Archive for the ‘Blog Tour’ Category

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Title: Unawqi, Hunter of the Sun
Author: Kali Kucera
Publisher: Independent
Pages: 218
Genre: Mythical Realism

Synopsis

In a time when supernatural and industrial worlds are staged to collide, an Andean boy finds himself in the center of an epic struggle between the cosmos and the earth. Unawqi is born with both insurmountable power and a fate of certain death, both of which are challenged by his hunt of the emperor, Aakti, the Sun: the very force that desires to abandon the earth unless Unawqi can overcome him.

Premise: How easily we take the Sun for granted. We are conditioned to its rising and setting on time, and assume it enjoys doing so, or more likely is indifferent. Unawqi, Hunter of the Sun reveals a more perilous tale: the Sun, Aakti, is a being who is a reluctant player in providing light and warmth to our world, and even more has always desired to leave us to die if he didn’t have certain personal complications standing in his way. Aakti will stop at nothing to get what he wants, even if that involves murder of his own kin or annihilation of an entire living planet. Ironically, what holds him back is the very life he is creating; the family from which he tries to but cannot wrest control, and among them a young intrepid boy emerges, a hunter who sets out on a journey, not to stop the Sun, but to overcome him with a force we also take for granted: our humanity.

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Enjoy the Excerpt

THANKSGIVING

Beware the empty chair.

It was the only one unclaimed in the room of hungry diners in the basement of St. Rita’s church in Tacoma.  The legs were slightly turned out, as if an invisible waiter had pulled it back to let me slide in.

Guilt had gotten the best of me to be there in the first place.  It was Thanksgiving morning, and a day earlier, my neighbors, who were never ones to shirk a promise, came to me with panic on their faces.  Their son’s house had burned down, they said, and they needed to leave immediately.

I gave them my sympathies, but something else was bothering them still.  They had obligated themselves to help prepare free breakfast at St. Rita’s in the morning, an annual tradition for the city’s homeless.  I tried not to wince at the pious sound of it all, but I could sense what they were leading up to and I remembered the many times they’d watered my garden when I was out of town.  I knew my morning would be free before needing to drive to my aunt’s house for our family dinner, so, of course, I told my neighbors I would be glad to fill in for them and they should think no more of it.

Never having even been to St. Rita’s, I was loathe to socialize and threw myself into the work, but after a couple hours of scrambling eggs, I was impressed by my neighbor’s commitment to do this year after year.  My feet felt like two ends of a barbell, and I was just about ready to grab a plate myself and take a break.

If I had not been so tired, my finicky nature would have guided me to pass up the solitary chair and look for a less conspicuous corner of the room where perhaps there were fewer people.  The less forgiving angel on my shoulder bit me with the words: “You hypocritical, insincere, lazy ass.” It was right.  The people were streaming in through the door. Most had no home, no job, and no money.  Their bodies told their stories of broken dreams, crippling work, and damaged minds.  And here I was, fancying an emperor’s throne somewhere, so I could separate myself off to swallow my grits and baked apples?

The lonely chair in front of me could have been reserved for someone else, so I asked the person sitting on the opposite side of the table if it was taken.  He said no, gestured for me to claim it, and I sat down with my plate and coffee without giving it another thought.

It wasn’t until I looked back up that I noticed something about him seemed out of place.  I glanced at him across the table as he salted his eggs, observing how his right hand moved gracefully to the shaker.  He had none of the typical displays of mental edginess.  He was not disheveled, or weary on the brow.  His hair was combed, and he wore a leather jacket that didn’t bear a single tear.  His eyes were calm, like having emerged from a prayer, and he was happily occupied with his own thoughts.

But his left hand remained fixed in place on the table, appearing to be hiding something underneath his palm.

I must admit, it was also plain to me how strikingly handsome he was.  His jet black hair, and his face with the sheen of a brown eggshell suggested he was Latino, and I wondered what had brought him here, far from where he might have been born.

Normally, it’s prudent in these settings not to ask.  People are scarred enough by their circumstances and they don’t want to be interviewed as the price for their meal.  I wanted to protect his privacy and let him eat in peace, and in my own defense, didn’t want to unleash an emotional outbreak.  But still, his appearance challenged me, and his seeming self-confidence broke through my etiquette, and I asked him that inadvisable question anyway:  “So, what’s your story?”

His face sprung up like a soldier’s salute and he gave me a smile, wide with contentment.

“I am Unawqi.  I am hunting the Sun.”

It was such a terse thing to say, and he was so oddly composed in saying it, that I could only smile and nod back, disguising my disappointment, sure he was just as crazy as the rest, albeit happily crazy.

I thought some more about the strangeness of his name, sounding out the phonemes in my mind.  Was it Finnish or Japanese?  Apache, perhaps?  A second later I thought again that maybe he was making a clever joke in order to break the ice.  After all, Tacoma has plenty of days of being overcast with gloomy clouds refusing to budge, and talking about the weather is indeed how we all usually start a conversation.  So I returned to him again and said, “Yes, the Sun has a lot of good hiding places in November.”

Unawqi dropped his fork on his plate and his eyes bore into me as if I had just given him the key to paradise.

“So you have seen him?” Unawqi beamed.

Regretting, now, that I had not taken the warning sign of the empty chair, I searched my mind for an excuse to get up and return to the kitchen.  But before I could finish my breakfast, Unawqi had lined out enough of his story that I found myself not only glued to my seat, but devoid of any fatigue or hunger but for the feast of his very next word.

I fell in love with Unawqi instantly, as I imagined everyone did.  In the first thirty minutes he made me laugh more than I had over the course of a year.  It puzzled me how such an energetically positive young man could end up in a basement of broken heartedness, but this only compelled me to listen all the more.

I wouldn’t be telling you this story if Unawqi was, in fact, merely making a joke about the weather.  His opening line was literally and plainly what he’d meant: he was a hunter, the Sun was his prey, and his extraordinary pursuit, which had begun ages ago, had finally brought him here, to Tacoma, of all places.  And it was here, in Tacoma, that he was just as zealous as he had always been to see his hunt come to an end.

Naturally, I had to ask why would one hunt the Sun, and this was when his story grew more complicated, his face showing pain, at many points, as he struggled to justify the emotional struggle of his journey.

He set his plate aside, for the heaviness in his heart overtook any appetite he had left, and he reached out and took my hand, asking me to listen.

“Think back, if you will, to the first time your father took you for a walk in the night.  The darkness, how it horrified you.  It swallowed you whole, and the only link you had to the light was the touch of your father’s fingers in your palm.  So small and tenuous a wall, you remembered, separating your life from your death.

“For a brief second he let go of your hand, to, instead, put it on your shoulder, and in that moment you felt what it was like to be forsaken.  You cried out in terror, and even when his hand returned, you realized it could leave again, throwing you into the vastness of space to be on your own.

“Still, he urged you to continue, to go further, deeper into space, farther away from home.  So you trusted him again, and you walked together until you shivered from the cold.

“But for some reason still a mystery, imagine that he truly chose to let his hand go, and his voice to go silent.  You would pray it wasn’t true, that he must soon return, and yet he would not.  No matter how many times you called, he would not answer.  He just left.

“This time you would be all alone, a boy, abandoned to face the boundless night, led to the loveless abyss, rejected by your own genesis, without a compass or line to find your way  back.

“No greater a cruelty can be imagined than this.  But this is just between one father and his son.  How much greater is the cruelty when the father casts a million sons, indeed, the whole world, to the abyss?

“That is the crime.  That is why I’m here.

“But there is more, for now the father is no less the boy, and the boy no less his father.

“We are all in danger of casting each other out.”

Unawqi told me he was not hunting for sport or pleasure.  He was a bounty hunter of sorts, and the Sun had committed a crime against humanity, a preconceived crime that had not yet come to pass, but still could, if the right conditions were met.  It was a crime that Unawqi said he himself needed to overcome. Indeed, that we all must do the same, at some point or another.

My mind came around again to his left hand, which still had not moved.

“And what is this you’re keeping?” I asked.

“Oh, this,’’ he answered with a little chagrin and lifting his palm.  “This is a gift.  A little silk worm I hope will bring me good fortune and make things right.”

The tiny insect was crawling around in a nest of straw, making spindles of silk that played with the overhead light.  This smallest of living things, manufacturing the miraculous in the middle of such a somber place, enchanted me to no end.

Unawqi, of course, wanted to protect it, which is why he kept it covered so securely.  His hand was its shelter, its mighty fortress, and he would be certain to never abandon this creation for as long as he lived.

His story would not have come from Finland or Japan or the mesas of Arizona.  His beginning belonged to a patch of green, high in the Andes, where farmers herded goats, and unearthed potatoes, when they were not dancing to the sounds of their magical flutes.  It was a peaceful place, and he longed to return home, as soon as he was able, but only if he could bring the whole world home with him.

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About the Author

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Kali Kucera is an American lorist and short story writer living in Quito, Ecuador, where he also rides and writes about bus and train travel. Since he was 9 years old he has been composing plays, operas, short stories, and multi-disciplinary experiences. He has been both a teacher and performer as well as an arts mobilizer, and founded the Tacoma Poet Laureate competition in 2008.

His latest book is the mythical realism novel, Unawai, Hunter of the Sun.

Website / Twitter / Facebook

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

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Warpaint

Warpaint Trilogy Book 1

By Stephanie Smith

Genre: New Adult

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Warpaint is a haunting tale of friendship and rivalry between three women artists, who’ve known each other for years, who must come to terms with imminent mortality and artistic frustration: Liz Moore, born poor in Minnesota, fought her way to New York in the 1920s, but isn’t “discovered” until late in life; C.C. Davis, a well-to-do New Yorker is Moore’s only student, and rival, who, just after WWII achieves some small success, but feels, as she faces cancer in 2002, a failure; and Quiola Kerr, part Ojibwe, once C.C.’s lover, who is caught in the middle, and who, as a painter in the 21st century, has the most doubts about art’s value in an electronic world. In April 2002, all three meet a week before C.C.’s mastectomy at a MOMA retrospective for Liz Moore, but their reunion is tense. Still, they try to cope, until C.C. makes an unexpected and controversial choice, one which nearly breaks the bonds these three took so many decades to forge, and forces Quiola to try to confront Liz, who she believes deliberately sabotaged C.C.’s career.

Warpaint features American women painters, native american or American Indian (Ojibwe) history; it has a lesbian couple at the heart of the story; it’s about trying to survive breast cancer and choosing suicide; it features New York City, Paris, Minnesota and Connecticut. The Indian character, Quiola Kerr, shows up in the next book…

Goodreads * Hardcover on Amazon

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Baby Rocket

Warpaint Trilogy Book 2

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In 1966, a child is found abandoned in a rocket ride on Cape Canaveral. Traumatized, she could not speak when the police found her, only a few yards from her dead mother. So first responders called her “Baby Rocket.” As an adult, this child (Clementine “Lem” Dance) has no memory of this event. She only discovers her past when her adoptive father, James Walter Dance, Jr. has a fatal heart attack. Lem, a women’s historian who is writing a book about the Mercury 9, finds files while cleaning out her father’s apartment that he had been collecting in order to tell her the truth. Without him, she must piece together her story—why was she abandoned? What happened to her parents? How did her mother die? Who is her biological father? Doing so will take her from California back to the Tri-State area, where she now lives; to Florida, where she will find her mother’s roots and her mother’s life-story; and, finally, to Martha’s Vineyard, where she will come to terms with what she can recall and what she has uncovered about the wrenching facts of her early years.

Goodreads * Hardcover on Amazon

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Content Burns

Warpaint Trilogy Book 3

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“Content Burns” chronicles the parallel stories of two women from the same family who bear the same Puritan name, Content Burns, and who are separated by three centuries: One born a Pequot Indian, originally named Ásawanuw (Corn-silk), who converts and marries into the English Burns family in 1637, and one, nicknamed Cabbi, in modern-day New York. They are unknown to each other yet both women must learn how to survive an historical trauma that changed the course of American history, and their lives: the massacre of the Pequot tribe in 1637 and the loss of the Twin Towers on 9/11.

Goodreads * Hardcover on Amazon

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Stephanie Smith took her PhD from Berkeley (1990), and attended the Haystack Creative Writing Workshop in 1981, with Ursula K. LeGuin. Prior to UF, she worked as a free-lance journalist, an editor for Western Imprints, an assistant at Glamour and Mademoiselle magazines; at Representations and at David Godine Publications, and is presently a consultant for Feminist Studies. A novelist, she is the author of: The Warpaint Trilogy, Warpaint (2012), Baby Rocket (2013) and Content Burns (2014) (Thames River Press); Other Nature (TOR,1995), which was short-listed for the Tiptree Award; The-Boy-Who-Was-Thrown-Away and Snow-Eyes (Atheneum 1985/87), along with a number of short stories, which have appeared in such magazines as New Letters, Asimov’s and SF&F. She has won multiple fiction residencies at the Martha’s Vineyard Writer’s Residency at the Noepe Center for the Arts, Hedgebrook, Norcroft, Provincetown and Dorland, and she has been featured in a number of magazines and online blogs.

Examining the intersection of science, literature, politics, race and gender, her essays appear in such journals as differences, Novel, Criticism, Genders, Genre, American Literature and American Literary History. A 1998 Visiting NEH Scholar at UCLA, she is the author of Conceived By Liberty: Maternal Figures and 19th-Century American Literature (Cornell 1995), nominated for the MLA First Book Award; Household Words (Minnesota, 2006) excerpts from both books have been reprinted in several collections. A creative non-fiction “A Meditation on Brit” appeared in Remaking Moby Dick an international multi-modal story-telling performance, both in print as a special edition of Pea River Journal (2013) and online. Currently, she is finishing a new critical book about aesthetics and the publishing industry in the United States, titled The Muse and The Marketplace, a chapter of which, “Union Blues: Melville’s Poetic In(ter)ventions,” is in the spring 2014 journal Genre; she is also finishing a new novel, Strange Grace.

Goodreads * Website * Amazon * Facebook

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$20 Amazon Gift Card.

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

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Title: GHOST HAMPTON
Author: Ken McGorry
Publisher: Independent
Pages: 450
Genre: Paranormal Thriller

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My Review

Imagine it. A successful but not very well liked lawyer gets a conscience. Well, kind of. After he’s injured in an accident, Lyle Hall, a taciturn lawyer, comes out of it with an infinity for other people’s pain. A long dead ghost in the guise of a young girl shows him a vision of his own daughter’s grave marker and wants his help. Georgie has four days to live and Lyle is on the clock to save her before her time is up.

There are complications. Lyle and Georgie aren’t on the best of terms. His case to save the old Victorian mansion, Old Vic, where Jewel, the young ghost resides, spreads like fire over the internet as its said have once been a brothel and is now haunted. Paranormal investigators come out of the word work and descend on the town, along with a sexy, feisty TV reporter, Silk, after the next big scoop.

Torn between his old selfish desires and the word of a ghost that his daughter will die, will Lyle make the right choice?

This book has a lot to offer. And you can tell the author knows his stuff.  He gives you  laughter, suspense, and a bit of the sexy stuff, along with the paranormal creepiness. And his characters are a modge podge of personalities so genuine, you think you recognize some of them.

I got a whole lot of everything in this story and that, along with the easy flow of the writing, made the enjoyment double fun.

4 Stars

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Synopsis

Lyle Hall is a new man since his car accident and spinal injury. The notoriously insensitive Bridgehampton lawyer is now afflicted with an odd sensitivity to other people’s pain. Especially that of a mysterious young girl he encounters outside a long-abandoned Victorian house late one October night. “Jewel” looks about 12. But Lyle knows she’s been dead a hundred years. Jewel wants his help, but it’s unclear how. As if in return, she shows him an appalling vision—his own daughter’s tombstone. If it’s to be believed, Georgie’s last day is four days away. Despite Lyle’s strained relations with his police detective daughter, he’s shocked out of complacent convalescence and back into action in the real world.

But the world now seems surreal to the formerly Scrooge-like real estate lawyer. Lyle’s motion in court enjoining the Town of Southampton from demolishing the old house goes viral because he leaked that it might be haunted. This unleashes a horde of ghost-loving demonstrators and triggers a national media frenzy. Through it all strides Lyle’s new nemesis in high heels: a beautiful, scheming TV reporter known as Silk.

Georgie Hall’s own troubles mount as a campaign of stationhouse pranks takes a disturbing sexual turn. Her very first case is underway and her main suspect is a wannabe drug lord. Meanwhile, Lyle must choose: Repair his relationship with Georgie or succumb to the devious Silk and her exclusive media contract. He tells himself seeing Georgie’s epitaph was just a hallucination. But a few miles away the would-be drug lord is loading his assault rifle. Berto needs to prove himself.

Amazon | Barnes & Noble

 

Book Excerpt:

He heard her here. She was one of the whisperers. It seemed weirdly flattering at first.

           Ensconced in the MediCab that exhausted evening of the detour, Lyle had the windows down, allowing in fresh air and the angling rays of the setting sun. Commuter traffic from the train station had been annoyingly redirected onto Poplar Street. Fred crept forward, foot on the brake, with eight more cars ahead of them. Wrung out after his wrongheaded foray to Southampton, Lyle’s arms and shoulders ached; muscles, joints, his hands too. And he felt the onset of what Dr. Susan Wayne called “free-floating anxiety.” In Lyle’s case, a blob of uneasiness that could intensify into inchoate dread.

He was slumped in his Mr. Potter when the imposing shambles of a house came into view on his right. Everybody called it Old Vic. Sporting dumb old “No Trespassing” signs as long as anyone could remember, it was commonly held that Old Vic was once a brothel. Long ago, when Bridgehampton was part of the East End’s whaling industry, before it grew into a high-end summer getaway, real-estate bonanza and snob haven.

            Then there’s the suburban legend that Old Vic was haunted. Who says? No one and everyone, whether they believe it or not.

            The MediCab was crawling by Old Vic when Lyle first heard the whispers. He rose on his elbows, his chair secured to the van’s floor, and listened. Cats in heat. No, wait. This was more subtle, conversational. A furtive murmur that piqued his curiosity. He needed to listen again.

            “Hey Fred, make a right at the corner, please?”

            “Course correction, Mr. Hall?”

            “I want to circle back for another look at the old house. And Fred, call me Lyle, okay? Lyle is fine.” It had been six months with the same driver.

            Fred made the turn. Any such whim of Lyle Hall’s, he knew, was good for a crisp off-the-books twenty. It was even worth a twenty to stop at the ATM—Lyle would entrust Fred with his debit card and pass code to avoid the hassle. He also let Fred smoke.

            Fred drove around the block clockwise. From each side street Lyle got a view of Old Vic’s battered cupola poking above the trees and roof lines of summer homes. It was unsettling—the cupola, a little booth standing atop the third story, was Old Vic’s most exposed and weather-beaten feature. Any paint was scabby and vestigial. The cupola’s large oval oculus suggested a blinded Cyclops, its leaded glass shattered by determined boys with BB guns long before Lyle was born.

            They turned onto Poplar again, and approached the house.

            “Slow down, please, Fred? Actually, could you park?”

            Fred did so. Odd request, but Mr. Hall is, or was, a real estate tycoon.

            “And roll down the windows, please? And mind turning off the radio? …Thanks. Cut the engine too, please, Fred? …Thank you.”

            If Mr. Hall wants to smell Old Vic, Fred figured, this could be worth more than one folded twenty. He glanced at Lyle through his mirror, lit a butt, and texted his wife.

            To the west, clouds glowing orange and pink were eclipsed by the hulking old house. It grew darker. The last of the traffic was now gone. Lyle strained to hear. He tried to listen harder, if that’s possible.

     Quiet. Listen.

Author Ken McGorry

ken-mcgorry

Ken McGorry has been writing since third grade. (He learned in first grade, but waited two years.) He started a school newspaper with friends in seventh grade, but he’s better known for his 23 years as an editor of Post Magazine, a monthly covering television and film production. This century, he took up novel-writing and Ghost Hampton and Smashed are examples. More are in the works, like the promised Ghost Hampton sequel, but he’s kinda slow.

Ken lives on Long Island with his wife and they have two strapping sons. There are dogs. Ken is also a chef (grilled cheese, and only for his sons) and he enjoys boating (if it’s someone else’s boat). He has a band, The Achievements, that plays his songs (try https://soundcloud.com/ken-mcgorry). Back at Manhattan College (English major!), he was a founding member of the venerable Meade Bros. Band. Ken really was an employee of Dan’s Papers in the Hamptons one college summer, and really did mow Dan’s lawn.

WEBSITE | TWITTER | FACEBOOK | GOODREADS

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

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boy-meets-witch

Boy Meets Witch

G.A. Rael

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Genre: Paranormal/Fantasy

Hosted by: Ultimate Fantasy Book Tours

Blurb:

Harper Adams is a witch on the run–from her past as a faith healer turned accidental arsonist, and from the power she’s kept locked away her whole life. She thinks she’s finally found a place she can settle down and call home in the picturesque town of Cold Creek, Vermont, but a mysterious white cat who may or may not be bent on taking the curvaceous witch’s soul has other plans. Harper’s compassion gets the best of her and earns her an unwanted reputation as the town miracle worker as well as the ire of sexy veterinarian and militant atheist, Darren St. Clair.

Cold Creek’s residents have a few supernatural secrets of their own, and Harper will have to face the destiny that led her to the last place a witch in hiding needs to be–that is, if Darren doesn’t have her chased out of town with a pitchfork-wielding mob before she gets the chance.

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↓Buy Links↓

 

Pre-order https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01M2URFOK

 

Author Bio:

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Hi there!

I’m a practicing witch and author of paranormal romance, fantasy and magical realism. I’m also a firm believer that the things that go bump in the night deserve their happily ever afters, too!

When I’m not writing, you can find me watching campy horror films with my husband and our menagerie and hiking in the woods in beautiful New England!

Want updates when I publish a book? Join The Coven (PNR & Fantasy Newsletter.)

http://eepurl.com/ckWYMv

Visit her at:

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways click on the lucky horseshoe below!

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Welcome to the Paranormal Bar & Grill Tour ya’ll!

Come on in and take a gander.

And don’t forget to enter the giveaway!

 

Will O’ the Wisp

by Craig Boyack

A Thousand Yesteryears

by Mae Clair

Vampire Island

by Sandra Cox

The Glade

by Harmony Kent

Love Set in Stone

by Staci Troilo

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GENRE: Paranormal

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BLURB:

October starts out warm and sunny, but this is the month when everything changes. Mornings grow frosty, leaves change colors, and the breeze takes on a bite.

Summer dies.

It’s a time for harvest celebrations. A boy loans a girl his coat. She snuggles a little closer and takes his hand. A riot of autumn splendor accompanies the farmer’s market where they stroll.

But the vibrancy of daylight doesn’t compare to the darkness of night. Is that chill on your neck the breeze or something else?

October night.

You walk a tad faster and look over your shoulder. The trees creak when the wind whips through their branches—at least, you hope that noise came from the undulating bows.

You check under the bed and inside the closet before climbing under the covers. Sleep doesn’t come easy. The old house groans its complaints, and the night magnifies every innocuous noise until terror paralyzes you—because you know nefarious things go bump in the night.

Welcome to the Paranormal Bar & Grille Blog Tour

…where you can rub elbows with everyone from a gargoyle or vampire, to a creature from urban legend, or the ghostly realms of myth. Step up to the bar, grab a booth. You never know what’s on the menu, or if you might end up there yourself.

Sound like your kind of hangout? Then you’ve come to the right place. We’re a group of five authors who love nothing more than to trigger the chill that crawls up your back, the nervous glance tossed over your shoulder. We invite you to discover outstanding books and check out our awesome tour prizes.

Just be careful of what the bartender serves you. That heady brew may not be a beer, and witches can’t be trusted to provide effective antidotes.

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Excerpt from The Glade

“Mrs Wenstrop, I am arresting you for the murder of your husband.”  The policeman grabbed hold of her forearms and continued, “You do not have to say anything.  But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in Court.  Anything you do say may be used in evidence.”  The officer snapped the cuffs closed around her trembling wrists, and then gave her a hard look and asked her: “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”  Dullness, from deep shock, fogged Helen’s brain.

She kept glancing toward the door, which led to the hallway, where she knew the narrow stairs would take her up to the bedroom—to where her husband’s dead body still lay.  She had left him lying in bed, and he looked for all the world as though he were asleep.  But she and the police knew better.  Helen wondered if this was some kind of crazy, twisted April fool.  But no, it was after midday, so the joke would have to have been given up by now.  Besides, Geoff would never put her through this—no matter how angry they might have been with one another over the past weeks.  This was for real.  Her brain refused point blank to process her situation.  Even though she had killed him with her own hands, she couldn’t accept that he was dead.  They would never, not in a million years, believe her story.  No, they were more likely to admit her to the mental hospital than anything else.  Hell, she couldn’t even believe her tale herself.

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AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Craig Boyack

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Just a fiction writer, trying to reach the world.

Craig came to fiction writing later in life than most authors. He always had to write, to one degree or another as part of various jobs. Early one winter morning, he conquered the Internet and didn’t feel like shoveling the sidewalk until the sun came up. He tried a few pages of fiction and got hooked.

Craig doesn’t like limitations and calls himself a writer of speculative fiction. It’s a broad field, but he limits himself to science fiction, paranormal, and a bit of fantasy.

He has eight published works—six novels and two collections of short stories.

You can find him at the following locations:

Amazon / Blog / Facebook / Twitter / Goodreads

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Mae Clair

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Mystery & Suspense…with a dash of Myth & Romance

Genres: Mystery, Psychological Thrillers, Supernatural Suspense, Romantic Suspense

Quirky fact I don’t want anyone to know:

(or maybe I do)….I saw a UFO when I was six. Probably why I write some of the stuff I do.

~ooOOoo~

Bio:

They say everyone has a story to tell.

I wrote my first childish “masterpiece” at six and was immediately bitten by the writing bug. Since then, I’ve been composing nonstop, and have dabbled in multiple genres over the years, writing everything from fantasy, westerns, and horror to inspirational fiction, romance, and sci-fi. It took me a while to find my niche, but I’ve settled comfortably into the mystery/suspense genre (with a just a dash of romance tossed in).

Several of my earlier works have strong romantic themes, but all are infused with threads of mystery. I have a passion for folklore, myth, and urban legends and that attraction often factors into my writing. You’ll find threads of archaic tales and mysterious places woven throughout many of my novels.

I am a member of the International Thriller Writers and a past president of the Central Pennsylvania Writer’s Organization. If I’m not camped out at my keyboard or have my nose buried in a book, I’m likely looking up blurry images of cryptids on Google, sorting through vintage photographs or imagining life as a cat.

Relevant Links:

Website / Amazon / Bookbub / Newsletter / Twitter

Facebook / Pinterest / Google + / Kensington Publishing

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Sandra Cox

Sandra Cox

 

Living life. Writing fantasy.

Sandra writes YA Fantasy, Paranormal and Historical Romance, and Metaphysical Nonfiction. She lives in sunny North Carolina with her husband, a brood of critters and an occasional foster cat. Although shopping is high on the list, her greatest pleasure is sitting on her screened in porch, listening to the birds, sipping coffee or a latte and enjoying a good book. She’s a vegetarian and a Muay Thai enthusiast.

Relevant Links:

Blog / Website / Facebook / Twitter / Amazon

 

Harmony Kent

harmonykent

The author who gets write into your head.

Genres: Multi-genre

Quirky Fact I don’t want anyone to know: Wrote the entirety of The Glade while listening to the Twilight movie soundtrack. And she’s not mentioning the glass of white (ahem) ‘grape juice’ that kept finding its way to her computer station.

Author Bio:

Harmony Kent is famous for her laughter, and has made quite the name for herself … she’s also, um, a writer … and fairly well known for that too. She’s even won a few awards. Harmony lives in rural Cornwall with her ever-present sense of humour and quirky neighbours and refuses to admit to her age.

If you catch her at work, you’ll see that she also offers editing, proof reading, manuscript appraisal, and beta reading services. Not to mention being passionate about supporting her fellow authors.

Links to Harmony and her books:

Website / Twitter / Facebook / Amazon US / Amazon UK / Goodreads

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Staci Troilo

stacitroilo

Staci Troilo. Writing Relationship Wrongs.

Genres: Romance, Suspense, Paranormal, Mystery, and Mainstream

Quirky fact I don’t want anyone to know:

The socks in my sock drawer and the books on my shelf are arranged in rainbow order.

Bio:

I’ve always loved fiction, ever since my parents read me fairy tales when I was little. Today, my interests are much more eclectic. I love getting lost in sci-fi battles, fantasy realms, horror worlds, suspenseful intrigues, and romantic entanglements.

As goes my reading, so goes my writing. I can’t pick a single genre to focus on, so I don’t even try. I’m proud to say I’m a multi-genre author.

When I’m not reading or writing, I’m spending time with family and friends, possibly cooking for them, or maybe enjoying an afternoon in the pool. To learn more about me, visit me at http://stacitroilo.com or connect with me on social media.

Relevant Links:

Website / Amazon / Bookbub / Goodreads / Newsletter

Twitter / Facebook / FB Group / Pinterest / Google + / LinkedIn

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Candidate For Murder

A Mac Faraday Mystery #12

by Lauren Carr

Candidate for Murder

Genre: Mystery

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My Review

I’ve read several books in the Mac Faraday Mystery series and was so excited after reading the synopsis for this newest one.

Gnarly, Mac Faraday’s german shepherd and my favorite four-legged friend, is running for Mayor of Spencer. Most folks in town don’t care for either of the candidates running on the ballot. Sound familiar?  They jump on board to vote Gnarly in. Of course, the other nominees aren’t taking this lying down, and they dig for the dirt. I don’t think they’ll find anything. After all, Gnarly is man’s best friend. Well, except for the thing about the disappearing food. His partner in crime, Storm, knows all about that, and she’s not talking.

What started as a lark snowballs, and the fun begins. Can you imagine Gnarly debating the other candidates? How about kissing babies and shaking hands? Gnarly is on the campaign fast track. I wonder if his four-legged companions will be allowed to vote.

In between all of the crazy political scheming, the gang is working a cold case. Secrets are uncovered and the town of Spencer might not survive the fallout.

I love that Lauren’s characters are all animal lovers and their pets go wherever they go. And they are just as individual in personality as the humans. It’s a load of laughs to see what they get into.

When an author can spin a good mystery and keep me in stitches at the same time, it’s all good. I loved this book and it’s now one of my favorites in the series.

5 Stars

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Synopsis

It’s election time in Spencer, Maryland, and the race for mayor is not a pretty one. In recent years, the small resort town has become divided between the local year-round residents who have enjoyed their rural way of life and the city dwellers moving into their mansions, taking over the town council, and proceeding to turn Deep Creek Lake into a closed gate community—complete with a host of regulations for everything from speed limits to clothes lines.

When the political parties force-feed two unsavory mayoral nominees on the town residents, Police Chief David O’Callaghan decides to make a statement—by nominating Gnarly, Mac Faraday’s German shepherd, to run as mayor of Spencer!

What starts out as a joke turns into a disaster when overnight Gnarly becomes the front runner—at which point his political enemies take a page straight out of Politics 101. What do you do when you’re behind in a race? Dig up dirt on the front runner, of course.

Seemingly, someone is not content to rest with simply embarrassing the front runner by publicizing his dishonorable discharge from the United States Army, but to throw in a murder for good measure. With murder on the ballot, Mac Faraday and the gang—including old friends from past cases—dive in to clear Gnarly’s name, catch a killer, and save Spencer!

Buy the book:   Amazon

Author Lauren Carr

Lauren Carr 2

Lauren Carr is the international best-selling author of the Mac Faraday, Lovers in Crime, and Thorny Rose Mysteries. The twelfth installment in the Mac Faraday Mystery series, Candidate for Murder will be released June 2016.

Lauren is a popular speaker who has made appearances at schools, youth groups, and on author panels at conventions. She lives with her husband, son, and four dogs (including the real Gnarly) on a mountain in Harpers Ferry, WV.

Connect with Lauren: Website  ~  Twitter  ~  Facebook

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Win a Fire Tablet, 7″ Display, Wi-Fi, 16 GB (Open internationally)

Winner will be the person to use #Vote4Gnarly most often.

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Giveaway ends Sept 24.

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SolitaryHorseman banner

I remember reading Zane Grey’s westerns when I was young. I couldn’t wait for each new release. It’s been a long time since then, and I find I’ve slipped away from the genre.

I’ve found a wonderful new author and am excited to share her historical western romance, Solitary Horseman.

The cover art is visually stunning and captures the essence of the cowboy and his trusted horse.

Come on in. Enjoy the interview with author Deborah Camp.

And don’t forget to enter the giveaway!

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Author Interview

Do you have any tattoos? Where? When did you get it/them? Where are they on your body?

I don’t have any. I actually dislike tattoos. I don’t understand the concept. Seems that people need something visual to remember things. I don’t. I can recall important moments and people without a visual hint. Tattoos make me think of prisons and drunk sailors and I don’t like to think about those. I think the human body is lovely without ink.

Is your life anything like it was two years ago?

Actually, it is quite the same. I work. I play. I foster dogs for a rescue group. I read a lot. Life is good.

How long have you been writing?

I’ve been writing since I was a child. I had my first novel accepted by a New York publisher in 1978. I’ve made my living writing since I graduated from college.

What advice would you give a new writer just starting out?

Approach it as you would any profession. Learn your trade. Take classes. Join writers’ groups. Go to critique sessions. Enter writing contests, both local, state, and national. Read one of your favorite books as if it were a textbook. Mark in it the POV (point of view) and when the POV changes. Is it written in present or past tense or both? When is the main conflict introduced? How is this conflict carried out through the novel? When are the main characters introduced and how are they introduced to readers? When is the first “action” scene in the book? And so on. Dissect it. Learn from it. Read “how to” books by authors such as Stephen King, Lawrence Block, and Dean Koontz. Read writers magazines such as Writers Digest and Publishers Weekly. Know your stuff before you submit to a publisher or a literary agent.

Tell us something about your newest release that is NOT in the blurb.

I find the first decade following the Civil War more interesting than the war – for the South, at least. Although I think that what they were fighting for (slave trade) is despicable, I sympathize with the aftermath they faced as the losing side. Their money was worthless, but they still had to pay taxes and buy things. They’d all lost family and friends. They were under a “new rule.” The life they’d known was finished and they had to pick up the tatters and knit some kind of existence from them. So, this book deals with how people coped and didn’t cope. It deals with the bitterness running through the South and how it manifested in people. Living in the South, I can tell you that the bitterness still exists today. It runs very deep and the scars remain.

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Solitary Horseman

by Deborah Camp

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000039_00009]

Genre: Historical Romance (Western)

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Synopsis

Texas rancher Callum Latimer believed that the Civil War had killed everything tender and yearning inside of him until he struck up a partnership with Banner Payne. His dark-haired, golden-eyed, spirited neighbor stirred embers that he thought were long dead . . .

 

Sunlight glided over hair as she shifted from one boot to the other, and before his mind could catch up with his instincts, Callum reached out and wrapped his index finger around one of her auburn curls. Its softness against his calloused skin sent longing through him like a rushing river. She’d be like that all over – soft where he was hard, giving where he was not. He heard her gasp and his heart bucked.

.

Amazon

Excerpt

As long as he could remember, the Paynes were the family everyone in these parts shunned. His pa made noise about Otis Payne stealing cattle from him, but the bad blood between him and Otis went farther back than that – years before Callum was born. The Paynes had a good piece of land and had usually turned out a healthy herd of cattle, but they were a slovenly lot. The children had always looked unkempt. That probably had to do with them not having a mother to look after them. Alva had died when Banner was just a babe.

The war had taken two of her brothers, leaving only Hollis. Otis had died six months before the war ended. Callum had heard that Banner was running the Payne ranch, but he didn’t believe it. He figured Hollis was trying to be the boss and his cowhands were taking advantage of him. Stealing him blind, probably. That’s what he’d heard from Eller and from folks in town.

Leaning a shoulder against the porch post, Callum watched the horse and wagon make its way toward the house. Behind him, the hound growled. “No, Rowdy,” he commanded and the growl faded to whine.

The sun burned his eyes, making it difficult to discern any details of the Payne’s girl’s face. She reined the sway-backed horse in the shade of the house and Callum could finally see her bonnet and pretty dress. After she wrapped the reins around the brake, she turned toward him and a smile curved her pink lips as her gaze met his boldly, confidently.

Callum shifted his weight from one boot to the other as a bolt of awareness shot through him. Damn, she’d grown into a beauty, he thought, taking in her reddish brown hair and heart-shaped face. And those eyes – dark gold. The eyes of a tiger.

“’Afternoon to you, Misters Latimer.” Her voice had a husky quality, as pleasing as aged whiskey. “I bet you’re surprised to see me.”

“I don’t like surprises,” Seth said.

She swallowed and her smile faltered for a moment. Directing her full attention to Callum, she took in a breath that lifted her breasts and the white ruffles covering them. “Your herd looks profitable. Good, sound stock.”

“That’s what we’re aiming for,” Callum said, wondering what was going on under that blue bonnet. She was up to something – but what? “How’s the Payne herd?”

Her smile vanished and she shrugged. “Not what it should be. I’m missing some. It’s been a bad year for calves, but a good year for coyotes, wolves, and rustlers.”

“Your pappy stole cattle from me,” Seth said, repeating an oft-spouted accusation.

Banner’s gaze whipped to the older man’s frowning visage and Callum could almost feel her fighting back scalding words.

“Sir, my father is dead and can no longer defend himself.” She squared her shoulders. “And I’m not here to fight old battles. I have new ones to address. I’ll come right the point as I know you have work to attend to – as have I. Northerners are sniffing around our place and several have offered to buy me out.”

“Damn Yankees,” Seth groused and Rowdy growled as if in agreement.

Banner gave a sniff of contempt. “Of course, they want to pay half of what it’s worth.” She looked off into the distance and it seemed that a shadow passed over her face. “Looks like I’m going to have to sell. I don’t want the Yankees to prosper from what my family bled and died for, so I’m here to offer it to you.” Her gaze swept to Callum again. “I’ll sell it to you. All I ask is that you let Hollis stay on.”

~~~~~

Author Deborah Camp

SolitaryHorseman author

Author of more than 45 novels, Deborah lives in Oklahoma. She has been a full-time writer since she graduated from the University of Tulsa. She worked for a few years as a reporter for newspapers before becoming a freelance writer. Deborah’s first novel was published in the late 1970s and her books have been published by Jove, New American Library, Harlequin, Silhouette, and Avon. She has been inducted into the Oklahoma Authors Hall of Fame and she is a charter member of the Romance Writers of America. She is also a member of the Author’s Guild.

Lover of the west and the people who tried to tame it, Deborah likes to write about strong, independent women and the men who are their equals. She grew up on a diet of TV westerns which have served her well. Since she appreciates men with devilish twinkles in their eyes, she likes to mix laughter in with the love scenes in her books. Also widely published in non-fiction, she writes and edits for a magazine focused on small businesses. Deborah taught fiction writing for more than 10 years at a community college. She is currently working on her next historical romance set in the wild, wonderful west.

Her books have been re-issued on Amazon for Kindle Direct and have attracted tens of thousands of new fans. For a list of them, visit her website.

 

Blog / Facebook / Pinterest / Twitter

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a Rafflecopter giveaway

~~~~~

Click on the banner below to follow the tour and comment.

The more you comment, the more chances to win!

Goddess Fish Promotions

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways click on the lucky horseshoe below!

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