in and talk to her, but I couldn’t. I felt insecure and awkward. Would she think I was stalking her?
***
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I had put a pillow behind my bed board to make sure it didn’t bang against the wall anymore. I thencontemplated whether to eat a bagel loaded with cream cheese or an English muffin thickly spread with peanut butter. Or maybe I should sleep directly through to lunchtime and order pizza. I listened to the rainstorm outside, along with the noisy confusion that comes with a rainy day in New York: an overabundance of car horns and the extensive cries of bus engines.
***
Multiple choice.
1. The absolutely, positively horrifying experience of teaching at Rosa’s school for those two weeks was worse than:
a) My mother’s pyromania
b) My circumstances of my father’s death
c) My former wife’s nymphomania
d) My best friend’s cuckolding me
e) Being fired from the finest teaching position in the City
Good Catch (ISBN: 978-1-60381-861-2, $14.95, 262 pp.), by Tracy Ann Lord, is a contemporary romance about a Miami businesswoman who reluctantly trades her stiletto heels for waders at a fishing camp in Maine.
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** Also available in Kindle and other ebook formats on Smashwords **
“This contemporary romance, Tracy Ann Lord’s first novel, is a pleasure to read. Every page offers laugh-out-loud humor, the exploits of quirky characters and quiet life advice. Maddie’s character is well developed and very easy to relate to. The setting—a remote lake in Maine—is idyllic and Lord expertly brings it to life on the page. For someone like me, who loves the outdoors and the mystery and allure of long forgotten places, this book is an absolute delight. Good Catch is the perfect book to sit down with, outside in a comfy lawn chair, and consume in one hilarious, sensual sitting.” Read more ….
—Teri Harman, Book-Matters.com
“Good Catch is just the right mix of funny and romance. Lord had me wanting to visit the beautiful Maine setting for myself — and mix up a few of the recipes she includes at the end!” Read more …
–A Worn Path Blogspot
“Good Catch is an entertaining and enjoyable contemporary romance. I instantly connected with the main character, Maddie … I also fell in love with the other characters in this romance. They are well developed, each unique in their own way. They have charming and colorful personalities, even if some of them are hidden underneath rough exteriors. This novel is a heartwarming, sexy romance that promises laughter and sweet sentiment. Built around fish, this romance catches its reader and hooks them until the end. Tracy Ann Lord has a smooth-flowing, easy-to-read writing style.”
—Tiffany Schlarman for Reader Views
“While this is not your ‘typical’ romance novel, [Good Catch] is a great read for someone who likes a quirky story, plot twists and turns, or even those gentlemen around us who like a good read!”
–Iris, Long and Short Reviews
4.5 out of 5 Blue Ribbons: “Fish, black flies and quirky characters populate Tracy Ann Lord’s irresistible and inspirational new novel called GOOD CATCH…. You will love this story from beginning to end! I fell in love with all of the characters, including the old cantankerous dog. In addition, the whole lot of them is so charming, you will feel a magical pull on your heartstrings as you read it…. GOOD CATCH is sticky, spunky and delicious, just like a sweet cinnamon bun!” Read more ….
—Michele Rioli, Romance Junkies
“The only fishing book you’ll ever recommend to all your girlfriends. Good Catch is funny, sexy, and poignant. I’m hooked!”
— Deborah Cloyed, author of The Summer We Came to Life
Maddie Chilton, the reigning queen of Miami’s hottest PR firm, has been dethroned. Now she’s roughing it at a fishing camp on a lake in the middle of rural Maine. This is what her co-workers chose as a going-away present? Maddie is not a “showers optional” kind of gal. Not only is she surrounded fish, but also a lot of fishy characters. There’s Flo, the opera-loving/customer-loathing cook, and Wayne, the too-handy handyman. Fortunately there’s also Cal Boretti, her handsome, skinny-dipping fishing guide. Appearances, of course, can be deceiving, and Maddie soon discovers that the camp and its residents are about so much more than fishing. Between budding romance and an exciting new business opportunity, Maddie’s dim view of Lake Mooselookmeguntic is beginning to lighten up. She may not have a knack for fishing, but Maddie is about to make the good catch of a lifetime.
“While there is no place exactly like Wilson’s except in my imagination,” says author Tracy Ann Lord, “there is a real place something like Wilson’s. I would be barred from ever going there again if I divulged the exact location. Fish camp has its own code, and while it is unwritten, you know when you break it.”
Six years ago, Lord learned about that unwritten code the hard way, while spending a weekend fishing in western Maine. She ran into the dining room mid-lunch, holding a 22-inch long salmon—the first she’d ever helped hook. Her elation received a less than warm response from the assembled fishermen. “How was I supposed to know you downplay what you catch?” Lord says. “No one warned me, ‘Never run into the dining room with a fish, no matter how big.’ ”
The upside of that moment was the birth of Lord’s spunky protagonist Maddie Chilton and her adventures navigating the ins and outs of fitting in—or not—at Wilson’s Fish Camp.
Tracy Ann Lord hails from the hills of Hope, Maine, and is a fourth generation Mainer. She’s passionate about traveling—especially to Italy. Lord has spent a goodly part of her life in the mid-coast managing to find more than enough opportunities for adventure. She has been an award-winning journalist, a teacher, director and actor, an audio-book narrator, a corporate caterer, a public relations person and proprietor of a baking business called Humble Pie. Tracy has a life-long love affair with Maine and its most beguiling natural resource—water. She believes that life’s greatest pleasures involve being on or in a lake, river or ocean. She’s raised two fifth-generation girls, Clarissa and Gillian. You can find her on the Web at Tracyannlord.com.
Good Catch is available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order by contacting info@camelpress.com or through Ingram. Other electronic versions can be purchased on Smashwords, BN.com or at any of the major online ebook stores.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
“You okay?” said a voice behind her.
Maddie jumped and turned all at once, which almost took her down on the ground again.
The Dawn Diver! Even clothed, he looked good. In fact, up close, he might even look better. Her age, maybe a little younger, maybe a little older. Hard to tell. Sandy brown hair with blue eyes—her weakness. Jeans that clung in all the right places. He was holding a cooler in one hand and a fishing pole in the other.
“Just not used to roots. Asphalt, muggers, homeless people: yes. Roots: no.”
“Sounds like a fun place. I’m Cal.”
Was that a half-smile or just the shape of his mouth? His voice was low and she couldn’t quite place the accent. Not foreign, exactly, but not like Flo or Wayne’s, either.
“I’m Maddie.”
Cal nodded. “Maddie from Miami,” he replied.
“Yes, well … guess it shows,” Maddie said, looking down at her obliterated ensemble.
Cal started down the path to the dock.
Nice backside, she thought when he suddenly turned. Maddie felt her face color the same shade as her shirt.
He looked her up and down. “It’s up to you, but you might want to change your clothes before we go out. The bugs will think they’ve hit the mother lode,” he said.
Until her fall into this primeval pit disguised as a sport camp, Maddie had always thought cockroaches were the insects to worry about. And just where did he think they were going?
“Go where?” she asked.
Cal pulled a piece of paper from his jeans pocket.
“Well, according to my schedule, I’m supposed to take you fishing at nine.”
He looked up at the sky. Maddie followed his gaze, thinking he was looking at a plane or a bird or a particularly interesting cloud formation.
“I’d say it’s at least nine-fifteen. Better get to it before the wind changes,” he said.
“Sorry—there must be some mistake. I didn’t book a fishing trip,” said Maddie.
“Not a trip. A lesson. And you’re right. You didn’t book it, your friends did.”
Maddie felt her pleasant professional demeanor heading south. What happened to order, to control? she thought. To being able to have something as normal as a shower?
“But, I don’t even have a fishing pole—”
A fingernails on a chalkboard grimace crossed Cal’s face. “Up north, they are called rods.”
No question I am up north, thought Maddie.
“Rod, pole, I don’t have one,” said Maddie, making no effort to hide her exasperation. And I don’t really want one either, she thought.
“Well, as a matter of fact you do. Your friend, Lena?”
“Nina?” said Maddie.
“Yeah. Nina set it all up.”
She did, did she? Maddie mentally wrung her little neck.
“She set it all up?” she said aloud.
“Had Bub fly it in with you. Pretty tricky friend you got.”
She recalled the package Bub had handed to Wayne. Nina was obviously more talented at deception than Maddie had credited her.
“So, I’ll be down on the dock,” he said.
Maddie felt like there was some unseen conspiracy working against her. First she loses her job, and then gets shipped off to some fish camp designed by Satan. And now this? Wasn’t she the guest, and didn’t that count for anything?
“I’d like to re-book for later today.”
Cal turned midway down the path. “Up to you,” he said.
No negotiating, no jockeying no counter offer? Maddie was painfully unaccustomed to dealing with straight talk. She felt both confused and strangely intrigued.
Cal grabbed his gear from the dock and began walking up the path.
“So, when is the best time to go fishing?” she called.
“Depends on who you ask.”
“Well, I’m asking you.”
“Depends on the day.”
Jeez, thought Maddie. Some guide. How difficult is it to answer a simple question?
“Today,” she said, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. He was beginning to look a little less attractive.
“If the wind drops, then around four o’clock,” he replied.
“Okay, then, I’d like to re-schedule for four o’clock,” she said, turning to head inside the cabin.
“You got it,” said Cal heading up the path.
Maddie wondered if the small sense of accomplishment fueling her up the steps and into her tilting Hilton of a cabin was based on taking control of her fishing lesson. If so, that was really sad.
She dug out some clean jeans and a white t-shirt from her bag. Carefully avoiding her reflection and grabbing a towel and her shower stuff, she headed for the Barn and, possibly, salvation.
Things to Do in Denver When You’re Un-Dead (ISBN: 978-1-60381-859-9, $15.95, 318 pp.), by Mark Everett Stone, is an urban fantasy about a top-secret government super-agent assigned to keep the most dangerous denizens of the supernatural world at bay.
5 Stars: “If you crave a really enjoyable Paranormal Suspense Thriller to read, THIS is your book. It grabs you from the very first page and drags you along (snarling for you to keep up) and dumps you at the feet of one of THE most unexpected plot twists of an ending that I have ever read. While this novel is Mark’s first, it reads as a cohesive, refined product that leaves me salivating for its forthcoming sequel. ”
—Jeffrey Hollar, The Latinum Vault
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** Buy it for your KINDLE or in other eBook formats from SMASHWORDS **
5 Stars: “I laughed, gasped, and sat stunned in silence when Mark dropped his plot bombs. If you’re looking for a smart read, with action, depth, and creative use of legends this is spot on. I personally highly recommend this one.”
—Shyla, The To Be Read Pile
“A fun, nail-biter of a thrill ride …. epic, at times breathtaking in the scope of the world [Stone] creates. It’s a fun read, but he takes you into territory as varying as that of heartbreak and laugh out loud humor.”
—James Edward Fryar, Scraps from the Wastebasket
Five stars: “This book was an absolute pleasure to read. It is witty, funny, dramatic and a well thought out paranormal with very fine storytelling. I couldn’t put it down!”
—Clarrissa Lee Moon, author of the series, The Nightwolves and Celeste Nites
“If you like quick wit, sadistic charm, and bad-ass gadgets, then you will enjoy the hell out of this book … no pun intended.”
—Shay Fabbro, award-winning author of the Portal of Destiny series
“I have really enjoyed reading this book …. The story could just be one of guns, blood and guts and magic, but … Mark Everett Stone has made these characters seem real.” Read more … —Michele Herbert,Fantasy Book Review
“This is not a story for the faint of heart or stomach, nor for those wanting a plot with any connection to reality. Personally, I’m really looking forward to the promised sequel.” Read more …
—Gordon Long, TCM Reviews
“A fantastic read and very easy to follow. The way Mark combines magicians, zombies and super ghouls with a Bogart-style ultra sarcastic officer of the ‘Bureau’ makes you want to keep on reading. I highly recommend this for everyone—not just those into stories of the un-dead.”
—GR Holton, author of Soleri, Guardian’s Alliance and Deep Screams
“Five stars, two thumbs, fantastic! From the moment I began the first page to the final flip of the last, I was hooked. Mark’s snarky to serious main character offers up equal doses of sarcasm and action despite his deeply damaged soul…. The writing is sharp, fast and engaging. The characters are fun and/or not so fun in all the right places. Mark has captured the soul of his lead character so well that it’s like the reader is sitting having a $300 bottle of vodka, chased with an aromatic and equally expensive cigar, while Kal spins tales of his heyday, punctuated by live action reenactments so real you wish you hadn’t eaten dinner.”
—Patti Larsen, author of Fresco, Wasteland (10/2011), The Diamond City (2012), and The Ghost Boy of MacKenzie House (2012)
“The blending of dark twisted humor in this chilling tale is utterly perfect, written with a sure hand. Comedic timing is everything, and author Stone has perfected the classic one-liner…. Make no mistake folks, this isn’t for the faint hearted … the sarcasm is used as a brief respite in the fastest paced action horror that I have read in a very long time.”
—Suzannah Burke, aka Stacey Danson, Author of Empty Chairs
“In a first and quite brilliant novel, Stone proves himself equally adept at feverishly fast-paced action, edgy wit and banter, and the weaving of a richly satisfying and fresh world of mystery and intrigue. Write on, my friend.”
—Michelle Izmaylov, author of The Galacteran Legacy: Galaxy Watch
5 Stars: “Once I picked this book up, I couldn’t put it down. It was filled with all the creatures that hold my imagination, ghouls, zombies, vampires and even a few fun ones, such as Brownies. I honestly was not able to predict the ending, which is unusual for me. …. Kal has risen to the top of my hero list, surpassing that of even Jack Reacher. I want more!”
—Lisa McCourt Hollar, author of SAM, The Wall and The Carnival
For ten years Kal Hakala has been the Bureau of Supernatural Investigation’s top man, the longest surviving agent in its blood-soaked history. The World At Large has no idea that The World Under exists. And its vampires, demons, zombies, and mythic monsters are growing increasingly restless. In all Kal’s time with the Bureau, there has been no case he couldn’t crack, no monster he couldn’t kill. Then a plague of zombies comes to Denver, along with a vicious serial killer dubbed The Organ Donor. A childhood encounter with a legendary monster has left Kal with an endless supply of rage and hatred for all things Supernatural. But now the target is on his forehead, and the Un-Dead don’t die easy. The Bureau has some aces of its own—a few magicians and a cyber-ghost. Unfortunately Kal is a perennial loner … And the World Under is wise to His tricks.
“I wanted to write something set in the modern world that had the kind of fast-paced quality of an Indiana Jones movie,” says first-time novelist Stone, “but with a darker edge. The idea of a bureau that stood as a defense against things-that-go-bump-in-the-night comes from those people, military and otherwise, who stand ready to protect us all from threats that tear at the fabric of our comfortable lives. I aimed for an interesting blend of The Untouchables and the X-Files.”
Born in Helsinki, Finland, Mark Everett Stone arrived in the U.S. at a young age and promptly dove into the world of the fantastic. Starting at age seven with the Iliad and the Odyssey, he went on to consume every scrap of Norse Mythology he could get his grubby little paws on. At age thirteen he graduated to Tolkien and Heinlein, building up a book collection that soon rivaled the local public library’s. In college Mark majored in Journalism and minored in English. Mark is feverishly working on his next book, The Judas Line, while his amazingly patient wife, Brandie, keeps him and their two sons, Aeden and Gabriel, in check. You can find Mark on the Web by visiting his website or his blog.
Things to Do in Denver When You’re Un-Dead is available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Other electronic versions can be purchased on Smashwords, BN.com, Google eBooks or at any of the major online ebook stores.
Read on for an Excerpt:
If it had been a Hollywood movie, the ghoul’s arm would have separated from its body in beautiful slo-mo, with little bits flying hither and yon in an orgy of special effects gore. What happened wasn’t Hollywood, but it was close.
It spun away, a chattering rattle erupting from its throat, right into fire from Wilke’s .44. Unfortunately, the Detective hit it only once in the chest, the explosive round leaving a softball sized hole that oozed odious black ichor. If he had hit the sucker with more than one, the fight would’ve been over right then and there. Instead, the monster blurred forward, the claws of its remaining hand slashing. More metal tore and Wilkes flew off to the side, .44 clattering to concrete.
My Lahti belched fire five more times, but the ghoul was ready, dodging as if it were performing some graceful undead ballet … the Damned Swan Lake. All five shots missed. It straightened from its last dodge to see a polystyrene egg case roll three feet from its toes.
I bellowed the command word written on the side of the egg. “SNOWDIRT!”
The egg case burst like a paper party popper. A Marquise cut sapphire the size of my pinky nail, glowing with a harsh blue radiance, spun madly into the air to a height of about three feet. Hair thin lines of azure light erupted from the facets, extending some six feet.
The gem spun faster, the radiant blue lines crisscrossing the ghoul hundreds of times in less than a second. This lasted for a brief moment before abruptly winking out and tinking to the floor of the garage.
I stared at the ghoul. It stared at me.
Then it toppled. And fragmented … an avalanche of ghoul spreading itself thin along the cement in thousands of pieces.
“The author does a fine job of setting up the murder scene and then demonstrating how just about every other character in the book, from the former Toppettes to the mysterious private investigator who always seems to show up in unexpected places, would have had a possible motive. There are many surprises included to deepen the plot and to keep the reader guessing …. Timestep to Murder is definitely a book that will appeal to women. It has an interesting plot, intriguing characters, and an ample amount of drama. The story moves at a good pace and provides the reader with an entertaining experience.”
–Leslie Granier for Reader Views
Timestep to Murder ($16.95, ISBN: 978-1-60381-863-6, 226 pp.), by Norma Lehr, is a mystery starring a group of semi-retired showgirls who reunite to perform at the Cal Neva in Tahoe. During the rehearsal period, a killer starts to pick them off, one by one.
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“Norma Lehr’s Timestep is a toe-tapping good mystery with a chilling finale. I’m eager to read more,” says Kathleen Asay, editor of Capital Crimes: 15 tales from Sacramento Area Authors.
Cindy Sample, Author of Dying for a Date, says: “Vivid characters, a Lake Tahoe setting with ties to Sinatra’s Rat Pack, nonstop action and an engaging protagonist make this murder mystery hard to put down. Definitely a series to watch!”
Reunions Can Be Deadly. How deadly? Abby Rollins, a Manhattan Toppette in the 70s and 80s, is about to find out. She joins five other former Toppettes, once a wildly popular group of chorus line dancers, on the Celebrity Showroom stage for one weekend at the Cal Neva Resort Hotel at Lake Tahoe.
Although twenty-five years have passed since their last gig, their professional and romantic rivalries are not forgotten. With so much bad blood between them, no wonder two of the dancers end up dead. No matter what the cost, Abby is determined to absolve her best friend Renee from all suspicion. Meanwhile, who is that mysterious figure lurking backstage? Who’s leaving the anonymous notes? What about the sleazy comic who’s emceeing the event?
The group’s solid fan base and the sensational nature of the murder investigation guarantees a sold-out house. Abby’s new friend Blade, a former cop turned P.I. whose interest in Abby is more than professional, has his hands full keeping her out of danger. But is he really who he claims to be? Is anyone?
“Tap-dancing has always been a passion of mine,” says author Norma Lehr. “I was a kid who had to have taps. Now that I’m an adult, I still have tap shoes, and when the rhythm moves me, I slip them on and brush off my silver top hat. I’ve been a member of two adult dance troops who regularly performed around town. I know the thrill of the heavy curtain slowly opening as the audience applauds in anticipation, the bright stage lights at my feet, and that first downbeat of music.”
Norma Lehr is a multi-genre author of short stories, a middle-grade ghost series (Lerners and Northland), and an adult supernatural suspense novel, Dark Maiden (Juno Books, 2007). Timestep to Murder is her sixth published novel. A former nurse and health food store owner in the San Francisco Bay area, Norma now lives with her husband and two senior white pups in the beautiful Sierra Foothills where she joined a tap dancing performing group called the Timetappers. You can find Norma online at www.normalehr.com.
Timestep to Murder is available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Other electronic versions can be purchased on Smashwords, BN.com or at any of the major online ebook stores.
Keep Reading for an excerpt:
The pool area was deserted. The weather this time of the year didn’t beckon many swimmers, only the hearty. She stopped and gazed down into the clear water. A thick blue line painted on the bottom spanned the width of the pool, separating Nevada from California. Before she left here, she made a mental note to swim from one state to the other. Cross that line. Ah hah. She shuddered. That might not be the only line she’d cross at the Cal Neva if she went ahead and entered Melanie’s chalet without permission.
Abby cut through the bar and found the others, all except Jan and Dana, having coffee in the restaurant. She hoped the maid had put in the order for Dana. She needed a shot of caffeine to lift her up.
The other women gathered at the table had all changed from their dance togs into casual clothes and, with lowered voices, were discussing the horrible way Melanie had died. “I ordered you a Chai,” Renee said, patting the seat next to her. “How’s Dana holding up? She looked really bad when she got back.”
All eyes turned to Abby. “It’s tough for her. Apparently Melanie doesn’t have any family. Dana had to make the call to the academy in San Diego and tell them what happened.”
Gail stood to leave. “Well, I’m going to do some gambling on the old slot machines. Pulling a handle and letting those colored symbols roll down and across are Zen for me. Negative thoughts fly out of my head, and everything wonderful happens when the red sevens line up.”
“Good for you.” Blythe folded her napkin into a triangle. “Go meditate.” She looked around at the others. “What about our performance? Is it still on? Has anyone spoken to Jan since Melanie …?” Blythe’s voice quivered.
Gail nodded. “I spoke to her a while ago, over by the roulette wheel. She says there’s no problem. She’s expecting reporters to show up soon because bad publicity always brings in a crowd of curiosity seekers. There she is now, and look who’s with her, Dana.
Wonder what that’s about.”
All heads turned. “Maybe she’s backing out of the performance,” Blythe said.
Renee lifted her chin. “Or she’s pulled herself together like the trooper she is and is letting Jan know the show must go on.”
Abby hoped Renee was right. It did seem odd to see Dana up at the tables looking fresh-faced after what she’d divulged to Abby earlier. “Well, Jan told us that if we had questions, she’d be happy to answer them … that she’d be in the casino somewhere. Maybe Dana has a question.” Abby finished off her tea. “So, let’s go on over. Personally, I need to know if we’re planning to continue. If we are, I want to hear it straight from Jan. If not, I’ve got to make a call and try to reach a friend who’s planning to be here.” She gave Renee a wink. “I don’t want to disappoint him.”
“Either way, whether we dance or not, I hope he does come,” said Renee. “If Melanie’s death escalates into murder and any one of us becomes a suspect, we can use some help from an ex-cop.”
On their way to join Jan and Dana, Abby couldn’t stop thinking about Melanie’s chalet. She felt an irrational urge to get in there. A gut feeling told her that, even if there wasn’t a suicide note, she might find something that the deputies might miss or misinterpret.
Time Slice (ISBN: 978-1-60381-852-0, $14.95, 256 pp.), by Kerry Downing, is a fantasy novel about a man who finds true meaning in his life after retirement, when he acquires the power to visit other, hidden worlds that co-exist on our planet.
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Also available in Kindle ($4.95) and other ebooks versions on Smashwords.
“With the oppression of retirement, Roy Washburn looks to keep himself busy in time. Time Slice follows Roy as he discovers how to slip through time. As a Traveler informs him on how to use it to the fullest, he must help the traveler in return through time. But bouncing around history and dimensions isn’t without risks, as Roy will quickly learn. Time Slice is a fine pick and very highly recommended for contemporary fantasy readers.”
“This is a fun lighthearted young-adult quest fantasy with serious family values underpinning. The story line is action-packed once the retired lead character picks up the gadget and never slows down as he confronts villains like Mr. Clean in his stream and nastier sorts on some of the others. Readers will enjoy taking time out for this entertaining frolic as three generations learn what matters in life’s short Time Slice.” Read More …
–Harriet Klausner
Newly retired workaholic Roy Washburn is not ready for a life of leisure. On a trip to the mall with his wife, he finds a small metal cylinder with odd markings. One nudge of the cylinder’s triangle-shaped pointer and Roy finds himself embarking on an exciting new adventure in the Time Stream. There he meets The Traveler, a tall, gangly being who shows Roy how to use the cylinder to visit other civilizations that co-exist on “his” Earth, each occupying a different, thin Time Slice. The Traveler solicits Roy’s help in recovering an object invented by his murdered father and beyond his own reach. Roy is his last hope. At first it seems that the Traveler’s wish might be easily granted. But after Roy’s wife Emily becomes ill and his daughter’s long-held resentments rise to the surface, he can no longer “travel” at a moment’s notice. He also discovers the very real physical and mental risks involved in roaming the Time Stream. Despite the dangers, Roy is determined to help the Traveler. But he can’t do it alone. Fortunately he has a loving wife and a core group of loyal friends. But first he must convince them—and his daughter—that he isn’t crazy …
“I got the idea for Time Slice after reading an article about Gravitational Time Dilation,” says Downing. “The idea simmered for a few years and then I finally decided it was time to put it down on paper. Unlike my first novel, The Collective, I didn’t start with the plot already figured out … I just let the story go where it wanted to.”
Kerry Downing set out to become a meteorologist, but was hooked by the world of computers instead, becoming a systems analyst and programmer. Astronomy and science fiction are his passions. He’s been gazing at the stars at all hours of the night since the age of 10, when he received his first telescope. As for science fiction, Arthur C. Clarke and his brand of “it really seems as if it could happen” has always been his favorite. In the 90s, Kerry found the third love of his life: his wife, Lucy. They live in St. Louis, Missouri, with their five children. This is Kerry’s second science-fiction novel. You can find him on the Web at www.KerryDowning.com.
Time Slice is available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order by contacting info@Camelpress.com or through Ingram. Other electronic versions are offered on Smashwords, BN.com, Google Ebooks or at any of the major online ebook stores.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
Roy was pretty good at guessing distances from his days as an engineer and he put the cliff’s height at about a thousand feet. While that wasn’t an unheard of height on Earth by any means, the sheerness of its face made it quite imposing. As he stepped back away from the cliff and towards the water trying to get a better view, he noticed that the top of the cliff actually jutted out further than its base, causing it to look like something from a Road Runner cartoon. Would the speedy little bird and Wile E. Coyote, Super Genius, be along any time now? The top of the cliff looked like the perfect place for the long-suffering coyote to try and set a trap for his foe. When it failed, as it was doomed to do from the start, the overhanging part of the cliff would simply break away and the coyote would be in for yet another fall.
As strange as things were, Roy didn’t think that was going to happen, but you could never tell. Who would have guessed he would be here at all? Wherever here was.
As Roy examined the cliff, he noticed a small black dot in the sky, just off the cliff’s edge. Then he noticed another, and another, and yet another. Four black dots, definitely moving away from the cliff, in the sky.
As he continued to watch, the dots grew in size. Whatever the things were, they appeared to be falling. Roy squinted, trying to make out a shape he might recognize, but they were still too small.
Up until then the only sound Roy had been aware of was the waves coming on shore. Now, a new sound came to his ear. It was a high-pitched, squeaking sound like someone or something screaming, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” But it didn’t sound like that someone or something was scared. It was more like they were excited, maybe having so much fun they couldn’t help but squeal.
As the black dots continued to fall towards the ground and grow in size, Roy could finally make out a shape. The things looked like lizards! All four of their legs were sticking straight out away from their bodies. As they continued their descent, Roy could also see that there was a triangle-shaped flap of something, skin he guessed, attached to the creatures’ front legs. These flaps were billowing in the wind like little parachutes as the creatures glided slowly and skillfully towards the beach.
Second Chances, ($14.95, 264 pp., ISBN: 978-1-60381-876-6), by Jeff Erno, is a gay science fiction romance about a dying billionaire whose consciousness is transferred into the body of a young man.
