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Hello, my name is Valorie. I have a Master's Degree in History and a license to teach-- I have been both university professor and public school teacher. Currently, I am a middle school social studies teacher. I love horror movies and spooky things. Every day is Halloween. I am also a passionate book blogger.

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Book Review: 23:27 by H.L. Roberts

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Book Blitz, Excerpt & Giveaway: Slivers (The Prospero Chronicles, #3) by Matt Carter





Slivers (The Prospero Chronicles, #3)
Genre: YAHorror/Scifi
Release date: June 20th 2017

Summary

Ben


Growing up is hard, and growing up in Prospero is even harder, but I think we manage. I mean, yeah, my friends and I spend more of our time fighting a race of shapeshifting aliens than we do hanging out, but we have our fun. We go to parties, help each other with our classes, maybe even fall in love…

I’ve no illusions that we live ordinary lives, but they’re our lives, and I’m going to make sure we make the most of them whether the Splinters want us to or not.


Mina

The truce is temporary. We will not humor the Splinters forever. It's only until the Slivers can be stopped, until the army of Shards being planted among our classmates can be disassembled, until we get our hands on the thing I'd almost given up believing in.

The humanity test.

For the chance to know, once and for all, who can be trusted, some dealings with monsters must be excusable. Inevitable. Just like this feeling between Ben and me.

And that has to be temporary too.



Buy links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble (Nook) | iBooks | Kobo | Smashwords | Indigo




Excerpt:

1. Sabotage

Ben
At the time, my instincts told me that jumping onto the hood of a moving SUV was a brilliant idea.
After half a second of trying to find something to hold onto, I told myself I’d reconsider my instincts when I got out of this.
If I got out of this.
A voice in my ear—I hadn’t lost my Bluetooth after all. Haley’s voice, by the angry sound of it.
“Ben, what the hell are you doing?”
“I have no idea!” I yelled back, finally grabbing the roof rack with both hands and holding on for dear life, doing my best to block the windshield. The driver accelerated down the empty suburban street, jerking the wheel back and forth, trying to shake me off. I knew behind the tinted glass of this anonymous, plateless SUV were the gray faces of Slivers. Today they were supposed to be kidnapping one of Prospero High School’s nicest teachers from her home, and we were going to stop them. It wasn’t exactly a piece of cake, but we’d done it before and should’ve been able to do it again.
I looked to the sidewalks, trying to spot any other members of the Network.
There was a heavy blow against the windshield near my chest. The tinted glass spiderwebbed beneath me. The Slivers were trying to break through.
Not for the first time, I cursed The Owl.
“Everybody close on the house! They’re still on the move!” Courtney called over the party line.
“Where’s that spike strip?” Haley asked.
“About twenty feet behind Ben before he decided to go Shatner on us,” Greg answered.
The spiderweb of glass expanded as the Sliver continued to force its way through.
The next voice was impossibly calm. “If we can stop this vehicle, there’s every chance we can capture multiple Slivers at once in addition to preventing Ms. Craven’s abduction. Ben, do you think you can slow them down?”
Mina Todd.
She always asked for the impossible so reasonably.
The windshield broke open in front of me, safety glass exploding outward as a long, muscular arm with a seven-fingered, clawed hand burst through. It raked back and forth, opening up a large gash in the glass that allowed me to see the three Slivers inside. They were of slight frame with gray, hairless heads and bulging black eyes, and they had begun sprouting extra limbs and tentacles to better mangle me.
“I’ll try,” I said, diving into the jagged hole where the windshield used to be.
Their brief, startled pause before attacking was all I needed.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of the cheap stun guns Mina loved to make out of disposable cameras and jammed it into the driver’s chest. The creature shuddered violently, jerking the wheel to the side and stomping on the gas reflexively.
I forced the gearshift into neutral and pulled on the parking brake. The SUV lurched to a violent stop in the middle of the street.
So far so good.
Less good was the sound of snapping wood that came from the passenger seat as its occupant’s body began to shift. Its rib cage broke open into a giant, vertical mouth full of jagged teeth and swirling tentacles. The tentacles lashed out at me, wrapping around my arms and neck, and squeezed. The Sliver in the backseat joined in, grabbing the leg I tried to anchor myself with against the dashboard and forcing me closer to that terrible maw.
The passenger door flew open. The Sliver let out a howl of pain as Julie buried a large meat hook in its back and began pulling it from the car. Courtney wrapped her hands around Julie’s on the hook, throwing her track team muscles into the effort and hardly wincing when the gelatinous Splinter blood began to soil her neatly pressed blouse. The tentacles released me, and soon enough the two girls wrestled the Sliver from the vehicle and tased it.
One down.
The driver’s mutated arm reached across my chest and pulled the door shut. It looked deep into my eyes with those empty, black orbs. Its narrow mouth curled into the faintest of smiles as it held me pinned to the seat with that monstrous arm. Though its face was formless, its flesh waxy, I couldn’t help but feel something familiar in that smile and those soulless eyes.
“Soon,” it whispered to me in its chittering, popping voice.
A new arm burst from its shoulder, splitting into two insectoid hands that allowed it to shift gears and disengage the parking break simultaneously. I watched helplessly as Greg and Kevin finally caught up to us with the jury-rigged spike strip we’d built for just this occasion, tossing it uselessly to the ground just as the driver swerved out of the way.
I didn’t know if the Slivers were still going to try for Ms. Craven or if they would content themselves with taking me instead. Would they try to drag me to their Warehouse (assuming the Slivers had a Warehouse) and replace me, or would they kill me as soon as they found a nice, quiet place to pull over?
They weren’t slowing down. If anything, they seemed to be speeding up. They swerved down the street, aiming for the side of an old duplex. Ms. Craven’s duplex.
I took advantage of the driver’s focus to pull one arm free, fasten a seatbelt around me, and brace myself.
The SUV slammed through the duplex’s wall with a crushing impact that knocked the wind out of me and whipped my neck forward. The unsecured driver flew through the jagged remnants of the windshield and landed in what used to be Ms. Craven’s living room. The passenger from the backseat climbed over me with spindly spider’s legs, following the driver out the windshield.
A woman screamed inside.
Slowly, painfully, I undid my seatbelt and crawled through the windshield, landing on the floor in a dazed heap.
Somehow I stumbled to my feet and pulled the mini flamethrower from my back. It wasn’t much—just a kitchen lighter duct-taped to one of those recalled aerosol fire extinguishers that Mina had stocked up on, but it did the job. Flicking the lighter on, I lifted it high.
The driver had Ms. Craven wrapped in a set of tentacles and interlocking claws, lifting her off the ground. Ms. Craven looked at me fearfully, trying to cry out through the tentacle lashed across her mouth. The flamethrower wouldn’t do much good at this range, standing as much a chance of burning Ms. Craven. I was going to have to wait for backup.
“Let her go,” I said shakily. All of my experiences with Slivers so far had proved that they loved to talk. I only had to stall them long enough for Mina and the rest to get here.
The driver looked to the passenger, exchanging a low series of pops and clicks. The passenger nodded, calmly raising one of its three arms and pointing the hand at me, flat. Just like the driver, a small, frightening smile crossed its face.
I lost all feeling beneath my waist, my legs giving out beneath me. Then I could feel again—too well. It felt like every nerve in my body had burst into flames. Violent waves of nausea hit me, and my muscles no longer seemed to be my own.
Two realizations hit me at once.
First: they had a Shard we hadn’t documented yet.
Second: this Shard had remote control of human bodies.
There was shouting, and then Kevin and Greg slid through the massive hole in the wall, brandishing their flamethrowers and Tasers. Less than a second later, a sliding glass door opened in the next room, and Mina and Haley ran in to join us.
Only Aldo, Julie, and Courtney had yet to catch up.
The two Slivers looked at each other, then at us. They could have taken me easily, maybe even two of us. But five of us, well-armed as we were—that gave them a moment of pause. The driver dropped Ms. Craven roughly to the floor. Both of the Slivers raised their arms, and the driver looked at me, curling its lips into that faint, unpleasant smile.
“Soon,” it said again.
Long spikes of bone erupted from each of their chests and backs. They both began to laugh—a raspy, choking sound—as the base of each spike began to pulsate.
“DUCK!” Mina blurted, falling to the floor.
Everyone dropped, dozens of bony spikes narrowly missing us as they erupted from the Slivers’ bodies, lodging in the walls and shattering windows.
By the time we regained our feet, the Slivers were gone.
“Is everybody all right?” Mina asked.
There were murmurs of assent. Ms. Craven was on the floor, sobbing.
Finding out about Splinters is never easy for people to deal with under the best of circumstances, much less while being kidnapped by the extreme anti-human cult of Splinters that we’d taken to calling “Slivers” last fall.
Not that getting kidnapped by regular, garden-variety Splinters was all that much better.
I was confident that Ms. Craven would come out of her shock soon—she’d always struck me as pretty tough. Once this wore off, we’d be able to tell her the truth. Maybe even make her a part of the team.
Assuming, of course, she was really human.
Haley examined my scratches and scrapes. Content that I must have been okay, she smiled and threw her arms around my neck, hugging me close. I don’t know what was more uncomfortable, Haley’s weight against my aching ribs or the look of annoyance on Mina’s face.
“I’m fine,” I assured Haley, pulling away, “though that Shard they have sure did a number on me.”
“One of the ones The Owl showed you?” Haley asked.
“No, this one’s new,” I said.
“Dammit, I hate Shards,” Greg said, shuddering. I didn’t blame him; the last time we’d gone up against a Shard, it had made him feel a swarm of spiders crawling beneath his skin.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“Hey, guys?” Aldo said over the group line.
“Did you secure the other Sliver?” Mina asked.
“Yeah, we got her. No problems there. What about yours?” Aldo asked.
“They’ve retreated. They haven’t doubled back your way?” Mina asked.
“No, we’re clear,” Aldo said. There was something held back in his voice I didn’t like.
“What’s wrong, Aldo?” I asked.
“Uh, I think you need to see this one for yourselves.”
“We’re on our way,” Mina said. “Haley, Greg, keep an eye on Ms. Craven.”
“I got some stuff that might calm her down,” Greg said, patting a pocket on his old army jacket.
“Don’t,” I said.
Greg shrugged. “More for me then.”
I followed Kevin and Mina out the front door. By force of habit, I looked up and down the street, hoping by some miracle that we hadn’t been spotted—or heard, for that matter. It was early Sunday morning, so the streets were mostly deserted. Typical abduction timing. The cops would be here eventually—a vehicle crashed through the side of a house has a way of summoning them sooner or later—but given the Prospero Police Department’s closeness with the main Splinter Council, this would all no doubt be hushed up pretty quickly.
“You’re gonna have to spend some quality time with Mina’s first-aid kit, brother,” Kevin observed.
“I’ve looked worse,” I said.
“You’ve looked better, too,” Mina interjected coldly.
“What’d I do?” I complained.
“You nearly ruined the operation. This didn’t go half as smoothly as our other interceptions,” Mina shot back.
I didn’t have a good defense for that. Ever since she’d started receiving those messages from the Owl, giving us the Slivers’ plans for abductions, we’d had a pretty good (though not perfect) track record of intercepting and stopping the Slivers before they could take their intended targets. Over the previous month and a half, we had managed to save the mayor’s son, Sheriff Diaz’s wife, and the head of the PTA from being taken without their ever knowing anything was going on. Things could have gone better this time, I knew that, but they also could have gone a lot worse.
“I didn’t have a choice. They know what we’ve been doing, and they’re being more careful. I did what I had to do,” I said.
“You could’ve been killed.”
“But I wasn’t!”
Kevin squeezed his way between us and put an arm around each of our shoulders.
“Let us not forget, my friends, that we did stop them from replacing Ms. Craven. It may have been sloppy, and she may have been needlessly introduced to our world, but we saved her. We did a good thing; the forces of evil are in check for another day. We should be celebrating!” Kevin said, smiling that easy smile he always used to defuse tense situations.
Mina sighed. “Please try to avoid unnecessary risks in the future.”
“Will do,” I said.
“There, isn’t that better than fighting like a couple o’ freshmen?” Kevin said.
“So says the senior commencement speaker,” I replied, punching him in the ribs softly.
“Hey, I’m as surprised as you guys are that I actually got the gig,” Kevin said, grinning.
“Right… so how long have you had that speech written?” I asked.
“Seventh grade, give or take a month.” Kevin laughed. “Come on, it’ll be my last chance to try to change a few minds here before I move on to the real world.”
“Freshmen don’t fight any appreciably more or less than any other students,” Mina said as if she’d missed half the conversation, looking a bit lost in thought.
“Really? Maybe we should ask Aldo,” Kevin joked.
Tall tales about Aldo’s secret second life, or third life in our case, had become something of a running joke among the Network, given his habit of accumulating even more scrapes and bruises than the rest of us in spite of spending most of his time behind the scenes, digging for information or tinkering with the equipment.
Underground cage fighting and undercover spy operations were common speculations.
This conversation did lead to one topic that had been eating at me lately: the passage of time. Of the eight members of the Network, Kevin and Courtney were both seniors and were going to be moving on from Prospero within the next six months. I didn’t know how we were going to keep the fight going without them. We would find a way to manage, Mina always had in the past, but it would be rough without Courtney’s organizational skills and Kevin’s ability to put things in perspective.
Julie, Courtney, and Aldo had dragged their captive Sliver to the privacy of Courtney’s backyard, a good five blocks from Ms. Craven’s, and by the time we caught up with them, they already had it tied up in copper wire and were threatening to touch the wire to a car battery. As usual, Julie (her jet black hair streaked with hot pink and red for Valentine’s Day coming up) smiled at us perkily beneath her thick goth makeup.
“Ya all right, Ben?” she asked, eying the scratches on my face.
“I’m fine.”
Aldo’s concerned expression was unsettling. Ever since our fight with Robbie, Aldo had assumed a bravura I’d never known he had in him. He was the first to cheer any victory lately. If he wasn’t smiling…
“What is it?” Mina asked, looking down at the Sliver, which looked more human now despite the few extra limbs it still possessed.
Courtney held the end of the copper wire above the car battery with a plastic pair of tongs. “Show them again.”
The Sliver hissed something in its chittering language that must not have been kind. Courtney and Mina exchanged a glance. Mina nodded. Courtney dropped the wire onto the battery’s contact.
The Sliver screamed too humanly as it shuddered and arched what could best be approximated as its back, and the wire sparked violently. When Courtney took the wire away, it reluctantly took the face of its true, human form with a look of pure spite.
It was the face of Ms. Claudette Velasquez, my calculus teacher. That she was a Splinter was not news; we had known this for a few months.
That she was working with the Slivers was a surprise. The last time we had seen her, she had a seat on the Splinter Council.
“What are you waiting for? Kill me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she challenged.
“We’re not that stupid,” I said.
Ms. Velasquez looked at the battery with a mix of anger and fear. “Then what is your plan for me?”
“You’re going to tell us everything you know about the Slivers’ plans,” Mina said simply, taking the tongs from Courtney and holding them a little closer to the battery. “And when we’re convinced you’re not holding out, we’ll hand you over to the Splinter Council.”
Ms. Velasquez’s eyes went wide with genuine fear. “And if you’re never convinced?”
“We turn you over to them anyway, only we don’t tell them how remorseful and cooperative you were.”
Ms. Velasquez’s eyes scanned us, probably trying to gauge whether or not Mina was telling the truth. She must have believed her, because her body visibly slumped.
“Fine. I will cooperate. Just don’t—”
She let out an ear-splitting scream, her eyes bulging—then fell still with mouth agape. We stared, trying to figure out if it was a trick, when the flesh began to melt from her bones in thick gray rivers.
“What the… no, no…” Aldo muttered, trying to scoop bits of dissolving Splinter into one of his specially rigged containment boxes, watching with confusion as the liquid continued to evaporate after the box was sealed.
The entire Splinter corpse down to the bones was deteriorating into nothingness as the raw Splinter matter became incompatible with our world.
“What the hell just happened?” Courtney asked. “She was going to talk!”
“Was she?” Mina asked doubtfully.
“Well she sure as hell wasn’t going to die!” said Aldo, staring at the last vanishing remnants of the body. “Splinters just don’t do that spontaneously.”
“They might if they got one of those in ’em, brother,” Kevin said as he pointed to what was left of Ms. Velasquez’s deteriorating bones.
What looked like a foot-long, white caterpillar made of tumors and small air sacs disentwined itself from around her spine. Slowly, it walked away from the dissolving remains of my math teacher, shaking off bits of gray slime.
Then it started to glow a faint, pulsing white, lifting off the ground and beginning to float away like a plastic bag in the breeze. Mina grabbed it with her tongs.
“That a Splinter?” Kevin asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Mina said.
“Then what is it?” Aldo asked.
The answer hit me before Mina could say it out loud.
“A game changer,” I said. “If they’ve got themselves some sort of alien suicide pill hiding inside them to keep them compliant, we might have to reconsider our capture strategy.”
Capturing a Sliver for information had been one of our dreams ever since we started receiving information from The Owl.
Just when we thought we had the Slivers figured out, they had to come up with something like this.
I would’ve laughed if it weren’t so damn depressing.



Previous Books in the Series (click on image for Goodreads link):
 


About the Authors


Fiona J.R. TITCHENELL is an author of young adult, sci-fi, and horror fiction, including Confessions of the Very First Zombie Slayer (That I Know of). She graduated from Cal State University Los Angeles with a B. A. in English in 2009 at the age of twenty. She currently lives in San Gabriel, California, with her husband, coauthor, and amazing partner in all things, Matt Carter, and their pet king snake, Mica.
Connect with Fiona J.R. Titchenell on:

MATT CARTER is an author of horror, sci-fi, and yes, even a little bit of young adult fiction. He earned his degree in history from Cal State University Los Angeles, and lives in the usually sunny town of San Gabriel, California, with his wife, best friend, and awesome co-writer, F.J.R. Titchenell. Check out his first solo novel, Almost Infamous, or connect with him on:



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Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Cover Reveal: The Deadly Sun (The Sanction Series #1) by H.J. Lawson



The Deadly Sun (The Sanction Series #1)
by H.J. Lawson
Genre: YA Dystopian/Scifi
Release date: August 21st 2017

Summary:

Skylier is desperate to escape her underground confines and save her mother’s life.
On a school visit, she hears something she’s not supposed to and now she realizes that not only was her whole life a lie, but that she is in grave danger.
She doesn’t know who to trust and her enemies are everywhere. Now she is in a race against time to save not only her life, but her mother's and those she cares about.

And if she fails, she'll suffer a fate worse than death...

Upcoming books in the Sanction Series!


About the Author

I was born in Lancaster, England. Growing up in a single parent household with five other siblings was difficult but at the same time character building.


As a young child I found a passion for drawing and writing, which has stayed with me into adulthood. I graduated from the University of Central Lancashire, England with a BA(Hons) in fashion design. 

At aged twenty seven, my husband and I packed up our belongings for our lifelong dream to move to California. Our America dream was completed with the birth of our daughter. 
A new job opportunity opened up New York, and we decided to relocate to Long Island, NY, where we currently reside.


My books are a mixture of thriller, action, and dystopian. If you’re 

looking for a good place to start, take a look at War Kids series of thrillers, available now. You can grab copies in either ebook or paperback. To get an email whenever I release a new title, sign up for the VIP newsletter by click this link.
Author Links:
  


Cover Reveal Organized by:

Promo Blitz: Hanging Tobacco by Linda S. Browning


Paranormal Mystery
Date Published: 06/2017

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Hanging Tobacco is the first book in the Parlor Game Mystery Series. Olivia Honeycutt solved the cold case murder of Sophie Mathews with the help of Sophie’s Ouija board. Now, Olivia and her Nashville detective boyfriend, Presley, tackle the twenty five year old mystery surrounding the death of Henry Meyer. The old man was found hanging from the neck in the rafters of his tobacco barn in Columbia, Tennessee. Was Henry intent on suicide? Or, was it murder? Uncovering the truth behind Henry’s death proves both challenging and life threatening. Not everyone in Columbia wants to know the truth. Olivia takes the Ouija board on the road.



About the Author

Linda S. Browning is retired from the University of Tennessee, Office of Research and Social Work. She lives with her husband in Middle Tennessee with their thirty-plus year old amazon parrot. Linda is the author of the laugh-out-loud Leslie & Belinda Mysteries. Her book, Pickett House, has recently received five stars by Reader’s Favorite.




Contact Links 

Purchase Link
Reading Addiction Blog Tours

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Promo Blitz & Giveaway: Young Explorer's Adventure Club by Corie & Sean Weaver








Middle Grade Science Fiction
Date to be Published: December 6, 2017



For Explorers of All Ages!


Tumble forward in time with the fourth collection in the series Kirkus Review called “a must-have in science fiction collections.” These twenty-four imaginative, entertaining tales take readers of all ages to exciting places — from star ships to Mars to alien adventure!


"There are not very many action, adventure, superhero, or sci-fi stories that feature girls, but there needs to be. I have read this whole book and now I have become even more interested in space and robots and things like that." ~ Lily F. (10 years old)

Excerpt from one of the Short Stories
THE GREAT BROCCOLI WI-FI THEFT
 by Nancy Kress


Nancy Kress is the author of thirty-three books, including twenty-six novels, four collections of short stories, and three books on writing.  Her work has won six Nebulas, two Hugos, a Sturgeon, and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award.  Most recent works are the Nebula-winning novella “Yesterday’s Kin” (Tachyon, 2014) and THE BEST OF NANCY KRESS (Subterranean, 2015).  Forthcoming in 2017 is TOMORROW’S KIN (Tor), the first novel of a trilogy based on “Yesterday’s Kin” and extending its universe for several generations.  Kress’s work has been translated into Swedish, Danish, French, Italian, German, Spanish, Polish, Croatian, Chinese, Lithuanian, Romanian, Japanese, Korean, Hebrew, Russian, and Klingon, none of which she can read.  In addition to writing, Kress often teaches at various venues around the country and abroad; in 2008 she was the Picador visiting lecturer at the University of Leipzig.  Kress lives in Seattle with her husband, writer Jack Skillingstead, and Cosette, the world’s most spoiled toy poodle.  
Do you know what a pas de chat is?  I didn’t either, two months ago.  But I know now, and it’s going to make me a hero.  Really!  Everybody will applaud for me so hard their hands will sting—especially Mom!  They’ll give me a medal!  It’s going to be great!
I’m going to solve a mystery that nobody else can solve.
Just as soon as I figure out how.
#
My name is Nia.  I’m ten.  I live sometimes on the moon, at Alpha Base, and sometimes on Earth, in Illinois.  I like both places, but Illinois has a big problem: GRAVITY.  There’s too much of it here.  I wish they could just ship some of this gravity to the moon and even things out a little bit, but it doesn’t work that way.  On the moon there isn’t enough gravity to keep human muscles strong unless you exercise a lot, and I got lazy.  So now I’m back on Earth because my mom’s job moved us here—again!—and my muscles aren’t strong enough.  Which is why I was in ballet class doing a pas de chat.  It was not my idea.
“No, no,” said Mademoiselle Janine, who was in charge of the class.  “Nia, you must land lightly.  Lightly!  Ellen, show her the pas de chat.”
Ellen smirked at me and raised her arms.  Pas de chat means “step of the cat,” which is a really stupid name because it doesn’t look anything like a cat.  I know—we have a cat.  In the pas de chat you bend one leg, jump off the other leg, bend that one in the air, then land lightly.  If you can find a cat that can do that, I’ll give you a million dollars.
Ellen did the step.  She landed lightly. 
“Now you try, Nia,” Mademoiselle said.
I landed like a baby elephant.
“Well…” said Mademoiselle.  “These things take practice.”
Did I mention that ballet class was definitely not my idea?
#
“I want to quit ballet,” I said at dinner.  “I’m no good at ballet.”
Dad said, “You’re probably better than you think.”  Dad is always on my side.
Mom said, “You might not be good at it, but you can’t go on quitting things when they get hard.”  Mom is always on the side of doing hard things.
“But I stink at ballet,” I said.  I pushed my mashed potatoes around with my fork.  “I’m not good at anything.”
“That’s not true,” Dad said.  “You’re good at a lot of things.”
I said, “Name three!”
“Well…you’re good at spelling.”
“Nobody needs to spell good.  Autocorrect fixes it.”
Mom said, “Nobody needs to spell well.  ‘Well,’ not ‘good.’”
“See?” I said.  “I’m not good at sentences, either! I’m not good at anything!”
“Yes, you are,” Dad said.  “You’re good at training our pets.”
That was true.  We have a dog named Bandit, a robot-dog named Luna, and a cat named Pickles.  I trained Bandit to fetch.  I programmed Luna, which is the closest you can get to training a robot.  I couldn’t train Pickles to do anything, but…cats.  They do what they want.
I said, “That’s only two things.”
Mom smiled.  “You’re good at getting into trouble.”
Dad said warningly, “Angela…”
“I’m teasing!  Nia, I just wanted to make you laugh!”
I wasn’t laughing.  Mom never understands!
But then she said, “Look, Nia, everybody has to practice and work hard in order to get good at something.  Do you know how many times my broccoli has failed?”
Mom is a plant geneticist.  That means she changes plants’ genes to make them better.  Right now she’s changing broccoli, which in my opinion can’t ever be made better no matter what you do to it.  I hate broccoli.  She was just making me feel worse.
She knew it, too, because she put her hand on mine and said, “Nia, honey, after dinner let me show you something.”
I said, “As long as it’s not broccoli.”
To be continued in the 2018 Young Explorer’s Adventure Guide!


Contact Links

Twitter:  @dreaming_robot





Reading Addiction Blog Tours

Promo Blitz & Giveaway: A Promise of Fireflies by Susan Haught




Women’s Fiction/Romance
Date Published: January 2016

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Questions never asked don’t always remain unanswered.

A blood-stained journal holds the answers to secrets her mother took to the grave, but an enigmatic old man knows the answers–truths she never expected.

Another round of turmoil isn’t on her agenda, but when Ryleigh Collins discovers a blood-stained journal among her deceased mother’s belongings, her curiosity leads her to a puzzling Mark Twain look-alike who shatters her family history–and her sense of belonging.

Bearing a treasure chest of secrets and a deeply scarred heart, Ryleigh returns home to her ex-husband’s appeal to take him back. Overwhelmed, she seeks refuge in the quiet majesty of the Rocky Mountains. But as the snow deepens, so do her feelings for Logan Cavanaugh, the distinctly reserved resort owner.

Two lost souls collide in a paralyzing snowstorm, but when the skies clear, Logan surrenders to a deepening guilt he can’t fight. Ryleigh’s sense of abandonment is further compromised with his sudden departure, though she refuses to believe they’ve left their shared memories frozen in the mountains of Colorado.

She’s struggling with shocking truths while trying to move on; he’s caught in a crossfire of a battle he doesn’t know how to fight.

One woman. Three promises–one honored, one broken, one pledged.



Other books in the Whisper of the Pines Series:




Whisper of the Pines, Companion Novel
Publisher: Four Carat Press
Published: March 2016

Their paths never crossed, but their destiny is bound by blood.

Strangers separated by forty years and a bloody war, their only bond is a name engraved on The Wall. He walked in the shadow of fate. She stepped into the shadow of love.

A restless intimacy followed Ryan through the jungles of Vietnam, the fear, loneliness, and death camouflaged by the beauty of a country twelve thousand miles from home. He walked courageously toward his destiny and left his legacy—words written in a bloodstained journal—for the woman he loved and their infant daughter.

Encouraged by an enigmatic old man who sends her a journal identical to her father’s, Ryleigh composes her words when a second chance at love is cut short by ghosts from the past. No blood stains her journal, only the souvenirs of a broken heart.




Whisper of the Pines, Book 2
Publisher: Four Carat Press
Published: December 2016

What if the price of your wish is living without it?

Rachel Gowen wishes for nothing more than to escape the past decade—to safely lock away the memories that keep her from a future she can only dream about. But a Native American butterfly legend, Ambrose, a mysterious stranger who knows things he can’t possibly know, a cast of quirky characters long past their prime, and Nico, a tenacious and caring nursing assistant, plunge her down a path that will ignite the very memories she’s desperate to escape.

Rachel begins her new life as a nurse in a retirement facility. After all, how risky can it be working with the elderly? She quickly forms deep attachments to her patients, helping them in ways far beyond her duties. And when a casual stroll turns into a budding relationship with Ben, the handsome British doctor who’s too busy, too unromantic, and too distant—it may be exactly what she’s looking for.

But Rachel can’t conform to the rules. Nor can she deny the connection she shares with Nico. With her job in jeopardy, Rachel’s priorities and relationship with Ben are challenged. But one thing is certain—Ambrose knows the wishes she sent on the wings of the butterflies will be granted, but the price she’ll pay will upend her life.

Rachel is promised a thousand butterfly wishes—but all she wants is one.



Excerpt

Dreams die every day
Some drown in the endless churn of a washing machine,
some get lost under an avalanche of responsibilities
and still others suffocate in the wake of a broken promise.
Dreams die—disappearing with the sun in the western sky.
But a sprig of grass will sprout from a blanket of snow,
new life will be born when two become one,
and a phoenix will rise from the ashes left behind.
Dreams reborn—blooming with dawn’s radiant new light.
~sh~
Chapter One
SCARRED CORNERS FRAMED the small journal she pulled from the old shoebox. She
traced the cover with one finger, dark stains and pebbled leather disquieting, yet as oddly
familiar as the stale odor of cigarettes her mother promised to quit smoking and never did. Now
the tenuous reminder, void of the peppermints her mother nursed to disguise the smell,
threatened to unravel the tethers holding her together.
God, how she wished she could rewrite the last year.
With her legs crossed beneath her, Ryleigh Collins clutched the journal to her chest,
leaned against the wall of her mother’s apartment—as empty of her possessions as the world was
of her—and let the shadows of the waning morning swallow her.
“I can’t do this.” She grabbed a loose thread in the denim stretched over her knees and
yanked hard.
Two feet bundled in thick navy blue socks appeared in front of her. “Can’t do what?”
Ryleigh raised her eyes, moist with remembrance.
“Ah.” Natalie crossed her feet, lowered herself with the grace of a toned dancer, and
placed a firm, yet gentle hand on Ryleigh’s arm. “The personal stuff’s the hardest.”
After a pause, Ryleigh tucked the knot of emotions neatly back where they belonged and
turned. “I’m such a wimp.”
“You’ll get through this.” Natalie Jo Burstyn’s perfectly manicured brows knitted
together in a scowl that masked her usual playful grin. “I intend to see you do.”
The lump in her throat strangled the words she’d rehearsed since Natalie had offered to
drop everything to help. Of course she would. Her meddling best friend always seemed to know
exactly what to do. Or say. She grasped Natalie’s hand and squeezed.
Sometimes words got in the way.
Ryleigh released a long breath and straightened her legs. The journal tumbled to her lap.
“What’s that?”
She swiped a hand across the journal’s cover and then wiped them on her jeans. “An old
journal,” Ryleigh said, brushing away the dusty handprint.
“Don’t just sit there fondling it, open it.”
The binding creaked. Timeworn pages fanned in a graceful arch as if her touch had
resurrected them. Faded ink swirled across the unlined parchment, and the musty balm of old
paper and ink tapped at a recollection, distant and unformed, yet ripe for picking—but couldn’t
pluck it from her memory. Smudged and watermarked, the words danced across the aged pages.
She turned each one with care.
Nat leaned in. “Well?”
Ryleigh frowned. “Looks like a collection of poetry.”
“I didn’t know your mom wrote poetry.”
“This isn’t her handwriting,” Ryleigh responded without thought, “and my mother never
wrote anything more literary than a grocery list.”
Natalie peered over her shoulder. “Then whose?”
“Don’t know. Just an ‘R’ at the end of the entries.” The pages crackled as Ryleigh turned
each one. “And the year. ’66. ’67 on some.” A shiver feathered its way from her neck to the tips
of her fingers.
“Want to read it?” The familiar weight of Nat’s head settled on her shoulder. “Like old
times?”
She’d never considered not sharing something with Nat and quickly harnessed the
prickling urge to slam the book shut to prying eyes.
Careful not to damage the pages, she smoothed them flat, the tickle of selfishness
nibbling at her consistent, rational side. As she scanned the pages, she muttered lines at random,
the only autograph the watermarked scars of blurred ink. “The air is thick, gray ashen snow, the
ghost returns, its presence unfought.” She flipped the page. “Fireflies flicker against azure skies,
frolicking hither in reverent riverdance.” The weight against her shoulder anchored a covey of
troublesome thoughts, but Ryleigh continued to pluck lines from the pages. “Sodden showers of
infected rain, across crystal skies littered with fire.” She dragged a finger across an eyebrow.
“Intriguing.”
“You’re mumbling.”
“They dance to their reticent song.”
Natalie frowned. “Who?”
“Fireflies.” She tapped the page with her index finger. “One of the poems is about
fireflies. I wonder if they’re really like that.”
“Seriously?”
Ryleigh tucked a strand of hair behind an ear and closed the book with a finger marking
her place. “I’ve never seen one.”
“C’mon,” Nat said, crossing her arms. “Kids catch fireflies in jars all the time.”
“Not this small-town, sheltered Arizonan.”
“Come to think of it, I’ve never seen one since moving here.”
“They’re on my bucket list.”
Natalie opened and then shut her mouth. “You added to your bucket list without telling
me?”
The concentrated effort Nat used to curb her bewilderment caused Ryleigh to forget her
grief for a fleeting moment. “I’ll see one someday,” she said and reopened the book to the last
page.
“Read to me, Riles.” Nat folded her long legs beneath her, anticipation deepening her
eyes to warm chocolate. “Like when we were kids.”
Ryleigh glanced sideways at her. “I had to explain them to you.”
“So?” Nat said, the short word long on sarcasm. “It’s nostalgic.”
“Okay.” Ryleigh took a deep breath. “This is the last entry. It’s called ‘Lost.’”
“‘I placed my love inside your heart
and softly called your name—
I placed a hole inside of mine
as God’s heavenly angels came.
I placed a kiss of golden tears
upon your tiny chest—
I placed a rainbow at your door
the day you came to rest.
I placed a single pure white rose
upon your tiny feet—
I placed my hand against your cheek
and said good-bye, my sweet.
I placed a gentle autumn breeze
within your tiny space—
I placed with you, a piece of me
and let you go in God’s embrace.’”
~R~’67
The words stuck in her throat with painful intensity. Ryleigh dragged her finger over the
‘R’—the last letter in the journal. “Forty-three years ago.”
Natalie picked at a stray thread in the shredded knee of her True Religion jeans. “I’m not
very good at analyzing poems, but—”
“Whoever wrote this lost a baby.” Careful fingers traced the cover, the stained leather
unsettling, yet somehow comforting beneath her touch. Ryleigh’s neck prickled. A tear trembled
on the edge of her eye. “I feel like I’m eavesdropping,” she said and closed the book. Sheer will
eased the roiling in her stomach.
“Sounds like something you’d write.”
Ryleigh shook her head. “Cozy articles for The Sentinel on county fairs, care packages to
our soldiers, and Mrs. Grayson’s baby quilts don’t count. I haven’t written fiction or poetry in
years.”
“You should.”
Ryleigh raised the journal. “This is raw passion,” she said, sniffing back the telltale signs of
her emotion. “Emotion stripped naked.”
“Your work is like that. Peeking inside the places of your heart no one ever sees.”
“Maybe I don’t want anyone to see.”
Nat paused, and then wrapped her arm over Ryleigh’s shoulder. “Things will get better. I
promise.”
Nat’s words soothed her, a spoken ointment soothing a fresh wound.
* * *
The women sat cross-legged in the empty apartment sorting a mish-mash of items. One
scrap at a time, Ryleigh placed the pieces of her mother’s life into neat piles, turning each one
front to back, puzzled at how little she knew about the odd trinkets, mementos, and letters
safeguarded inside worn-out cardboard boxes. With one pile marked “Save” and the other to be
discarded, it occurred to her what a parallel her mother’s passing was to the death sentence
Chandler had given their marriage. Nothing remained but the pompous flashbacks of one and a
handful of useless trinkets from the other, and with one flick of the wrist (or philandering penis
in Chandler’s case), they are tossed aside with yesterday’s trash. Yet the part that remained—the
part that had wrapped itself around her heart—seemed useless to try to dismiss. Love doesn’t
stop with someone’s absence. Sometimes it grew heavier, the ache deeper, until the hurt no
longer gave in to tears.
The gravity of grief had exhausted her, and she felt as overused as the boxes that held her
mother’s meager belongings. Ryleigh pressed her fingers hard against her temples as if the
pressure would numb the ache and quench the niggling urge to leave it all behind and walk away.
Yet that wasn’t entirely true—the impulse to run bulldozed past any rational thought.
“You okay?”
Ryleigh rubbed the back of her neck. “Just tired.” Her hands fell to her lap. “It’s just,”
she said with a sigh, “none of this makes any sense.” Ryleigh picked up a patch embroidered
with an open-mouthed eagle’s head and tugged at the broken threads. “Who keeps junk like
this?”
Natalie shrugged.
“Or this?” She held up a single brass button. “Mom had hundreds of orphaned buttons.
Why isn’t this one with the others?”
“Don’t know,” Natalie said, straightening, “but I’m curious about the letters.”
Ryleigh stilled. “What letters?”
Natalie reached for the stack bound with a rubber band. “These,” she said, “postmarked
forty-something years ago with no return address.”
Fragments of Eleanor’s life lingered in Ryleigh’s hands—tokens she never bothered to
share. Or had she simply not paid attention when her mother spoke of these things? In either case
it was a moot point: she’d never bothered to ask. And now it was too late.
The items were meaningless, but an ambiguous feeling tapped at her like the annoying
click of a retractable pen. “I don’t want to save this crap, but it feels strange to think about
throwing it away. Does that sound weird?” She voiced the question with no expectations of a
reply.
“Of course it does,” Nat said, the usual lilt returning in her tone. She rose and brushed the
dust from the backside of her jeans. “But it doesn’t surprise me. You are weird.”
“Thanks,” Ryleigh said, reaching for the shoebox. The penciled sketches on the front had
faded, but the drawing of the stylish low-heeled dress shoes remained intact. Over the years, the
corners had become torn and sloppy and the lid slipped easily free. She placed the items inside
and then pressed the lid into place, concealing portions of her mother’s life, remnants absent of
explanation.
An empty feeling swept over her. “Something isn’t right, Nat.” In truth, it felt as if she’d
been yanked from the pages of a fairy tale and didn’t know how to find her way back.
Or if she truly wanted to.
“We’re almost done, Riles.” Natalie offered a hand up, her deep brown eyes glistening
with tiny flecks of copper in the afternoon light. “All that’s left is the desk.”
Ryleigh’s shoulders slumped. “I forgot.” She clasped the journal with one hand and
grabbed Natalie’s outstretched hand with the other. Nat had been her rock when she needed a
steady hand, yet waggish enough to celebrate the good times with all-out regale. Always there.
No matter what. With an achy groan that migrated through every forty-three-year-old bone, she
allowed her best friend to pull her upright.
A photograph fell to the floor between them.
Ryleigh reached it first. They rose together and turned toward the apartment window,
light spilling across the photograph. Yellowed and creased, and deckled edges crimped in several
places, it wore the markings of time.
“Wait…is that your father?”
Ryleigh nodded.
“Where’d this come from?”
“Must’ve been inside the journal.” She pushed the hair from her eyes. “Why didn’t Mom
ever show this to me?”
“Don’t know, but check out your father’s friend. The Kodak is faded, but he’s gorgeous.
Killer eyes,” she said, letting loose an exaggerated whistle.
Ryleigh flipped the photograph over. “Look at this,” she said, tracing a finger over faded
ink, a ghostly impression of time long passed. “Today this may be nothing, but tomorrow it may
be all that’s left.”
“An ‘R’ and 1967.” Natalie raised an eyebrow. “Just like the journal.”
“I wonder if my father’s friend is still alive? Is he the author?”
“Be fun to find out.”
“Fat chance. I’m a fair hand at research for inconsequential feature articles for my
column, but I’m no sleuth. I can’t find my phone half the time.” Ryleigh slumped. “Or keep track
of a husband and where he’s sleeping. Or with whom.”
“Ouch.” Natalie paused, cleared her throat, and then pointed to the photo. “The jungle
background. The dates. This was taken in Vietnam. It’s as good a place as any to start.”
Ryleigh tapped the photo three times against her fingers. She worried her bottom lip in a
series of successive tugs and slipped the photograph into the shoebox.
Natalie grinned. “Well, Sherlock? Shall we find him


About the Author

Susan Haught–award-winning author and Australian black liquorice addict–lives in Arizona’s Rim Country with her husband and spoiled Shih-Tzu, Mercedes, who believes her princess status earns her the right to sleep on pillows, ride shotgun, and train her peers in the fine art of squeaky toys. Her husband is almost as spoiled and almost as noisy with a proficiency in elk bugling. Susan and her husband have one son.

Susan writes contemporary women’s fiction & romance with the belief that Love is Ageless and has the power to change lives–one step, one touch, one kiss at a time.



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Monday, July 10, 2017

Cover Reveal: A Losing Battle by Annie Stone












Hunter has left home to join the Marine Corps, leaving Mackenzie behind, confused and unsure about her feelings. She loves Carter, she really, really does, but could there be a spark between her and Hunter, as well?


Mackenzie does the only thing she can in the circumstances: she buries her conflicting emotions in her work. But when she sees Hunter again, she knows the time for a decision has come.

Little does she know, time is running out for the both of them.




Coming July 24th








I'm a contemporary romance writer, who likes her men tattooed, her women independent and her coffee strong.

My stories are all about love, but some are of the romantic kind, some of the sad kind and others of the very steamy kind. So if you can stand drama, foul language and sex, you came to the right place.



Love, Annie





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