Archive for October 1, 2023

Welcome to My 31 Days Of Thrills And Chills 2023! I missed doing this the last couple of years due to Covid and so excited to do it again. I’ll be sharing reviews and lots of extra spooky stuff every day leading up to Halloween. I hope you’ll join me!

.

Free Computer Seeks photo and picture

.

I’m sharing all kinds of books, movies, and other spooky stuff for every day in October. Gots to get those scares on for the 31st!

~~~~~

 The Necromancer’s Library

Ellie Jordan: Ghost Trapper #12

by J.L. Bryan

Genre: Paranormal / Mystery / Horror

c8df8-add2bto2bgoodreads2bblack

MY REVIEW

I’ve been reading Bryan’s Ellie Jordan series from the beginning and he’s managed to give me the creeps once again. A haunted library filled with medieval occult manuscripts. Ooh, can’t wait to see what Ellie catches in her trap.

Ellie is not one to shirk the dull side of gathering background information. She needs every bit of it if she’s going to catch her ghost, or ghosts. The author does a great job of making what seems tedious to Ellie, fascinating for me, the reader.

Ellie’s partner in crime, Stacey is another character I’m always happy to meet again. She adds the humor to the story for me and for Ellie.  And a bit of humor may be needed to keep them sane. The place is crammed with books. Every available space is full of them. And as they get closer to solving the case, things start to get more dangerous.

A couple of things that make me love this series are the genuine, likable main characters and the super spooky ghosts and their shenanigans that really creep me out. It takes a lot to creep me out and Bryan does it every time.

5 STARS

 

~~~~~

Synopsis

The antebellum mansion sits isolated in the overgrown countryside like a forgotten temple. Within it lie the dark, twisting paths of a private library possessing secrets from across the ages. The collection of ancient and medieval occult manuscripts tell of conjuring spirits and raising the dead, of making contact with supernatural realms and beings usually forbidden to living mortals.

The house’s recently deceased owner was a reclusive former professor who transformed his home into a great library, but his desire for hidden knowledge and arcane power may have led him into madness, even death.

Disturbing specters now haunt the new occupants of the house, who turn to paranormal investigator Ellie Jordan for help. Ellie must unravel the mysteries of the occult library before she can banish its ghosts and make the house safe again for the living.

Amazon

~~~~~

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 go HERE.

Free haunted house halloween mansion illustration

.

The award-winning author of acclaimed horror collection The Devil Took Her is back with ten fresh tales.

.

Bloodalcohol

by Michael Botur

Genre: Horror Short Stories

.

The award-winning author of acclaimed horror collection The Devil Took Her is back with ten fresh tales.

– – A South Island road trip turns murderous as a dangerous drifter smells a secret in her co-dependent partner.— Millionaire Kiwi conservationists learn too late how little Mother Earth cares for mankind.— A Far North teen confronts the terrifying truth about why Mum separated from Dad years ago.

These stories address the challenges of life through the lens of horror: Struggling to bond with a savage stepchild, losing your son to a gang of ghostly boys, doing desperate things to get famous, battling bullies, surviving school, and getting good with God.
Bringing his award-winning narrative skill to the genre of horror, Botur delivers his most powerful stories yet.
1. Bloodalcohol

A South Island road trip turns murderous as alcoholic drifter Tracey bullies her lover, the giant Adam, into killing for the ultimate drink – child blood – while Adam fights to keep a secret: his young son.

2. We Created a Country

Millionaire business owners Ross and Jennifer fall in love while trying to restore Northland to its pristine natural state through conservation and cleanups – but after borrowing billions to ban development from the Far North, the nature lovers learn what Mother Nature really thinks about mankind.

3. Weeks in the Woodshed

AJ was a young South Auckland teacher trying to provide for his wife and baby. Now, he’s had his privilege taken away, convicted of a crime while working at school – a crime he’s struggling to admit, a crime for which he’s been sentenced to complete Community Service in a remote countryside barn – and a crime which comes with unending punishment.

4. Butterfly Tongue

Lonely Kaitaia 14-year-old Venus asks her separated parents for the same simple birthday present every year. Venus just wants her hardened biker mum Marija to talk to her Dad again – and for Dad, a smooth-talking reporter, to be more sensitive with the women he romances.

As Venus counts down towards 18 and the end of school, she tries to intervene against her dad devouring dates – and finally confronts the terrifying truth about why Mum left Dad in the first place.

5. The Beast Released

Lonely Whangarei computer technician Christopher takes the challenging 11-year-old son of a woman he’s trying to impress on a hiking expedition through Northland forest to visit an old plane crash site and bond with the boy. Christopher finds that deep in the forest, however, one of them has a dark side eager to emerge, and the other is trapped.

6. Lossboys

Busy Northland high school teacher Āwhina tries to stop her son Nick sneaking out at night to join a gang of suicidal schoolboys who have discovered the ultimate thrill: killing oneself and frolicking as a ‘Lossboy.’ However, once the Lossboys take everything from her – including her son – Āwhina starts standing up against her untouchable tormentors.

7. Starving

Twentysomething Auckland singer-songwriter Anna Shrupali is desperate to make it in the performing arts world and escape the K Road rat race. But when husband-and-wife patrons offer to make Anna and her twin brother rich and famous, the deal takes Anna far outside her comfort zone and turns her into something monstrous.

8. Influencer

13-year-old Christchurch vandals Richie and Sammy learn the limits of their friendship after they are influenced on weekend missions by the mysterious Jacob, who seems to never leave school. After Jacob takes a prank way too far, the boys part ways and Richard forgets what he did until years later Jacob reappears, reminding Richie if he doesn’t play, he’s going to pay.

9. Racing Hearts

We call it the Airing Cupboard: the chapel where I counsel former doctors suspended for breaking down on the job.

You see, I’m a screw-up just like them. I’m on probation from the hospital’s Review Board and I don’t know if I’ll ever be allowed to walk the wards as an anaesthesiologist again.

It’s because I raced too hard and I fell. Fell in love with a doctor as competitive as me. And we both fell in love with a deadly drug – until one of us fell in too deep.

10. Luke’s Lesson

Life is hard for Hamilton brothers Luke and Danny, whose father is a reformed addict trying to go straight. After Luke and Danny are inspired by a charismatic carnival pastor who gives them Bible comics warning of eternal damnation, Luke tries to improve his community’s favour with God by brutally cleansing the sins of everyone he can reach – beginning with his family.

**Releasing soon!**

Amazon * Author’s Site

.

.

The first story, Bloodalcohol, was dark, dark ,dark. And had a twisted ending. Finding I enjoyed Michael’s writing, I was anticipating more dark fun. And he delivered with this collection.

I don’t normally tell which ones were my favorites, but The Beast Released, Bloodalcohol and We Created A Country had me sitting up and paying attention. If you like your horror, dark, twisted and with a bit of an aftertaste, you’ll enjoy this collection.

4 STARS

.

.

  1. MOTUEKA
    Smiling apple postcard. Smiling apple-pickers. 

 

‘If you dicks won’t let me party then FUCK THIS PLACE.’

The bony tornado biffed her wine bottle at the counsellor and knocked her folding chair over. Everyone in the hall went silent. ‘By the way, this party SUCKS.’

All that force packed into a tiny body in a skimpy singlet. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. A quarter of my size; completely in charge.

Her rage-out happened in the First Presbyterian, Main Street, Motueka, 30 minutes into one of the AA meetings Probation made us go to every week. We were sweaty and agitated, peeling and unpeeling our nametag-stickers, trying to not think about tangy beer and party ice. January, hottest month of the year, hottest end of the South Island. The sun was pressing on all sides and the room was punishing us for being desperate alcoholics. This chick was the only one with the guts to actually pull a bottle from her handbag– which is what’d got her told off by the counsellor.

‘WHO’S COMIN WITH ME FOR A ACTUAL PARTY?’ the angry little woman bellowed, kicking her way to the exit, pausing to sneer at the sticker on my chest reading Hi! My name is ___Big Adam___ and I’m an alcoholic.

She chucked her handbag on her shoulder, stormed out. Didn’t even get her attendance sheet signed. Leader of the resistance, for real.

She had one foot still inside the church hall when she spotted me, spoke at me, pretty much adopted my giant arse.

‘You’re coming, eh big boy. You don’t want these boring fucks slowing your shit down.’

I’m a fairly solid unit, six-six, 130 kilos, and I could’ve wrapped her in a bear hug, hauled her back in. Instead, I grabbed my keys and followed her out to the parking lot. Crazy little whitegirl was going to have a fast life. I wanted to protect her. Maybe have me an adventure too.

She fetched this black convertible from the parking lot, screeched to a stop one foot in front of me. I squeezed in, finding a place for my big python-arms, seatbelt battling to get across my belly. Wild Woman got me to hold the wheel while she gulped shots of Jim Beam from the bottle, me shaking my head, laughing ‘Jeeeez, man, if Probation finds out I skipped AA I’m in so much shit.’

‘So?’ she went, hooning through an orange light, ‘Stay ahead of the haters, Big Adam.’

We cruised past professional-looking wankers on the veranda of a swank restaurant, enjoying a single Golden Bay Chardonnay.

Up ahead, the Vicar of Liquor sign arose.

I’d never seen anyone use a trolley at a liquor store before, or seen anyone pack the car boot with 400 bucks worth of piss and drive back to Happy Apple Campground, rear axle sagging, slowing for speed bumps. I’d definitely never seen anybody hand out free bottles of Woodstock to a grateful mob like Santa.

But that was us. A year in hell with a woman whose nametag said Hi! My name is ____Tracey____ and I’m an alcoholic. 

Shoulda slapped a second sticker on her.

And I’m about to soak your life in booze and blood. 

 

 

.

The Devil Took Her

by Michael Botur

Genre: Horror Short Stories

.

Melanie’s increasingly disturbing journal entries have to be delusional ravings—if they’re not, there’s something terrible out there, snatching runaways in the night and spiriting them off to somewhere unspeakable.

In his debut collection of horror stories, The Devil Took Her, short fiction writer Michael Botur, recognized in his native New Zealand as “one of the most original story writers of his generation,” offers twelve terrifying and bizarre tales that take us to the dark extremes of human imagination.

A woman trapped in a coal cellar discovers that in order to live, part of her needs to die. A teen prankster’s vicious joke against her tutor brings revenge served cold. Cutting class turns terrifying for two high school introverts. A powerful-yet-paranoid publisher turns a young man’s magazine internship into a nightmare. And more . . .

Praise for Michael Botur and The Devil Took Her

Prolific, dope-as-tits writer Michael Botur is back, with a new collection. His writing in these twelve stories is pure, no-holds-barred revelry in the weird and genuinely scary. Each story is highly imaginative and, most importantly, fun to read.” —Jeremy Roberts, GingerNutsofHorror.com

“Michael Botur’s work grabs you by the throat and won’t let you go. His stories throb with what feel like real people, real conversations, real moments of pain and hope, misunderstanding and reconciliation, remorse and surprise.” —Maggie Trapp, New Zealand Listener

“Botur is a superb practitioner with the ability to bring to life these terrifying moments… It’s a little like a car crash, you don’t want to look – but you just can’t help yourself.” Chris Reed, NZ Book Lovers

“Gritty, unsettling, and utterly intoxicating.”Steffanie Holmes, USA Today bestselling and award-winning author

“Aside from the incredible inventiveness of its plot, Botur’s writing sings at times with fluency and vivacity. —Jenny Purchase, Kete NZ Books

“Botur is considered one of the most original story writers of his generation in New Zealand.Patricia Prime, Takahē 86

Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * Smashwords * Other Links * Bookbub * Goodreads

.

.

After I finished reading these, I wondered where the author came up with his stories. The characters weren’t easy to warm up to. That’s no big deal for me as many authors I read kill off their characters so I wasn’t expecting a high survival rate. The scenes were graphic and could turn your stomach sometimes. Again. I read a lot of horror and came prepared for that.

What really had me liking this collection was the writing. The author dropped me into some pretty bizarre places. And he kept me reading even when I wanted to close my eyes. Some stories were short. Some longer. They all left a lasting impression.

4 STARS

.

.

.

The Day I Skipped School

by Michael Botur

 

*

 

Mr English’s gate opens smooth as a fridge door, closes cleanly. His yard is all paving stones and bird baths and sculptures of white cherubs. A fountain, a pond, lily pads, a pergola with roses, a hammock… .

Tsuru has a cute backpack of that puffy panda/cat beast Totoro. Just past the gate she kneels, opens it, pulls out a pack of smokes, a stolen-looking bottle of brandy, some men’s razor blades.

I spot a trio of comics in there. Bio-Meat. Ichi The Killer. Uzumaki, the one about the deadly spiral. Unless Tsuru’s gone and shoplifted in my bedroom, I think this crazy bitch has got the same taste as me.

“We fill, yes?”

“What, fill your backpack with Mr. English’s shit? Like, rip him off?”

Tsuru is nodding and about to blurt something when I spot Mr. English and stick a finger against her lips. Sssh. Time to roll the old rich fuck.

He’s waiting at the top of the stone stairs. Must’ve seen us out in the alley looking directionless. He’s stirring his coffee and finishing a conversation on his Bluetooth headset. Black lizard eyes under squares of uniformly-caramel skin like he’s had skin grafts or plastic surgery. The hair on top of his cooked pink head is squelched down with some kind of sticky wax, though it springs out of his chest in fuzzy curls.

Sure, I’m concerned about getting tongue-raped and manipulated, but we have to be off the street so Truancy Services doesn’t tackle us. Being in a rich guy’s house with shag carpet and a dark-wood spiral staircase with a library and a drinks cabinet is relatively okay, I guess.

He presses the device in his ear, says “Girls, top of the morning to ya,” as if it’s totally not unusual for teenagers to appear in his front yard. He waves us in, walking behind presumably so he can get an eyeful of our asses. He locks and bolts the ranchslider behind us. We sit on his hard leather couch while he puts Pop-Tarts in the toaster for us. He mixes us a drink each in a martini glass. I’m bunched up against Tsuru, sitting so close that the barcode-scars on our thighs press together. I glance sidelong at her, sitting upright and anxious. Tsuru’s lips are nervous, puckered pin-points. They need to be kissed, I think, weirdly.

Mr. English is away talking smack, roaming the parlour and kitchen, mentioning five or six times that we’re welcome to help ourselves to the champagne he’s put in the ice bucket on the coffee table.

The ice cubes in his glass clink as he paints with his hands.

“. . .Aaaand that’s when I realized the wisest thing to do is acquire tranche number three, considering the all-time nadir in volatility, you’d be an imbecile not to, know what I mean?” he says, settling into an armchair with his third drink, folding one knee over the other, adjusting his dressing gown over his fat thighs. “We all remember what happened to prices in oh-eight, obviously. But enough about my passion.” A smile leaks across his face. His eyes crease until they’re black lines. “Tell me, Ladies: tell me what gets you off.”

Tsuru’s eyebrows are so high up, I’m worried they’re going to burst out the top of her head. She’s been given a glass of stinky schnapps, but she doesn’t know where to put it. “I am liking . . . swimming in the ocean?” she goes. “When this is warm water, is warming?”

“My daughter, Annika, she was swimming at Summer Bay four years ago and she—” Bent over, he’s melting, warbling, warping, like water is falling through his body. Pinching his nose, bottom lips shiny with moisture . . . Jesus. The dude’s crying! And rolling forwards out of his chair, knees on the floor like he’s praying to Allah! What the fuck? I’ve only taken one bite of my Pop-Tart and already the day’s an abortion.

I was hoping to get propositioned, kind of, or robbed, but here me and Tsuru are, side-stepping African statuettes and Javanese idols to get to an old caveman hunched over in a half-somersault to rub his back and cheer him up. Tsuru is murmuring soothing things to the creep. We share a gaze, then our heads turn mutually to the wine rack.

Tsuru unzips her backpack. I begin filling it.

After a minute, the drunk, hairy, dressing-gowned wreck looks up from his puddle of tears on the carpet, startled, shocked, seizes Tsuru’s wrist as she tries to step over him and grab the champagne. “Take me to my room. Down those stairs. Please. You have to.”

He snatches both our forearms. We have no choice but to park our bags of loot and help him up. The guy is shorter than me and his pale-yellow throat bulges like a fat frog. He says, “The Burgundy,” turns and grabs a bottle of wine and a corkscrew and has a final glug of blood-dark stinky alcohol before we let him descend the few steps to his sunken bedroom.

Bronze wood panels. Thick carpet. Mirrors above the bed. Low ceiling, like we’re on a yacht.

The sheets we peel off his California superking waterbed are rich black silk. We urge him into the sloshing bed, and he hands his Burgundy and corkscrew to Tsuru. She studies the objects she’s been handed. She looks like she’s never used a corkscrew before. Its point is so sharp that it twists into a needle then disappears.

“Cheers for having us over, I guess.” I ask Tsuru a question with my eyes, like Why are we still here, this guy’s a drunken loser, what are you hoping for?

“Tsu. It’s first period. We’ve got to cruise. Right?”

Dumped on the bed, Mr. English is lying on his back, smiling, teeth sticking out over his lip like an alligator. He doesn’t look upset any more. His eyes gleam in their wet pink patches.

I shouldn’t be standing this close to his bed.

He snatches my wrist, crushing my white shirtsleeve.

“Nurse,” he says, yanking. “You have to look after me.”

I splat into his bed and the covers close on top of me, and even though he’s shorter, Mr. English is twice as heavy as me, squishing me as he rolls on top, licking and nibbling and sucking my throat, pushing my hands against the headboard.

In the mirror on the ceiling, I watch the sheets slide off his furry black back as his legs push my knee-high socks out to the sides, starfish-wide, his arms mirroring mine, keeping my hands pressed away from his eyes so I don’t claw him. I don’t scratch or scream or bite. My brain’s still half in the alleyway, stunned. Still thinking I can control what’s going to happen in my day.

Mr. English pulls his lips off me, leans back, shrugging out of his dressing gown, tugging at the elastic band of his boxer shorts, revealing a stripe of veiny blubber as he begins to yank his undies over one leg. There is a pen in his neck, suddenly, a silver pen I’ve never noticed, or it’s grown there just now, a pen or a torch or a crank, something with a black plastic handle, sticking to his froggy throat-sac with black paint, no, dark-purple blackcurrant juice that spasms, squirting across the room. Blood, dark as ink. Dripping down the cupboard doors thick and slow as barbecue sauce.

Mr. English falls backward off me and kicks, fingering whatever’s stuck in his neck. His crusty toes bash my chin and I bite my tongue. I roll out of bed, clutching my school uniform against me like armour, too breathless to scream. Tsuru reaches to pull the corkscrew out of the man’s neck. I slap her hand away, shove her towards the exit. We pause, turn, watch him struggle. Mr. English’s legs push away from wherever he thinks the corkscrew is. He kicks himself off the bed, lands heavily on the corkscrew side. He speckles the carpet with a dozen dark puddles as he tries to stand, one hand on the flap of his dressing gown, modest. He gropes his neck but can’t grasp the slippery corkscrew handle between his stained fingers. The corkscrew is deep, almost inside him. Buried.

“Ambulis,” he croaks. Bending, folding, sitting on his butt in a pool of oil spreading so thickly there are little ripples and rapids in the blood. His eyes attempt to meet ours, but they’re flicking in two separate directions.

“You fill bag.”

While I’ve been frozen, Tsuru has gone up to the kitchen, brought down wine carriers and canvas shopping bags, as well as her fluffy Totoro backpack.

She dumps the sacks at my feet.

“HEY. Filling bag, NOW.”

Mr. English gurgles, tries to crawl towards us through the red sticky swamp, hairy bum in the air as if he’s pretending to be a worm.

“Ev-e-rything,” she orders me.

“Is he—is he dead? He—he—he—can’t be— ”

“EV-E-RYTHING. SOO-SIN. BAG.”

I scurry up to the kitchen. We open another liquor cabinet. I stuff two sacks with Bacardi, Jim Beam, VSOP, Courvoisier. I toss in a silver cheese knife, a mortar and pestle, steak knives, a candlestick, postage stamps, a restaurant voucher, a meat thermometer, think think think, girl, what’s gonna make you rich? What do you need, what will you regret not taking? Thinking, grabbing, shit, um, this china plate, yeah, fuck, dropped it, pour out the parking coins from the fruit bowl, yeah, a metronome, okay, weird, car keys, a crystal ashtray, a letter opener, a butter dish, fuck—

I’m so busy stacking bags of loot by the ranch slider, preparing to escape into the alleyway, that I realize I haven’t seen my friend in minutes.

I freeze. Cold shiver. Fuck was that noise? A hand cracking walnuts? No. Somebody ripping a fish in half? No. Water balloons smacking on concrete? Wet, tearing, dripping, juicy. Splatty-crunch.

I tiptoe down the three carpeted stairs to Mr. English’s sunken bedroom. I peer around the corner. I see a pelican, yellow beak thick as half a kayak, too large for the room, hunched under the ceiling, pulling off chunks of red-stained robe and gulping them down. An enormous seabird, giraffe-sized, crammed in a tiny space, bumping its head, beak like two surfboards, eyes black frisbees. Its wings are white curtains stained grey, bunched, quivering. Its rear end spans meters, reaches into the en suite bathroom. Tail feathers big as paddles.

The giant bird twists its head to pull a chunk of flesh inside it. It has Mr. English’s arm in its beak. A webbed grey foot like a rubbery stingray is clawing, holding Mr. English’s body while it pulls him apart, beginning with his left arm. His free hand is trying to hold on to a bedsheet. He’s looking at me with drowning eyes. The pelican-thing makes the choking, sucking sound of a blocked vacuum cleaner then gulps the arm into its mouth, sucking up the black silk sheet like a napkin, and Mr. English’s head disappears. His shoulder blades are folded and squashed as he trickles headfirst down its sticky throat. After his shoulders, it swallows his back and belly, his hairy butt, his butter thighs. I watch the shape of his body stretch the gullet of the bird.

Lastly, the cord of his dressing gown whispers, flaps, as if asking us to fetch help, then the slippers fall from his toes as he disappears.

The bird chokes, pulls, swallows, and when it has finished swallowing, it turns to me. Its eyes are my equal. It knows who I am.

Big Bird. Big Bird from Sesame Street. Big Bird with black eyes. Big Bird with a mouth of stiff plastic. That’s what its beak looks like as it talks.

“Now you’ve seen.”

The giant bird’s cheeks flex. As it swallows, its eyes blink, huge and slow. Eyelids of skin from elsewhere. From a dimension of sea-bottom beasts asleep in the deep.

My scream tears the air in two.

The bird stomps, revolves, grunts. Its head smacks the lampshade. How—-how—how did it even get in? Pelican, yes? No? Heron. Stork. Swamp-bird. Eater of snakes and tadpoles and—sad—sadlonelydesperatedeserve—

“Susan. Promise you’ll keep me secret.”

“I pr—pr—promise.”

I back up the stairs, leave my bag of kitchen loot. I rattle the ranch slider ’til I’m screaming and throttling and praying and the ranch slider handle breaks and I sprint down Mr. English’s garden stairs, slipping on expensive white stones, gasping as I bump over a gnome and it shatters and I leave my heart throbbing behind me.

Tsuru appears from somewhere, dropping a computer monitor in the goldfish pond, her fingers tense like claws as she catches up and grasps my shoulder, sacks of loot rattling at her side.

My school bag, heavy with rattling metal and stone.

We sprint to my house, shower together, put our clothes in the washing machine, set the cycle for 8 hours and hide under my bed. We cry and bite our knuckles, weep into my mum’s belly, watch my dad thump the wall and turn away, wait for detectives who never come, watch the news for reports of Mr. English missing, read his obituary in my dad’s Property Investors Federation newsletter, slowly return to school. I have a skeleton of steel, now. A hardness in me.

I sit beside Tsuru every class and let her lean on my shoulder and whisper and when Ms. Bowker tells us to get a room, I tell her to go fuck herself, challenge her to a one-out. The same week, I push Connie into a pile of desks, hold a sharp pencil against Francine’s eye, crush Hannah’s scalp in front of 50 girls in the hall and scream in her terrified face, “I ain’t afraid of nothing no more, specially not you, you bully-bitch-cunt-FUCK,” laugh and pash, sip vodka from our drink bottles in the toilets, accept a bundle of correspondence school papers, battle my exams lying on my bedroom floor sipping alcohol and popping Prozac and bleaching my hair and listening to Baroque music and studying, sending secret forbidden texts to my BFF, and I realize, opening my university results one morning two years later, wondering how the fuck I got an A+ for accounting in the first place when I resent keeping records and remembering things, I realize I’ve drifted down a river of time far from where I used to be, and my counselor has taught me how to ground myself, how to stop letting people rock me off my perch, and I realize it’s safe now; no more cognitive distortions, no more hallucinations, no more waking up at 4am whimpering. There is no monster chasing me, and there probably never was.

I can stop running.

.

Michael Botur, born 1984, is a writer originally from Christchurch, New Zealand, who now lives in Whangarei with his wife and two kids.

Botur is author of four short story collections and published the novel ‘Moneyland’ in 2017.

Botur holds a Masters in Creative Writing from AUT University and a Graduate Diploma in Journalism Studies from Massey University, as well as degrees in arts and literacy.

Botur makes a living from writing as a columnist, corporate communications writer, blogger, advertising writer and journalist.

Botur has published creative writing in international literary journals Newfound (US), Weaponizer (UK), The Red Line (UK), Swamp (Aus) and most NZ literary journals including Landfall, Poetry New Zealand, 4th Floor, JAAM and Tākahe.

He has been making money from creative writing since the age of 21 and was in 2017 proud to be included in the University of Otago collection ‘Manifesto Aotearoa: 101 political poems’.

Botur has published journalism in most major NZ newspapers including New Zealand Herald, Herald on Sunday, Sunday Star-Times, as well as many magazines.

Botur has a long history of volunteering, including working with Maori and Pasifika literacy, Youthline, ESOL refugee tutoring, and assisting stroke patients, and in Whangarei is involved in improv theatresports and performance poetry.

Botur’s books ‘Moneyland,’ ‘LowLife,’ ‘Spitshine’, ‘Mean’ and ‘Hot Bible’ all available on Amazon.com.

In 2021 Botur was the first Kiwi winner of the Australasian Horror Writers Association Short Story Award for ‘Test of Death.’

Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

.

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

.

.

~~~~~

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 go HERE.

Free pumpkin bats night illustration

 

A Match Made in Ireland

by E.D. Hackett

 

Publication date: September 23rd 2023
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

A semester abroad was exactly what she needed, but falling in love with her roommate was not part of the lesson plan.

When Rory, a driven American seeking a much-needed break from her hectic life, lands in Ireland for a semester abroad, she never imagines sharing her space with Jaime, the charming yet irksome redhead from her flight. A twist of fate entwines their paths, forcing them to live under one roof for four months.

Despite his laid-back demeanor clashing with her meticulous nature, Rory finds herself irresistibly drawn to Jaime’s infectious Irish charm and tight-knit family bonds. As they traverse the breathtaking landscapes of Ireland, Rory relies on Jaime’s wisdom to navigate the challenges of their travels. It doesn’t take long for her to fall for the enchanting Irish experience he offers, which extends far beyond the usual tourist trails.

But as the end of the semester draws near, Rory is faced with a heart-wrenching decision. Will she leave a piece of her heart in Ireland, or was Jaime merely a dream meant to be left behind?

Immerse yourself in E.D. Hackett’s A Match Made in Ireland for a delightful romantic comedy that delves into the magic of Ireland, the beauty of unforeseen bonds, and the transformative power of self-discovery. Buckle up for a journey filled with laughter, tears, and love that you won’t want to miss!

Goodreads / Amazon

~~~~~

Enjoy this peek inside:

It was him. The man from the plane sat on the bed, staring at a drawing pad on his lap. The spiky red hair, the smattering of freckles, and the creased eyes triggered a series of flashbacks that ran through my mind: the lack of spatial awareness, the soda down my leg, and the stolen dinner roll.

I pulled the covers over my head, my heart racing and the pit in my stomach digging into my pelvis like a concrete boulder. I dragged the duvet below my eyes and squinted, trying not to be obvious. Am I dreaming? Ha! Maybe I’m having a nightmare. The same red hair, now tousled from sleep, rested against the wall. I pushed the blanket down to my shoulders and said, “Hello, again.”

He looked up from his drawing pad and tilted his head to the left, tapping his pencil against his scruffy chin. “I remember you. From the plane.”

I tried to smile, but my lips refused to rise. I pushed my body against the back wall and pulled the sheet closer to my armpits. “What are you doing here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I could ask you the same thing. I live here.”

My eyes bulged and I scrambled to a seated position. “You can’t live here. You’re a guy. This is an apartment with women. Foreign exchange students. A bunch of Americans.” I spoke slowly, as if that would make him understand.

Jaime chuckled and looked down again. “Yes, I am aware, but this is my apartment now. I forgot to renew my housing paperwork last semester, and they gave my room away. This was all that was left. They told me I was living with Rory, Zoey, and Marissa. I take it you’re Rory?”

I nodded.

“I thought you were an Irish lad.”

I swallowed loudly, the saliva crawling down the back of my throat. Reaching across my bed to my nightstand, I downed a bottle of water. Cloudiness from the alcohol still in my system slowed down my brain’s processing ability, and I struggled to understand his words. “You can’t live here,” I said again.

“I wish I didn’t. Living with a bunch of Americans during my last year of college is the last thing I want to do, but it’s that or be homeless so I’ll suck it up.” He returned to his drawing and spoke to his paper. “Nice to meet you, Rory.” His amber eyes looked over, scanning my top half. “Fun time last night?”

My brain beat against my forehead, and I massaged my temples. “Yeah. Sorry if I woke you.”

“No worries. I spent the night with my old flatmates. They live downstairs, and I came up here to crash. I didn’t even hear you come in.”

I grabbed the hooded sweatshirt sitting at the end of my bed, and pulled it over my body. “Are you sure they said there was nowhere else? I mean, I don’t know, Jaime. You’re a guy, a stranger, really, and I have a boyfriend. I don’t think he will be too excited when I tell him my roommate’s an Irish guy.”

His liquid gold eyes looked me up and down. “I asked to be moved and they put me on a waiting list if some other American no-shows, but I want my old flat and my old flatmates. Unless they can squeeze me back in there, I’m staying here. So, there it is. An Irish bloke and an American lass living together. That’ll make a good story for the grandkids. Promise, you won’t even know I’m here.”

.

 

Author E.D. Hackett:

E.D Hackett is a Speech-language pathologist by day and a writer by night. She writes novels that investigate layers of self-expectations, family dynamics, self-love and self-acceptance. She hopes that her novels create a safe and cozy environment for her readers to fall into and explore.

She writes women’s fiction novels with one foot in romance. And every story has a happy ever after.

She lives in New England but in her heart, she feels that she belongs in Ireland. She reads women’s women’s fiction and romantic comedies, prefers books to movies, ice cream to cake, and fall to spring.

Please visit https://www.linktr.ee/edhackett for more information! You can also find her on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and Goodreads.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Bookbub

Giveaway contest ribbon promo label prize. Vector giveaway banner badge design template

a Rafflecopter giveaway

.

~~~~~

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 go HERE.

Free Heart Clover illustration and picture

.

Hanging by a Thread (A Sewing Studio Mystery)
by Dorothy Howell

 


Hanging by a Thread (A Sewing Studio Mystery)
Cozy Mystery
2nd in Series
Setting – Fictional Town of Hideaway Grove
Kensington Cozies (September 26, 2023)
Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 304 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1496740424
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1496740427
Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0BRF14464

.

The latest novel in a new crafting cozy series in the genre-leading Kensington Cozy Mystery program focusing on the members of a Sewing Studio.

Some of the independent shops in this sleepy town are barely hanging on financially—and that includes Sarah’s Sweets, Abbey’s aunt’s bakery. The shop’s advantage—aside from the deliciousness of its products—is the fact that it’s the only bakery in the area. But it looks like that’s about to change. The second wife of a wealthy businessman wants her own bakery—and money is no object.

When murder unravels the plans for the competing shop, Aunt Sarah is an immediate suspect—and Hideaway Grove’s merchants are on pins and needles about a big upcoming women’s conference, fearing the organization will cancel their booking because of the crime. Abbey’s doing her best to stay optimistic and stitch some custom tote bags for the attendees, but she’s also concerned with patching up Aunt Sarah’s good reputation. And when it comes to sorting through the possible motives of the victim’s family members and associates, she’s got a few tricks up her sleeve . . .

About Dorothy Howell

USA Today Bestselling author Dorothy Howell is the author of 49 novels. Her books have been translated into a dozen languages and sold worldwide. She writes the Sewing Studio mystery series, the Haley Randolph mystery series, and the Hollis Brannigan and Dana Mackenzie mystery series. Dorothy also writes historical romance novels under the pen name Judith Stacy.  Dorothy lives in Los Angeles.

Web site: DorothyHowellNovels.com.  Facebook: Dorothy Howell Novels X: – Dorothy Howell Instagram: Dorothy Howell Books GoodReads: Dorothy Howell

Purchase Links – AmazonB&NKoboBookshop.org

~~~~~

Giveaway contest ribbon promo label prize. Vector giveaway banner badge design template

a Rafflecopter giveaway

~~~~~

TOUR PARTICIPANTS

September 26 – Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book – REVIEW

September 26 – Maureen’s Musings – SPOTLIGHT

September 26 – Kenyan Poet – SPOTLIGHT

September 27 – Reading, Writing & Stitch-Metic – AUTHOR GUEST POST

September 27 – Lady Hawkeye – SPOTLIGHT

September 28 – Celticlady’s Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

September 28 – Christy’s Cozy Corners – AUTHOR GUEST POST

September 28 – Hearts & Scribbles – SPOTLIGHT

September 29 – Literary Gold – SPOTLIGHT

September 29 – Jane Reads – CHARACTER INTERVIEW

September 29 – Baroness Book Trove – SPOTLIGHT

September 30 – StoreyBook Reviews – AUTHOR GUEST POST

September 30 – Sapphyria’s Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

October 1 – Cozy Up With Kathy – AUTHOR INTERVIEW

October 1 – FUONLYKNEW – SPOTLIGHT

October 2 – Mystery, Thrillers, and Suspense – CHARACTER GUEST POST

October 2 – Guatemala Paula Loves to Read – REVIEW

October 3 – Ascroft, eh? – CHARACTER INTERVIEW

October 3 – Socrates Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

October 4 – Novels Alive – REVIEW

October 4 – #BRVL Book Review Virginia Lee – SPOTLIGHT

October 5 – Angel’s Guilty Pleasures – SPOTLIGHT

October 5 – My Reading Journeys – REVIEW

.

.

~~~~~

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 go HERE.

Free Witch House Halloween illustration and picture