A Study In Shifters Majanka Verstraete
(The Adventures of Marisol Holmes, #1)
Publication date: June 26th 2018
Genres: Paranormal, Young Adult
Seventeen-year-old Marisol Holmes may be the great-great-great granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes, but it’s hard to live up to the family name when only one mistake can spell your downfall. After trusting the wrong guy in a case gone totally wrong, Marisol convinces the Conclave, an underground organization of detectives solving supernatural cases, to give her a last chance to prove her worth, and maybe even heal her broken heart
After all, as a half-blood jaguar shifter, Marisol is uniquely qualified to solve this murder—and every scrap of evidence points toward the culprit being a fellow jaguar shifter. But is one of her own people involved, or is this all a ploy to kick Marisol’s mother off the shifter throne?
Then Marisol discovers her best friend, Roan, is missing, and maybe the killer’s next target. The stakes just got higher than political intrigue. Just when things couldn’t get worse, Marisol’s ex-boyfriend-turned-nemesis, Mannix, starts leaving sinister clues for her. Marisol fears this case might be far more personal than she could’ve imagined.
It’s time for Marisol to prove her worth, or her people could fall into chaos while her best friend loses his life.
I had a love-hate relationship with the Conclave. Ever since I was ten years old, I’d been solving cases for them, but they questioned everything about me: my methods, my name, my talents. If I hadn’t been such an outstanding detective, they would’ve kicked me out a long time ago—as they eventually did following the Big Betrayal.
The Conclave‘s primary task was making sure humans didn’t find out about the existence of supernatural beings, in particular us shifters.
Unfortunately, the Conclave existed of a bunch of stuffy old men and women who thought they were the finest specimens who had ever walked this earth. All of them had impressive family names and more impressive records, but they had cultivated their snobbism more than their good manners. All besides Saldor, that was.
“Tell us your findings,” Balthazar snarled at me.
“Gladly.” I smiled at Saldor before I continued. One-upping Balthy was a great way to keep my mind off more serious topics, like the past. “The book is spelled. The room’s inhabitant was a grizzled old witch of considerable power. She was killed by summoning a demon. The demon killed her and vanished.” I clapped my hands. “Case solved.”
I started walking toward the exit, but Balthy grabbed my arm to stop me. “Not so fast.”
“What do you want from me now?” I asked him. “Do you want me to solve another one of your silly locked room mysteries? You know I will.”
“Yes.” His voice slithered like a snake. In fact, everything about the man reminded me of the viper he could transform into. “You might be an exceptional detective, Miss Holmes, but you’re careless, and you don’t care about the consequences of your actions. You didn’t even cry. Your own cousin, Holmes, and you couldn’t even shed a tear.”
~~~~~
Author Majanka Verstraete
Author Majanka Verstraete has written more than twenty unique works of fiction. A native of Belgium, Majanka’s novels explore the true nature of monsters: the good, the bad, and just about every species in between. Her young adult books include the acclaimed Mirrorland (YA Dark Fantasy) and Angel of Death (YA Paranormal) series of novels. At MHB, Majanka is currently developing a new YA shifter series with a fresh take on fierce female detectives called THE ADVENTURES OF MARISOL HOLMES.
When she’s not writing, Majanka is probably playing World of Warcraft or catching up with the dozens of TV series she’s addicted to.
After Monsterland has been destroyed, the entire world is thrown into chaos. Wyatt Baldwin and his friends must go beyond the boundaries of their small town to reestablish contact with the outside world. During their journey they discover a new threat released from the bowels of the defunct theme park. The danger of werewolves, vampires and zombies pale in comparison to an army of relentless mummies, Vincent Conrad’s reanimated monster and the menace of a life-sucking ooze they call The Glob. Wil Wyatt and his friends survive when they reenter the scariest place on earth?
Welcome to Monsterland, the scariest place on earth.
When world markets are decimated by a crippling plague, philanthropist, and billionaire businessman, Vincent Konrad decides to place monsters in a theme park setting to promote education and tolerance. Copper Valley is chosen as the primary site for the park in the United States.
Wyatt Baldwin, a high school senior is dying to go to the opening and when he lands special passes to the park, he and his friends are expecting the experience of a lifetime.
After all, in a theme park where real zombies, werewolves, and vampires are the main attractions, what could possibly go wrong?
~~~~~
Monsterland Reanimated Book Trailer
~~~~~
Enjoy this glimpse inside Monsterland Reanimated:
Front page of the Copper Valley Sun
President of the US, World Leaders,and Thousands Dead
Many still missing as the world reels from the impact
of the Monsterland disaster
Multitudes are still unaccounted for and presumed dead. Escaping werewolves, vampires, and zombies of Dr. Vincent Konrad’s theme parks inexplicably escaped en masse and massacred unwitting parkgoers … Massive government shutdowns as the world teeters on the brink of chaos.
Chapter 1
The Night After the Monsterland Catastrophe
A bright moon painted the desert’s surface pewter. Here and there, dark spots soiled the landscape like oil spills. Most of the bodies had been taken before the troops were ordered to leave. They carted away the corpses, bulldozing the zombies into mass graves, until radios chirped with urgent orders deploying the soldiers to the bigger threats that erupted in the main cities like a chain of angry volcanos.
Monsterland was extinguished, its carcass left for the vultures to pick, the exhibits silent as a tomb.
The dead president and his equally dead entourage were whisked away on Air Force One, along with the dark-clad special operatives that came and left like the brisk desert wind that now howled through the empty streets.
A gate screamed in the silence, slamming with a reverberating smash. The uneven gait of someone with a physical challenge filled the void. The scrape and plod of his limp echoed against the wall of mountains framing the theme park. His labored breathing huffed as he made his way down the streets.
A door creaked loudly as it was blown by the wind. He stopped, his distorted figure silhouetted in the pale moonlight, his body turning silver. He looked at the broken glass littering the pavement like diamonds, then up to the still, pre-dawn sky. He considered the sun peeking over the jagged horizon in the east, its golden light painting the dips and hollows of the hills. Soon the coming day would chase the darkness away.
Time was the enemy now. He had to move faster, or it would be too late. He picked up his pace, lurching along the winding road. A keening howl ricocheted through the streets, bouncing off the walls. It sounded like a … no, he thought, it couldn’t be. The werewolves were all dead. Destroyed by Vincent Konrad when he made their heads explode.
The old man paused, listening for it again, and was not disappointed when the animal whimpered. He gauged it to be inside the defunct vampire exhibit. He moved toward the entrance. The storefronts had been destroyed. A few body parts lay on the pavement, as if people had discarded them in a rush. He heard the scraping of paws on the street and a shiver went down his crooked spine.
He knew the werewolves were dead; he had seen it with his own eyes. A figure detached from the shadows. Igor flattened himself against the wall. He watched it move stealthily down the street, stopping when it scavenged a morsel of rotting flesh. It looked up to stare at Igor, its eyes glowing in the darkness.
A coyote? He waved a hand, dismissing it. It had to be a coyote; it was too small to be a wolf, too big to be a dog. The beast twitched its ears, then resumed its meal.
Igor knew the coyote was not a threat, and he continued his mission. His lame foot hit a can, sending a cacophony of sound like an explosion in the deserted park. The beast dropped the bone it was gnawing on, sniffing the area. Its iridescent eyes searched the streets.
It could be a baby wolf, Igor thought, keeping himself as still as possible. He felt it watching him, even from this distance. It was not a threat, yet.
Igor skittered away, hugging the walls of Monsterland, putting as much distance as he could between them. Not an easy feat, considering his distorted hips. He muttered to himself about carrion and the wind. His eyes darted nervously, scouring the hills, not exactly sure what he was looking for. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. His heart pounded so loudly he was certain that the creature watching him could hear it too.
His feet stumbling to a halt, he bent over, gasping for air, cursing Vincent and those meddlesome teenagers, as well as the rest of the world.
The beast gave another mournful howl that went right through him. Igor glanced at his empty hands, berating himself for not bringing a weapon. He searched his surroundings for anything to protect himself.
Then he saw it, one of the axes they had on almost every corner. All of them had been pulled from their protective cases. One was lying in a pool of coagulating blood, the blade long gone. He picked up the broken axe handle, turning in a semicircle. He was ready for an attacker.
A new, larger outline made his heart quiver with fear. It crouched in a corner, its snout covered with blood. This one was bigger, not a coyote, a wild wolf. Wait, he thought. Weren’t the gray wolves of California all but extinct?
Igor narrowed his eyes. The beast was a light reddish brown and not the silver gray of a wolf ’s pelt. A chain hung from its neck, the pendant of a werewolf ’s head dangling, emerald eyes flashing. What was it? Was it a mutant coyote? A wolf ? Some weird hybrid, he wondered for a minute, his breath harsh in his ears. They watched each other soundlessly.
A hybrid then. He’d heard about them, a rare mixture of wolf and coyote. What did they call them? Coywolves …? or was it Woyotes? He shrugged indifferently. Perhaps someone’s pet, he decided. Igor’s mirthless laugh came out like a snort.
The coywolf stood still, its ears alert, its head cocked as if it was observing him.
Igor dropped the makeshift weapon, calling out, “Eat the rest of your meal, you dumb beast.”
The animal continued to watch him, its two front paws on the remains of a zombie’s chest.
Igor wiped his forehead, waiting, his eyes coming back to search the village, confirming it was empty, except for the carrion eaters like the coyotes and vultures. He looked up, noting the circling predators waiting for him to move on.
“Interrupted your meal,” he chuckled. Just the local scavengers looking for food. That was all; the shadows revealed nothing else. Satisfied he was alone, he moved on. He had work to do.
A paper flew past him, hitting a kiosk as the wind plastered it against its surface. It flapped like a dying bird. Igor reached over, taking the fluttering paper, peering at the map of the park, the one they gave people as they entered Monsterland. A bark of laughter escaped his mouth.
He looked up at the giant monolith that was once the Werewolf River Run, its hulking shape obscuring the horizon. “You are here,” he giggled, pointing a grimy finger on the paper’s surface. He dragged his deformed body further down the pavement. The storefronts that used to be Monsterland’s Main Street yawned vacantly, the wind whistling through the narrow alleyways. “Now, you are here,” he laughed. Shouting, he listened to the sound of his voice bouncing off the blood-splattered walls.
He made his way to the back end of the zombie village, feeling like the last man on earth. He glanced around at the desolate landscape. His home, the beautiful theme park, was little more than ruins destroyed by the army.
His nose twitched from the fetid smell of rot. The US Army had massacred the zombies. The troops came like a force of nature wiping out everything in its path, every last one of them blown away by the troops.
They were black ops, special forces, he knew from their uniforms. He wondered if things were indeed going as planned. He shrugged, knowing right now nothing mattered except for what he had to do. The irony that he was just about the most important man on earth brought more amusement to his smile.
The local police force was gone, as were the leaders of most countries in the world. He knew all was chaos outside, perhaps even war, each nation blaming the next for the loss of their leadership. Not to worry, he thought. Vincent left America in capable hands.
Dreams do come true, he snickered. Nightmares too, he finished the thought. A long line of drool pulled at his lower lip. He paused at a pothole in the road, decomposing body parts glistening, the disappearing moon turning the bits of bone and brains pearly.
Anxiety bloomed in his chest as he passed the opaque windows of Vincent’s derelict Monsterland hotel, the Copper Valley Inn. He hated that place. Abandoned construction vehicles were frozen in their spots, testimony to the hotel’s unfinished business.
Despite the pastel colors of its exterior, it sat like an ominous crypt to the part of the theme park that Vincent could never control. Told Vincent it was a money pit. Crews couldn’t work because … well, it didn’t matter anymore. The help was all dead. He thought he saw a light flicker in the window, but when he turned, he realized it was nothing more than a sputtering gas lamp that had never been disconnected.
He stood for a while, staring for more activity, and then jerked with the realization that he waited too long and wasted precious time. Surely no one expected him to go searching during the heat of battle.
Vincent said it was enough time to set up the timetable. Vincent knew everything, and Igor felt his panic ebb. It had been barely twenty-four hours since the attack. For all he knew, he could be on a fool’s errand.
He pressed his hand on his hip, his back screaming with resentment at so much movement. He was not used to any exercise. He sighed, wiping his brow with the ragged end of his costume, the lace scratching his skin. He caught the cuff, snagging the material with his teeth, tugging it free from his velvet jacket. He loathed the show and was glad he’d never have to endure the humiliation of performing again, especially with the vamps. Those condescending, blood-sucking parasites. He wouldn’t have to worry about them anymore, he thought with satisfaction. Vincent had promised he’d not have to endure them for long, living up to his part of the bargain quite nicely. They were gone, torn apart by the werewolves or transformed into a tasty dinner by the zombies. Either way, they wouldn’t be bullying him with their nasty insults. Something buzzed around him, and he swiped at it.
It felt as though he walked to the other side of the earth. Why Vincent had to pick Zombieville to make his last stand, he’d never know. The Werewolf River Run would have been much more convenient. It was getting lighter now, and he could easily make out the smoking devastation.
He searched the horizon, his eyes resting on the burnt wreckage of a golf cart, the torched skeleton listing at an odd angle.
Pulling his lame foot, he pushed himself as fast as his body could travel, his breath hitching with the effort.
The corpse was gone. He knew they would have taken that for DNA testing, proof that the enemy was vanquished. The only things left were the putrid carcasses from Monsterland, the decaying zombies, massacred vampires, and what was left of the werewolves after Vincent had exterminated them.
He climbed a small hill, his bad leg screaming with pain. Igor crowed with triumph when he saw it, the discarded lump of flesh, lying forgotten in a ditch, face down. He shivered as the desert wind stirred and eddied around him. Damn, but it was desolate here.
He hunkered down, forcing himself to skitter on the hardpacked earth. He wondered what his son, the vice president—no, he corrected himself, the new president of the United States, Mr. Nate Owens—would think of his father now, scrambling like a dung beetle in the dirt.
He cursed. The drool was back, dripping from his mouth like a sparkling spider web. Instead of rising—it was beyond him at this point—he shimmied over to the severed head, reaching forward, reverently, grabbing it by the matted hair, and grasping it to his chest.
The black eyes stared back dully, the dark depths reflecting the hunchback’s twisted smile.
Vincent Konrad’s lifeless face lay in his hands, the pale lips open in a soundless scream.
“I’m so happy I could kiss you, Vincent!” he told the decapitated head. He cradled the face of his friend. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”
The moon bathed the face a pale blue. The hunchback jiggled the dead weight, cackling with delight as the one papery eyelid drooped as if it were winking.
In the distance, that coywolf howled, making Igor suck in his breath with fear. He tucked the head under his arm as he struggled back up the small hill, mumbling something about Plan B.
~~~~~
About Michael:
Michael Okon is an award-winning and best-selling author of multiple genres including paranormal, thriller, horror, action/adventure and self-help. He graduated from Long Island University with a degree in English, and then later received his MBA in business and finance. Coming from a family of writers, he has storytelling in his DNA. Michael has been writing from as far back as he can remember, his inspiration being his love for films and their impact on his life. From the time he saw The Goonies, he was hooked on the idea of entertaining people through unforgettable characters.
Michael is a lifelong movie buff, a music playlist aficionado, and a sucker for self-help books. He lives on the North Shore of Long Island with his wife and children.
I am so excited that POWER OR FIVE by Alex Lidell is available now and that I get to share the news!
If you haven’t yet heard about this wonderful book by Author Alex Lidell, be sure to check out all the details below.
This blitz also includes a giveaway for a $25 Amazon Gift Card, International, courtesy of Alex and Rockstar Book Tours. So if you’d like a chance to win, enter in the Rafflecopter at the bottom of this post.
Four elite fae warriors. One mortal female. A magical bond they can’t allow—or resist.
Orphaned and sold to a harsh master, Lera’s life is about mucking stalls, avoiding her master’s advances, and steering clear of the mystical forest separating the mortal and fae worlds. Only fools venture into the immortal realms, and only dark rumors come out… Until four powerful fae warriors appear at Lera’s barn.
River, Coal, Tye, and Shade have waited a decade for their new fifth to be chosen, the wounds from their quint brother’s loss still raw. But the magic has played a cruel trick, bonding the four immortal warriors to… a female. A mortal female.
Distractingly beautiful and dangerously frail, Lera can only be one thing—a mistake. Yet as the males bring Lera back to the fae lands to sever the bond, they discover that she holds more power over their souls than is safe for anyone… especially for Lera herself. Power of Five is a full-length reverse-harem fantasy novel.
Check out the Excerpt:
Shade’s neck bobs and he catches my wrist, the few inches of air between us suddenly thick. Crackling. His mouth opens slightly, the elongated canines near and sharp and glistening with danger. My chest tightens, my breath suddenly gone from my lungs.
“You . . . have long lashes,” I say, leaning closer. “Girls would kill for those.”
“I have many long things,” Shade breathes, his hand cupping the back of my head, tangling in my hair. “Patience, it seems, is not one of them.”
I open my lips to respond, only to find Shade’s mouth covering mine, his lips soft and warm enough to heat a whole palace. My own mouth yields in answer, and Shade’s kiss deepens, the hand in my hair tightening until my whole scalp tingles. Sings. Stars.
Shade pulls away slowly, his canines gently scraping my lower lip as I moan softly into him.
My heart pounds, the warmth between my legs a downright flame, and I try to catch my breath. “Did you plan that?” I demand.
Shade grins, makes a noncommittal sound, and turns back into his wolf, demonstratively making a circle on my bed before curling up with his tail over his nose. His body manages to press against my back, his rhythmic breathing soothing and steady.
“Why do you do that?” I ask when I can speak again. “Stay in your wolf form so much?”
No answer.
“Being a wolf to avoid talking to me while lounging around on my bedding is a dirty, cowardly trick.”
Shade snorts, buries his head deeper beneath his paws, and settles into a calm sleep punctuated by soft snores that turn into whimpers when I shift out of reach. Frowning, I move closer, resting my hand on the sleeping wolf’s flank. The whimpering stops, the rhythmic rise of his chest and his twitching eyelids speaking of a dream-filled slumber.
~~~~~
About Alex:
Alex Lidell is the Amazon Breakout Novel Awards finalist author of THE CADET OF TILDOR (Penguin, 2013). She is an avid horseback rider, a (bad) hockey player, and an ice-cream addict. Born in Russia, Alex learned English in elementary school, where a thoughtful librarian placed a copy of Tamora Pierce’s ALANNA in Alex’s hands. In addition to becoming the first English book Alex read for fun, ALANNA started Alex’s life long love for YA fantasy books. Alex is represented by Leigh Feldman of Leigh Feldman Literary. She lives in Washington, DC.
On the remnants of oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico and Dauphin Island, Joe is a typical Nob Platform teenager, except that her Mom left a year ago for a more social Platform, and her Dad sometimes forgets she exists. But she knows she wants a career in Communications, so her high school senior project “See-Saw” focuses on long-distance underwater connections. Drayton, Joe’s best friend, discovers lights moving on Land at the same time Joe picks up SOS signals with her See-Saw.
Though Land has been silent since technology was destroyed during the Moralist Revolution, Joe and Drayton discover that the Platform Planning Commission (PPC) seems to be ultimately responsible for the Bone Virus that precipitated the Revolution. They enlist the help of Flox, a debunked scientist, to take them to Land to investigate the remnants of human Land society—before the PPC can stop them. What they find on Land will forever change the course of their lives and the lives of all Platform Dwellers.
~~~~~
Enjoy this glimpse inside:
Are those—what are those?”
“This is tidal for her,” Drayton says and picks up a cake. “Twinkie. Still in the plastic from when great-grandfather brought them over from Land. She only breaks these out for special guests.”
I feel warm inside. I like Mrs. Coleman. “She’s so generous. And sweet.”
“Yep. She must have big plans. She’ll show you great-grandma’s wedding dress next. Maybe her preserved flowers coupled with the story of how she had the first Platform wedding. No officiant or Council. Just an ‘I do’ and done. It’s one of her favorite topics of conversation lately.”
Mom liked to tell stories, too. I wish I had paid more attention during our mother-daughter dates. Especially when she told me about how she met Dad and when I was born. What her grandmother had told her Land was like.
“It’s nice how she talks to you,” I say softly. Drayton hands me the Twinkie ceremoniously. “Thank you.”
“You do have good manners, Joe,” Drayton says and opens his Twinkie. He holds it like a glass and toasts. “To the power of preservatives.”
I open mine carefully. It smells sweet and ripe, like some of the flowering vegetable plants that Lisette grows. I put a small bite in my mouth, and I revel in the flavor. “Tastes like sunshine.”
Drayton finishes the last bite of his. “On a cloudless day. Come on, eat up. It’s almost time.”
I shake my head and take another small bite. “I want to enjoy this. Savor each bite. I don’t have these every day.”
“Neither do I. But what’s the point in drawing the pleasure out? It’s there, then it’s gone. Great while it lasts.”
“I hope that isn’t how you feel about people, Drayton.”
“Some of them.”
“Stop teasing.” I take the last bite of Twinkie and swallow it. “Delicious. Let’s go see these lights.”
~~~~~
About Author Katarina Boudreaux
Katarina Boudreaux is a writer, musician, composer, tango dancer, and teacher—a shaper of word, sound, and mind. She returned to New Orleans after circuitous journeying.
Her chapbook “Anatomy Lessons” is available from Flutter Press. Her play “Awake at 4:30” is a finalist in the 2016 Tennessee Williams Festival. Her novel “Still Tides” is a semi-finalist in the 2016 Faulkner-Wisdom competition.
“Lengard is a secret government facility for extraordinary people,” they told me.
I believed them. That was my mistake.
There isn’t anyone else in the world like me.
I’m different. I’m an anomaly. I’m a monster.
For two years, six months, fourteen days, eleven hours and sixteen minutes, Subject Six-Eight-Four — ‘Jane Doe’ — has been locked away and experimented on, without uttering a single word.
As Jane’s resolve begins to crack under the influence of her new — and unexpectedly kind — evaluator, she uncovers the truth about Lengard’s mysterious ‘program’, discovering that her own secret is at the heart of a sinister plot … and one wrong move, one wrong word, could change the world.
Check out the Prologue:
They call me “Jane Doe.”
They say it’s because I won’t tell them my real name, that they were forced to allocate me a generic ID. The name is ironic, since there’s nothing generic about me.
But they don’t know that.
They could have given me any name, but there’s a reason they chose “Jane Doe.” I hear the whispers. They think of me as little more than an unidentifiable, breathing corpse. That’s how they treat me. They prod, they poke, they badger and tweak. All of them want to coax a response from me. But their efforts are in vain.
Two years, six months, fourteen days, eleven hours and sixteen minutes. That’s how long I’ve been locked away from the world. That’s how long I’ve been pried for information, day in, day out. That’s how long I’ve been experimented on, hour after hour, week after week.
They don’t tell me much. It’s all confidential, highly classified. But they did give me the rundown when I first arrived. They prettied it up and wrapped a bow around their words, selling a dream and not the nightmare I’ve been living. They said all the right things, lulling me into a false sense of security. But it was all lies.
“Lengard is a secret government facility for extraordinary people,” they told me. “It’s for people just like you.”
I believed them. That was my mistake.
I was stupid.
Gullible.
Hopeful.
I know now that there isn’t anyone else in the world just like me.
I’m different.
I’m an anomaly.
I’m a monster.
My name is not “Jane Doe.” But that is who I’ve become. And that is who I’ll remain. It’s safest this way.
For everyone.
~~~~~
Author Lynette Noni
Lynette Noni studied journalism and academic writing at university before completing a degree in human behavior. She lives on the Sunshine Coast in Australia and can be found baking cupcakes, singing along to animated movies, or daydreaming about being swept away to a fantasy world. Some days, she can even do all three at once — and still find the time to sneak in a nap afterwards.
Title: DOMINION: FIRE AND ICE Author: D.A. Hewitt Publisher: Double Dragon eBooks Pages: 372 Genre: Science Fiction
My Review
I couldn’t resist the idea. An orbiting space resort. I’d sure buy a ticket.
Two big corporations are in a race to commercialize space. And the first space resort is about to become reality. You know they aren’t going to play nice. Oh, and did I forget to mention that there’s an asteroid headed right for Earth and the Pope needs rescuing? These new Jungi Knights are in a race against time.
This book has all the ear marks of an exciting space race. However, I had a hard time with the character’s. I just couldn’t connect with them. Especially the two main protagonists. They felt more like teenagers than grown up men and women.
I did enjoy how the rescue squad was trained in the Jungi discipline. Mind over matter and all that. I believe a quiet mind is the best for any situation and it was fun to read how they all came to accept that idea.
The authors world is vast and complex. I used my imagination from all of the science fiction movies I’ve watched and got a pretty good picture of it. I envisioned all of the complications that you’d run into on a daily basis, and do believe we will eventually colonize the moon and people will travel in space.
To really enjoy science fiction, I feel you need to suspend your disbelief and set your imagination free. Hitch a ride and enjoy the trip.
4 Stars
~~~~~
Synopsis
It’s the year 2075. Lunar mining and processing facilities have prospered near the lunar south pole, where the Moon’s largest city, Valhalla, rests on the rim of the Shackleton Crater.
Dominion Off-Earth Resources has beaten the competition into space and is ready to establish its monopoly with the opening of the orbiting space resort Dominion. But Pettit Space Industries has a secret plan to emerge as a major contender in the commercialization of space. The upstart company is training the first space rescue squad at a secluded off-grid site in Barrow, Alaska.
The rescue squad gets nearly more than it can handle when its first mission involves the Pope, who’s traveling to the Moon to establish the Lunar See. During the rescue attempt, they discover Earth is imperiled by an asteroid large enough to cause mass extinction. Using the unique skills taught during their training, skills emphasized by the great psychoanalyst Carl Jung, these Jungi Knights must elevate their game if they are to save both the Earth and the Pope—while not getting killed in the process.
The girl shook her head impatiently, the ponytail swaying back and forth. “You don’t recognize me?” she asked.
I looked closer. “I’m not up on the latest supermodel scene,” I told her, “and I haven’t seen many movies lately.”
“Supermodel? Movies? What on Earth are you talking about?”
“You seem to think I should recognize you. I assume you’re a model or an actress, someone who would be easily recognized.”
She whispered something under her breath, and having a modest ability to read lips, thought she’d said, What an idiot. “I’m Jessica Thibideau.”
I thought Julia was going to leap out of her chair and try to strangle the girl. I reached over and laid my hand on her forearm with as much reassurance as I could muster.
Julia reached over, grabbed the back of my neck, pulled my head down, leaned in, and whispered, “She runs the science departments in DOER’s space program. She’s the daughter of Benjamin Thibideau.”
“Oh,” I whispered. “Yes, of course I’ve heard of her. Never seen a picture, though. Why would she assume I’d recognize her?”
“Even in the Ural Mountains, I’ve seen news pics of the famous Jessica Thibideau. Her spaceship designs incorporate integrated shielding generators. She’s responsible for the explosion of industry in space.”
“And on the Moon,” I added. “Maybe I have seen her picture. She looks different in person.”
Jessica Thibideau began tapping her toe. “If you don’t mind, I have things to do.” She waved her arm in a wide sweeping movement. “And in case you haven’t noticed, we have a problem here.”
I began straightening myself but Julia grabbed my wrist. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Her company practically buried yours. Some say the stress is what killed your father.”
“Yeah, well, my dad worked too hard.”
I pulled away and straightened myself in my chair and folded my hands in front of me on the table. “Are you referring to the street music?”
She snorted. “Of course. What are you, some kind of joker?”
“Just trying to communicate.”
She reached up and pinched her nose, equalizing pressure. “You stole my asteroid retrieval drone.”
My reaction caught me by surprise. I jerked back as though jolted by a cattle prod such was my surprise at being accused of something so off my radar that she may very well have accused me of being an alien in disguise. “What?” I managed to eke out.
“You must’ve sanctioned it, at least. There are only two players in space—DOER and PSI. And DOER wouldn’t steal from itself.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“A DOER asteroid interceptor-collector drone has gone missing. Not only that, a dummy drone was left in its place to camouflage the theft. Now tell me, Mr. Pettit, how many companies have the capacity to handle what an interceptor-collector drone can deliver?”
I held up two fingers, eyebrows raised with uncertainty.
She stared as though trying to melt me with her glare. After a few moments, she made a sound that resembled harrumph and placed her hands on her hips. “Anibal Sanchez is your stooge, right?”
She throws out big tomatoes and observes your reaction.
I realized that this woman believed she possessed the skill to discern changes in blood pressure, eye dilation, and other change indicators that revealed when a person was lying.
Interesting.
“Never heard the name before,” I told her. “And now that I’ve answered your question, Miss Thibideau, I’ll tell you that you’re in no position to judge me. You don’t know me, and I doubt you have the depth of field to see clear enough for me to even want to have a conversation with you.”
“We all make judgments constantly,” she shot back. “You’re judging me right now.”
“You’re the one who barged in on us.”
She took a step to her left, then to her right. She placed her hand on her chin, opened her mouth, then finger-tapped the side of her head. She looked like a frenzied shopper who’d lost her shopping list and was trying to recall each item in the order in which they appeared.
She reached up and pinched her nose. Instead of finding it annoying, I found myself attracted to it.
Here, let me help …
Finally she stopped fidgeting and looked at me. “Mr. Pettit, allow me to apologize, please. I just got back from Valhalla, and I’ve got a bit of the jitters. I’m jumping at conclusions.”
“I hear jitters can be a common problem for space-goers,” I said. I reached over and nudged a chair away from the table. “Have a seat.”
Julia jabbed me with her elbow. I leaned over and whispered, “Let’s see how much information we can get.” Then I kissed her neck and this seemed to appease her.
Jessica Thibideau glanced back at her sedan. “All right. I am starving.” She sat and whispered a command that brought up a translucent eight-panel octagonal grid interface that encircled her.
Impressive. But where’s the projector? An implant? No—more likely embedded in clothing.
Signorina Thibideau twirled her finger and jabbed at one of the displays on the panel to her left. She glanced at me. “How’s the pizza here?”
“Out of this world,” I said, trying to suppress the corner of my mouth from rising slightly. I failed.
Jessica closed her eyes, sighed, then placed her order.
Julia leaned in and whispered, “She seems flighty to me.”
“Jitters is typically temporary.”
“Permanent jitters, in her case, if you ask me,” Julia commented.
~~~~~
About Author D.A. Hewitt
D.A. Hewitt is an award-winning author of four novels and over a hundred short stories. One novel was awarded a gold medal from the Independent Publishers Book Awards for best regional fiction. He attributes his success to hard work, honing a skill and providing an outlet for his passion for writing.
Born in Michigan, he lived for 25 years in North Carolina before returning to live in his home state. In addition to enjoying sky diving and mountain climbing, he is a proud veteran of the US Marine Corps and has earned a degree in mathematics.
Mr. Hewitt admits to a fascination with the work of Carl Jung and of the Gnostic religion. He’d always thought intertwining these topics in a science fiction novel was a stretch, but one day the storyline of Dominion came to him. He wrote the novel in a stream of consciousness. “It makes sense, tapping into the collective unconscious,” Mr. Hewitt says, “very much like Carl Jung might have predicted.”
Welcome to the tour for Child’s Play by Merry Jones February 1 – 28th.
I’m thrilled to share an excerpt from the book.
And there’s a giveaway. So don’t forget to enter!
Alsp, be sure to click on the link at the bottom of the post to follow the tour for more fun posts!
Child’s Play
by Merry Jones
Genre: Thriller, Suspense Published by: Oceanview Publishing Publication Date: January 3rd 2017 Number of Pages: 320 ISBN: 1608091910 (ISBN13: 9781608091911) Series: Elle Harrison Thriller #3 (Each can be read as a Stand Alone Novel)
Synopsis
Since her husband’s murder two years earlier, life hasn’t been easy for Elle Harrison. Now, at the start of a new school year, the second grade teacher is determined to move on. She’s selling her house and delving into new experiences―like learning trapeze.
Just before the first day of school, Elle learns that a former student, Ty Evans, has been released from juvenile detention where he served time for killing his abusive father. Within days of his release, Elle’s school principal, who’d tormented Ty as a child, is brutally murdered. So is a teacher at the school. And Ty’s former girlfriend. All the victims have links to Ty.
Ty’s younger brother, Seth, is in Elle’s class. When Seth shows up at school beaten and bruised, Elle reports the abuse, and authorities remove Seth and his older sister, Katie, from their home. Is Ty the abuser?
Ty seeks Elle out, confiding that she’s the only adult he’s ever trusted. She tries to be open-minded, even wonders if he’s been wrongly condemned. But when she’s assaulted in the night, she suspects that Ty is her attacker. Is he a serial killer? Is she his next intended victim?
Before Elle discovers the truth, she’s caught in a deadly trap that challenges her deepest convictions about guilt and innocence, childhood and family. Pushed to her limits, she’s forced to face her fears and apply new skills in a deadly fight to survive.
The parking lot was empty, except for Stan’s pickup truck. Stan was the custodian, tall, hair thinning, face pock-marked from long ago acne. He moved silently, popped out of closets and appeared in corners, prowled the halls armed with a mop or a broom. In fourteen years, I couldn’t remember a single time when he’d looked me in the eye.
Wait—fourteen years? I’d been there that long? Faces of kids I’d taught swirled through my head. The oldest of them would now be, what? Twenty-one? Oh man. Soon I’d be one of those old school marms teaching the kids of my former students, a permanent fixture of the school like the faded picture of George Washington mounted outside the principal’s office. Hell, in a few months, I’d be forty. A middle-aged childless widow who taught second grade over and over again, year after year, repeating the cycle like a hamster on its wheel. Which reminded me: I had to pick up new hamsters. Tragically, last year’s hadn’t made it through the summer.
I told myself to stop dawdling. I had a classroom to organize, cubbies to decorate. On Monday, just three days from now, twenty-three glowing faces would show up for the first day of school, and I had to be ready. I climbed out of the car, pulled a box of supplies from the trunk, started for the building. And stopped.
My heart did triple time, as if responding to danger. But there was no danger. What alarmed me, what sent my heart racing was the school itself. But why? Did it look different? Had the windows been replaced, or the doors? Nothing looked new, but something seemed altered. Off balance. The place didn’t look like an elementary school. It looked like a giant factory. A prison.
God, no. It didn’t look like any of those things. The school was the same as it had always been, just a big brick building. It seemed cold and stark simply because it was unadorned by throngs of children. Except for wifi, Logan Elementary hadn’t changed in fifty years, unless you counted several new layers of soot on the bricks.
I stood in the parking lot, observing the school, seeing it fresh. I’d never paid much attention to it before. When it was filled with students, the building itself became all but invisible, just a structure, a backdrop. But now, empty, it was unable to hide behind the children, the smells of sunshine and peanut butter sandwiches, the sounds of chatter and small shoes pounding Stanley’s waxed tiles. The building stood exposed. I watched it, felt it watching me back. Threatening.
Seriously, what was wrong with me? The school was neither watching nor threatening me. It was a benign pile of bricks and steel. I was wasting time, needed to go in and get to work. But I didn’t take a single step. Go on, I told myself. What was I afraid of? Empty halls, vacant rooms? Blank walls? For a long moment, I stood motionless, eyes fixed on the façade. The carved letters: Logan School. The heavy double doors. The dark windows. Maybe I’d wait a while before going inside. Becky would arrive soon, after she picked up her classroom aquarium.
Other teachers would show up, too. I could go in with them, blend safely into their commotion. I hefted the box, turned back to the car. But no, what was I doing? I didn’t want to wait. I’d come early so I could get work done without interruption or distraction before the others arrived. The school wasn’t daring me, nor was I sensing some impending tragedy. I was just jittery about starting a new year.
I turned around again, faced its faded brown bricks. I steeled my shoulders, took a breath and started across the parking lot. With a reverberating metallic clank, the main doors flew open. Reflexively, I stepped back, half expecting a burst of flames or gunfire. Instead, Stan emerged. For the first time in fourteen years, I was glad to see him. Stan surveyed the parking lot, hitched up his pants. Looked in my direction. He didn’t wave or nod a greeting, didn’t follow social conventions. Even so, his presence grounded me, felt familiar.
I took a breath, reminded myself that the school was just a school. That I was prone to mental wandering and embellishing. And that children would stream into my classroom in just three days, whether I was ready or not.
~~~~~
Meet Author Merry Jones
.
Merry Jones is the author of some twenty critically acclaimed books, both fiction and nonfiction. Her work has been translated into seven languages. Her previous Elle Harrison novels have been The Trouble With Charlie and Elective Procedures. Jones lives with her husband in Philadelphia.
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.
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.
~~~~~
About the Author
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.
Genre: Thriller, Political Thriller Published by: Kensington Books/Lyrical Underground Publication Date: November 22nd 2016 Number of Pages: 96 ISBN: 1616509813 (ISBN13: 9781616509811) Series: Dan Morgan #5.5
Synopsis
In this action-packed novella, Black Ops veteran Leo J. Maloney delivers a heart-pounding tale as fast, cold, and sleek as a 9mm bullet…
For Duty And Honor
The unthinkable has happened to operative Dan Morgan. Captured by the Russians. Imprisoned in the Gulag. Tortured by his cruelest, most sadistic enemy. But Morgan knows that every prisoner has a past—and every rival can be used. With the most unlikely of allies, Morgan hatches a plan. To save what’s important, he must risk everything. And that’s when the stakes go sky-high. Dan Morgan’s got to keep fighting. For duty. And honor. And even certain death…
The prisoner’s body was a brick of exhaustion and pain.
Steel cuffs chafed against his raw wrists and ankles, the rough uniform scraping the burns and cuts that lined his arms and legs and pocked his torso. Even under the blackness of his hood, the prisoner smelled stale sweat mingled with his own breath: iron from the blood, acetone from the starvation. He could barely hold himself up against the jolting ride. All that was keeping him upright were the two thick guards at his sides boxing him in. At the outset, hours ago at the landing strip, the guards were in high spirits, joking and jesting in Russian, which the prisoner could not follow. Whenever he couldn’t hold himself up anymore and leaned into one of them or into the front seat, they would box the prisoner’s head and laugh, forcing him to sit upright again.
But as they drew nearer to their destination, and the car’s heating lost ground against the cold, the guards grew quiet, like there was something grim about the place even to them.
The prisoner swung forward as the jeep came to an abrupt stop, tires on gravel. The doors opened and the spaces on his sides cleared as the men got out, leaving him exposed to the frigid Siberian air. Against this cold, the canvas uniform felt like nothing at all.
The guards unlocked the cuffs and yanked the prisoner out. Too tired to offer any resistance, he walked along, bare feet on the freezing stony ground. Someone pulled off his cowl. He was struck by a hurricane of light that made him so dizzy that he would have vomited, if there were anything in his stomach. It took a moment for the image to stop swimming and resolve itself into the barren landscape of rock and creeping brush lit by a sun low in the sky.
The Siberian tundra.
They prodded him forward. He trudged toward the Brutalist conglomeration of buildings surrounded by tall mesh fences and barbed wire. Prison camp. Gulag. The prisoner’s trembling knee collapsed and he fell on the stony ground. A guard gave him a kick with a heavy, polished leather boot and pulled him to his feet.
They reached the top and entered the vakhta, the guardhouse. He passed through the first gate and was searched, rough hands prodding and poking at him. They then opened the second, leading him through, outside, into the yard. His gaze kept down, he saw guards’ boots, and massive furry Caucasian shepherds, each taller than a full-grown man’s waist. He didn’t look up to see the bare concrete guard towers that overlooked the terrain for miles around or at the sharpshooters that occupied them.
He was pulled inside the nearest boxy building, walls painted with chipping murals of old Soviet propaganda, apple-cheeked youngsters over fields of grain and brave soldiers of the Red Army standing against the octopus of international capitalism. On the second floor, they knocked on a wooden door.
“Postupat’.”
The guards opened the door, revealing an office with a vintage aristocratic desk. They pushed him onto the bare hardwood.
A man stood up with a creak of his chair. The prisoner watched as he approached, seeing from his vantage point only the wingtip oxfords and the hem of his pinstriped gabardine pants, walking around his desk, footsteps echoing in the concrete office.
“Amerikanskiy?”
“Da,” a guard answered.
The man crouched, studying the prisoner’s face. “You are one of General Suvorov’s, are you not?” His voice was deep and filled with gravel and a heavy Russian accent.
The prisoner didn’t respond—not that he needed to.
“You are tough, if he did not break you.” He stood, brushing off unseen dust from his suit jacket. “And if he had broken you, you would be dead already. I am Nevsky, the warden. Welcome to my prison.”
~~~~~
Author Leo J. Maloney
Leo J. Maloney is a proud supporter of Mission K9 Rescue, www.missionk9rescue.org, which is dedicated to the service of retiring and retired military dogs and contract dogs and other dogs who serve. Mission K9 rescues, reunites, re-homes, rehabilitates, and repairs these hero dogs. Leo donates a portion of the proceeds from his writing to this organization. To find out more about Mission K9 Rescue, or to make your own donation, please visit www.missionk9rescue.org or go to www.k9gala.org
Historical biographies may not be my normal reading genre, but if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that you miss those hidden gems if you don’t read outside the box.
Madam President sounds like one of those gems.
Check out The Secret Presidency Of Edith Wilson.
And don’t forget to enter the giveaway!
Madam President: The Secret Presidency of Edith Wilson by William Hazelgrove
After President Woodrow Wilson suffered a paralyzing stroke in the fall of 1919, his wife, First Lady Edith Wilson, began to handle the day-to-day responsibilities of the Executive Office. Mrs. Wilson had had little formal education and had only been married to President Wilson for four years; yet, in the tenuous peace following the end of World War I, Mrs. Wilson dedicated herself to managing the office of the President, reading all correspondence intended for her bedridden husband. Though her Oval Office authority was acknowledged in Washington, D.C. circles at the time–one senator called her “the Presidentress who had fulfilled the dream of suffragettes by changing her title from First Lady to Acting First Man”–her legacy as “First Woman President” is now largely forgotten.
William Hazelgrove’s Madam President is a vivid, engaging portrait of the woman who became the acting President of the United States in 1919, months before women officially won the right to vote.
Praise
William Hazelgrove’s riveting style lets us into the backrooms of the White House to see how a woman who had only two years formal education was able to pull it off and do it for two years! A great read and ride!
~Robin Hutton New York Times Bestselling Author of Sgt Reckless
Excerpt – Chapter One
The Cover-Up
President Woodrow Wilson lay with his mouth drooping, unconscious, having suffered a thrombosis on October 2, 1919, that left him paralyzed on his left side and barely able to speak. The doctors believed the president’s best chance for survival was in the only known remedy for a stroke at the time: a rest cure consisting of total isolation from the world.
His wife of four years, Edith Bolling Wilson, asked how a country could function with no chief executive. Dr. Dercum, the attending physician, leaned over and gave Edith her charge: “Madam, it is a grave situation, but I think you can solve it. Have everything come to you; weigh the importance of each matter: and see if it is possible by consultation with the respective heads of the Departments to solve them without the guidance of your husband.”
From there, Edith Wilson would act as the president’s proxy and run the White House and, by extension, the country, by controlling access to the president, signing documents, pushing bills through Congress, issuing vetoes, isolating advisors, crafting State of the Union addresses, disposing of or censoring correspondence, and filling positions. She would analyze every problem and decide which ones to bring to the president’s attention and which to solve on her own through her own devices. All the while she had to keep the fact that the country was no longer being run by President Woodrow Wilson a guarded secret.
~~~~~
Author William Hazelgove
William Elliott Hazelgrove is the best-selling author of thirteen novels, Ripples, Tobacco Sticks, Mica Highways, Rocket Man, The Pitcher, Real Santa, Jackpine and The Pitcher 2. His books have received starred reviews in Publisher Weekly and Booklist, Book of the Month Selections, Junior Library Guild Selections, ALA Editors Choice Awards and optioned for the movies. He was the Ernest Hemingway Writer in Residence where he wrote in the attic of Ernest Hemingway’s birthplace. He has written articles and reviews for USA Today and other publications. He has been the subject of interviews in NPR’s All Things Considered along with features in The New York Times, LA Times, Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun Times, Richmond Times Dispatch, USA Today, People, Channel 11, NBC, WBEZ, WGN. The Pitcher is a Junior Library Guild Selection and was chosen Book of the Year by Books and Authors. net. His next book Jackpine will be out Spring 2014 with Koehler Books. A follow up novel Real Santa will be out fall of 2014. Madam President The Secret Presidency of Edith Wilson will be out Fall 2016. Storyline optioned the movie rights. Forging a President How the West Created Teddy Roosevelt will be out May 2017.
Open only to those who can legally enter, receive and use an Amazon.com Gift Code or Paypal Cash. Winning Entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary. You must be 18 or older to enter or have your parent enter for you. The winner will be chosen by rafflecopter and announced here as well as emailed and will have 48 hours to respond or a new winner will be chosen. This giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook, Twitter, Rafflecopter or any other entity unless otherwise specified. The number of eligible entries received determines the odds of winning. Giveaway was organized by Kathy from I Am A Reader and sponsored by the author. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW.
Author William Hazelgove
