Icarus Rising by Rob Manary @robmanary

Thursday, Day 4

I’ve decided to leave for Toronto tonight. After hearing Wayne’s report I might have left immediately, I am that taken with St. Claire, but guilt holds me here. I visit my sister, Elise, each week without fail, but I doubt she would realize if I have missed a week, or indeed if I never visited her again.

My mother was “not well” is how it is politely put. My earliest memory is of scalding hot water and the stink of bleach. I remember vividly my mother pouring bleach on my tender young skin and scrubbing my hands raw with a wire brush. “Dirty, so dirty, how do you get so dirty?” she would intone over and over again as she flayed the skin from my hands. I would cry out in agony and Elise, my saviour, my older sister, would come to my rescue.

I can hear her shaky, terrified little voice as she interceded on my behalf. “Mother,” she would say in that weak voice, struggling to be strong for me, to take the pain from her younger brother. “Look at my hands. I’m filthy, so dirty.”

Mother would drop my hands and appraise Elise as my sister held out her hands to Mother for inspection. Elise was my Christ. But Mother didn’t stop with Elise’s hands. Mother would also attack Elise’s beautiful sweet face with the wire brush and scrub raw her porcelain skin.

This terrible ritual seemed to bring Mother to a cathartic release of sorts. Realizing at last what she had done to her children she would hold us close and weep, begging us for forgiveness, promising to never lay a hand on us again. And then she would take to her bed for weeks or months. Her “lazy days” is what she called them and how thankful I was when they would come.

Home was a sprawling twelve bedroom prison to me. Most of the rooms were never used and we were not allowed to go into much of the house. At night I was tied to my bed, and there were days when Mother would leave me restrained, days when I would scream and scream because I didn’t want to empty my bowels and be left in my own excrement.  Mother kept the place like a museum. Her husband, my father, left her before I was born. Elise told me years later that Mother thought her love would one day come home and she must keep the house as he left it.

We had two servants that served the family faithfully for decades, a married couple, Charles and Abigail. They served my grandmother before my mother inherited the family estate and by all accounts my grandmother was, like my mother, “not well.” They were, therefore, accustomed to my painfully eccentric family. They were kind to Elise and me, but kept silent about what went on under the roof of their long time employers.

I’ve never blamed them. They lived in the little cottage house on the grounds, were paid little, and were already advanced in age when I was young. I don’t think either can read or write and serving our family was all they knew. They must be in their late seventies now and they still live in their little cottage house on the grounds of what is now my estate, I suppose. They care for my museum prison.  I pay them well and Abigail keeps the place spotless for visitors that will never come. Charles, I am told, still maintains gardens that are the envy of the neighbourhood. They were kind to Elise and me so I am kind to them.

My fondest memories are of working in the garden with Charles when Mother had her “lazy days” and of sitting in the kitchen and listening to Abigail sing as she prepared elaborate meals that only my sister and I would eat.

When Mother began wandering the halls of the estate in her faded and tattered wedding gown, cradling a shotgun, Abigail was finally moved to call the police.

 

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Genre – Erotic Romance

Rating – R

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Website http://robmanary.com/

Author Interview – Abigail Hawk @VL_Dreyer

Tell us a bit about your family.
I’m the offspring of a giant, tattooed biker computer technician, and an astrologer.  No, really.
How do you work through self-doubts and fear?
I have a group of close friends that I know I can trust, and that share my passions.  Whenever I’m feeling down, I just talk to them, tell them what’s bother me, and let them put the pieces back together.
What scares you the most?
Spiders, deep water, and small children screaming.  No, seriously – the first two are phobias, and the last one is related to a medical condition I have that leaves me with hyper-sensitive hearing.  Babies crying and small children wailing are extremely painful to me.
What makes you happiest?
It sounds corny, but… talking to readers, and discussing my characters with people that are interested in hearing more about them.  I love my characters far more than anyone should.  They’re like my children, and I’m proud of them even when I’m being mean to them.
What’s your greatest character strength?
Unsurprisingly, it’s creativity.  I’m a very creative person by nature.  In addition to writing, I illustrate comic books, weave chainmail,  enjoy working with metal and wood, and even do a little sewing on the side.  I recently decided to do a diploma in Fashion Design, and enjoyed it immensely!

What’s your weakest character trait? 

I was poorly socialised as a child, because I was always more interested in burying my nose in a book than being out playing with other kids.  This has leaked over into my adult years, where I still struggle to speak in groups.  I am a very shy person.

Why do you write?

I write because I love it.  I write because it’s part of who I am.  I write because I enjoy telling stories, and creating whole new worlds to explore.  I am a world-builder – that is, someone who creates an entire world to set their stories in, rather than using the real world – and bringing those worlds to live is my passion, and my calling.

Have you always enjoyed writing?

Yes, but only for pleasure.  Believe it or not, I always hated creative writing at school.  I hated art at school as well.  I feel that with creative subjects, there is no right and wrong way to do them, so having a teacher standing in judgement feels very wrong to me.  My teachers and I used to argue for hours.

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Genre - Paranormal Romance

Rating – R-18

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Website http://www.vldreyer.com

#AmReading - Few are Angels by Inger Iversen @kris10inger

Few are Angels by Inger Iversen

Amazon

After a fatal hit and run accident, Ella Monroe fears that she’s lost more than her beloved parents. Horrifying visions of a past life and a disturbing voice in her head have psychiatric professionals convinced that she’s lost her sanity as well. But when Kale--a dark and handsome stranger with a mysterious past--reveals the true meaning of her visions and the tremendous power she wields through them, Ella must come to terms with the devastating truths of her own past, while eluding an ancient Dark Prince who seeks to control not only her future, but all of mankind’s, by means of abilities that Ella is only beginning to understand.
Enter the shrouded world of an age old battle between an ancient race known as the Immortals and their bitter enemy Laurent, the so-called Dark Prince, who commands an army of half-breed vampires known as Chorý. Both sides have been desperately searching for the prophesied emergence of the Arc, a clairvoyant with unparalleled power to recall the past and a soothsayer with clear vision into the future.
The Council of Immortals has sworn to protect the Arc, whom they have identified as young Ella Monroe, a college freshman from Virginia living quietly and unaware of her powers or her past. But a renegade Chorý has other plans for the protection of a girl he has loved through the ages. Can Kale convince Ella of who she is, what she is destined to become, and what he once meant to her? Is he truly the best protector to shield the world from the devastating misuse of her powers that Laurent is bent on controlling? Or will the forbidden love they share and Kale’s cursed condition as a retched and hated Chorý be used against them both?
This paranormal romance told from the heroine’s perspective builds in intensity and intrigue to a finale you won’t see coming. Heart pounding action mixed with heartwarming friendships and heartbreaking romance will leave you breathless and begging for more.

Indiestructible: Inspiring Stories from the Publishing Jungle @MsBessieBell

Tackling the Time Factor

by Jessica Bell

The biggest problem I had with deciding to go indie was the time factor.

With a stressful full-time job as a project manager for the Academic Research & Development department at Education First, it was difficult for me to see how I could possibly work, write, blog, edit, publish, market, run a literary journal, direct a writer’s retreat, and live my life all at once. It doesn’t help that I’m a bit of a stickler. I like to get everything done myself because I have a hard time waiting on others to do things I know I can get done more quickly and efficiently. I outsource if I really have to, but I do enjoy doing the work, such as designing covers, learning new skills and navigating social media. So when I say, DIY, I really mean DIY. Where on Earth, I wondered, would I find the time to be an editor for an educational publisher and literary magazine, an author, a typesetter, a designer, and a marketer? And what about walking the dog? Making dinner? Sleeping? (Forget the laundry. I have months of unfolded washed clothes in a heap on the couch that will soon need to go straight back into the machine from the dog rubbing herself all over them.)

The time factor is a logical fear. But once I finally made the decision to do this on my own, I realized that it wasn’t as daunting as it seemed. Do you know how much more you actually get done when you think something is impossible?

I don’t want to tell you how to schedule your day, but I’m going to give you a run down on how to approach this time management malarkey mentally. The key for me is not to focus on one thing all day. When you do this, you burn out. Your brain starts to lag from the monotony of the same information. You need to mix it up. If you mix it up, you get more done, because your mind is consistently stimulated with fresh information.

Let’s start with the actual writing of your books. Because this is what it all boils down to, yes? But first, I have to say, everyone is different. Everyone writes at different speeds, deals with stress in different ways, has different expectations of themselves. So you need to figure out what you want and works for you.

1. Stop thinking about what other people will think of your work. And write honestly. The first version of my debut novel was written for an audience. It was rejected again and again—for five years. And then, I found a small press who saw something in me and made an effort to get to know me. (Unfortunately that publisher liquidated only six months after its release, but that’s another story which you can read about here.) The publisher said my book was good, but that it felt like she was watching the characters through a window. She said: “Go deeper.” So I dug deeper and dragged the truth from my heart and soul. A truth I was afraid to admit was there. But it resulted in an honest book—a book I didn’t know I had in me. And one I hope women will be able to relate to. It’s glory-less, but real. And real steals hearts. What does this have to do with time management you ask? A lot. When you believe in your work, when you love your work, the words get written faster.

2. Focus on one paragraph at a time. I will never forget Anne Lamott’s advice from Bird by Bird (most accessible and nonsense-less book on writing I’ve ever read): write what you can see through a one-inch frame.

The reason I say this, is because knowing how much you have to revise can sometimes be daunting and overwhelming, and you might try to get through as much as possible and forget to focus your attention on the quality of your work. If you make each paragraph the best it can be before you move on, you won’t have to do any major rewrites (unless there’s a snag in your plot that you’ve overlooked and it’s related to a pertinent turning point). I’m talking revision here, not first draft.

3. Divide your writing time into short bursts. I find that if I give myself only one hour to write every morning before work, sometimes even shorter periods of time (especially when I accidentally sleep in), I’m forced to come up with things I wouldn’t normally think of.

The brain works in mysterious ways when it’s under pressure, and sometimes a little self-inflicted pressure can push you to great heights. Can you believe I wrote the first draft of The Book over a three-day long weekend? I did this because I experimented with the self-inflicted pressure idea. It worked. But be careful not to expect too much from yourself. There is nothing worse than becoming unmotivated due to not reaching personal goals. Which brings me to my fourth point ...

4. To start with, set your goals low. Set goals you know for a fact you can reach. If you set them too high, and continuously fail to meet them, you are going to feel really bad about yourself. This may result in neglecting your goals altogether. I know this from personal experience. If you later realize that you are meeting your goals with ease, gradually make them more challenging. But I strongly urge you to start small. It’s better for you, psychologically, to meet easy goals, than to struggle meeting difficult goals. Not achieving goals is a major hazard for self-esteem, motivation, and creativity.

So what about the rest?

Let’s see. These are the things I continuously have on the go that are not part of my day job or writing books, and I still find time to walk the dog and make dinner (sorry, the washing is still on the couch):

—Vine Leaves Literary Journal (reading submissions, sending rejection/acceptance letters, designing the magazine, promoting the magazine)

—Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop (organizing the event and handling finances)

—Typesetting, designing, and marketing my books (which includes, what seems, a never-ending thread of guest posts and interviews)

—Blogging (including keeping up to speed with my weekly guest feature, The Artist Unleashed)

—Maintaining my online presence (Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, etc.)

I do all this stuff on top of the day job. On top of my writing. Because I do it all in scheduled, short bursts. I get up early to make sure I have one hour to write and one hour to do something else from the list above. I pick and choose depending on priority. During my lunch break, I blog and spend about half an hour to an hour (depends on how long I can take from work) on social media. After work, I walk the dog, make dinner, maybe go to yoga. Once that’s done, I’ll spend another hour or so doing something else from the list above. Then I have a shower, relax in front of the TV, or do something else away from the computer before I go to bed. Then in bed, I’ll read a chapter or two of the book on my bedside table. Reading to me is relaxing and not a chore.

So what have I accomplished in this average day of mine?

Here’s an example:

—My job (at least 7 hours worth)

—500-1000 words on my WIP

—I read 30 Vine Leaves submissions and sent a few responses, maybe even set up a classified ad on NewPages.com.

—I wrote/scheduled a blog post, commented on other blogs.

—I connected with everyone I wanted to online. I may have worked on my latest book cover for a bit.

—I made dinner.

—I walked the dog.

—I relaxed.

—Look ... I’ll deal with those clothes tomorrow, okay?

I know people with kids who have just as much, and more, on their plate, and they’re still finding the time to self-publish. You can too.

My point is, it can all be done. And it doesn’t have to freak you out, or overwhelm you. Just pace yourself. And if you don’t have a full-time job like me, imagine how much more you can get done.

Nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it.

Nothing is impossible if you truly want it.

Nothing is impossible. Full stop.

Bio:

If Jessica Bell could choose only one creative mentor, she’d give the role to Euterpe, the Greek muse of music and lyrics. This is not only because she currently resides in Athens, Greece, but because of her life as a thirty-something Australian-native contemporary fiction author, poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist, whose literary inspiration often stems from songs she’s written.

In addition to her novels, poetry collections, (one of which was nominated for the Goodreads Choice Awards in 2012), and her Writing in a Nutshell series, she has published a variety of works in online and print literary journals and anthologies, including Australia’s Cordite Review, and the anthologies 100 STORIES FOR QUEENSLAND and FROM STAGE DOOR SHADOWS, both released through Australia’s, eMergent Publishing.

Jessica is the Co-Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal and annually runs the Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop on the Greek island of Ithaca. She makes a living as a writer/editor for English Language Teaching Publishers worldwide, such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, MacMillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning.

Keep an eye out for her forthcoming novel, BITTER LIKE ORANGE PEEL, slated for release, November 1, 2013.

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Genre –  Non-fiction

Rating – G

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Blog http://thealliterativeallomorph.blogspot.com/

In a Milk and Honeyed Land by Richard Abbott @MilkHoneyedLand

GAML

IBALATU YEAR 15—BUL YEAR 16

Refreshing like rain are my words,

distilling like dew is my speech,

like cloudbursts upon the grassland,

or rainfall upon the young crops.

BARUK CAME OUT OF Danil’s house and set off across the ridge towards home. After completing his childhood and passing through the ceremonies to be counted as a young man of the community, he had deliberately set out to be noticed by Danil and the others of the raiding party. So far he had not succeeded in being really included in that group, and Danil’s own son was too different in age from him to make anything to his advantage out of a potential friendship, but he entertained hopes. Bashur, almost the same height despite their year separation in age, followed him as closely as possible and was clearly attempting to make every available use of the sibling relationship. Today, Baruk had managed to spend time with Danil without his brother. He smiled to himself as he joined the main track down from the high place. He was genuinely fond of Bashur, for all his over-close attachment, and most of the time was happy that he was there with him like a shadow. Though they were not twins, they understood each other’s moods and feelings better than most brothers or friends, even when they disagreed over their thoughts and opinions. Mostly, he appreciated Bashur’s presence nearby. Some days, though, it was good to go on his own.

He heard his name being called, and turned to see Damariel hurrying down towards him from the high place. He waited until he caught up with him.

“Just going home?”

“Yes. Dad let me off some time in the olive field this afternoon. Reckoned we’d done enough for the day or something. So I took the chance to spend a bit of that time with Danil.”

“That went well?”

“Yes. He’s always helpful, whenever I ask he’s happy to talk to me about how the raids are done. I’m learning a lot. There’s not so many of them go regularly, never quite enough for what they want to bring back. So I think I can talk my way into going with them if they think I’m keen. Well, and if I know what I’m doing.”

They walked a bit further in silence together.

“Been up with the seer, then, Damari?”

Damariel nodded.

“And what did you learn today?”

“He’s been teaching me these last months how to read not just our own writing, but the older stuff too. Like they used way back before our time. Actually they still do in the big towns, and if you have to write to the Mitsriy ever.”

Baruk nodded, not especially interested yet in the topic, but before he could speak, Damariel rushed on with enthusiasm.

“Baruk, I never knew before today that a woman from here, from our own town, wrote to the Mitsriy governor once.”

“Oh yes? What did she say?”

“Nothing much, really, just warning him about a big raid between two of the nearby towns. The usual double-dealing and trickery they do in those other places. But she wrote to them, Baruk, and they took notice. She called herself the lady lioness and they thought she was like our queen.”

Baruk laughed.

“They didn’t know much about us, then. Though the lion bit wasn’t far off.”

Damariel joined in the humour.

“No, I suppose not. But they took notice of her all the same. Respected her.”

“She can’t have been from mum’s family or we’d have heard about her years ago. If there was anything like that in her ancestors she’d have told us.”

“That’s true. I don’t know if she was a chief’s wife or the seer at the time, or even just one of the village women who could write. But I saw the copy of what she wrote and have been puzzling over it all morning.”

At that point they both stopped and looked back up the hill. A sudden shouting had started somewhere up near the high place, men’s voices raised in fierce anger. Baruk took a step or two back up the hill, but Damariel stopped him.

“Do you think we ought to?”

“Are you kidding? Whatever it is, I’m not going to miss it.”

They set off again along the ridge, and started running as the shouting began to grow louder. Like them, others were coming out of houses, looking, and starting to gather together up at the heart of the community. At the stones, Ethan the shepherd, his large face red and his large fists clenched, was being held away from Iqnu by three of the other men. Qerith had pulled her kef down over her face and was facing away from them off to one side, leaning on the wall of the seer’s house, her expression completely hidden. The two boys joined the gathering circle of villagers, Baruk pushing through to the front so they could see, and Damariel following. Ethan took a breath and shouted something incoherent at Iqnu; the only words they could make out in the whole tirade were “Isheth” and “while I was away”. Beside him, Baruk heard Damariel gasp.

“What is it, Damari? What’s this about?”

Damariel shook his head, his eyes fixed on Iqnu who was looking around at the ring of villagers, clearly trying to elicit sympathy or help from the assembly. One of the older lads nearby heard the question.

“Ethan says the seer took his woman for himself. While he was away up along the ridge with the flocks. Just before you came he was saying she confessed it all to him when he got back today. Over a year all told they’ve been at it with each other, so he says. Not just once, you know. All while he was away with the flocks. And in her own house, too. Not like it was somewhere else.”

“Is it true?”

“No idea. But Ethan’s all a sweat. Look at him. He’s called the seer both thief and liar, and the seer hasn’t said anything back.”

“Where’s Isheth? What does she say?”

The other shrugged. “Never seen her yet. Maybe she’s got a tale to tell too, but right now she’s not here to tell it.”

Ethan’s parents, Hinnah and Nawar, had arrived. Nawar went over to his son and gripped his arms, waving away the men who had been holding him away from Iqnu. Hinnah went off with Danil’s wife Rivkah towards Isheth’s house. In the sudden quiet they heard Ethan’s voice as he spoke to Nawar. Most of what he said was indistinct, but every so often one word or other would burst out loud. Nawar listened without comment for some time, still keeping hold of his son as though he might burst away at any moment. Qerith moved away from the house to one side and sat on one of the flat stones, her face still covered. Shelomith-Rahmay went and sat with her. Nawar looked very sombre as he turned towards Iqnu, who glanced around the circle again, still trying to gauge whether the mood of the community was for or against him. But before Nawah could speak, Rivkah came running in, across to where Qerith and Shelomith sat, her kef all awry and blood on the sleeve of her smock.

“He’s tried to kill her. Beaten her something terrible. But she’s not yet gone across, not yet. Lady, she needs someone good with healing. Lady, please come and do what you can for her.”

She knelt in front of Qerith, but there was no reply. After a long pause her veiled, hidden head shook once. Shelomith stood up slowly, looking suddenly much older than her years, beckoned to one of the other women to take her place with Qerith, and went off with Rivkah. Someone on the other side of the circle pushed their way through to the front.

“Her brother lives up at Woodlands. Azziy, they call him. Someone should get him. If Ethan’s killed her he’ll want to know about it. The whole family will. It’ll be a matter of honour.”

Nawar thought about it for a long moment, several different emotions playing across his face as he inclined his head reluctantly. But before he could speak, Mahiram’s older voice broke in. “Hear me now, there’s more involved than the honour of two families. It’s a seer’s matter and we need a seer to judge on it now. So yes, send a boy up to Woodlands by all means, but send one up to Giybon as well to get a seer down here to tell us how both Iqnu and Ethan are to be treated. They’ll be here tomorrow. If I’m heard there’ll be no judgement upon anyone’s family before then.”

There was a murmur of acceptance, approval around the circle. Two lads were sent off in different directions up the ridge. Debate began then as to where Ethan and Iqnu should be kept while they waited for others to arrive, but before this could be resolved Rivkah and Shelomith returned with Hinnah, all with torn kef and dust on their head and shoulders. Isheth had not been able to bear her injuries and had gone across. Ethan said nothing, did nothing, but looked away into the distance with no expression on his face. Iqnu grimaced, made as if to tear his own kef but then stopped. Nawar shook his head and sat on one of the nearby stones, head in hands. Qerith shook off the hands of the woman who had been sitting with her, took off her sandals, walked across to Iqnu and slapped him across his face with them, twice, side-to-side, before turning and walking away down the hill. Shelomith went with her.

It was as though Qerith’s actions stirred the community into action, as though they were like a judgement on the case. Two of the men nearby took Iqnu’s arms and led him into his own house. They shut his door and at Mahiram’s word, pushed a boulder against the door so it could not be opened. Ethan turned as though to go with Nawar, but he shook his head and turned away. Ethan stopped short, clearly shocked at his father’s response, and hung his head, speechless. Nawar walked away without turning. Hinnah wavered, looking this way and that between the two men, but eventually, with an anguished look at her son, followed her husband down the hill. Ethan was taken away to a hut adjoining one of the empty, unfamilied houses and put inside it, with a boulder against the door just as they had done with Iqnu. The group began to disperse, a buzz of conversation flowing like streams into the tracks and pathways, flooding into the doorways and filling up the individual houses.

The next morning the door of the hut Ethan had been placed in had been broken open from the inside, and the stone outside the seer’s house tossed to one side. Neither Ethan nor Iqnu were there. By the time Azziy arrived from Woodlands, Iqnu’s body had been found at the base of a low cliff just west of the village. He had died in the end from the fall, but before that had clearly been roughly treated. Ethan was nowhere to be found, but a group of the men who went hunting soon found the place where his tracks led away down into the valley, heading north-west towards the lowlands. They followed the trail for a few dozens of paces but then turned back to the village rather than go on. There seemed little point: the trail was perfectly clear but Ethan was not stopping for anything and had several hours start. When Qerith was told she made no reply, but simply moved back from Shelomith’s home into the great house by the stones and waited for the seer to arrive from Giybon.

In fact they came not from Giybon but from Meyim, a married couple called Saniyahu and Halith. Halith went in to be with Qerith, while Saniyahu called a meeting of the whole adult community beside the town gate and heard the whole tale told. Baruk was not there, nor Damariel, as their adolescent status did not qualify them as part of the formal assembly, but they heard of it later. Ethan was publicly declared no longer welcome in the village, though there seemed little chance he would attempt a return. Iqnu, though already dead, was proclaimed no longer a seer among the four towns, and denied any rights to a burial on their land or with his family. Azziy accepted the sum of four times the bride price that had been paid, renounced any further claim that there might be on Nawar’s family, and took Ishesth’s body to rest with her ancestors. Nawar had remained silent as he had weighed out the sum in silver and other goods in front of them all. The house that Isheth had shared with Ethan was to be pulled down and the stones scattered here and there around the village field walls and terraces, and such possessions as were in it would be given to widows and orphans. Only the foundations and a few of the bigger wall-stones would be left to mark the place in the community memory. Saniyahu and Halith were to take up the duty of town ministry themselves, starting right away, that very day. Apparently the seers had already met and decided the matter in an all-night vigil of talk and prayer. A younger couple, not long past apprenticeship, were to take their place at Meyim, releasing them to begin at Kephrath. Qerith, still veiled and silent, speaking only with Shelomith and Halith, packed her few belongings and moved back to be near family just past Shalem.

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Genre – Historical Fiction

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.kephrath.com/

Infernal Gates by Michael J. Webb @mjwebbbooks

Chapter 7

It was just after dawn and the sun rose majestically over the snow-capped peaks of the Swartberg Pass. The golden yellow rays—tinged with hues of red, bluish-purple, and brilliant orange—reflected off the glistening, pristine snow. The view was breathtaking—like nothing Donald had ever seen before. The mile-high Pass they were passing through was a masterpiece of engineering, full of wide loops, switchbacks, and stunning views.

He didn’t want to miss a single moment of the extraordinary panorama spread out before him, but he had to concentrate on his driving.

Donald had researched information about its construction on the Internet late last night. The final work accomplished by the legendary road builder, Thomas Bain, it was completed after six years of grueling labor in 1887. Because the road was narrow, winding, and very steep, he couldn’t afford to act like a tourist on vacation, even though he felt like one.

One stupid mistake and they’d be airborne—and it was a long way to the valley below.

He’d also discovered the San Andreas Fault ran smack dab through these mountains. The most destructive earthquake in South Africa’s history had hit not far from here in 1969. The quake had been so strong, 6.3 on the Richer scale, with aftershocks exceeding 7.0, that the force of it had been felt as far away as Durban, on the coast. Thinking of the rock towers surrounding this road shifting and swaying like tinker toys made his stomach quiver.

“Tell me again why we’re going to this place—what’s it called, Heitsi?” he said.

“Gamkaskloof,” their guide replied from the back seat.

“Die Hel” Alec said, using the Afrikaans colloquial name as he scrutinized the map splayed out across his lap. He was in the passenger seat with several well-worn reference books scattered at his feet. Every so often he reached down and picked one up, then flipped back and forth through the pages. He scribbled furiously and made several notes on both the map and the small notepad he always kept with him.

“The Hell is an extremely fertile valley, thirty-two miles long and less than half a mile wide,” he continued, as he paused for a moment from what he was doing. “It’s aptly nicknamed by the locals, because it is a place of mystery and legend, in the tradition of Sir Conan Doyle’s The Lost World. We’re going to Gamkaskloof, because of what we found in the Karoo yesterday.”

Heitsi said nothing. An air of concern cloaked his countenance, like a barely discernible gossamer veil.

It was mid-morning when they reached the bottom of the valley.

The temperature had risen dramatically as they descended. Now, all the windows in the Land Rover were down, allowing a scented breeze to flow through the vehicle. The valley floor was covered with a variety of reverie shrubs, thorn trees—with their exaggerated umbrella-shaped crowns, gnarled branches, and jagged thorns—and the spectacular Klapperbosse.

The narrow road wound through bush so dense it seemed like an impenetrable wall and finally brought the three companions to the Gamka River crossing. Donald was grateful they hadn’t seen another vehicle. He couldn’t imagine how they would have negotiated the encounter—there was no place to turn around.

“This valley has to be one of the best-kept secrets ever,” he said. “I had no idea anything like this existed in South Africa.”

“Most people outside of the area don’t,” Alec responded. “The valley was discovered by accident. For more than a hundred years, the only way to get down here was on horseback through the river gorge, or over the mountains. The cut-off leading down into the valley wasn’t even constructed until nineteen sixty-two. Within thirty years of its completion, the last farmer had sold out his interests to the Cape Nature Conservation Society, the organization which manages the Swartberg Preserve. Now, there are only two permanent residents who live here—a conservation official and his wife.”

The Land Rover hit a huge pot hole and the three occupants were momentarily rattled.

“Hit another one of those, Donald,” Heitsi admonished, “and you might as well get out the camping gear right now, because we won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

“Sorry—”

“You see those three odd-shaped formations up ahead?” Alec tapped his graduate assistant on the shoulder and pointed.

Donald nodded.

“That’s where we’re going to look.”

“Look for what?” Heitsi demanded, a scowl on his face.

“The Tomb of the Unmentionable.”

Six thousand miles away, on the shores of the Mediterranean, an orange-yellow sun was momentarily trapped among a contingent of cumulus clouds as they pranced across the sky, casting a mosaic of lavender and ocher-red hues across the heavenly, deep-blue canopy. A soft, cool breeze, unusual for this time of year, cascaded over the dirty-green water that was the Vieux Port of Marseilles. It left row after row of undulating ripples in its unseen wake.

The smell of salt, and rotting fish, permeated the shimmering air.

On the peak of the strip of land that projected west into the bay, high above the Port, stood the imposing Church of Notre Dame de la Garde. Construction on the Romano-Byzantine style basilica had begun in 1853 on the hilltop where the town’s lookout post had once stood. It was completed forty-six years later, one year shy of the new century. The hilltop, like most religious sites in Europe, had a long history. Originally, a simple chapel had been built there during the thirteenth century. Eventually, it became a priory for the monks of St. Victor. Three hundred years later, the church had been fortified to defend against a threatened invasion by Charles V of Spain.

Now, the century-old basilica dominated the view for miles around.

Standing atop its two hundred foot high belfry stood a huge, gilded statue of the Virgin Mary holding her infant child. Mother and child had a magnificent view of Fort St. Jean, and Fort St. Nicholas, as well as the rocky islet of If, site of the sixteenth century Chateau d’If mentioned in the Count of Monte Christo, the nineteenth century novel written by the French novelist Alexandre Dumas.

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Genre – Christian Thriller, Fantasy, Adventure

Rating – PG-13

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Website http://www.michaeljwebbfiction.com/

Emily Kinney - Why Book Covers are So Important @theshadylady

Ah, book covers! This, with little exaggeration, is one of my favorite literary topics. In addition, it is also a topic that is rarely conversed about or studied. Growing up, from ages nine to twenty-one, so roughly eleven or twelve years, I volunteered weekly at my town’s public library. This became a vital portion of my advancement in literary knowledge and exposure. I learned a lot about the interworking’s of libraries; their alphabetical and numerical cataloguing systems, how to put a protective plastic jacket over the paper jacket of a hard cover, and how to arrange festive displays on large board, depending on the season or holiday. But when I wasn’t being trained, I had the time to wander about on my own and observe my surroundings with the pervading sense of curiosity that has beleaguered me since birth.

I saw, wondered, and contemplated about the books that surrounded me. Shelf after shelf, bindings out to greet the perusing reader, none looking exactly alike, all flaunting their fonts and colors like so many male critters trying to attract a mate. Naturally, I would choose to take down and look at the books whose bindings had quirked my interest the most. The binding is the precursor to the actual book cover. Like the opening act before the legitimate, established, and high selling rock stars take the stage. They are constructed to entice unsuspecting eyes, to draw you in, give you a taste before you allow your hand to hover closer to remove and inspect the book itself. How can you not adore book bindings? They are given so little credit, and I suspect they always will. No one congratulates the sleeve of a cashmere cardigan for seducing a shopper into looking at the whole garment. Poor book bindings. Let this post be a mark in history where the credit you are due was given.

And once the binding had hypnotized me into pulling the entire book off the shelf, I was always met with the cover. Though it is little discussed, it can be easily agreed upon that book covers provide a psychological catalyst between the reader and the pages. Depending on the content, topic, themes, setting, direction, style, and intent of the story in the book, the cover can respond a number of ways. It can keep most everything a mystery, thereby not exploiting the plot and keeping its integrity intact, such as with Catcher in the Rye; or all that’s needed to draw in a reader is the title or the name of the author, such with every Tom Clancy novel ever sold. Book covers that have little to offer beyond the title, author’s name, and perhaps a small image pertaining to certain events in the story have both advantages and disadvantages. If you are careful and wise, it can evoke an irresistible sense of curiosity. Or, it can turn a person off to the possibility of reading it.

On the other hand, book covers that convey different elements, or even scenes, that a part of the story can often ignite the imagination of whoever is looking at them. However, this can often be tricky. There is the now very popular, and cheaper, act of using actual photos for the cover. It is very modern, and it doesn’t particularly sit well with me personally. Mostly, because I believe the cover should reflect the art of the writing itself. It’s all art. It can be contemporary painting, or sparse drawing, or vivid and lush illustration, but I love it when a book cover is art itself.

During my countless hours at my library, I slowly began to assess what covers made want to read the actual book and which ones didn’t. Covers are so much more than mere eye-catching advertising. It is the first step in developing a relationship between the book and the reader. Shreds of communication and understanding are shared when the reader scans the cover for the first time. Therefore, it should represent the story and style as well as it can. Many stories are timeless, but might never be read unless the cover entices the reader to turn to the first page.

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Genre - Young Adult Fiction

Rating – PG

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Author Interview – Rob Manary @robmanary

What scares you the most?

Midgets terrify me! Or, should I say fear of failure? No, I think midgets are more frightening. I have nightmares about landing in Oz and having to fight off dozens of the little singing mini-men before fleeing down the yellow brick road.

What makes you happiest?

A twelve pack of Molson Canadian and The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars DVD. A close second would be a day free to spend writing. Actually, a close second would be a twelve pack of Budweiser and The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars DVD, but definitely third would be a free day to write.

What’s your greatest character strength?

I have an almost inhuman ability to withstand criticism. That might stem from my blissful belief that anyone who might have anything negative to say about my writing is completely full of shit and/or doesn’t know what they are talking about and/or is a part of a shadowy government conspiracy intent on bringing me down. I’m pretty proud of that last sentence. If I were a reader I would definitely buy anything I wrote based on that sentence alone!

Why do you write?

Because I can’t sing. Rock star was my first career choice, but a complete absence of talent forced me to consider writing as a path to fame and fortune. That’s not true; writing is not a path to fortune or fame. I write because I love to create. I love to be able to form stages for my characters to strut and fret upon. I love to be able to create pictures from words. Critics, however, might suggest I try singing.

What motivates you to write?

There is nothing on T.V. Seriously it is a bleak landscape out there. Writing for me is entertainment. Creating characters, watching them struggle, watching them grow, watching scenes unfold beneath my fingertips is far more entertaining for me than anything on television.

When I begin a chapter I am often surprised where my creations take me. I am often like a medium channeling the voices of the characters, and they dictate the flavor and direction. In writing “Icarus Rising” I assembled the cast and they seemed to do the work.

What writing are you most proud of?

I collaborated on a role-playing game that never quite got the attention I believe it deserved. It was a world based loosely on David Bowie’s concept album, Diamond Dogs. I am extremely proud of the writing I did for this Role-playing game, Hunger City. The tag line was “A brand new Dark Age.”

If I ever become wildly successful, or find an eccentric backer, I would assemble the writers I worked with on Hunger City and give it the treatment it deserves. I earnestly believe the themes and concepts could translate into a lucrative franchise. David Bowie, call me?

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Genre – Erotic Romance

Rating – R

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Website http://robmanary.com/

Isabella: Braveheart of France by Colin Falconer @colin_falconer

Chapter 7

An Easter Friday, cold and bright. Edward storms in, trailing clerks and advisers, even a dwarf. Mortimer is there, and old Hugh le Despenser, Lincoln as well.

He has still not given her the dower she was promised and as she cannot afford to keep her own household she now lives in his. She is witness now to all of his moods and travails.

Edward paces relentlessly. He is holding a petition, bunched in his fist. “ “A higher duty is owed to the Crown over the person of the king?” What do they mean by this? I am the Crown.”

“They refer to the institution of kingship,” Mortimer says, refusing to join in the general air of exasperation.

“The institution? There is no institution. I am their king, they should do as I say.”

“What has happened my lord?” she asks him.

For the first time he notices her there. He waves a hand airily at her. “Explain it to her, Mortimer.”

“The barons have demanded my lord Gaveston’s banishment. They say he has misappropriated funds and has turned the king against his own advisers.”

“What funds has he misappropriated?” Edward shouts. “Everything he has I have given him openly. If a king may not give gifts to those who serve him best, what are jewels and land for? They are mine to give, are they not? And yes I listen to him before I listen to any of that crowd. He has my best interests at heart, they don’t.”

“Have all the barons signed this petition?”

“Of those not here tonight only Lancaster still stands with us.”

Isabella is surprised at this. That gargoyle is no friend of Gaveston, if his remarks about barrels and whores is to be believed.

“What does it mean?”

“It means the king should prepare for war,” Lincoln says. He is vast, the Lord Lincoln, the fattest man she has ever seen.

“It means these upstarts will defy their anointed king!” Edward shouts.”

Mortimer is still; old Hugh says I am sure it will not come to that. Edward sees his dwarf and kicks him by way of venting his frustration. The jester hurries to the door and flees.

“Would it not be wise to listen to your barons?” she asks him.

The king stares at her in shock. “What are you doing here?”

“Your grace, I was here when you walked in.”

He looks confused. He puts out a hand as if to block her from his vision.

Mortimer stares at her in surprise, she can see him thinking: look at this slip of a girl, she has an opinion! He turns back to the king. “Perhaps if you just give them what they wish for now,” Mortimer says. “Let this blow over.”

“He’s right,” Old Hugh says. “It would not harm our cause to appear conciliatory.”

“They would not argue with my father, they will not argue with me.”

Mortimer and Lincoln exchange a look; yes, but you are no Longshanks, they are thinking.

“What is it that so offends them? If I love Gaveston, so should they.”

This is too much for Lincoln. “Your grace, who a man loves is a private matter. I have nothing against wives or whores but I should not like to see them at council meetings.”

“Are you calling Perro a whore?”

A man clears his throat. Gaveston is sitting in a window seat, playing himself at chess. The sun comes out and for a moment he glitters with gold. There are jewels on all his fingers. He gives them a slow smile. “I am still here, you know.”

Lincoln waddles towards the king, lowers his voice. “This is what they mean. This conversation should best be kept private. Whenever we have things to discuss, he is always here.”

“I can still hear you,” Gaveston says and checks his own black king with his white knight.

“Can this rebellion stand?” Edward asks old Hugh.

“What makes up a king’s power, your grace? The loyalty of his barons, for they each bring their armies to every cause he fights. But if they are on the other side, then what armies does the king have?”

“Do you know how to bring down a wall?” Mortimer says.

“Fifty men and a battering ram,” Edward says.

“There are subtler ways. Work a chisel into the mortar and work at it until you release one brick. When one brick is out the wall is weakened. Soon you have a large hole. Then you do not even have to bring the wall down, you just walk through it.”

“Your meaning?”

“For now we should stop running full tilt at the wall. Instead you should sidle up to it, examine each brick and find the weakest. Then work at it, until you have it loose.”

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Genre – Historical Fiction

Rating – PG-13

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Author Interview – Ian Truman @iantruman

Tell us a bit about your family.
I’m from a working class family and I grew up in the East end of Montreal and East of the East End (which is way nicer). My dad’s a welder, my mom worked as an office clerk for many hospitals (she’s retired now). I’m mostly French-Canadian but with all things concerning origins in this country, it’s complicated and “mixed” so those notions of “where was your great-great-granddad from” are increasingly irrelevant to me.
My spouse is Mary Lee Maynard and we met because we were both signers in hardcore bands back in the day. Funny thing is that she’s from the same neighbourhood I was from but we didn’t meet because of that. She has her degree in Studio Arts from Concordia University and now works on big film sets in the props deptartment. She’s the one who kicked my ass into going to college in writing.
We have a four year old daughter named Kaori, two cats and two lizards. I guess that covers it for now.
How do you work through self-doubts and fear?
I go to sleep. Usually, self-doubt arises when I’m too tired and sore from work. I usually sleep it out and everything works out fine the next morning. As far as fear goes, I can’t say it’s a problem I really have to deal with. I have fears concerning my daughter’s well-being in this shitty world we’re headed for. As far as I am concerned, I’ve been in the shit before but everything’s been peaches and cream for years, so I knock on wood.
What scares you the most?
To die before my daughter has come of age. It might sound fucked up, but I don’t mind my own death so much as the fact that I could die before she can fend on her own. This also implies that I couldn’t give her everything she needs to get a good life which means some money for college and a place to live.
Aside from that, I think that highly religious people scare me the most. I mean, I understand the need for spirituality, but some guy reading me scripture in the Metro (Sorry! Sorry! Subway) just tingles my backbone.
What makes you happiest?
Combine all of these: Art gallery, my wife being happy, some friends and the good discussions that come with that, daughter paiting on her own wall, good coffee (the first one who says starbucks is getting stomped) – from the Italian Social club on St-Viateur. Maybe a good Jewish bagel while we’re at it. 10 degree weather, a hoodie on, instrumental hip-hop or post-rock in the corner…
I mean, a lot of stuff will make me happy, but that, will make me happiest.
What’s your greatest character strength?
I’m stubborn. Hopefully in a good way. I don’t really accept failure, I mostly look for ways to make things work. That kind of Stubborn.
What’s your weakest character trait?
I don’t work well with others. I can work with others, but people I actually like to work with are few and far between. I’d stick with these ladies and gents through any projects, but I rarely admit anyone else in that circle and I don’t trust other people’s work over mine that easily.
Why do you write?
It’s in me and it needs to get out. Is there another reason to write?
Have you always enjoyed writing?
I started coming up with stories in grade 3 and I don’t think I stopped since. The first thing I remember writing was this sort of role playing game rule book. Me and my two friends (yes, two of them) used to play shit like Hero Quest or something and we thought I’d be cool to write our own quests. So we did. I think we also tried to adapt some videogames and make them into role playing games. (I know, how geek was that? – remember this was in, like, 1991 so cosplay and conventions with sexy geeks DID NOT EXIST) That old Jurassic park game from SNES was one of these.
I had a phase where I didn’t write fiction at all through my early years of college (I focused on philosophy and political science) but as the years went by, I came back to fiction. I’m not saying I’d never write philosophical essays again. I enjoy theater and scripts too, as well as graphic novels (I don’t think I’d do another game, but who knows?). For the time being, it just happens that the stories I need to tell come out better as novels.
What are your goals as a writer?
I really just want to write works that I want to write. Some people take jobs as bloggers or journalists and then hope to write fiction. I wrote a few blog posts for Criminal Element, which a few friends told me was a pretty good gig, but I didn’t have it in me to do that.
I can only write something properly if I feel it in my guts and it has to get out. So I only write that now. I got a decent job so writing doesn’t need to pay the bills just yet. I’d rather build a long term career rather than fake my way into the popular genre of the moment.
Do you have to travel much concerning your book(s)?
Not at all in fact. With the internet and global shipping these days, I can actually do nearly all the work from a laptop. Luckily enough I live in a big, culturally driven city (Montreal) so that means I just get to do events in my home town and it’s both enjoyable as well as easy. I guess I need to make my way to Toronto for a weekend someday, but that city has never impressed me at all, so I’m compelled to stay put.
What books have most influenced your life?
“We owe you nothing” the punk planet collected interviews, was a big thing for me. All ages, reflections on Straight Edge was also significant. As far as literature goes, 1984, of course, but also As I lay Dying. I did most of my studies in French and somehow, As I Lay Dying was the first novel I ever read in English.
Have you ever considered anyone as a mentor?
Not really. Not at all in fact. I have certain artists and musicians that inspire me, but as far as having some guy telling me “oh! That’s how you start or end a scene.” That never happened.
Who is your favorite author and why?
If I had to choose a favorite poet, it would be Al Purdy. I also like the way Tim Barry writes songs.
I’m also a big fan of David Fennario, a bilingual playwright from Montreal. Mordecai Richler is way up there on the list and I just started Murakami’S 1Q84 and I really, really like it so far.
Can we expect any more books from you in the future?
I’m sincerely trying to put out two significant works every three years. I have another novel that’s well under way and I’m also writing a movie script at the same time for a project that could see the day of light in 12 to 18 months.
Have you started another book yet?
I have. The title is Grand Trunk and Shearer and it’s the name of a street corner in the working class district of Pointe-St-Charles. It’s a literary-noir in the sense that it’s a story about a gruesome murder but I take a lot of pleasure in talking about the community, tradition, the impacts on the family/friends. I get into some pretty hardcore stuff (mma fights on reserves, nazi skinhead beatdowns, 24h boxing gyms, tattoo shop dialogues, crack dens, the guy works a trucking yard, etc…) but I try to write it in a compelling way.

I think it’s more important to capture the emotion and the details of a moment rather than just add gore and violence. The heavy, violent parts become “greater” or more visceral if you get the humanity driving them.

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Genre - Literary, Coming of Age

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.iantruman.com

In Love With My Best Friend by Sheena Binkley

1

Camille

How did my life get so complicated? One minute, I, Camille Anderson, was living a pretty normal life in which nothing ever happened to me, and the next I'm practically being hauled away from the premier wedding venue in Houston, The Corinthian, by security because of my sudden outburst to the groom.

I should have known I was setting myself up for disaster, but I had to do it. I had to tell my best friend that I'd been in love with him since I was thirteen.

I really didn't expect the scene to unfold the way it did, especially while Trevor was getting married, but I couldn't hold my feelings in much longer. I felt he was making a terrible mistake, because he was marrying the wrong woman. He should have been marrying me.

I guess I should backtrack to when Trevor and I first met. It was seventeen years ago, when the Williams family first moved into the house next to ours. I was outside waiting for my friend Tia Simmons to come by when I first noticed Trevor. He was absolutely gorgeous as he stepped out of his family's SUV. He had that "boy next door" look, with wavy black hair and smooth ivory skin. He looked over at me and gave me a huge grin, which I greatly returned.

After that day, not only did we become friends, but our parents became great friends as well. We always went by each other's homes for dinner or for game night (until we were too old to appreciate hanging out with our parents on a Friday night).

We were practically inseparable during our high school years, and many of our friends thought we would eventually get married and have lots of kids. When anyone mentioned that to Trevor, he would shrug it off and say, "We're just friends, and it will stay that way until the day we die." Usually those words would tug at my heartstrings, but being the shy person I am, I never let my feelings show.

As we went to college, Trevor and I went into the same major, public relations. That was when he met Chelsea Parker, who was also my roommate. At first I liked Chelsea because she was basically a sweet person, but when she set her sights on Trevor, I quickly disliked her. Not because she took Trevor away from me, but because she became a different person.

If only I could go back to four weeks ago, or even seventeen years ago, I would be with the man I loved...

~

Four weeks ago....

"I don't know why you dragged me to this," I said as I looked at my friend Tia. The two of us were inside the Aventine Ballroom of Hotel Icon waiting for our friend Trevor and his fiancée, Chelsea, to arrive for their engagement and welcome home party. The two had announced their engagement to everyone a while back when Trevor was visiting his parents before going back to Dallas. Not only did he announce his engagement, but he also said that he had accepted a new position at a prestigious PR firm and was moving back to Houston. Although I was happy that my best friend was moving back, I was not thrilled that he was getting married.

"For once, why can't you be happy for Tre? He and Chelsea are finally getting married."

I gave Tia an evil stare as I looked toward the revolving door to the ballroom.

"You know how I feel about Trevor and Chelsea getting married."

"Oh please, Cam, when are you going to get past the fact that Trevor found someone? I told you to admit your feelings to him, but being the person you are, you decided not to."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You felt you would have been rejected if you told Trevor your true feelings."

"If I remember correctly, in high school when Charles asked him why we never hooked up, he said, and I quote, 'We're just friends.'"

Tia rolled her eyes at me and started to stare at the door as well. This was not the first time we'd had this conversation about my feelings for Trevor, so I'm pretty sure Tia was tired of hearing it.

Tia was my other best friend and the complete opposite of me. While I was quiet and reserved, Tia was wild and carefree. She always did what she wanted and didn't care about the consequences. People always thought we were sisters, with our caramel-colored complexion and long, dark-brown hair. But that was where the similarities ended. I looked down at my black sequin dress that went above my knees, wondering if I was dressed appropriately for the occasion; but as I looked at the hot-pink dress Tia was sporting, I figured my outfit was perfect.

"So how are things between you and Eric?"

"Finished; I broke up with him a couple of days ago."

"I'm assuming because he's not Trevor? Cam, you have got to move on."

I sighed as I noticed two figures coming through the door. I started to breathe slowly as I watched my friend walk in with his fiancée. Trevor always was attractive, but tonight he looked really handsome in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and blue and white striped tie. His black, wavy hair was cut short, bringing out his beautiful brown eyes. He walked hand in hand with Chelsea, the woman I wish I'd never met, who was positively glowing in an ivory-colored empire dress. Her reddish brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and her makeup was flaw- less. Although I was completely jealous of Chelsea, I had to admit the two made a stunning couple.

Tia gave me a frown.

"You OK?"

"I'm cool. Let's just get this over with."

While the crowd of family and friends were clapping and whistling for the happy couple, all I could do was just stand in my place, looking at Trevor as if he was the only person in the room. He gave me a smile that showed the deep dimples on each of his cheeks. As he went to greet a couple of his family members, I took a deep breath to control any tears from flowing.

I shouldn't have come tonight.

~

Trevor

"Why did we plan a huge engagement party? Everyone knows we're engaged," I asked my fiancée, Chelsea, as we were walking hand in hand down the corridor inside Hotel Icon.

"Sweetie, I just wanted everyone to celebrate in our happiness and what better way than a huge party?"

I sighed as I continued to walk, not realizing how frustrated I was becoming.

Chelsea was the love of my life. I instantly knew I wanted to marry her when I first laid eyes on her in Camille's dorm room. The two were roommates their junior year at University of Houston, which was great for me, considering I was able to see my best friend and my girlfriend at the same time. Although Camille and I were really good friends, I got the sense that something had been bothering her since I'd been dating Chelsea. Call me crazy, but it seemed as if Camille was jealous of our relationship. I hope not, because Chelsea loves Camille and considers her a good friend.

As we walked into the ballroom, everyone from our family and our friends were clapping and cheering for our arrival. We started to wave at everyone as we entered. Once I turned my head toward the center of the room, I had to stop and admire the person staring straight at me. My heart jolted several beats at the beauty who was giving me a dazzling smile. Camille Anderson had always been a beautiful woman, from her caramel-colored skin to her deep chocolate eyes; she definitely stood out in a crowd.

Just looking at her long hair flowing around her face and the black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places made me feel sort of embarrassed, because I shouldn't have been looking at her in that way. I always considered her my best friend and nothing more, so why was I looking at her differently now?

Chelsea turned her attention to me, wondering what was wrong.

"Is everything OK?"

I suddenly realized I was staring a little too long as I turned to Chelsea.

"I'm fine," I said as I squeezed her hand.

I gave Camille a huge grin as I walked over to talk to a nearby guest. I snuck another peek at her; she was talking to our friend Tia near the bar. I don't know what was going on with me, but hopefully this feeling I was having about my best friend would go away soon.

That's if I want it to.

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Genre - Contemporary Fiction

Rating – PG13

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Website http://sheenabinkley.wordpress.com/

Author Interview – Mark David Major & Layce Boswell @markdmajor

Mark David Major

Tell us a bit about your family.

MARK: My immediate family is pretty small these days: myself, my mom, and my aunt and uncle. My grandmother died in the 1970s and my grandfather in the 1990s. I do have a large extended family of cousins. My mother is the ‘gatekeeper’ FOR staying in contact with them.  I don’t know anyone on my father’s side of the family including him.

How do you work through self-doubts and fear?

LAYCE: I decide to think positively as opposed to negatively. Also, I always remind myself that I rather fail, knowing I was making my best efforts as opposed to never achieving anything. I believe that if you keep trying, someone will respond to your efforts.

MARK: Once I’m writing, I don’t allow it to affect me. For me, self-doubt and fear manifest as procrastination. Over the years, I’ve learn that getting started is the easiest way to overcome it because then I’m in control and I can work through any problems with the writing. Inevitably, whatever I’m doing, I find it was easier than I had feared.

What scares you the most?

LAYCE: Never doing enough.

MARK: Being forgotten.

What makes you happiest?

LAYCE: Painting. Drawing. Writing. Talking. Learning.

MARK: Reading and writing, spending time with my dog Izzy.

What’s your greatest character strength?

MARK: I’m meticulous, honest, blunt to a fault, and insightful at understanding people in gross terms.

What’s your weakest character trait?

MARK: I’m meticulous, honest, blunt to a fault, and flawed at understanding people as individuals.

Why do you write?

MARK: Because I love to write and I hope someone will take something away from what I produce, whether that is a children’s book, poem, play, science fiction novel, or academic/professional article.

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Genre – Juvenile Fiction/Bedtime and Dreams

Rating – G

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Author Interview – Michael Dismuke

What’s your greatest character strength?

One of my top attributes would be my ability to evaluate situations and problems from all angles. I try to keep an open mind and calculate the variables to form a bigger picture and understanding. I tend to see the good and bad in many things which can make decision making tough at times, but it allows me to see deeper into any given situation and to form a better understanding beyond what was presented. This ability allows me to better solve complex problems and topics.

Why do you write?

I write because I love to create things, situations, and to evoke feelings in others through story telling. Ever since I was a child I dreamt of new and different worlds and tried to recreate them through whatever means available to me at the time. No matter if I was drawing, programming, or creating games, it always began with writing. No matter the medium I used, it enabled me to take an idea and share it with others to enjoy. I believe all of us, at heart, have big ideas tucked away inside of us. We just express them differently. Some calculate while others paint. Some build while others sing. My gift was creating worlds. Writing was my escape, and my way of sharing.

Location and life experiences can really influence writing, tell us where you grew up and where you now live?

I grew up in Colorado and still reside there today and love it. I highly doubt that I will ever live outside of the state, but I won’t make any promises. Most of my writing has, in some way, been inspired by my surroundings. Colorado has mountains, lakes, rivers, sand dunes, swaying grasslands and vast plains. Geographically it is a great location to use for writing. There is so much more, but I couldn’t even begin to say all the wonderful things here that have inspired me. My first novel takes place in the plains while my second novel begins in the mountains. I have short stories based out of Denver and future stories each with ties back to Colorado. It is what I know, and for whatever reason, I feel safe writing about it.

How did you develop your writing?

I started programing games, text based games, on the computer at a very young age. They basically were interactive stories similar to pick-your-path books. That was my first attempt at writing; however I began creating worlds at a much younger age. I drew maps, landscapes, monsters, and made up stories to go along with it. They were truly interactive worlds which is probably why I attempted to program them later on. In my twenties I began writing massive campaigns about vampires for Raven Loft. They took me months to build starting with the region then moving on to creating a dynamic environment filled with towns and people – each with their own story. It was an amazing feat for me, and to share it with others was even better. It wasn’t until my early thirties when I decided to switch gears and turn my stories into novels instead. That is when I began work on The Necro Device.

Do you have a specific writing style?

Yes, I prefer to write in Present Tense and to lead with action. When I began work on my first novel I was struggling with it quite a bit. It wasn’t until my English Professor pointed out my faults when I was able to zero in on the past/present tense conflicts I was having. I was trying to tell the story in the present but was writing it in the past/present. It was awkward to say the least, but I rewrote the entire story in present tense without the conflicts which really helped me sharpen my writing skills. By the time I began work on INVASION it had become second nature to me. I was able to explore more and even ended up re-inventing it so that it worked best for me, but first, I had to force myself to break out of the mold. I realized that chapter style writing alone was the single biggest restraint holding me and the story back, so I removed it. I replaced chapters with events and something magical happened. It allowed me to be free for the first time. The world became dynamic. I could reveal information from multiple resources, deepening the story – it was limitless. The story was no longer just a ride, it was an experience. No more did I have to write in the now. No more did I have to follow this narrow, strict, one-way path from beginning to end. It opened so many doors that I’m still overwhelmed by the format. It has so much potential that I can’t wait to explore it further and push it to its limits.

Could you tell us a bit about event writing used in Invasion?

Sure, but let me point out the key difference. The traditional chapter style way of writing tells a story sequentially from beginning to end – much like programming was back in the last century. Basically, information is read in order, building on the previous, until reaching the end. Events, however, are similar to programming in today’s world. Each event contains sections or packets of information that combine together to create a story. Each event follows the same structure by combining information and building on it. This method of storytelling creates a dynamic atmosphere because the source of information is always changing. For instance, an individual event may contain three sections. The source of information contained within each section will be different. Some of the information may come from short stories, but a lot of it may come from documents, recordings, or even raw data. One section may contain the main storyline while another section tells a completely different story which reinforces, builds, and completes the other. For present tense writers this concept is limitless because it allows the story to break the sequential mold.

 

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Genre – SciFi Horror

Rating – PG-13

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FROM AUNTY IVY TO KHUBILAI KHAN – Colin Falconer

FROM AUNTY IVY TO KHUBILAI KHAN

Colin Falconer

(Isabella- Braveheart of France)

My primary school teacher’s name was Mrs Boyne.

She once told my mother at a parent interview: “Your son is a complete dreamer. He’ll never amount to anything in this life.”

I still think that was a harsh judgment on a seven year old. But she was right, of course, I was a dreamer.

It was my greatest asset.

It was about the time I first read Jules Verne’s Michael Strogoff. To get my hands on it, I had to endure a slobbery wet kiss from my Aunty Ivy, but I considered it well worth it.

By the end of that first afternoon, I was hooked on classic literature.

Every week my Aunty Ivy took the train down from London to visit with us in (what was then) rural Essex, to have ‘a nice cup of tea’ with my mother. She brought with her a collection of Classics Illustrated comics. She must have picked them up in the markets in London.

There were some Beanos and Victors mixed in, but I threw them out. My treasure was the cartoon versions of some of the world’s greatest literature.

I read all of Jules Verne in an afternoon.

And so began my love affair with literature. By the time I was eight I had read Moby Dick, Doctor Jekyl and Mister Hyde, The Moonstone, The Black Tulip and Ivanhoe, was familiar with most of the major works of Alexandre Dumas (Père), Mark Twain and William Wilkie Collins and had even read most of Homer’s Odyssey (although I never found out how it ended because the last page had been ripped out.)

I don’t think that back then Aunty Ivy knew she was giving me primers for my future career, for no one in my family had ever used their hands for doing anything other than making pies or fixing corner cupboards.

But those comic books were vital to me. I was an only child and though not particularly bookish – I was then, and still am, a soccer tragic – it nurtured in me a thirst for great stories painted on broad canvas.

So Aunty Ivy did not just give me the gift of something to read when it was raining too hard to play football.

Classics Illustrated stirred my nascent imagination and at the same time gave me an undying thirst for travel and for adventure.

These little gems of comics also made me want to time travel, because many of the places I was reading about no longer existed.

The only way I could revisit them was to recreate them in my head. Imagining them onto a page was the next logical step.

When I left school the first thing I did, to the consternation of both my parents, was to go hitch-hiking around Europe.

After all, why go to university? I’d read The Iliad and everything Shakespeare ever wrote by the time I was eight.

What could there possibly be left to learn?

After Europe I headed down to Morocco, where me and my mate were the only white faces (then) wandering the Djema El-fna’a, the Place of the Dead, in Marrakech.

Not too long after that I found myself in the middle of a typhoon in the South Java Sea, and wandering the Golden Triangle of Burma, shaking hands with CIA agents and drug smugglers. Every one of those experiences led to a book a few years later.

If I’m lucky, one day they’ll make one of my books into a comic.

But for now, I just want to say thank you, Aunty Ivy and Classics Illustrated. And wherever she is in heaven, I hope the angels are making her a nice cup of tea.

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Genre – Historical Fiction

Rating – PG-13

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Website https://colinfalconer.wordpress.com/#!/OBBookTours

#Excerpt from Indiestructible: Inspiring Stories from the Publishing Jungle by Jessica Bell

Letter From the Editor

Let me be clear­—I don’t take sides. I appreciate the self-published author, the author published by a small press, and the New York-published author. Because you know what? No matter what publishing route any of us decide to take, we are all still authors.

We write because we can’t not write.

No label will ever take that passion away from us.

The purpose of this book is to inspire you to consider indie publishing, i.e., self-publishing or small press.

Each of us has our own path.

Each of us has our own voice.

The beauty of indie publishing is the very thing that critics say is its downfall: there is room for everyone. Have a unique voice that doesn’t fit the mass market? Want to write another angel book, even though publishing experts say angel books are “dead”? Indie publishing allows the readers who love exactly the kind of books you write to find you, even if that number is too small to interest a mainstream press. And if you have written a book that has mainstream appeal? There are even more readers who will scoop up your value-priced indie book.

Indiestructible will help you see this side of the industry from those who have experienced it first-hand. There is nothing more invaluable than advice about indie publishing from people who have lived in the indie trenches, from those who are passionate, inspiring, motivated, and eager to pay it forward.

Authors who are… indiestructible.

The climate of the publishing industry nowadays is pretty exciting for us. The authors. And the stigma attached to non-traditional publishing is well on its way to the paper shredder. Take a look at this article.

More and more authors are finding the courage to self-publish or sign contracts with small presses dedicated to building niche markets. They’re proud of their work, and they’re making serious money selling it to readers around the world. They are reaching readers by the thousands, tens of thousands, and even millions, without securing a contract with a mainstream publisher. The fact is, the market is saturated, especially as more and more indie authors make bold steps toward self-publishing. Mainstream publishers are driven by market trends, leaving a unique opportunity for indie authors to cater to niche markets and target audiences.

Since I decided to go indie, I wear the badge proudly. Because, yes, it’s in my best interests right now. My best interests. This is a choice I’ve made, and it’s working out well. I sell around 400 books a month. And bit by bit, that number is increasing. To some, this might seem like peanuts compared to self-published successes like Hugh Howey and Colleen Hoover. But to me, whose intention was to connect with readers, the figure is certainly nothing to laugh at. With these sales, I cover all my marketing expenses, and earn a little extra cash. And most importantly, I’m being read, and my visibility is growing. I’d rather have my work out there, and organically garner interest now. I have the control to attract new readers every day, build a loyal fan base for my other works, rather than leave my manuscripts sitting in a drawer waiting for consumer trends to change in my favour. I may not have millions of readers, but 400 a month is a lot better than zero.

Indie publishing is not the only solution, but if you don’t get that big break because the mainstream publishers are only publishing a select number of books, and yours doesn’t happen to be what they’re looking for, then submitting your work to a small press, or publishing your books yourself, may be your best option. In fact, for some authors, even if a mainstream publisher is interested, indie publishing may still be the route you prefer to take.

Indie publishing allows all writers of all stripes access to the world’s readers.

The industry has changed, forced into embracing the digital revolution, just like the music industry. Independent artists are everywhere now. Authors don’t self-publish because they’re too lazy to go through the slog of submitting queries to agents, or editing their manuscripts properly, or simply out of impatience to see their work in print, just like independent musicians aren’t too lazy to find a record deal. They simply have a different sound. 

Or they don’t want to be told by the record label what they should and shouldn’t record. In a saturated market, where publishers/music producers have millions and millions of queries and proposals, independent artists are driven by self-belief and a passion that their work deserves a place.

Independent artists are, in fact, some of the most motivated and tough-skinned artists I’ve ever known. A lot of them, including me, have huge stories behind the reason they publish independently. Stories that most people will never know about, because when someone releases a book, it’s not like you can say on the blurb:

“This book is self-published, but the author actually once had an agent and a book deal with a Big 5 publisher, but decided to go the indie route because she felt it was better for her, both professionally and emotionally.”

Or …

“This book is self-published because the author spent years and years querying it, was told that the writing was great, but no agent believed they could sell it. So ... here’s the book. The author doesn’t need to sell a million copies, a few hundred is enough. Plus it’s been through so many edits after all the agent feedback, you won’t be able to find a thing wrong with it.”

Or …

“This book is self-published because the author looked at the future changes coming in the industry and decided to leap ahead, to follow a path that had not been trodden a thousand times before. This author isn’t afraid to be different.”

Every indie author’s path is unique.

Because every author is unique.

So, I urge everyone who is skeptical about indie publishing, to think about the story behind it, and the effort it’s taken to get it out there, and the determination the writer has. Indie publishing is not for the impatient ... it’s for authors who want their fate to rest in their own hands.

There are many pathways to success as a writer. Whether you choose to pursue a mainstream contract, go the small press route, or dive straight into self-publishing, your path will be unique to you. Between all the different varieties of indie experiences, you will find, among your friends, and within this book, an experience that resonates with you. Inspires you.

Empowers you to make the choice.

You are a writer.

So be an author. 

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE INDIESTRUCTIBLE

100% of proceeds will be donated to BUILDON.org, a movement which breaks the cycle of poverty, illiteracy, and low expectations through service and education.

Contributing authors:

Alex J. Cavanaugh <> Angela Brown <> Anne R. Allen <> Briane Pagel <> C.S. Lakin <> Ciara Knight <> Cindy M. Hogan <> D. Robert Pease <> Dawn Ius <> Emily White <> Greg Metcalf <> Jadie Jones <> Jessica Bell <> Karen Bass <> Karen Walker <> Kristie Cook <> Laura Diamond <> Laura Pauling <> Laurel Garver <> Leigh Talbert Moore <> Lori Robinson <> Melissa Foster <> Michael Offutt <> Michelle Davidson Argyle <> Rick Daley <> Roz Morris <> S.R. Johannes <> Stephen Tremp <> Susan Kaye Quinn 

About Jessica Bell:

The Australian-native contemporary fiction author, poet, and singer/songwriter/guitarist, Jessica Bell, also makes a living as an editor and writer for global ELT publishers (English Language Teaching), such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, Macmillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning.

She is the co-publishing editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and the director of the Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop on the Greek island of Ithaca.

CLICK HERE to subscribe to Jessica’s newsletter. Every subscriber will receive The Hum of Sin Against Skin for free, and be the first to know about new releases and special subscriber giveaways.

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Genre -  Non-fiction

Rating – G

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Blog http://thealliterativeallomorph.blogspot.com/