Turning Flesh and Blood Into Smoke and Mirrors

By Rob Sangster

PEPPERMINT SCHNAPPS would have been the perfect title for a story I badly wanted to tell. It was about paddling a raft through 100 miles of wild rapids in remote northern Idaho with gallon jugs of peppermint schnapps on board. However, I realized that as non-fiction it would read like a bad journal entry. Refusing to be deterred, I tucked that story into the middle of my novel about a Saudi prince, the President of China, and a swashbuckling Wall Street CEO determined to corner the world market in rare earth elements. That was NO RETURN, a suspense/thriller published last year.

Now, let’s get back to that river and the inside story. We—six men and three women, all in our thirties—climbed out of a battered Blue Bird bus onto the steep bank of the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, also known as the River of No Return. Banners pasted on both sides of the bus read Bomar Marine Racing Team, a name with no connection to reality. We just liked the way it sounded.

After a long night of partying, we struggled out of our tents at first light, broke camp, and shoved our three oar-powered Avon Adventurer rafts into the rushing river.

The guy in the lead boat was an investment banker from Denver who answered only to the name Mad Dog. Since he was the only one of us who had paddled this river, we counted on him to warn us before we reached any especially treacherous rapid. Because he was serious about having his beer cold, he had filled a mesh bag with dozens of cans of Coors beer and tied it to trail behind his boat in the icy water. Within the first mile, reckless from three beers at breakfast, he cut too close to a granite ledge. It ripped the bag free, sending every beer can into the dark depths.

From that moment on, he stayed drunk on his only remaining beverage—peppermint schnapps. On the third day, he failed to give us a heads up before we rounded a bend, and there it was, the dreaded Dagger Falls, a 15-foot vertical drop. We dug in with our oars, but all three boats shot over the precipice. We were shaken up, lost some gear, but survived. What I didn’t mention in NO RETURN was that I suffered a cracked rib and rowed the remaining two days in periodic agony.

Another member of our crew who made it into my novel was Zacky, as beautiful and mysterious in real life as in fiction. She read paperbacks, often soggy, on the river and took solo walks out of sight on shore. She interacted with the rest of us as though she were an alien sent to observe our compulsion to risk our lives in tumultuous water crashing over craggy boulders.

I couldn’t resist exporting one more of our eccentric paddlers into NO RETURN. His rounded body and upward-tilting nose reminded me of an Emperor Penguin. Although he called himself Feed Bag on the river, he became Levi in his fictional life, a big-time bond trader in Manhattan who bet the survival of his company on a daily basis.

In each of my novels, two or more of the characters are real people I’ve encounter during my own adventures. Transforming them into fiction is one of my favorite challenges as an author.

About Rob Sangster

Yampa River – 1975

Rob Sangster’s first Jack Strider novel, Ground Truth, was #1 on Amazon Kindle. His second, Deep Time, won the 2017 EPIC Award for best suspense/thriller of the year. A Stanford lawyer with experience in finance, politics, and public service, he’s an avid sailor who has traveled in more than 100 countries. Rob and his mystery writer wife divide their time between their homes in Tennessee and on the wild coast of Nova Scotia.

EPIC Award Winner

“Wild ride, in-depth characters, compelling plot, cutting-edge issues.” Marq de Villiers, prize winning author, Order of Canada award.

“Masterful, high-stakes suspense thriller.” Lisa Turner, best selling mystery writer, Edgar Award nominee.

A disaster lurks beneath the ocean floor.

A riveting Jack Strider suspense.

Deep in the Earth’s crust beneath the Pacific Ocean lies an ancient site likely to be the birthplace of life on our planet . . .

And a portal into unimaginable forces and incredible wealth . .

A place where large ships mysteriously disappear, including the vessel carrying Jack Strider’s goddaughter, Katie . . .

A greedy energy baron risks everything to pursue vast supplies of power trapped deep in the Pacific Ocean sea bed off the Oregon coast. But the man’s psychopathic scheme is about to launch a terrifying tsunami that will destroy the entire west coast of the United States. Strider’s beautiful, brilliant partner in law and love joins the fight, and Jack leads a desperate attack on the largest offshore platform ever built. Jack Strider may be the only man who can stop the disaster that is already underway . . . or maybe no one can.

Rob Sangster’s Deep Time is on sale now until the 31st! Find it on Amazon, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Google, and Apple!

A Tale Of Two Heroes

By Kathleen Eagle

This is one of my favorite covers. Sunrise Song is a serious story, and this is a serious guy. It’s also a Romance. The heroes–two for the price of one–are irresistible. The title fits the story, which is romantically uplifting. And the setting is wild and wondrous. It’s all here, on the face of a work of fiction, the proverbial lie that tells the truth.

Years ago my husband, Clyde, participated in a conference that featured a presentation on Hiawatha Asylum For Insane Indians in Canton, SD. It was operated by the government from 1903 to 1935, when a new administration investigated it and shut it down. Clyde–who is Lakota grew up on the South Dakota side of Standing Rock Sioux Reservation–had never heard of any asylum for “insane Indians.” We were intrigued and decided to drive down to take a look. The buildings were long ago replaced by a community hospital adjacent to a 9-hole golf course, which surrounds the burial place for at least 121 asylum “patients,” whose names are engraved on a single memorial. A golf tournament was going on around us as we read the names, and a ball dropped over the fence. I could almost hear the ghosts laughing.

I think those spirits helped me come up with an idea for a story. It would invite readers to walk in Indian Country with two sets of flesh-and-blood characters in a story that tugs at the heartstrings, at once gritty and hopeful, as women’s fiction is wont to be.

Researching the place proved challenging. Nothing had been written about it. Back home the elders who remembered hearing of the asylum said people spoke of it in whispers back in the day for fear of “being taken away.” You didn’t have to be insane, they said. Just uncooperative. Maybe you were as traditional as your grandparents, and you“spoke Indian”or you ran away from boarding school. I needed to know all that and much more. Both sides. With the help of a librarian at the SD State Library I got copies of old reports from their historical files.

In the years since we did our research, the site has been added to the National Registry of Historic Places. Sunrise Song was favorably reviewed in the Canton SD newspaper. And I received a letter from a woman who grew up in Canton. Her family lived close to the asylum, parents worked there. They admired Dr. Hummer, the supervisor of the asylum, who was fired after the D.C. administrators got around investigating the program. The letter writer said she’d read my book, and she was deeply moved. She remembered visiting with patients–inmates, really–through the fence. And now she wondered whether anything her parents told her was true. She couldn’t ask them. Her father, a local farmer hired to manage the asylum’s farm, and her mother, a cook, had long since passed away.  Now it was my turn to be deeply moved by someone who was there, and who was able to look back at her own story and turn the coin over, really look at the other side. She thanked me for writing Sunrise Song.

Fiction is written to entertain, but it can do much more. It can allow us to walk the road less traveled wearing the shoes of someone living in a place among people we know little about. Books, books, books–surely you are the salt of the earth.

Happy reading!

Kathleen Eagle

Sunrise Song by Kathleen Eagle is only $0.99 until the 31st! Find it on Amazon, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Google, and Apple!

Wanna Play a Terrifying Game of Hide and Seek? 1…2…3… By Allie Harrison

“With one touch of a cold, dead hand, Tess Fairmont had the ability to see the last several moments of a victim’s horrifying murder. She felt what the victim felt, even smelled every whiff of fear.

If you had the ability to help others, no matter how terrifying it was for you, would you?

In Hide and Seek, by Allie Harrison, Tess chooses to help the FBI search out serial killers.

And the latest murderer is the most horrifying she’s ever encountered. Why? Because he has the ability to follow her through her visions, right to her own front door.

Of course it helps to have Dr. Michael Adams’ shoulder to lean on, and she finds safety in his embrace.

If you’re looking for a suspense with paranormal elements, mind games all baked into a lovely cupcake with a sweet frosting of romance on top, Hide and Seek is the book for you.

I can’t remember a time I didn’t love suspense. From true horror to who done it, I love anything that keeps me on the edge of my seat or keeps me wondering. Feel free to like me on Facebook and follow along. https://www.facebook.com/Allie-Harrison-Author-106928505995715/?ref=bookmarks

I’ll hold your hand if you need me to!”

Hide and Seek by Allie Harrison is only $0.99 until the 30th! Get your eBook copy today!

Available on Amazon, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Google, and Apple.

The Lure of a Dangerous Man By Cindi Myers

“American history is full of people who, though on the wrong side of the law, captured the public’s attention and became revered in spite of their crimes – men like Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Butch Cassidy, and Jesse James. These larger-than-life legends can be both compelling and repelling as we dig into their stories, but for me, the most fascinating things about these outlaws are the families who supported them and the women who loved them. What was it about these men – and what was it in these women – that led them to link their fates to men who almost inevitably came to bad ends?
In a dozen years after the Civil War, Jesse James and his cohorts committed as many as 19 robberies, during which almost twenty people died – some of them members of Jesse’s own gang. He was a super-celebrity, someone profiled in every newspaper and known throughout the country, written about in books and popularized in plays – in the days before the internet, television, or even telephones. And all the while he was carrying out his crimes and growing his legend, he was also a husband and father.

When I began writing The Woman Who Loved Jesse James, I had to dig deeply to find information on his wife Zerelda, called Zee. Zee was Jesse’s first cousin, named after his mother. Delving into census records, family histories and the few lines she merited in the many biographies of Jesse, I discovered a quiet, serious woman enough in love with her handsome, dashing cousin to endure a nine-year engagement. Once married, however, life was not all comfort and ease, as Jesse’s notoriety increased. Zee supposedly begged him to settle down. I imagined Zee, like many woman drawn to ‘bad’ men, torn by her desire for adventure and excitement, and the need to protect her children from danger and uncertainty.

Pictures of Jesse show a blond, blue-eyed man who would have turned any woman’s head. An excellent rider, educated, with good manners and a reputation as a sharp dresser, it’s not hard to see why Zee might have fallen for him. The few images available of Zee James show a tiny (under five feet), woman with dark frizzed hair. She was from a poor family, one of twelve children, and had known Jesse all her life.

Though my book is fiction, it is based on fact. Zee and Jesse did live under assumed names during a time in which Jesse was supposedly trying to go straight. She kept Jesse’s secrets throughout her life and, unlike her mother-in-law, retreated from the public eye after his death, and didn’t try to make money off her tragedy. Looking at photos of her taken after Jesse’s death, it’s easy to see the pain in her eyes. I wanted to know what she thought about the life she had led – The Woman Who Loved Jesse James is my attempt to tell her story.

Have you known a woman who loved a man in spite of his dangerous behavior? What do you think is the attraction for them?”

The Woman Who Loved Jesse James by Cindi Myers is only $0.99 until the 30th! Get your eBook copy today!

Available on Amazon, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Google, and Apple.

Holding Out for an Angel

 By Skye Taylor

     “So?” Tony asked, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. “You guys making any New Year’s resolutions?”

Jake looked up from his book. “Why? Nobody ever keeps them?”

“Top of my list is to stay away from she-devils.” The fact that his ex-fiancé had thrown his ring in his face the night before their wedding had left Sam Westmoreland more than a little hurt and wary of women in general. A recent blind date had reinforced his self-protective instincts.

“Not all women are like that,” Tony argued. Newly married himself and still over the moon about his bride, he was eager to share his happiness with his closest friends. Jake was already married, to his high school sweetheart with a precious little girl to love. It only remained to get his buddy Sam hooked up with the right woman.

The three friends had grown up together and while they all had very different day-jobs, they really loved their part-time volunteer positions with the Tide’s Way fire department, and always did their best to get scheduled to work the same shifts – usually the night shift.

Tonight was New Year’s Eve and likely to be crazier than usual, at least for the ambulance crew, which included Tony and Sam. They’d tried to talk Jake into taking the EMT courses with them, but he’d had an unfortunate experience with a premature birth the previous year and didn’t think he was cut out for medical emergencies. He preferred dashing into burning buildings to perform his rescues. But for the moment, nothing bad was happening in town and they were sitting around the table in the firehouse, feet up and relaxing with the television tuned into the festivities in Time’s Square.

“You just need to meet the right woman.”

“That’s what you said when you talked me into taking your wife’s co-worker out to dinner.” Never had Sam enjoyed an evening with a beautiful woman less. The woman had been so full of herself no one else mattered, including the man who was footing the bill and trying to remain a gentleman in spite of her nastiness to him and everyone else.

Tony had the grace to look sheepish. “Yeah, that was a mistake. I had no idea.”  He’d been embarrassed by the woman’s behavior and eventually he and Sam had retreated to the bar and left Tony’s wife to cope with her friend alone. The double date had been her idea, and her responsibility.

“So, what do you think, Jake?” Tony pulled Jake’s attention out his book a second time.

“What do I think about what”

“Sam here. He needs a good woman. Know any?”

Jake looked at Sam with a strange, sad expression in his eyes. Sam suspected Jake’s marriage wasn’t the blissful union Tony’s was, but Jake would never admit it. He’d gotten his girlfriend pregnant and done the right thing by her, giving up his plans to go to college and diving into the working world to support his new family.

“What are the criteria?” Tony asked holding up one hand, fingers splayed. “Dynamite looks.” He folded down one finger. “Fabulous cook. Great in the sack.” He continued to fold down fingers as he ticked off desirable traits in the perfect woman.

“I’m holding out for an angel,” Sam said shaking his head. “Looks can be deceiving. I can teach her how to cook if I have to, and we can teach each other what feels great in bed. But she has to have the heart of an angel.”

“How will you know?” Tony raised his brows. “Barbara seemed pretty angelic to me and you did put a ring on her finger so you must have thought so at the time.”

“I’ll just know.” If experience had taught Sam anything, it was to see beyond the tumbling locks of silky hair and a sexy body. He’d be looking into her eyes. Into her soul next time. He wanted a woman who was kind and loving from the inside out. A woman he could trust with his heart. “I’ll know it here.” He tapped his chest. “Gut feeling.”

Jake snorted. “Good luck with that.”

Before either Tony or Sam could reply the blare of the alarm brought their feet slamming to the floor. The evening mayhem had begun.

     Ariel couldn’t believe she’d been talked into this stupid party. A costume party? On New Year’s Eve? Who had costume parties on New Year’s Eve? Worse was the man she’d agreed to attend with.

The only reason Craig would have asked her to be his date had to be pressure from her uncle who was his boss. Poor Ariel, always the wall-flower, and Uncle Max was determined to get her married off to an up-and-comer. A handsome man with a rich future. You need to have confidence in yourself, Uncle Max liked to tell her.

If only it were that easy. Men didn’t get in line for mousy little women like her. Everything about her was mousy, from the mousy brown hair to her slightly overgenerous curves and too few inches to her less than vivacious personality. It was easy for Uncle Max – he was outgoing, handsome, and bigger than life. He had no idea what it was like to be her. Or what it had been like to be overlooked her entire life – last girl chosen for any team, least likely to be asked out, never called on in class.

She had two truly dear friends and she wished she’d stayed home with them tonight, curled up in her jammies, eating too many forbidden treats, watching the ball drop in Time’s Square. But no. Here she was, dressed in this ridiculous angel costume, waiting for an Uber ride because Craig hadn’t even waited until midnight to find someone with long legs and a willingness to jump into bed. As the ball dropped and everyone else was kissing and tooting horns, she was once again relegated to wall-flower status. No New Year’s kiss for her. No happy wishes and hugs. No flute of champagne to clink against her date’s.

“Are you Miss Thomas?”

So wrapped up in her little pity party, Ariel hadn’t seen the little blue Toyota pull up.

“I am. Sorry.”

The young man leaned across and pushed the door open for her. He had dark skin, a head full of unruly curls, and a wide, friendly grin. “Hop in. You look cold.”

“It’s this absurd outfit,” Ariel said as she slid into the front seat, doing her best to fold the flapping wings behind her and subdue the flowing white gown before shutting the door. “A teddy bear costume would have been a better choice tonight.”

The man eyed her from the ring of glitter meant to be a halo to her feet clad in white ballet slippers and shook his head. “What made you choose it in the first place?” He pulled away from the curb and melted into the flow of traffic.

“Not my idea,” she defended herself. “It was my date’s.”

Uber man glanced at her quickly before turning his attention back to the road that appeared slick and black and maybe even icy. “Where’s the date now?”

Ariel gazed out the side window, not wanting to see the pity in the man’s eyes. She shrugged. “Not a clue.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.” He hunched forward in his seat, looking more closely at the road. “It sure is nasty out tonight.”

“Umm.” Ariel agreed. Nasty in more ways than just the weather.

Not that she’d expected anything better from Craig.

Somewhere, out there, she was sure the right man for her existed. It was how to go about finding him that had her baffled. He had to be kind. And thoughtful. He had to be the sort of man who did things for others because he cared and not because it brought him gain or advancement. The kind of man who would rescue an abandoned animal, or offer comfort to a frightened child and didn’t expect to get paid for doing it. In her line of work, she hadn’t met many men who fit that description, though. Everyone in the investment firm where her Uncle Max had gotten her a job seemed to tag dollar signs onto every transaction, even human ones.

Her attention was suddenly jerked back to the road as the little Toyota slithered sideways and her driver fought with the wheel. A mini-van coming in the other direction was having the same problem. All that inky black was ice after all.

She saw it coming and braced her feet hard against the floorboards. The Uber driver cursed fluently, and Ariel tried not to scream, but fear won out. Then came an awful crashing, the sound of shattering glass, and the car spun wildly. Three times it spun before the rear struck something immovable and the Toyota came to a jarring, painful halt.

     Sam was out of the ambulance before Tony brought it to a complete stop. He opened a hatch and grabbed a first-in bag and then ran toward a little Toyota with its rear end crumpled against a telephone pole.

He tried the passenger side door and thankfully, it opened easily. An angel half fell into his arms, restrained only by her seat belt.

He gaped at the vision, the glittering halo in her soft brown curls, and the flowing white gown that swallowed her small body. Then he shook off his stunned hesitation and spoke to her.

“Ma’am? Are you hurt?”

She pushed at his chest trying to right herself. “Please check on the driver. I think he’s hurt worse than me.”

Sam glanced across the interior of the car. His angel was probably right. The man did look worse.

“Don’t move,” he advised her as he reached across to put two fingers on the man’s neck checking for a pulse. The man was alive, at least for now. But blood poured from a gash across the man’s forehead.

Sam straightened and whistled to get Tony’s attention. He pointed toward the driver’s side, and his partner altered his course to come up on the other side of the Toyota.

“What’s your name?” Sam squatted down beside the fallen angel and began a visual assessment of her condition. “Do you know what day it is?”

She pushed his hand away when he shone his penlight into her eyes. “Ariel and it’s New Year’s Eve. But there’s another car. A minivan, I mean. It went into the ditch.” She tried to sit up and point.

She had cuts on her face and hands, but her seat belt had kept her from smashing her head on the dash and she appeared to be coherent, so Sam reluctantly stood and looked toward the ditch.

The taillights of the other vehicle glowed red in the dark, but that was all he could see of it.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” Sam told the angel. Then he jogged toward the ditch.

     Ariel hurt everywhere, but considering the frantic work going on next to her, she was lucky. She glanced back toward the edge of the road and saw her rescuer assist a man up onto the road. With his shoulder under the other man’s armpit they made their way toward the ambulance. The EMT helped the guy to sit, but the other driver kept pointing toward his minivan and arguing. Finally the EMT left him and trotted back to the minivan.

Someone else must have been inside besides just the driver. She wanted to help, but the man had told her to stay put. He’d been gentle, about it, but there had been a no-nonsense tone to his voice. She did as he asked.

A moment later he reappeared, carrying a golden retriever in his arms. The dog was clearly alive because he was licking the man’s face, but it looked like the dog’s leg might be broken. It hung at an odd angle. Their rescuer pulled a blanket from the ambulance and kicked it open with one toe, then gently laid the dog down. He squatted next to the dog and scratched it behind the ears before giving it a quick examination. Then he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made a call.

~~~~~

     “You two are a match made in heaven,” Tony said grinning.

“I told you I was holding out for an angel. I just didn’t know God would take me so literally.” Sam was grinning, too. He hadn’t stopped grinning in months. Not since his angel had fallen into his arms. The fact that her name meant Angel was just frosting on the cake. She’d been more concerned about everyone but herself that awful night. Even the dog had come before worrying about her own injuries. As they’d gotten to know each other better, he’d discovered she was everything he’d had on his list. Kind from the inside out. Sweet, caring, gentle and oh, my God, could she kiss.

She could kiss the socks off him, and as he watched her dance with her Uncle Max, her white wedding dress swirling about her perfect little body, with a halo of tiny white flowers in her hair, he was looking forward to a lifetime of angel kisses.

Sale Alert!

Falling for Zoe (where Sam is first mentioned) is on sale for only $0.99!

Today is the last day!

Happy New Year!

Author Susan Kearney opens up about what inspired her to write A Dragon of Legend: Lucan!

According to legend, the Holy Grail could cure sickness of those who drank from it—but no one knows if it ever really existed. And that’s perfect material for a writer. Because we have so little factual evidence about it, that leaves room for my fertile imagination to make things up.

I got to play “what if?” What if the Holy Grail could really make someone immortal? It would be the ultimate prize throughout the galaxy. What if the Holy Grail didn’t come from Earth? But suppose we found a star map that led us to it? Wouldn’t it be fun to hunt for the Grail? And what would happen if we found it? Or if our worst enemy found it?

The possibilities are infinite. And that’s just the kind of legend I like—one I can manipulate to fit the kinds of books I write. Science fiction romances or futuristic romance.

I’ve always loved stories about treasures, stories about brave men and women who were willing to risk their lives to help their worlds. And in A Dragon of Legend, I got the chance to create a character determined to find the Grail—even if he had to cross the galaxy to do it. Of course my sexy archaeologist was shocked to find a world called Pendragon, and an edifice called Avalon, where the natives believed the ancient ones had hidden the Holy Grail.

After all, it made sense to protect the most valuable object in the galaxy behind the walls of an impregnable edifice. Only when Lucan teams up with the sexy High Priestess of Avalon does he stand a chance of finding his prize. Only, he doesn’t count on her being a dragon shaper and that she wants the Grail for her own people.
Oh, yes, searching for the Grail isn’t easy—especially with Earth’s greatest enemy after the prize as well…

A Dragon of Legend is on sale for only $0.99 until the 15th!

“A sexy, exciting futuristic series.” Bookloons.com

The Pendragon Legacy, Book 1: Lucan

Legend, love, and honor collide . . .

For Lucan Roarke, failure is not an option. If he fails, Earth perishes. Ancient clues have led him to the planet Pendragon, the last known resting place of the mythical Holy Grail—Earth’s last chance.

Lady Cael, high priestess and the only dragonshaper on her world, is destined to live a life untouched by love and mate. When she agrees to aid Lucan in his desperate search, she must fight the passionate attraction growing between them. She’s been less than truthful, and if they succeed in recovering the Grail, she will be honor bound to betray Lucan. And Earth.

When Cael finally admits the terrifying truth, she shatters Lucan and threatens his mission. To save humanity, he must make a catastrophic choice.

Will he choose honor or love?

BRING ON THE BUBBLY

by Arlene Kay

I know nothing about wine although I love the term oenophile. Like my protagonist Eja Kane, I have expertise in only three liquid substances: coffee, bottled water, and champagne. Espresso is the brew of the gods—rich, potent, and oh so satisfying. It seeps down into my soul, awakening my senses and enlivening my being. Needless to say, the inferior dreck offered in so many establishments simply will not do. I abstain until a superior blend arrives.

Bottled water is even more problematic. NEVER have I or will I sip from a plastic container. My drink of choice (like Eja’s) is Pellegrino although in a pinch or when in France, Perrier will do. Eschewing plastic happens to be ecologically sound but frankly taste is my primary concern. Plastic invades the tongue, wreaking havoc in its wake.

That brings us to Champagne, the gift that seals the Franco-American alliance. Only sparkling wine from France can be called Champagne (take THAT California). I adore the bubbly tingle, and the exquisite, silky sensation as it slides down my throat. Most of us commemorate only very special occasions with Champagne, although the Swanns tend to indulge much more often. Billionaires can afford that, but for the rest of us, toasting the New Year happily coincides with national champagne day, December 31^st

Bottoms up!

MANTRAP is on sale for only 99c through 12/31!

Don’t miss your chance to pick it up!

And don’t forget to grab the rest of the Boston Uncommons Mysteries:

I LEFT OUT THE EVIL ELF

by H.W. Buzz Bernard

Despite there being a warm and fuzzy Hallmark Channel Christmas moment in BLIZZARD—you know, a crackling blaze in a huge stone fireplace, the aroma of gingerbread and German stollen wafting through a warm house, and outside a polar gale rattling the limbs of skeletal trees—the book is a thriller.

I mean who wouldn’t want to go on a buck ninety-nine, wind-whipped, bullet-riddled odyssey in a Mercedes Geländewagen through the worst Southern blizzard on record?  And that’s not to mention the wolf pack escaped from a game reserve, drug-smuggling outlaw bikers hunkered down in a north Georgia “castle”—guys with names like Psycho, Cave Man, and Grizzly—and a pretend cop who carjacks my protagonist.  I probably should have crammed an evil elf into my cast of characters, but alas, I didn’t.

Of course, I had to coat my post-Christmas drama with my trademark pushing-the-envelope meteorological icing.  So I imagined Boston’s “Blizzard of ’78,” (which I experienced) displaced to the Deep South.  That storm, which is still considered Boston’s greatest, shut down the city for a week.  So you can imagine—well, I certainly did—what an event like that would do to Atlanta where even a forecast of snow flurries triggers more panic than a Zombie Apocalypse.

If you’re from or have visited places in northeast Georgia or the western Carolinas, some of the locales the drama sweeps you through, besides the ATL, may be familiar: Clayton, Georgia; Westminster, South Carolina, and Durham, North Carolina.

Like all of my novels, BLIZZARD is meant to thrilling and fun.  After all, as a novelist, I am in the entertainment business.  The book is designed to appeal to both your holiday spirit and your eagerness for adventure, and maybe even your sense of humor here and there.

As the dealer who leant the protagonist the Mercedes over Christmas vacation noted, upon seeing the SUV returned with shot-out windows, crumpled fenders, and a dead teddy bear in the rear seat: “So your Grandma in Durham, she was pissed, huh?  Late with her Christmas gifts?”

Remember, you can find out what this is all about for just $1.99 . . . until New Year’s Eve.

Pick up BLIZZARD for only $1.99 til the 31st!

And don’t forget to grab the rest of H.W. Buzz Bernard’s  Weather Series books!

Serving Up Holiday Cheer

by Kathleen Eagle

Isn’t it strange that when you’re a kid it takes forever for the holidays to roll around from one calendar to the next, but the older you get, the faster they roll? And the more holiday memories you collect, the more nostalgic you become. You’re driving down the road and you hear the first few notes of your father’s favorite Christmas song. You get all misty. The road better not be the interstate–or the turnpike where I grew up–because misty can turn to waterworks in a hurry, and windshield wipers don’t do anything for eyeballs. When you’re a child, it’s all about anticipation. For an adult, memories become part of the joy. We recreate the look and the sound and the scent of holiday magic the soft, glowing way we remember it and the way we hope it will be for our children and our children’s children.

Which is why we tell stories. We save up, and we shop. We clean, and we cook. We decorate, and we practice our songs and our plays. But without the stories, these traditions won’t be remembered. The storyteller’s gift is precious. During the holidays, it is memory.

THE SHARING SPOON is a collection of three novellas. They’re romantic, of course, and the characters are fictitious, but they’re built on some of my memories. “The Wolf and the Lamb” is a Western. I’ve loved Westerns since I was a child, and guess what: So has my cowboy. One of our theme songs could be “My Baby Loves the Western Movies.” (I guess I’m dating myself, but that’s okay. Memories are never out of date.)  In “The Twelfth Night” some of my Lakota husband’s childhood memories come into play. And in “The Sharing Spoon“–a contemporary Thanksgiving tale–memories of our move to Minnesota helped me create a fun and fanciful story using the American Indian magnet school that recruited my husband. True story: a family walked into the office, and the dad slapped the book that contained the original version of “The Sharing Spoon” on the counter. “Is this the school in this book?” he asked. The secretary carefully, cautiously explained that the story was fiction. “But the author’s husband is a teacher here,” she said. “Sign my kids up,” was the man’s response. The secretary herself told me this story, and she’s sticking to it. Sweet, huh?

I hope you’ll grab “The Sharing Spoon” while it’s on sale. I’ve heard from several readers who say that re-reading it has become an annual tradition for them. That, too. is as sweet as hot chocolate with a peppermint stirring stick. May your holidays taste even sweeter!

Make your Thanksgiving sweet! Pick up THE SHARING SPOON today!

Picture Perfect Meadowfield – 1987

by Howard Odentz

Thirteen-year-old Garrett McCarthy pumps the pedals on his ten-speed bike as he glides through the darkened neighborhoods of bucolic Meadowfield, Massachusetts. He weaves in and out of the shadows cast by street lights, whistling a tune that’s been stuck in his head all day.
It happens to be a song by The Talking Heads released four years prior, but Garrett doesn’t know that. He just thinks it’s strangely appropriate.

His parents aren’t home. Most nights Garrett is left alone. His mother, Maggie, is overly involved in town politics. His father, Gene, works late far too often, or at least that’s what he tells his family.

Garrett’s absentee parents suit him just fine. Being alone gives him breathing room. It also gives him time to work on his hobby, the one that he has been perfecting for a while now but keeps to himself.

Garrett McCarthy likes to watch things burn.

He likes it better than television, and he even likes it better than perusing the collection of old Hustlers that his father keeps stored in plastic bins underneath the basement stairs, supposedly hidden within stacks of Life Magazines.

There’s something about the erratic dance of flames that stokes Garrett’s inner furnace and ignites his passion. Simply put, watching white, hot death devour everything in its path floats his boat.

Most of Garrett’s fires have been small thus far, causing no real damage other than to things that don’t matter. Certainly no one has been hurt in his flames. Still, he is acutely aware that when the heat and light engulf everything and he watches, compelled and engrossed, he is missing something crucial and desired.

He longs to hear what will happen when fire and flesh meet. He imagines there will be frantic squeals like those that permeate a slaughter house when the other pigs realize that they might be next. He wants to relish the sound of screams—the popping of flesh—the crackling of hair.

That’s why tonight Garrett is on a mission. He wants to burn something big.

Last month’s torching of the attendant’s shack by the entrance to the town dump at the end of Miller Road was less than fulfilling.  So was the incineration of Father McQueen’s old Cadillac.

Garrett found the Father’s car in front of the park entrance to Prince Richard’s Maze. Everyone knows why middle-aged men skulk in the Maze at night but no one ever broaches the subject. Garrett lit up the Cadillac while the father was getting busy elsewhere, but the gas tank didn’t blow.

That’s why tonight Garrett McCarthy is after something much, much bigger. There’s a demon coiling inside his belly, demanding to be fed, and Garrett is acutely aware it can no longer survive on meager half-meals. He now must offer it a banquet of heat because that’s the only thing that will sate its ever growing appetite.

As Garrett meanders through the dark streets, riding his bike with no hands and a pack full of fixings on his back, he decides that his initial target, Journey’s End Senior Care, is too big and too well built for arson. Besides, he’s almost positive that there are sprinklers inside that will be activated the moment any smoke is detected.

His mind wanders to a new target—a disheveled old bungalow in a bleak corner of town, two streets in from the Connecticut border. A hundred years ago, the ramshackle eyesore belonged to a woman named Ma Irish who delivered babies and sold pickled eggs from her living room.

An unseemly family lives there now. They display rusted-out cars on cinder blocks in the front yard, and keep more than one pit bull chained in the back. People talk about how such a family doesn’t belong in a community like Meadowfield. Garrett has no opinion about that. However, he does think Ma Irish’s house is a bit of a town fixture. Removing that piece of local history may leave a hole better served un-dug.

Ultimately, Garrett decides on a different target. It is one he has been thinking about for a while now. Folks in Meadowfield will be sad to see it burn because, for some reason that Garrett can’t fathom, most people find fire tragic.

Still, they won’t be too sad.

He leans forward as he pedals, grabbing his handle bars and steering his bicycle this way and that before finally turning onto Sycamore Avenue. There is an old two-story colonial at the dead end, tucked up against the woods, with a handicapped ramp that zig-zags up to the porch.

A very small sign in front read ‘Happy Valley Group Home’ which sounds way cheerier than what lives inside.

The Happy Valley Group Home houses six developmentally delayed teenagers and two full-time staff. Garrett doesn’t know any of them by name, but he has seen the sad, little group at Cinema X before. Some are in wheel chairs and others stand quietly by the ticket taker with their hands on each other’s shoulders so they won’t get lost. After all, there is an ocean of ways one can disappear between the concession stand and the bathrooms.

Meadowfield will mourn the loss of the Happy Valley Group Home, but not really, and when the old colonial and those inside are nothing more than blackened ash, some will even breathe a sigh of relief that ‘those kind of people’ are no longer part of the fabric of town.

Although Garrett McCarthy doesn’t exactly agree with such a harsh sentiment, in some perverted way, he thinks dispatching the building and those inside is somehow performing a kindness. At least that’s what he keeps telling himself as he glides down Sycamore, ever wary that no one is outside in the darkness to see him

At the end of Sycamore, just past the Happy Valley Group Home, Garrett gets off of his bicycle and pushes it twenty feet into the woods.

There, he pulls his back pack off of his shoulder, unzips it and pulls out everything he will need to feed his glitch, even though he doesn’t think of pyromania as a glitch at all.

He thinks of it as magic.

After he gathers together a glass jar full of gasoline, newspaper, and wooden matches that he favors over a lighter, he pushes through the thick foliage until he is standing right inside the tree line. There, he studies the house from the shadows, poking and prodding at it with his deranged mind, seeking the perfect spot to set a fire.

His inner demon offers up a multitude of solutions.

‘Underneath the porch’, it whispers.

No.

‘The back of the carport,’ it prods.

No.

‘The basement.’

Yes.

Garrett’s eyes follow the side of the house to the backyard. There he spies a cobblestone patio with patches of weeds growing through the crisscrossed pattern between the stones, and a metal hatchway.

The patio’s disheveled nature gives Garrett’s inner demon fuel to urge him on.

‘The Happy Valley Group Home is so untidy,’ the demon says. ‘Cleanse it.’

Garrett’s eyes sparkle. Fire always rises, so starting a blaze in the basement might be the perfect way to create a tower of flames so tall that it can be seen from as far away as Skinner Mountain. He smiles, because someday he knows that he will also burn The Summit House on top of Skinner to the ground, hopefully while there is an event going on inside, like a wedding or a sweet sixteen party.

Thoughts of puffy dresses combusting makes his tongue wet. Garrett licks his lips and a slick of saliva drips down his chin.

‘Do it now,’ hisses his demon from deep inside his belly. ‘Feed me. Feed me. Feed me.’

Garrett crouches down low and quickly runs to the side of the house. There is a window there with a partially pulled shade. Slowly, with his fingers splayed and his heart pounding, he stands until just the top of his head and his eyes are over the windowsill.

Inside, some of the residents of the Happy Valley Group Home are watching children’s puppets on television, however, they seem as though they aren’t watching the dancing screen at all.

A boy with milky eyes, confined to a wheel chair, is playing air piano with weirdly jointed fingers that look better suited to a skeleton.

Another has his eyes half-lidded and his chin on his chest.

A third boy looks all wrong, like he’s been drawn by a third grader with poor anatomical skills. His head is misshapen and lopsided.

The three of them sitting there, dull and dim-witted, make Garrett a little angry.

They all look so off that he’s not even sure that they will scream when the flames begin shooting through the wooden floor. The residents of the Happy Valley Group Home might just stare at the fire with their vacant manatee eyes and not do anything, even when the deadly flower finally reaches them—searing their skin—making it bubble and burn.

‘Oh, they’ll feel it,’ whispers his inner demon. ‘They’ll feel it but good.’

A pleasant chill runs up Garrett’s back as he agrees with the monster inside. A fire will surely coax the residents of the Happy Valley Group Home out of their stupor.

That’s what fire does.

Without hesitating, he sprints to the back of the house and across the weed-filled patio to the metal hatchway.

Garrett holds his breath as he reaches for the handle, praying that it isn’t locked. Thankfully, his prayers are answered. He pulls open one side and gingerly descends the wooden stair case while holding the hatch open, then quietly lowers it back into place so no one will know that he’s there.

The basement is dark, but Garrett McCarthy is used to the dark. He stands still for several minutes, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He knows they eventually will.

Once they do, he sees shadows of boxes, storage containers, several wheelchairs and a workbench. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a chubby, unscented votive he has taken from his mother’s holiday closet. Then he strikes a wooden match and lights the candle. Immediately, the rest of the basement turns color and he can see. There’s a washing machine and a dryer against the far wall. There’s also an extra refrigerator and a freezer chest. Scanning the room, he sees separate cage-cubbies like in the nether regions of an apartment building, each with a name on it and a padlock. They appear to be filled with suitcases and trunks.

Garrett rightly guesses that these are the storage areas for each of the residents. It’s where parents have dumped the belongings of their family embarrassments, relieved that their burdens are someone else’s problem now and they can finally forget.

Garrett McCarthy smiles to himself. Once he has cremated the Happy Valley Group Home, the people of Meadowfield, Massachusetts, will forget, too. He knows he’s right to have chosen here. It’s an easy target. He can’t wait until he is back in the woods, watching the flames reach higher and higher until the whole place is blazing in glorious death.

Garrett walks across the room and puts the candle down on top of the freezer chest. Then he quickly surveys the rest of the basement to find exactly the right spot to start his work. Above him he hears the television blaring away and maybe the creak of a wheel chair slowly rocking back and forth.

He smiles again as he unscrews his jar of gasoline and splashes the floor with the acrid liquid. When he’s through, he bunches up wads of newspaper and wets them with what’s left in the jar, stuffing clumps between cardboard boxes and other things that look like they will burn easily.

Finally, with his heart pounding in his chest out of sheer anticipation, he strikes a match and drops it to the floor.

Immediately fire erupts and races across the cellar, hitting wet newspaper as it goes. Each damp pile bursts into life in front of Garrett’s gleeful eyes. Scant seconds after the fire begins, an alarm pierces through the basement so loudly that Garrett hears someone scream up above and footsteps running through the house.

‘Excellent,’ hisses his demon. ‘More.’

Garrett, however, is transfixed. He can’t help but watch his newborn masterpiece devour everything in its path, regardless of the alarm and regardless of the movement over his head. His inner demon devours each image alongside him as fire ignites wood and debris. Little beads of sweat start to pop out on his forehead.

Garrett pays no heed to anything but the flames and the delicious screams of Happy Valley panic in the rooms above.

Soon, very soon, the heat starts becoming too much for Garrett and he knows he has to leave. Reluctantly, he backs away from the flames and returns to the hatchway stairs, the alarm blaring, and the good residents up above panicking.

Unfortunately, the hatchway door is locked. He doesn’t know how and he doesn’t know why.

If he were older and smarter he would have studied up on safety precautions for residential facilities such as the one he is now burning. In doing so, he would have learned that all doorways and windows in places like the Happy Valley Group Home automatically lock from the inside to keep the residents from wandering away, or that the trained staff makes sure that everyone is out of the house and on the front lawn in less than a minute after an alarm is set off.

Unfortunately still, the path to the basement stairs leading to the first floor is now blocked with flames, and Garrett can’t exit that way either.

He can’t exit at all.

So while the residents of the Happy Valley Group Home watch their colonial go up in flames, one still nodding and another playing air piano, no one hears the screams of a fourteen-year-old boy locked in the basement, his skin crackling and splitting and his clothing melting onto his body.

No one that is, save for the hungry creature that Garrett McCarthy carries around in his gut.

‘Delicious,’ it wails. ‘Scrumptious. Give me more…more…mo…’

Read more of Howard Odentz’s work today!

Bloody Bloody Apple is on sale for $0.99 until October 31st!