Tag Archives: New Releases

NEW NEW **** Operation Catwalk **** NEW NEW

18 Aug

Congratulations to Zvonek 08 on his 2013 release from GSP Zvonek 08 book 3 in ebook.

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Operation Catwalk—At last the most prestigious event of the year is being held in Prague. The Miss Feline CZ. Zvonek and Honza are looking forward to attending. The five finalists are chosen and The Mau is gearing up for the grand finale. Everything is on schedule when an alert on Vladimir’s desk reveals strange happenings around the finalists that could sabotage the competition. Will Zvonek discover who is behind the attacks in time, or will the show just have to go on?

The High Life—Metaxa is suspicious of an elegant tom who arrives in Prague. When she meets him at a dinner with Zvonek and Honza he is witty, rich and appears to like her. Will she be taken in by his charm and wealth, or listen to her inner voice? What is his real connection to the strays and is he connected to Zvonek’s latest mission?

Excerpt:

“The Spring Miss Feline Contest is in Prague this year,” Honza read aloud from The Daily Meow home page on the internet. The annual beauty competition traveled to different cities of the Czech Republic. Last year it had been in Brno.

He and Zvonek were in the computer room catching up on some reading. Honza had invited Zvonek to the hostel for lunch—some tom time away from Metaxa. Afterward they had gone to check the latest news.

“Zvoni, did you hear me?”

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Prague is—what are you reading?” Honza leaned over to see what held Zvonek’s interest.

“It’s a piece on cat shelters. Mister Lidé has reopened the shelter he used to run with his wife.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s all here.” Zvonek pointed to the screen. “Along with the story of her tragic death while trying to save two felines.”

“Hmm . . . nothing of his Christmas fiasco, I see.”

Zvonek smiled. “So what were you saying about Prague?”

“The Miss Feline Contest is to be held here this year.”

“Where?”

“At The Mau.”

“Great stuff! I’ve always wanted to go. We should get tickets early to go to the finale. I bet it will be full. When does the voting open?”

“The finalists arrived yesterday and the voting opened this morning. We only have twenty-four hours to vote. Their photos and profiles are here on the competition’s home page.”

The finalists had been selected from the original twenty queens chosen to participate. From the original twenty, through votes, it had been whittled down to ten. These, then, traveled to Prague. Another five had been eliminated by computer vote and the judge’s decision, based on various questions and tasks. Everyone in the entire feline population was allowed to vote on one of those five. The finalists went through a series of tests and were given marks by the panel of judges. The last test required parading the catwalk to stand on stage and answer questions fired at them by the judges. There were strict rules to enter the competition. The entrants had to be born on Czech soil and also to have had no kittens, to give them the freedom to move around. The year-long reign took them to all four corners of the country, doing charitable work and serving their fellow felines.

The two toms looked through the profile photos.

“Wow, they’re all so pretty!”

“That’s why they were chosen, Honza.” Zvonek smiled.

It was a difficult decision, the rules stated only one vote per cat.

“Miss Prague is a Ragamuffin this year. Very nice.” Honza purred appreciatively.

“I’m not sure who to vote for, although I agree she is very pretty.” Zvonek looked at her profile photo. She was white and smoky grey with lovely blue eyes. He liked blue eyes. She looked very gentle and kind.

“What about Miss Karlovy Vary?” Miss Karlovy Vary was an ebony silver Oriental Longhair with golden eyes, very elegant looking. Honza was scrolling through the photos. He enjoyed competitions of any kind and even more so when pretty felines were involved.

After spending time going through all five of them, both toms decided Miss Prague should get their vote. She was the softest looking, Zvonek decided. As there was no entry from his home town of Litomerice, Miss Prague was the logical choice for him.

It felt strange wandering around with nothing to do. It had been a quiet winter work-wise. In one way, it was a good thing everything was peaceful. There had been a few domestic spats, but nothing really big since Bobina’s capture. Security had been tightened with a more vigilant eye kept on the rats. Even Rodent, in his cell, seemed to be behaving himself.

Zvonek was getting restless. He needed to have something to focus on, other than watching out for Metaxa. That job came down as orders from the top. He offered to get the tickets from the office which had been set up at The Mau.

Links:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/AnneHPetzer.html#Zvonek3Exc

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Operation-Catwalk-High-Zvonek-ebook/dp/B00BENGP5G/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1376808351&sr=8-5&keywords=zvonek+08

The entire first season of the Zvonek 08 series is also available in paperback.

Links:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/AnneHPetzer.html#ZvonekPr1

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Zvonek-Feline-Intelligence-Czech-Republic/dp/1619501589/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1376808351&sr=8-2&keywords=zvonek+08

 

NEW NEW *** Sirion ***NEW NEW

12 Aug

Congratulations to Ivano Massari on his new release from GSP.

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After 16 years of teaching in primary and high schools and at North West University in South Africa, I was fortunate enough to be able to fulfill a lifelong dream when I joined READ Educational Trust as a writer-editor. In 2010 I immigrated to Ireland with my wife and daughter to take up a position as Instructional Designer to the Yahoo/Microsoft Search Alliance Project, after which I worked for different companies as a Learning / Instructional Designer and Technical Writer.

I have always had a great love for history, warfare, theology, fantasy and language and have sought to combine these with my other great love—that of writing. The result is my first fantasy novel, Sirion. I have been extremely fortunate in being able to have my wife provide all the illustrations for my book. It was a joyful experience watching her bring the characters and the world, which existed only in words, to life with her extraordinary talent.

I hope that readers enjoy their journey through Mendleburg. 

FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/ivano.massari.92

His book we are highlighting today is Sirion.

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The world of Mendleburg is threatened by the growing power of the Druadians led by their vicious overlord, the emperor Estraimor. Between the armed hosts of Estraimor and southern Mendleburg, lies the mighty Dwarf fortress of Sirak-arnal which Estraimor must overthrow in order to achieve his dreams of conquest. Azhal, Warden of Sirak-arnal, sends out a company of Dwarves to seek for the Sceptre of Anankhar. With this great heirloom of the Dwarf race in his possession, Azhal will be able to command the allegiance of the disunited tribes of the Dwarves, and thus swell the ranks of the defenders of Sirak-arnal before the hosts of Estraimor lay siege to Sirak-arnal. The mighty wizard, Sirion, joins the companion as they seek for the sceptre. Dangers beset the company and the companions call upon Sirion’s great knowledge, skill in arms and powerful magic to ensure the success of their quest.

Excerpt:

Chapter 1
                                                              TREASON
                               He who follows the One in this life must be an exile
                                    and a wanderer amongst all creatures always.
                          (Akhaleth—the Holy Book of the Dwarves, Psalm 9 v 11
)

In solitude he stood on the castle tower and gazed across the storm-weather that had settled upon the valley. The black rain clouds tumbled across the valley and cut off the light of the moon. Then the storm hit the castle. The wind howled and shrieked its way toward him and he pulled his cloak more closely around him. Torrential rain surged across the night sky and fell upon the castle. Within moments he was drenched, but he refused to abandon his station on the walls. He set his hard warrior’s face grimly toward the storm, determined to endure the weather and keep his station upon the battlements. He cursed and then immediately thrust his right thumb toward his heart. A harsh laugh sounded behind him and a taunting voice cut across the noise of the storm.

“Still trying to ward off evil with that superstitious gesture, my lord?”

Arvan, Mound Prince of Arvinia, spun around to face his antagonist.

“Maberg!” he said. “By the One, what brings you up here on this demon-cursed night?” The man called Maberg looked with affection at Arvan, the first born son of Selcontar, High King of Arvinia. His answer was short.

“You,” he said.

“I thank the Land Commander,” Arvan replied with a sweeping bow.

Maberg laughed affably.

“Must the King’s son stand guard on a night like this?” jested Maberg.

“Maberg, my friend,” replied the Prince, “duty is to be endured, not enjoyed.”

The other laughed. “Ah, my lord, always so serious. So young and yet so serious. Never time for laughter or for the harp.” Maberg stroked his beard and regarded the man who stood before him. The tall, dark-haired, powerfully built warrior he beheld little resembled the scrawny youth the King of Arvinia had brought from the royal capital to Eagles’ Nest when he had attained his fifteenth summer. Arvan, High Prince of Arvinia, he thought, was the most promising young man he had ever trained. He remembered well the day King Selcontar had entrusted him to his care.

“Above all, Maberg,” the King had said on that eventful day, “he must be a warrior, skilled in every weapon, and a commander of men. Teach him well, and teach him swiftly, his time draws near. I am called by the gods and fear that I must soon leave this world. I want no weakling to take the kingship.” The man whom the King had trusted so highly that he had placed his eldest son into his keeping, was not the same as the one who stood now on the ramparts with his Prince. Maberg knew that as the passing years had formed his youthful charge into a man, they had also marked the passing of his own stature. His brown beard and hair were now flecked with spots of grey. The powerful shoulders that had borne many burdens were no longer upright, but stooped.

Maberg heard Arvan talking and forced his mind back to the present.

“Should the future King be a jester?” the Prince said. “Arvinia would enjoy such a king. A merry monarch they would have,” he continued bitterly. “One who spends his days in merriment and his nights in his cups.”

Maberg laughed softly.

“Ah, Arvan,” sighed the Land Commander, “when your time comes you will be a great king. The gods be praised that Arvinia has been blessed with such an heir. These are not times for a poet king, but for a warrior monarch.”

Arvan swept his long, black hair from his face and regarded Maberg carefully. His dark eyes were hard and calculating as they searched his friend’s face, while the storm around them lashed the castle tower in its fury. Maberg met the Prince’s searching glance unflinchingly. He was not disturbed by Arvan’s scrutiny. Their eyes locked and held. There was no question of arrogance in this gesture, for Maberg was no petty tyrant. Warden of Eagles’ Nest, the castle upon which they stood, Maberg was also one of the Ahkans, the hereditary lords of southern Arvinia, and Land Commander of all the King’s armies garrisoned between Drenerbach Mountain and the Istenor River. Maberg stood high in the favour of the King and his counsellors. He had little need to bolster his own sense of worth by seeking a confrontation with a subordinate. Not even if that subordinate was the High Prince himself. He had come to see Arvan this night for another purpose.

“The people would not have it so,” said Arvan aloud while he thought secretly, and my brother Eldran is a poet. What game are you playing, Maberg?

“The people,” retorted Maberg harshly, “do not crown a King!” He looked away from his Prince over the swaying forest, caught now in the full power of the storm. For an instant he thought he saw dark shapes moving in and out of the trees, but they vanished again into the night-gloom. Maberg scoured the forest, attempting to pierce the curtains of rain and the blackness of the night, but saw no further sign of anything untoward. I was deceived, he thought.

“No,” continued Arvan, “the people would have a King who danced and diced, who provided games and held feasts. They blind themselves to the danger from the north.” Arvan turned his eyes away from Maberg and stared once more across the land below him.

“Danger,” the Prince said slowly. “Yes, dangerous is Estraimor, who reigns in Druad, and is it not likely that his Wizardry has embraced Arvinia? For is it not magical that, though Arvinians see their doom drawing nigh from the north, they nonetheless shut their eyes and smile, as all Arvinia is doing? Thus would he weaken our vigilance and take us ill-prepared to meet his onslaught, or so I and many others believe. Great is the Dread Lord, the Emperor Estraimor, and greatly is he to be feared, yet many admire him.”

Maberg narrowed his eyes and looked at the Prince. His heart was darkened by what he had just heard. The other sensed his fear, but waited.

“You admire the Evil One then, my lord?” Maberg asked, the disbelief he struggled to hold back as clear and as brief as the lightning flashes above them.

“Fear not, Maberg,” replied Arvan. “As one soldier might admire the skill of a warrior who is so far above him that he seems verily to be a god, so do I regard him. But be at ease, for I detest him and his evil.”

“Good, Lord Prince,” said Maberg with relief. “Very good, but be warned!” The Land Commander came closer to Arvan and whispered, “If you have any desire to mould yourself on that demon’s spawn, then remember the old Arvinian proverb, he who imitates is as much a slave as the clay is to the potter.”

“As you are a slave of the golden-haired Clothilde?” Arvan asked wryly.

“Prince,” replied Maberg, “I doubt not that you will one day be a warrior of great renown. I pity your enemies, for you have already learned to strike a blow at a man’s weakest spot; his heart.” Both men laughed.

At that moment the tread of heavy steps and the clash of armour warned them that they would soon no longer be alone. Maberg glanced briefly at the tower’s stairwell. Then he turned and faced Arvan, son of Selcontar, once more. There was encouragement and admiration in his look. Arvan nodded, acknowledging the unstated affection in the Land Commander’s glance.

Maberg bowed and moved toward the tower’s stairwell. Two guards bearing spears appeared at the top of the stairwell. Like Arvan, they were dressed in sable armour. Over their shoulders they wore the fur of forest animals for protection against the bitter cold. Seeing Maberg approach, they stood aside and clashed shield against spear as he passed. The latter acknowledged their salutation by crossing his right arm over his breast. For a while, Arvan and the guards could hear his retreating footsteps. Then all was once more silent. Arvan nodded toward the newcomers, and they bowed deeply. The gesture was not devoid of affection, Arvan knew. He had long held a place in the hearts of the men of this stronghold.

Links: http://www.gypsyshadow.com/IvanoMassari.html#SirionExc

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Sirion-ebook/dp/B00CR0KJTI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1376289003&sr=8-1&keywords=sirion+ivano+massari

NEW NEW *** Sixes and Eights *** NEW NEW

11 Aug

Congratulations to Jamel DuBois on his new release at GSP.

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 Jamel DuBois was born in a grassy ditch somewhere along an Arkansas back road, and the adventure could only get better. He left home at age seventeen, crossed the country by rail and tore up his return ticket. He joined the Navy, and found that oceans are gateways not barriers. He became a magazine editor, then a world traveler and a big-game hunter. He dispatched a wild boar in hand-to-hand combat, and faced down a Cape buffalo in a horn-to-belt buckle encounter. He has set foot in six dozen countries on six continents, wrote numerous articles for many of the guns and hunting magazines, and writes killer novels authentically set in South Africa.

Learn more about Jamel at his Website.

His book we are highlighting today is Sixes and Eights.

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Thou shalt not kill. Neither shalt thou steal. These rules to live by are violated in some degree in all the stories in this collection: “Bring Me the Head of Kathleen Sullivan” relates the murder of a prominent Texas citizen. “Dominoes,” delicately positioned and when pressed into movement to nudge into the next one and that one into the next, results in a jumbled heap. In “Sad Songs,” the narrator is a songwriter-guitar player marked by hard work and hard times; and betrayal and lost love. “The Taking of Kaitlyn Peck” is the case of a young girl abducted on the way from school to her upscale neighborhood home. “Storm Clouds and Blue Skies,” one or the other, not both, mark the futures of these gypsy pilots. “Out of Focus.” Click, click, goes the mind of a killer, detailing revenge for a long endured and lying slur. “A Day At the Zoo,” certainly is no picnic, except for the man killers of a wildlife park in Africa.

Excerpt:

 Bring Me the Head of Kathleen Sullivan

Peggy Vasquez, saddened and overcome at her mother’s recent and brutal demise, lost conscious connection to the ongoing eulogy being presented at the graveside. Friends and dignitaries, in seemingly unending succession, stepped to the speaker’s stand, which many required for physical support of their grief and disbelief. The respectful attendees to the funeral service offered condolences to the remaining family of Kathleen Sullivan, and praised Kathleen’s good works and the woman herself whose name had gained national prominence.

Peggy was the only of Kathleen’s six children residing in McAllen where Kathleen also lived—lived until last week. Peggy’s siblings, one sister and four brothers, had scattered around the country over the years as dictated by jobs and careers and marriages. Peggy was the second child. Her older sister lived in Oklahoma; two brothers were in Denver, one in Florida and one in Oregon. The family was close, just not close together. Peggy never considered leaving McAllen for any reason, because her mother lived there, and had lived alone and independently since the earlier death of Peggy’s father.

Peggy married locally, to Manuel Vasquez, and never really considered, as her siblings did, hers a mixed marriage. North Americans and Mexicans interacted freely in the Texas border and near-border towns. Peggy knew Manny when he was a young boy working at the Sullivan ranch years before. She and Manny grew up together, attending the same school, the same church, and the same social functions. Kathleen never objected to Peggy loving Manny, and their lightly tanned offspring, a girl and two boys, were Kathleen’s grandmotherly pride and joy. Kathleen often had said so.

Now the family was gathered again, the first time all had been together since their father’s funeral eight years before. There were more Sullivans now, additional grandchildren having been born who Grandfather Sean Sullivan never had the chance to know. Kathleen visited her sons and daughters-in-law at all the recent births, representing herself and her longtime lover, husband and family patriarch, Sean. Only Kathleen’s oldest child, Darina, ushered in no grandchildren, having failed to live up to the productive name Kathleen had wished on her. Darina, the account executive, and her husband, the airline pilot, were at the funeral along with all the Sullivan boys and their wives and children. Darina sought out Peggy following the end of the service.

Peggy wore a short black dress, black hose and black low heel shoes. The hose and heels came from her existing wardrobe; the dress was purchased for the occasion, a one-time wearing. Peggy would put it away, but not ever discard it. It was part of her mother-memories. The veil covering Peggy’s freckled face throughout the ceremony was thrown back over her head, revealing a shock of coppery hair. Tears concealed by the veil in place had run dry. She embraced her older sister.

“Peggy, how could you have let this happen?”

“Me, Darina? You blame me for this? Mother was murdered, in her own home, and it was sickening. I found her because she didn’t answer my calls and I went to her condo. How in God’s name can you hold me responsible?”

“I’m sorry Peggy. Of course I didn’t mean it the way it must have sounded. It’s just been so terrible. I just can’t imagine someone doing something so horrible to Mom. And I can only imagine what you have gone through here alone. And as painful as I know it will be, I have to know what happened, when you feel like talking about it.”

“I think I can tell you now. I know the boys will ask the same things, but I don’t know if I can face you all at once. I don’t know if you all really want the truth.”

“Oh, my dear little sister, I do want to know. I have to know, and I want you to know how much I love you too. Tell me about how Mom was days ago, weeks ago; how she was and what she did. I am so sorry I live so far away. I’m so grateful Mom had you here to care for her. All of us always loved you for remaining with Mom while we all moved away. By rights, as the oldest, it should have been me who stayed here. I should have been the one taking care of her.”

“And you think if you had been here Mom would still be alive. Your implication is somehow I failed her and you and all the rest. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, no, no! Peggy. I don’t mean such an implication at all. If anything, I wish I could have saved you from being the one who found her. What you must have gone through . . . I simply cannot even comprehend.”

Links: http://www.gypsyshadow.com/JamelDuBois.html#SixesExc

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Sixes-and-Eights-ebook/dp/B00D5XRHY6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1376204695&sr=8-1&keywords=sixes+and+eights+jamel+DuBois

NEW NEW *** The Diamond Man *** NEW NEW

8 Aug

Congratulations to Michael J. Molloy on his new release from GSP.

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I am a graduate of St. John’s University and also a member of the Romance Writers of America organization. I have one self-published suspense novel and a WGA-registered screenplay to my credit. I am a father of three children and currently live in Brooklyn, NY.

WEBSITE: http://www.authormichaeljmolloy.com/
TWITTER: https://twitter.com/AuthorMJM

His book we are highlighting today is The Diamond Man.

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An act of bravery can elevate one to superhero status. But it will not erase a troubled past.

Career minor league baseball announcer Jim Monahan saves an elderly man from potentially drowning. His local media story goes viral on the internet and is snatched up by national television. It catches the eyes and ears of his New York-based agent, who convinces Jim that the courageous act could put him front and center for a major league announcing opening. Yet despite his heroics, Jim still can’t wash away a painful divorce caused by his unfaithful ex-wife, and repair his strained relationship with his wayward daughter, Madison. Jim grows despondent. But then an attractive and kind-hearted woman named Anne Finley walks into his life. She restores Jim’s faith in love and aids him in reconnecting with Madison.

Excerpt:

 Chapter One

Hours after the late August game and its broadcast, Diamond Jim Monahan maneuvered his Honda Civic through Richmond’s waterlogged streets. The spirits of the play-by-play announcer of the Richmond Flying Squirrels had been flattened like a pancake. After all, the team had kowtowed to the hated rival Bowie Baysox, 6-5—thanks to the play where the visitors’ Lamont McGill uncoiled like a cobra in the top of the ninth inning and jacked the pill until it was a blip off the radar past the left field fence. The loss eliminated the Squirrels from postseason consideration, thus rendering the team’s upcoming season-ending series that weekend in Reading moot. The severe thunderstorm the forecasters had predicted was a fitting end to the evening’s proceedings. Mother Nature was venting her anger as she wept profusely for the saddened city.

The rain, which began shortly before the conclusion of Jim’s post-game radio show, came down in sheets. The upcoming trip to Reading was the farthest thing from Jim’s mind. Making it home through the torrential downpour became a struggle for survival. As fast as the windshield wipers swept away a collection of water, another waterfall soon followed. Jim might as well have been driving blindfolded. He wanted nothing less than to curl up in his bed at his apartment.

Inching along Jennie Scher Road, Jim suddenly noticed the rear lights of another vehicle off the side of the road below street-level. His initial reaction was to press past and head for home. But something peculiar about these rear lights peaked his curiosity. Had a fellow motorist’s vehicle swerved off the slick road into Gillies Creek? Compelled by his own burning desire to know, Jim opted to forego the need to sleep.

“Oh, my God. I wonder if anyone is hurt down there.”

Parking his Civic in a safe spot, Jim cautiously made his way down the incline. The rain continued to pelt him unmercifully, a thousand needles stinging his face. He wasn’t the least bit concerned about getting drenched. Someone was in dire need of assistance, and that was all that mattered.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw the vehicle, a late model Ford Explorer sport utility vehicle, its front wheels almost totally submerged in the rising waters of the creek. The rest of the vehicle would soon fall in. If someone were still alive in the Explorer, he’d have to act fast.

The driving rain made it difficult for him to see. Through squinted eyes, Jim noticed a figure in the driver’s seat. He tapped the window with his knuckles to get the attention of the individual, but there was no response. He tried to open the driver’s side door, but soon discovered it was locked. There was only one thing left to do: he had to break the window.

Time was critical; he frantically looked around for a sizable rock. He spotted one the size of a football and hoisted it. But before he struck the window, Jim yelled, “Hey in there! I’m going to smash the window! See if you can move away or at least turn your head away!”

The shadowy figure nodded and moved his head to the side.

With adrenalin pumping throughout his body, Jim heaved the heavy stone. The impact cracked the glass in the pattern of a spider’s web. Jim hit again and again, before the window shattered and he could reach inside to unlock the door. The third attempt was the charm.

He extended his left arm through the narrow middle opening of the broken pane. As he did, he nicked his forearm on one of the jagged edges. Ouch! He winced in pain, but pressed on in search of the button. Five seconds later he fingered what he believed was the door lock. When he pressed it, a sudden click sounded. Relief enveloped him, but the task was far from over.

After delicately pulling out his arm to avoid another cut, Jim opened the door from the outside. Just then he heard an eerie noise from the SUV, signaling it was another step closer to being totally submerged. The clock was ticking.

Jim focused on the object of the task: an elderly man, incoherent save for a few moans. The man slowly moved his head side to side. His wailing grew louder, almost ear-splitting.

“Hey, mister!” Jim yelled. “C’mon! You’ve got to get of here! This truck’s about to fall into the creek!”

“I can’t move,” the man groaned. “I think I broke my leg.”

“You can’t stay here! I’ve got to get you out!”

“No! No! Leave me alone! I’ll be all right.”

“Like hell you will!”

Jim quickly released the man’s seatbelt. The baseball announcer was about to position his arms around the back and behind the knees of the man when he heard another creak. The vehicle was yet another inch closer to slipping into the waterway.

Water rapidly filled the floor of the vehicle. There was no room for error. Jim instructed the old man to grab him around the neck. Jim fought to lift the man out. After he succeeded in doing so, he struggled up the embankment with the man in his arms. He managed to go only six steps before he heard a very loud sound behind him. He turned his head and saw the Ford Explorer sinking completely into the creek. Seconds later, only the top of the vehicle stood above the water. Diamond Jim Monahan had saved the old man’s life—but there was no time for celebration. Jim continued to transport the old man until both of them managed to reach street-level.

The announcer safely guided the injured man into the backseat of his Civic. Seconds were precious. Despite the teeming rain, he used his cell phone to contact 911 and request an ambulance. When he was finished on the phone, he noticed the old man reaching for him with his right hand. Jim clasped it as a handshake, as if he were greeting an old friend. Still writhing in pain, the old man looked at Jim through tired but grateful eyes.

“Thank you,” the man quietly told Jim.

Jim smiled softly in reply. He shut the door so that the man would be out of the torrential downpour, got into the driver’s seat and closed the door behind him to shelter himself from the rain. His clothes were soaked, but Jim wanted only to relax all of his taut muscles and be swallowed up by the bucket seat. The wait was now on for the emergency vehicle’s arrival.

Links:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/MichaelJMolloy.html#DiamondMExc

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Diamond-Man-ebook/dp/B00DDA2T4E/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1375947639&sr=1-1&keywords=the+diamond+man

NEW NEW *** Thinkbot *** NEW NEW

7 Aug

Congratulations to R. J. Burroughs on her new release from GSP.

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Inspired by Dodie Smith’s Starlight Barking, the sequel to the more famous spotted dog book Hundred and One Dalmations, R.J. has been writing science fiction since the age of 13. She is an award-winning artist and holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Studio Art from the College of St. Rose. She works and lives near Ithaca, New York with her mutts, Grizzly and Rudeebega.

WEBSITE: http://carpelibris.wordpress.com/ruth-j-burroughs/
BLOG: http://mareimbriumdowns.wordpress.com/about/
FACEBOOK: www.facebook.com/ruth.burroughs.1

Her book that we are highlighting today is Thinkbot.

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What happens when author Jeanie McAllister steps across a quantum time bridge at her local science fiction convention with her forgetful seventy-seven-year-old mom and her one-year-old nephew? Jeanie thinks she can save her mother and herself from a futuristic mind-control device and pressure from group-think, but what she finds in this bleak future is far more surprising than anything she’s written. She finds a cure for everything, but the price she has to pay for going back home to the 21st century is forgetting the cure.

Excerpt:

I had Ian in my arms when the time shift occurred, and my seventy-seven-year-old mom was right behind me. There’s nothing quite like getting caught in the vacuum of a wormhole with a baby in your arms—and your little Japanese mother following you around asking the same question over and over again. Mom’s Alzheimer’s medication was in the Crowne Plaza Hotel room, where the Albacon science fiction convention was taking place. Yet here I was, stuck in some bleak future world with my seventy-seven-year-old mom, who has middle stage Alzheimer’s, and my eleven month-old nephew, who would be hungry soon. We’d passed under the sacred stone gateway, called torii in Japanese, into another world, and when I turned to look for the bridge from my world to this world, nothing was there but the brownstone city and the tiny park with one forlorn looking maple and a couple bushes. We were trapped in the future.

“Jeanie, whose baby is that?” We walked up a sidewalk into the sparsely green and concrete landscaped park, where a twisted piece of rusty metal served as sculpture, and bits of trash tossed about by a warm breeze. A warped chain-link fence leaned—haphazard and useless, as if it created no perimeter nor enclosed anything. Suddenly, it was hot. Like June or July hot. Mom’s crocheted bandana pushed back her short-cropped, salt and pepper hair out of her face. We both removed our October sweaters and tied them around our waists.

For the fifth time I told my mother he was her youngest daughter Elsie’s boy. I’d trained myself to always be pleasant and never say, “For crying out loud, how many times do I have to tell you . . . ,” but as I mumbled he was her grandson I frowned and wondered where we were and how we could get back to the exhibits at the Crowne Plaza Hotel. I wondered what part of Albany, New York, this could possibly be. I didn’t know we had traveled into the future.

After dinner with my family at the Plaza restaurant, we’d perused the exhibits. Of course I had to enter the time machine. I thought it would be fun.

El had to go to the ladies room and since Ian’s diaper had already been changed, it was my turn to hold him. I was popping my chewing gum. Blowing bubbles in or out of my mouth—Ian thought it was the funniest thing. He kept giggling. My nieces were off watching the Filk performance, and my brother-in-law was at the art show. There were many time travel devices on display; including HG Wells’ Time Machine, the Time Cop car, the Tardis, and the Back to the Future’s DeLorean. I made the mistake of being absolutely fascinated by a carved brownstone Shinto shrine-type of archway. It had the year 5049 Albany, New York, with the word Thinkbot carved into the right column. It looked innocent enough. A bamboo bridge led to another arch on the other side. I hoped to show Ian and my mom some Koi fish as we walked across, but just as we passed through the second arch, we stepped into that future world. A cottony blanket of clouds rolled slowly overhead.

All I could see were brownstone buildings and streets stretching as far as the eye could see. No one was about. The buildings weren’t very tall. Most were two stories, and the highest were three; many appeared to be warehouses. Anxiety gripped me, along with the feeling of being watched. I froze, not knowing what to expect, with Ian whimpering in my arms and my mom looking even more confused than usual.

I heard a grating noise. The door of a three-story warehouse rumbled open, its wheels grinding and squealing. I shivered. A middle-aged fellow with dirt-blonde hair and a friendly expression exited the dark building’s interior. From around the street corner, a giant rocket on wheels nearly the height of the building drove up the road toward the man and the building. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered.

My mother frowned, “Is that a rocket?”

The middle-aged man who’d exited the warehouse saw the look of fear and confusion on our faces—my mother’s and mine.

“Jeanie, why are we here? Where’s Elsie?”

I couldn’t help but ask what the rocket was for.

The man frowned, awkwardly tilting his head this way and that, like a robot, silent and expectant. Why did I feel a million eyes looking at me? I looked around, but no one else was around. Only him.

I smiled and asked him, “Where are we? Can you tell us how to get back to the Crowne Plaza Hotel?”

“The rockets are for delivering food into space,” he said. His voiced sounded funny, gravelly and unused.

Links:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/R.J.Burroughs.html#ThinkbotExc

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Thinkbot-ebook/dp/B00DOZ80JQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1375857865&sr=1-1&keywords=thinkbot

NEW NEW *** The Man in the Wall *** NEW NEW

6 Aug

Congratulations to Ben Larken on his new release from GSP.

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Ben Larken resides near Fort Worth, the city in which he was born and currently works as a police dispatcher. He is the winner of three Epic eBook Awards for Best Horror.

WEBSITE: www.larkenbooks.yolasite.com

His book we are highlighting today is The Man in the Wall.

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Now that David Alders knows time travel is possible inside The Hollows, his mind is set on one goal—to save his wife Elise. He has one chance to get it right and decides to try changing the past on a test subject. A nightmarish spate of child killings known as the Wetzel Murders occurred in the 70’s, and David believes he can erase them from history. 

But The Hollows has other plans…

Excerpt:

  Elise’s Journal: March 24, 1999

He should have been back by now.

That’s all I can think. It’s the one sentence that circles my head all day like an annoying song. He should have been back. Like, days ago. Hell, he should’ve been back five minutes after he left. I mean, I’m talking about time travel. I don’t know how he’s making the trip, but if he’s able to make it at all he should find his way back to the same time period, right? He could punch some coordinates into a super-computer, give the Flux Capacitor an oil change and just pop back to the same day he last saw me. That makes sense, doesn’t it? God, I’ve got a headache.

Future David. That’s the name I gave him a week ago, this rumpled guy with the tortured eyes who showed up in my front yard. He’s the guy who knows something too terrible for words is about to happen to me. I know, because I tried to make him say those words and he couldn’t. Part of me wanted to strangle him for that, but another part of me reminded that part that I AM in love with this man.

Well, that might be true. But sometimes love isn’t worth the pain. Or love shouldn’t cause so much pain. Or something greeting card-y like that.

Last night I was thinking of him again, my mind drifting as I sliced apples and separated them into plastic baggies for Mel’s school lunches. Mel was in the front room soaking her brain in Dora the Explorer. Hop (that’s Present David, the man who has absolutely no idea that Future David paid me a visit last week) was enjoying his day off by catching up on paperwork, a task which seems to define a detective even more than detecting. He sat at the kitchen table, scribbling something in triplicate, and I let my brain devolve into the same line of circular questioning that has become the bane of my existence. It goes something like this:

A. Why isn’t he back yet?
B. What if he CAN’T come back?
C. What if he’s in some kind of trouble?

for instance:

D. What if that creepy oily-haired bastard in the Roaming Plumbers van grabbed him?
That’s the question that caused me to put the knife down and grab the counter to steady myself. I tried to stop where my thoughts were headed, but as usual I couldn’t. I saw Future David in a slasher movie, where the audience sees the bad guy sneaking up on the innocent victim. Hop hates taking me to those movies. I’m the viewer who shouts at the screen. DON’T GO DOWN THAT HALLWAY! or TURN ON THE GODDAMN LIGHT BEFORE YOU GO IN THERE! That’s what I was about to do to the movie playing in my brain, the one where Future David walks out of the Candlelight Inn and the red van swoops in and . . . and . . . the rest of the scene brings tears to my eyes. Because it’s never anything good. It’s not like the giggly bastard stops him to hand him a plumbing gift certificate or ask if him if he’s considered being a Jehovah’s Witness. I can see those manic eyes as he said the words that have since been seared into my brain.

You’ll have to learn to share him . . . Just like he’ll have to learn how to share you.

God, I’m putting the pencil down. I need a tissue.

Okay, I’m back. So obviously, Question D is not my favorite question. It always turns me to emotional jelly, and that moment last night was no different. But it gets worse. Question D always leads to Question E, the most hopeless question since God asked Cain if he’d seen Abel around. It’s the one that puts everything in perspective and makes me realize just how insane a situation I’ve found myself in.

E. What do I do about it?

“Those apples are going to turn brown if you don’t bag them up and get them into the fridge—” said Hop, who was right next to me, leaning on the counter.

I jumped. He chuckled, giving me a sideways hug, which I accepted rigidly. The alternative was to melt into his arms, and if I did that I would start bawling and never stop. I’d tell him the whole crazy story and he’d have me committed.

He pulled back, watching my stony expression. “You’re edgy,” he said. “And I don’t blame you. I know I’ve got you worried.”

I let out a bitter chuckle. If he only knew. “Yes,” I replied. “You’ve got me worried.” (I left off the part about him breaking the laws of space and time.)

He nodded and crossed his arms, something I imagine he does every time he’s about to interrogate a perp. But I wasn’t the perp in this situation. HE was—or will be—in ten years, when he decides to come back in time and mess with my head. (Have I mentioned I’ve doubled the amount of weekly headache medicine I buy?)

“You think I’m forgetting you,” he said. “You think I’m getting all caught up in my little world and I’ve left you to fend for yourself.”

“Well . . .” That was all I could say, because it was truer than I wanted it to be.

He had one of those inner conversations with himself. I saw the back-and-forth in his eyes. It didn’t take him long to come to a conclusion. He looked up again and smiled curtly.

“Right, then.”

That was all he said. He turned and exited the kitchen.

“Umm, Hop?” I stood there next to my bruised apple slices and waited for him to come back. But he didn’t, and it wasn’t like him to give up so quickly. I finally lost my nerve and went after him. “Hop,” I called as I crossed the kitchen, “I’m not that upset. We don’t have to make this a big dea—”

I stepped into the hallway. There he was. He hadn’t gone three steps beyond the doorway when he turned and got on one knee. He held up a diamond ring.

“I’m not trying to bribe you,” he said, his eyes large and earnest. “I just wanted you to know why I’ve been working so hard.”

“Hop,” I said, my voice lost after that.

“Five years ago your wedding ring disappeared down the drain,” he said. “I’ve always taken it as a bad omen for our marriage. And I didn’t want a bad omen hanging over us. More than anything else in this life, I want us to work. So I knew I had to take the next step. No more being a beat cop. Even if it meant moving heaven and earth, my wife was not going through life without a proper wedding ring.”

He went silent and waited for my reaction, the ring glimmering in the hallway light.

That thing I said about melting into his arms and bawling? Yeah, I did that. What can I say? He gave me an opening, and I went with it. He tried to give me the ring, but my fingers were too shaky, so we both kind of clung to it for a second. I held him, letting my view of the sparkly thing connecting us dissolve into tears. This diamond ring that on the one hand was just jewelry and on the other meant the whole world. Because he was right, I realized. I want us to work, too. And what did that mean for Question E?

Well, it meant I needed to take the next step.

Tomorrow after David goes to work, I’m cracking open the phone book. It’s time to call the Roaming Plumbers.

Links:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/BenLarken.html#Hollows2Exc

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Man-Wall-Hollows-ebook/dp/B00DOPTGO4/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1375761785&sr=8-1&keywords=the+man+in+the+wall+ben+larken

 

NEW NEW *** Sensations *** NEW NEW

2 Aug

Congratulations to Rowan Shannigan on your new GSP release.

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Rowan Shannigan has always harbored a deep fascination for the paranormal. She believes in Ghosts! She believes Angels watch over us. She knows Demons stalk us and she really wishes Elves were around to be yummy and heroic when we need them for inspiration!

Rowan lives in Texas with her son and her very own Soul Mate. Her house is filled to the brim with love and laughter, not to mention a few ghosts here and there. Oh, and more than just a few cats! You can’t forget the cats! 

Awareness and Sensations are Rowan’s first Young Adult novels, with one more book planned out for this, the Awakening Awareness series. She also writes Romance for adults under the pen name of Shiloh Darke.

Her book we are highlighting today is Sensations.

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When Rebecca woke up in the hospital after her near death experience with the ability to see as well as hear things others didn’t, she thought the Ghosts and Demons were the worst thing she’d have to deal with. Little did she know they really were just the tip of the iceburg.

Now, she finds herself thrust into a world hidden within her own—a world that doesn’t want her. She isn’t good enough for the Elf King’s son, all because she’s human? And if that’s not bad enough, now she has to make a decision: Keep her new talents to herself, as she’s sworn to do, or help someone who desperately needs her.

Tough Decision . . .

Excerpt:

 Prologue—Purgatory
                                                                     Sam:

“I said no!” Becca stood in the center of the room, glaring at the Angel who had transported us to this beautiful place suddenly, and with no explanation. Honestly, I didn’t blame her. It was pretty wild.

We had been pulled out of what I would only call a scary situation, and thrown into one that was just as spooky and intense. There was no way we were staying here! Seriously? I mean, people didn’t belong in the spiritual realm. Not when they were still alive. Did they? And where were our bodies? How long could a body survive without a soul connected to it?

So, anyway, now here I was, standing in this room that looked as if it was part of a palace, with these long flowing robes, like what a person wears when they sing in a church choir, watching Becca spit and hiss like a cat at the Angel who had just informed her that we would be staying here until they had a course of action against the Demons who were trying to kill us.

Shocking, right? But there was even more good news. Apparently, the demon who had taken over my body had been able to do so because of my Fae heritage. Who knew Faeries were more susceptible to demon possession when in the human realm if they were unprepared.

Then, the Angel had even looked down his nose at me and criticized my mother for keeping me in the dark about my true identity. I was outraged! I had been so shocked and surprised that I hadn’t even been able to come up with a good comeback. Until after he left us.

Then I had turned to Becca with my bewildered expression and done what any headstrong, angry teenaged Faerie would do. I puckered up like a baby and wailed for all I was worth. “How could she do this to me, Becca? My own mother hid my memories from me!” I sank to the floor, in shock and grief. “Who am I, anyway?”

The thing that always made me believe Becca was a really good friend was the way she could just drop whatever worry or anger she might be feeling at the time to offer comfort to anyone who needed it. The girl seriously didn’t have a single mean bone in her body. I loved that about her. It made me proud to call her friend.

Her fierce sense of determination was also something I admired; like now. She was standing toe to toe with an Angel, no less. And she wasn’t afraid. No, that wasn’t even the right word! What she was at that moment? Well, the best word I can come up with was furious!

“You gave us no warning, Zeek! Not one!” she accused. “Not even a, oh, by the way, we may need to take you into protective custody for a while, or anything!”

She threw her hands up in the air. “What are we supposed to do now? I mean, am I just taking a sabbatical from my life?” Her voice rose as the frustration grew. “I am a junior in high school, for heaven’s sake! I can’t just put that on hold!” Then her voice wavered. “What about Mom?”

There it was. For the last, oh I don’t know, half hour, she had comforted me and encouraged me not to panic or be upset. Now, it was her turn. Tears filled her eyes, and I moved forward to try to comfort her. She held to me even as she continued to stare the beautiful Angel in the face. “What does she know? Does she know I’m here? Does she know I’m safe?”

I hugged her tighter as she finally let herself cry over the entire mess we’d just unexpectedly found ourselves thrust into.

Zeke, or whatever his name was, finally had the good grace to seem somewhat apologetic for what we were going through. He took a step closer to us and reached out to pat her shoulder. “This will not interfere with your human life, Becca. I promise, when this is over, we will set everything back as it should be.” He sighed. “But for now, I need you both to trust me.”

She held to me for a moment longer, returning my hug before she let go and stepped back a little. “Where’s Darethmar? Where did you take him?”

Zeke gave her a smile and I felt like someone was getting ready to tell a huge lie. “He’s a prince, with obligations to his people, Becca. He was taken back to his home. You’ll be seeing him soon, I promise.

Now, maybe that wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the most upfront and honest response I’ve ever heard either.

Then, as if his answer wasn’t enough to throw my hackles up, what he did next really irked the hell out of me. He offered us both a parting bow and promptly disappeared, leaving us alone in the middle of what seemed for all appearances to be a deserted palace.

Becca groaned and moved to sit at the end of the bed on the far side of the room. She looked around with an exasperated expression before glancing at me. “If anyone had told me a year ago that I would be seeing ghosts, fighting demons and kidnapped by Angels, I would have told them they were nuts!”

I nodded, crossing my arms over my chest and looking around us at the room we were in. “I hear that!” I gestured at myself, shaking my head slowly, “I mean, look at me! I never in a million years would have believed I was a Faerie if it wasn’t for these wings.”

Even as I said it, I turned my head to glare at the appendages protruding out of my back. “I still don’t know if I really believe it. I keep trying to figure out how in the world I’m supposed to sleep with them!”

Almost as though my words changed my reality, I suddenly felt completely exhausted. I felt like I had run a marathon, and then did a thousand jumping jacks. I don’t remember much after that. I only remembered feeling like if I didn’t find a way to lie down I’d just fall over in a heap.

Just as well, I suppose. This isn’t my story tell anyway. Not really. I play a small part in it, but Becca is the only one who knows the entire tale.

Links:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/RowanShannigan.html#SensationsExc

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Sensations-Awakening-Awareness-ebook/dp/B00DOPT90A/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1375415678&sr=8-1&keywords=sensations+rowan+shannigan

NEW NEW *** Aberration *** NEW NEW

1 Aug

Congratulations to Steven Marini on his new release from GSP.

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Steve Marini holds a Master’s degree in Educational Technology from Boston University and a B.A. in Business Administration from New England College and has spent over thirty years in the Education/Training field, including posts in higher education and the federal government.

Although he describes himself as a “card carrying New Englander,” he lived for twenty-six years in Maryland while pursuing a career spanning four federal agencies. His background has enabled him to serve as a project manager at the National Security Agency, the Environmental Protection Agency, the National Fire Academy and the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, where he worked with teams of experts in various fields to develop state-of-the-art training for both classrooms and distance learning technologies. 

A “Baby Boomer,” Steve has taken up fiction writing as he moved into his career final frontier. Married for thirty-six years, a father of three and a grandfather, Steve and his wife Louise own a home on Cape Cod that will serve as his private writer’s colony for the years ahead.

His book we are highlighting today is Aberration.

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Jack Contino moves to Cape Cod, takes a job on the Dennis Police Department planning to live life in the slow lane, but things speed up when a black man is murdered. It’s similar to a killing in Needham, but the trail leads to a South Shore white supremacist group.

DeeDee O’Hare and Judy Black are twenty-somethings sharing a summer rental in Dennis. DeeDee worked in a restaurant with the victim and has a boyfriend, Jared Wilkes, a local bartender with a roving eye…for Judy. Jack checks them out and learns that Jared has a checkered past calling for close scrutiny. He finds that Jared and the hate group have a link.

Mob figure Tommy Shea, Jack’s old nemesis, is in the mix, but how is he involved? Jack has to find out. It’s hard to solve a local murder when the Boston Mob has it in for you.

Excerpt:

  Prologue

I needed a stiff drink.

Cape Cod, the premier vacation spot in New England, was my new home. I was supposed to be able to relax here, live life in the slow lane and not get shot again. My days as a Boston cop were over. Leave the Winter Hill boys and the Boston Mob to younger men. Join the Dennis Police. With my pension from the Metropolitan District Commission Police, known as the METS, and a full salary from Dennis, I nearly doubled my income. Nat’s salary as a nurse was gravy. We could slide.

I was the Chief of Detectives on the Dennis, Massachusetts PD, but I was the only detective on the Dennis PD, so I didn’t catch any crap from subordinates. I told Natalie I’d have to work late, checking on a housebreak in Dennis. Told her not to make dinner for me, that I’d grab a bite someplace. It took over an hour to wrap things up at the crime scene. Afterward, I needed some time to myself.

I stopped at a little place near home in Yarmouth at about eight o’clock, and parked a few rows back in the lot. No need to have my car easily spotted near the door. Just a precaution. As you entered, Goodfellows was a sports bar on the left side, a diner on the right. It was a hole in the wall, but the food was great. You could get as good a steak or prime rib here as any of the big name restaurants in the mid-Cape region.

So why did I feel so uptight? The belly wound that almost killed me a couple of years before gave me some pain once in a while, but after, was it three years?—hell, I could handle it. It wasn’t the pain. It was the memory. That scum Secani put a round into me before I could react. Was I getting too old, too slow?

Maybe Nat was right. Maybe I should give up police work. But I just couldn’t. Too many bastards out there just had to break the law. They needed to be stopped. Too many assholes making life harder for innocent people. Too many shits like Tommy Shea, who needed to have their luck run out. But on the Cape it was supposed to be easier. I was supposed to be able to take it slow, and I was trying to. So why did I get so damned wound up sometimes?

I navigated my way to a stool away from the door, on the far left and just around the bar’s corner. From there, I could see the door and the whole room, left and right. Perfect.

“Jim Beam, rocks,” I said when the bartender came around.

“Got it. Name’s Jack, right? I’ve seen you in here before. We chatted a little. You’re with the Dennis PD, right?”

“Right.”

He looked at me, eye to eye, then he shifted his gaze to my sport coat.

“So, Jack, you’re carrying now, right?” he said.

I sat up straight. “That’s procedure. I’m on my way home.”

“No problem, Jack,” he said. “I just figured, you know?”

There was a full house on the diner side, a few couples and some guys my age wearing ballplayer’s uniforms. Senior Softball league guys. Pretty cool, those old bastards still playing a boys’ game and running around the bases. Still drinking pitchers of beer after a game. Good for them. Better to get a strained hamstring than a bullet.

The bartender brought me the bourbon, setting it down on a napkin in front of me.

“What’s your name again?” I asked.

“Barry. Barry Morgan.” He smiled.

Barry was in his mid-forties, I’d guess. He was about six feet and had a decent build, fairly strong and not much gut. His hair was brown and thick, no signs of gray yet.

“Enjoy your drink, Jack,” he said and walked away.

I enjoyed it all right. Then I enjoyed another.

After two good ones, it was time to go home.

I pulled into the driveway around eight-thirty. A guy my size has a tough time entering the house quietly, so I didn’t try. But I’m not a door slammer, either.

Nat was reading in the living room, sitting in a recliner near a floor light. I strode up to her, bent down and gave her a smooch on the cheek, stumbling a little and grabbing the back of her chair for balance.

“Hi, hon, you okay?” she said.

“Yeah, yeah, I just lost my balance.”

“You ate, I guess.”

“Yes, I grabbed a bite on the way home.”

“And some bourbon, I guess.”

“I had a couple with dinner, that’s all.”

Nat didn’t respond to that. She just got up from the chair, folded her book and laid it on the table beside her chair. “I’m going to bed, Jack.” She started to walk to the stairs but stopped, turned and came up to me. “Was it a bad day, Jack?”

“I’ve had worse and I’ve had better,” I said. “Thanks for asking.” I took Nat in my arms and gave her a big hug, lifting her off her feet. She felt great in my arms. I held her like that for a few seconds, then let her down slowly. “Don’t worry, hon, tomorrow will be better, I’m sure. It’ll be Friday. Things get better for everybody on Friday. You wait and see.”

Links:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StevenPMarini.html#Aberration Exc.

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Aberration-Contino-Crime-Stories-ebook/dp/B00DSXJ00W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1375328078&sr=8-1&keywords=Aberration+steven