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Mu: Legend of A Lost City by M.D. Neu Blog Tour + Exclusive Excerpt

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Mu; Legend of a Lost City - M.D. Neu

M.D. Neu has a new MM sci-fantasy mystery out: Mu; Legend of a Lost City.

For years, the whispers and legends of a lost city hiding in the Pacific Ocean were just that; legend. On the day Kaimi discovers his parents, the Queen and King of Mu, murdered, Mu’s most powerful weapon fired, sending a pulse rushing towards the North American west coast.

After the 2025 Great Pacific Pulse Event, or Pulse, vomited up much of humankind’s trash in the Pacific Ocean along the North American west coast. The mysterious occurrence causing the largest environmental disaster in human history, people are no longer certain there is nothing concealed in the depths of the ocean.

Scientist Karen Linn and billionaire investor Michael Donovan want to find out what actually happened that day five years ago. Will Michael’s life in the adult entertainment industry and Karen’s moniker in pseudoscience keep them as social pariahs, or are they on the cusp of finding a civilization that has been kept out of our grasp, deep in the world’s largest ocean? How does the event from five years ago tie into the murder of the Queen and King of Mu?

What lies under the sea may be bigger than anyone can imagine, and neither civilization may be ready for the truth.

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Giveaway

Marvin is giving an ebook of Volaria to three different winners:

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Excerpt

MEME2 - Mu; Legend of a Lost City
~ Chapter 1 ~
Five years ago.

The dripping crimson on his hands contrasted the polished blue stone floors in front of him. Iron permeated around him, the scent made him want to vomit. But he couldn’t leave or move, he was frozen by pain and action. Soft warm light from the energy crystals reflected off the walls and floor, filling the space with a bright, cheerful glow, reminding Kaimi of all the wonderful memories this chamber held for him. The birth of each of his younger siblings. The day he introduced Makani to his family, followed by the celebration of their marriage two years later. Watching as Nohealani and Malo were joined in the presence of their gods. Seeing each of their children brought forth and presented to the family and the gods upon their births.

So much joy. Now this.

A burble of air. A cough. A gasp of pain forced him to see what lay before him.

“Help!” His voice yelled out.

Everything sparkled in those memories, but now the red slowly muted not only the bright glow of the veins running through the floors but also his pristine white shirt. From this day forward, the crimson liquid and the pungent fragrance of death would taint each of his happy memories.

More memories pushed forward, forcing out what stretched before him. Kaimi witnessed the day Kai Malina received the gift of sight from the gods of Mu, and was welcomed by Mana Lani into the arms of the world of Spiritual healers and Māhū. Something Kaimi didn’t fully believe in, well, not as much as he did when he was younger, but everyone had been pleased. Even he found himself excited. Past images of joy played out in his mind. The music, the fire dancing, the tumblers and dancers, the fragrances of meats for the prepared feast. So much elation that day.

How had Mana Lani or Kai Malina not seen this coming? They are gifted with foresight. They are the Māhū. Perhaps they only see what suits them.

“No.” Kaimi whispered. “Please, someone.” His voice called out again. “Help!” He bellowed.

More family memories rushed as his mind continued to process the scene. The recollections of Nohealani, Ulani, Koa, Kai Malnia, and him running around when court wasn’t in session. Were they all there? He was barely more than thirteen, too old to play with the babies, but somehow, they had managed to engage him. How many times did he and Nohealani have to usher their younger siblings off to bed, or back to bed, after sneaking out of their sleeping chambers only to find them playing here?

A growing collection of scarlet pooled closer to him. Pouring from her body, the thick fluid marred the sparkle of her dress, crystals handstitched into the gown to reflect not only the light of the kingdom, but the light of her soul.

This can’t be happening. How did this happen? Who would do…

Troubling recent memories leaked into his mind as more crimson oozed through his fingers, even though his hands remained firmly in place. Rust continued to overpower every other scent around him. The disagreements about how and if to engage the above worlders. The concerns and potential for discovery by those who live in the sun. Koa arguing with both the Queen and King about how encounters with those above would be the end of them and their world here in Mu. The Queen believing now the time had come to reveal themselves, hoping their presence to be a positive influence on the world above.

“We can help them. Teach them.” She pointed to the ceiling. “We have so much to offer each other. Our worlds have been separated for too long.”

However, when challenged and asked, neither Kai Malina nor Mana Lani were able to interrupt what the Gods had to say on the matter. He wasn’t sure what their gods would say, assuming they commented at all. But if the Queen believed in joining the world above, who was he to argue the point? The rest of his siblings offered what he hoped to be agreement.

Well, not all. They didn’t argue in public, but in private we spoke freely with each other, even loudly when the need arose.

I need assistants.” Kaimi called out, pleading with each word.

In the distance, the splashing of the tide pools outside the windows past the royal gardens filled his ears. Or were the sounds only his recollection bringing the noises to him? So many memories. Now this.—so much pain.—He peered over to the jeweled ornate windows, each crystal pane hand carved to reflect as much light as possible, while bringing the scenes of the world they once occupied to life with movement. Small shells from the creatures who filled the tide pools adding to the created images. A small breeze pushed the smells of water through the slightly opened windows, riding the air as more light shone through. The warmth on his skin and the taste of the salt water from the tide pools on his lips tingled all the way to his soul. He wished to be down there now, walking with Makani hand-in-hand, not here.

The blaring of sirens rang out, calling him from his thoughts, the piercing sound canceling out his calls for help. The puddles of red expanded around his knees and feet, beginning to soak his sarong.

A gift from Makani now ruined.

Kaimi forced himself to focus, his hands covered the wound before him. He glared up. As if seeing Koa for the first time. Koa stood over the body of the King on the floor. Koa stood and glanced down, offering no help. Red droplets on his white shirt and tan sarong created a similar pattern as the light crystals shown down on the kingdom when the light cycle recharged. At night, the crystals patterns were beautiful. Here, on Koa, the image made his stomach turn. Koa stayed quiet as he continued to hold the crystal pike in his hand.

Just as I found you. What happened? Why?

“Why?” Kaimi adjusted the pressure on the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. The chest of the Queen raised and lowered slowly, but the inhalations were becoming much more irregular. He forced his stare up at Koa, his eyes moving from the weapon in his hands to the bodies on the palace floor.

“I… It…” Koa backed away, dropping the weapon to the ground, the clatter almost as loud as the siren still screeching to every corner of the palace, if not beyond. His head shook as he stared at his hands.

The main doors of the chamber burst open. “Koa!” A female voice called.

Upon hearing the doors, Koa made for the rear of the chamber.

“No!” Kaimi called out, wanting to rush after him, but if he did, there would be no one to care for the Queen or the King.


Author Bio

M.D. Neu

M.D. Neu is an international award-winning inclusive queer Fiction Writer with a love for writing and travel. Living in the heart of Silicon Valley (San Jose, California) and growing up around technology, he’s always been fascinated with what could be. Specifically drawn to Science Fiction and Paranormal television and novels, M.D. Neu was inspired by the great Gene Roddenberry, George Lucas, Stephen King, Alice Walker, Alfred Hitchcock, Harvey Fierstein, Anne Rice, and Kim Stanley Robinson. An odd combination, but one that has influenced his writing.

Growing up in an accepting family as a gay man he always wondered why there were never stories reflecting who he was. Constantly surrounded by characters that only reflected heterosexual society, M.D. Neu decided he wanted to change that. So, he took to writing, wanting to tell good stories that reflected our diverse world.

When M.D. Neu isn’t writing, he works for a non-profit and travels with his biggest supporter and his harshest critic, Eric his husband of twenty plus years.

Author Website: https://www.mdneu.com

Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/mdneuauthor

Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/mdneuauthor

Author Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormdneu/

Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/66488958-md

Author Liminal Fiction (LimFic.com): https://www.limfic.com/mbm-book-author/m-d-neu/

Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/m-d-neu/

Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/M-D-Neu/e/B076FK1S14

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Exclusive Excerpt

Mu; Legend of a Lost City

M.D. Neu © 2023

All Rights Reserved

~ Chapter Two ~

Michael’s eyes fluttered open. The soft scent of lavender tickled his nose, and he took a deep breath, enjoying the smells before exhaling. “Who’s there?” He mumbled to the empty room as the first rays of the morning were starting to break through the curtains covering his windows. He rolled over onto his back, a sigh breaking from his lips as the softness of the bed and pillow engulfed him. The smile, his chest, and those beautiful thighs. “So real.” He glanced at the ceiling fan as the machine spun, a soft moan joining each rotation. The cool air on his exposed shoulders and chest both chilled and tantalized him, especially after such a dream.

He glanced down, seeing the duvet tented up right below his mid-section. “I’ll have to take care of that in the shower.” He peered up at the ceiling fan as the blades spun around.

He remembered each detail, the taste of his lips as they kissed, the playful bites at his ears and neck. Even how their tongues danced around each other for what seemed like hours. The dream played out like a scene from one of his movies, but this was real, not forced for the camera. A gentle moment of passion shared between two people who desperately wanted each other as their souls merged into one.

Not fake.

His chest dropped as what he assumed was a smile faded from his chilled lips. “Clearly a pleasant dream, but a dream nonetheless.” Things like that may happen to everyone else, but not to him. Michael was a pariah, persona non grata, when relationships were in play. Sure, people found him attractive, even at forty, but once they found out what he had done in his past. Where he had come from. Where his money came from.

He shook his head.

They couldn’t handle his past or present, and they would leave. At least those were the honest ones. The ones who pretended not to know about him, professed to understand, and faked wanting to be with him, those hurt. These guys only really wanting to see what being with him, a former adult entertainer, was like. Once they got what they were after, or found out he was a regular person, with feelings and emotions, not a prop for their fantasies, they would leave.

The alarm from his phone buzzed, forcing him out of his thoughts.

He rubbed his hands over the stubble on his face and chin.

Definitely need a shave today.

Michael reached over and tapped the alarm before picking up the phone, swiping at one of the news alerts reading:

Five years since the Pacific Pulse. Scientists still baffled by the occurrence. Swipe to learn more.

“Baffled…well I guess baffled is one word for what happened.” He dropped his feet over the edge of the bed, the cool wood chilling the bottom of his bare feet. He remembered the night the strange signal happened, the pulse interrupted everything, phone, radio, computers, cell service, satellites, all technology. Everyone assumed the Pulse was some new weapon from China, Russia or one of the other countries who didn’t like the US. The west coast was a mess for hours, everyone freaking out. Not only here in the US, but Canada and Mexico. Michael shook his head.

“So much devastation and still not everyone has recovered.”

The Scientists came out and declared they had suffered from a geological abnormality from the Pacific Ocean. “Right.” He huffed.

“Boneheads. What did they know?” He chuckled, “What did I know at the time…hell what do I know now?”

He put the phone down on his nightstand, not needing to turn the light on. More and more of the morning light creeped over the room. Prickles on his flesh quickly appeared as a shiver raced down his spine. All the money he offered for research; Stanford, Santa Clara University, San Francisco University, University of British Columbia. He even offered money to the University of Alberta in Edmonton to open a research center. He did the same in Mexico. But nothing, well, that wasn’t quite true. Sure, people would take the money, but no one wanted to be associated with him or have his name on any of their buildings.

He frowned down to the floor. “Except for my dream man.”

A fresh flash of those soft lips and beautiful dark hair tugged at his visual memory. Another shiver danced down his spine, this time not related to the cold.

“To find a love like that.” He lamented. “In the real world would be nice.”

The more he focused on his dream man, the more details returned to him. “Everything about the dream felt so genuine.”

There was another ding from his phone. He glanced at his device.

“A text message from Karen.” He didn’t bother looking at the message long enough to read. “I’ll deal with you after I shower and get myself ready for the day.” Standing, he allowed the small amount of the duvet covering him to drop to the bed, exposing his nakedness to the morning air. “And now I have to pee.”

He made his way to the bathroom to get ready. His day played out ahead of him. He would go to the office early, meet with his development heads; they were working on another site upgrade for each of his three platforms. After that, he had a meeting with his product development group to go over the series of new adult toys. People might snub their nose at the adult entertainment industry, but explain how, if everyone is against porn, the industry pulls in about $20 billion a year. How do you explain his company being on target to have its most profitable year? He laughed.

“Hypocrisy.” He mumbled as the water from the shower bounced off his face, waking up every cell as the heat warmed him. He tapped a button on the shower and hints of eucalyptus started to fill the steam and the stress washed away with each drop of water.

He would need to check with Sharon about his meeting with Karen. They were going to meet about her expedition…

Blog Tour: Cleaning House (Appalachian Elementals One) by Jeanne G’Fellers

COVER - Cleaning HouseJeanne G’Fellers has a new trans-non binary fantasy book out:

Centenary Rhodes is an old soul with a well-traveled name, but she doesn’t know this yet.

Growing up in southern Appalachia wasn’t easy, so Cent left home as soon as she could, but the post-collegiate happiness she’d expected has never occurred. She can’t find a decent date, much less find that special someone and, after losing her job in a corporate downsize, she’s struggling to meet her most basic needs. Her car has been repossessed, her bills are piling up, and her questionable North Chicago neighborhood is dangerous to navigate.

Returning home to Hare Creek, Tennessee, never crosses Cent’s mind until her Great Aunt Tess contacts her with an offer she can’t refuse. The family’s southern Appalachian homestead must be sold, and Aunt Tess needs someone to clean it up. Cent will have access to Aunt Tess’ garden and truck and can live on the homestead rent-free for as long as it takes. A part-time job is waiting for her as well.

It’s a chance to solve some of Cent’s financial woes, but will her return be enough when evil sets its sights on Embreeville Mountain and the homestead?

Cleaning House is a carefully woven Appalachian tapestry of granny magic, haints, elementals, and the fantastic diversity of the human condition – served with a delicious side of fries and a generous quart of peach moonshine.

Mountain Gap Books | Amazon | Amazon UK | Amazon UK | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | QueeRomance Ink | Smashwords | Goodreads 


Giveaway

Jeanne is giving away a $10 Amazon gift card with this tour. For a chance to win, enter using Rafflecopter.

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Excerpt

BANNER-Facebook - Cleaning HouseFall, 1952

“Put it out and give me the rest of the pack.”

“Of all the— here!” Cent dropped her pack of Lucky Strikes onto the floor and kicked them under the outhouse door to Pyre. They’re almost gone anyway.It was the middle of the night, and she’d gone to the outhouse to sneak a smoke. One, that was all, and the rush felt so good. It was the best she’d felt in days, and—

“Drop that lit cigarette down the hole. Stowne’s on their way.”

“Dangit.” Cent took a long drag, exhaling as she rose. She couldn’t hide that she’d been smoking again, and—

“Centenary, please come out.” Stowne knocked on the outhouse door.

“I’m busy.”

“We must discuss this.”

“I was just going,” Pyre’s light drifted away.

Coward. Cent tied her robe and stepped out the door. Fall had rolled in early and wet, setting her up for a rough bout of bronchitis that wouldn’t go away. “Fancy meeting you here at two in the morning.” She cleared her throat to stifle its perpetual tickle.

“Centenary.” Stowne folded their arms across their chest. “You should not be out here this time of night, especially in these cooler temperatures.” Stowne held out the quilt from their bed. “You should be inside where it is warm and dry.”

“I had to pee. It’s something Humans need to do regular.”

“There is a night bucket beneath our bed for you to use when the weather is bad.” Stowne caught her before she moved away, wrapping her in the blanket. “You gave Pyre the cigarettes, but where are the matches?”

“You already took my lighter.”

“And I am removing every pack of matches from the homestead.”

“But what if we need to light a new fire?”

“Centenary!” Stowne pointed to where Pyre hovered on the porch. “That is not a legitimate argument.” They lifted her into their arms.

“Put me down.”

“Please see reason.” They turned toward the house.

“Put. Me. Down!” Cent all but fell from Stowne’s arms before they turned her straight. “You and me, we gotta talk about this.”

“About what?” Stowne towered over her. “Your refusal to care for yourself?”

“About the elephant in the dang room!”

“El-e-phant?” Water ran off Stowne’s head as they stared at her. “Those large gray mammals you told me about? There is one in the house? Brownie or Birdie surely would have sounded the alarm if—”

“No, honey. I…” Cent shivered as the rain began falling harder. “Let’s go inside and talk.”

“That is what I wanted when we began this elephant-filled argument.” Stowne walked beside her up the hill, helping her at the slick spots until she was inside the door. “There. Safe and warm.” Stowne unwrapped her blanket and pulled off her rain boots. “Sit. I will stoke the fire and heat water for your tea.”

“Chamomile, please.” Nothing else agreed with her stomach anymore. “And do it over the fire so I can watch. Pretty please?”

“Such simple things bring you pleasure.” Stowne set her favorite earthenware mug on the table beside her chair and another blanket across her lap.

“Tell me a story from our pastlives together.” She watched as Stowne talked and worked, admiring the ever-changing lines of their body. Larger or smaller depending on what was needed, delicate as they poured water over the tea strainer but strong in the way they held the steaming cast-iron kettle without using a potholder.

“Cream and sugar?” Stowne peered up at her.

“Sugar, yes. But cream?” Cent blanched. “But I used to like it, didn’t I?”

“Until this life, yes. And you like it in your coffee now, along with lots of sugar.” Stowne slipped into the kitchen to get the sugar bowl and a spoon from the table, dropping three heaping teaspoons into Cent’s mug and stirring. “There. Now we discuss this elephant.”

“Sit down first, honey. You’re pacing.”

“I cannot help it. I worry.” Stowne turned their rocker to face her. “Tell me why you do not care for yourself like you should.”

“It’s hit the point of why bother.” Cent pointed to the medication bottles beside her. “I take something to sleep. Something for pain. Something for my stomach. Something for— Smoking calms me, all right? It helps with the— I’m afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?” Stowne seemed genuinely puzzled.

“This ain’t about dyingif that’s what you’re thinking.” She pulled the blanket higher on her chest and reached for her tea, cursing softly when her hands shook too hard to lift it without spilling it. “I’m afraid of hurting more, of leaving you with horrid memories before I go. Lung cancer is an ugly death.”

“What about the radiation your doctor spoke about?”

“It’ll only delay the inevitable and make me nasty-sick until then.” Cent smiled when Stowne lifted the mug to her mouth. “Thank you.”

“That is why I am here. Never forget that.” Stowne knelt before her. “I will be here the entire time.”

“You’ve never seen me like this.”

“I have watched you die from battle wounds, from Small Pox, and countless other ways. None were attractive, but I have been there every time to walk you across the veil. This will be no different.”

“But I don’t want to leave you alone.” She reached out to stroke Stowne’s face.

“I will wait for your return, same as always.”

“But this land…”

“Yes, there is that.” Stowne kissed her palm. “It must be handed down correctly.”

“I know.” Cent took Stowne’s face into her hands, pulling them up to kiss them firmly on the mouth. “All right. I’ll think on it.”

“Thank you. Does this mean the elephant is gone?”

“Not gone, but it certainly shrank. Take me to bed, baby.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

And now i’m proud to share an exclusive excerpt only available on this website…

MEME - Cleaning House - Mountain Witch Cleaning House

    “Hey, Cent! Get up!” Aubrey opened the cellar door and bounded down the stairs before she could wake up enough to cover herself, so Stowne did, draping one arm and leg over her body. “Tess said you had work this morning, so I…” Aubrey skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. “I got mushmelon, eggs, bacon, coffee and— whoa, Nelly!” He gaped at Stowne when they wrapped further around Cent. “I’ll let you get dressed.” He turned to gaze up the stairs.

    “Yeah, thanks.” She reached for the clothing Stowne had once again folded while she slept.

    “Do you mind introducing me to your, um, friend?” Aubrey chuckled under his breath.

    “Aubrey, meet Stowne.” I smell coffee. “Stowne, this is Aubrey Rhodes, my cousin who doesn’t know to knock first. All right, I’m dressed.”

    “Centenary speaks highly of you.” Stowne watched Aubrey turn back around and pass Cent a plate and a cup of coffee.

    “Extra cream.” He stepped back to scrutinize Stowne. “Earth elemental?”

    “I am, as well as Centenary’s companion for most of her lives.” They wrapped their arm around Cent’s waist as she ate. “I see bacon is still a favored food.”

    “Love it.” Cent lifted a piece to her mouth. “But Tess always overcooks it.” She sighed when the piece shattered across the plate, leaving her holding a fragment that she put in her mouth.

    “I like it just fine.” Aubrey sat on the bottom stair. “Tess and I talked for a bit last night then I went to the back porch to think after she went to bed. Rayne came to sit with me, and I talked to her, I mean them, most of the night.” He yawned and stretched his arms above his head.

    “Did they answer more of those questions you had?” Cent sipped her coffee. What Tess lacked in bacon-cooking skills she made up for in coffee-making. It was a good cup, and she’d used real cream too, not the powdered stuff.

    “Yeah, they did. They said you have to find your memories and that as you find them, your power will grow.” He peered up at Stowne. “You’re gearing up to fight for the homestead, ain’t you?”

    “Yeah, this has been my land for centuries, and Stowne’s for much, much longer, so I’ll be damned if Mama is going to yank it out from under us.” She swallowed a mouthful of eggs before she spoke again, pulling out a piece of shell when it caught between her teeth. “That’s why I’m here, I think, why I came back.”

END EXCERPT


Author Bio

AUTHOR PIC - Jeanne G'Fellers

Born and raised in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, Science Fiction and Fantasy author Jeanne G’Fellers’ early memories include watching the original Star Trek series with her father and reading the books her librarian mother brought home. Jeanne’s writing influences include Anne McCaffrey, Ursula K. LeGuin, Octavia Butler, Isaac Asimov, and Frank Herbert.

Jeanne lives in Northeast Tennesee with her spouse, Anna, and their five crazy felines. Their home is tucked against a small woodland where they regularly see deer, turkeys, raccoons, and experience the magic of the natural world.

Author Website: http://jeannegfellersauthor.com/

Author Facebook (Author Page): http://www.facebook.com/Jeannegfellersauthor/

Author Twitter: http://twitter.com/jlgfellers

Author Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/106949.Jeanne_G_Fellers

Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/jeanne-gfellers/

Author Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Jeanne-GFellers/e/B01N0YWCT7/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Blog Tour: Mourning Dove by Claire Fullerton (Excerpt)

Hi there everyone!

I am excited to share with you today an exclusive excerpt for author Claire Fullerton’s novel Mourning Dove.

About Mourning Dove:

Mourning Dove Cover

“An accurate and heart-wrenching picture of the sensibilities of the American South.” Kirkus Book Reviews

The heart has a home when it has an ally.
If Millie Crossan doesn’t know anything else, she knows this one truth simply because her brother Finley grew up beside her. Charismatic Finley, eighteen months her senior, becomes Millie’s guide when their mother Posey leaves their father and moves her children from Minnesota to Memphis shortly after Millie’s tenth birthday.

Memphis is a world foreign to Millie and Finley. This is the 1970s Memphis, the genteel world of their mother’s upbringing and vastly different from anything they’ve ever known. Here they are the outsiders. Here, they only have each other. And here, as the years fold over themselves, they mature in a manicured Southern culture where they learn firsthand that much of what glitters isn’t gold. Nuance, tradition, and Southern eccentrics flavor Millie and Finley’s world as they find their way to belonging.

But what hidden variables take their shared history to leave both brother and sister at such disparate ends?

And now here is an exclusive excerpt from the novel:

In winter, Finley tried out for the Woodhill Country Club hockey team because Dad, in his day, had played a regionally lauded center.

One good look at the eight-year-old Finley, and anybody would have said he didn’t have the stature for a contact sport. But Dad took Finley seriously and shepherded us to the rink, where he coached Finley into membership while I skated figure eight into arabesque. Mom had no interest in skating but she loved standing on the ice socializing in her fabulous full-length beaver coat, deeply engaged in gossiping, which was the only contact sport that ever truly held her attention. Chuck Dudley was part of the parents’ crowd that stood on the ice unshielded in Minnesota’s ungodly winter temperatures.

The grown-ups huddled in a cluster, drinking Schnapps from plastic glasses after smearing Vaseline on their children’s faces to abate the whipping wind. I didn’t like Chuck Dudley from the first moment I saw him. There was something smarmy about him, something slick, wormy, lax-muscled, and weak-shouldered, but my mother sure liked him.

I couldn’t tell why.

He had a mousy wife he ignored and a nine-year-old son named Derrick, who was just as unsavory as he. The attention Chuck Dudley slathered on my mother made me uneasy, yet for some reason it made her shine. She became animated in his presence, laughing and charming and fluid, as if Chuck were the most captivating person in the world. Every time we went to Woodhill, Chuck was there laughing and grinning with his big white teeth and blond receding hairline.

The women at Woodhill vied for his attention because they subliminally subscribed to his self-image, which he cast about like a net designed to ensnare. Chuck Dudley got my mother’s competitive nature riled, and it was clear he had his sights set on her now that his three-year affair with Sandra Hardwicke had ended. He’d preen and strut under my mother’s encouragement, and they flattered each other’s vanity like pleasure-seekers in need of a high.

I didn’t know if Finley intended it or not. I didn’t know if he presciently intuited disruption brewing and wanted to rail against it, or if Derrick Dudley was just a pansy in the wrong place at the wrong time. I leaned down to tie my skate laces. When I looked up, I saw Derrick on his back, crying and bleeding from his forehead, with Finley at a T-stop standing over him wearing a scowl.

Even though they were on the same team, Finley had managed to head-butt Derrick with an impact that started on the ice, landed in the hospital, and wove its way into the fabric of our lives.

About the Author:

I’ve always known I’m a story teller. Having been born in Wayzata, Minnesota (the homeland of my father) and transplanted at the age of ten to Memphis, Tennessee (the homeland of my mother,) I learned early that the art of observation can be an acclimating life saver.  My mother told me that as a child, I would sit and watch people. I was thirty years old the first time she said this, then she added,“You still do.” If what is known as “the writer’s eye” is the ability to see the world from the outside in, then I am happily guilty.

Although I now live in Malibu, California, I’ll always consider myself a Southerner: a card carrying member of the last romantic culture on earth. When I was growing up, Memphis was a hot-bed of social and cultural change. In this atmosphere, I embraced popular music, for the city that sits on the bluff of the Mississippi is a musical mecca, and I wanted to be in its middle.  I found my niche in music radio as a member of the on-air staff of five different stations, during a nine year career.

Music radio led me to the music business, and the music business led me to Los Angeles, where I worked for three years as an a1rtist’s representative, securing record deals for bands. From Los Angeles, I took a trip to the west coast of Ireland and ended up staying a full year. An uncanny twist of fate directed me back to Los Angeles, where unbeknownst to me, my future husband waited. Three weeks after my return to the United States, I reviewed the journal I kept, while living in Ireland, and knew I had a good story. I started the draft of what became my second published novel, but years intervened between its beginning and publication.

During those years, I wrote a creative, weekly column for The Malibu Surfside News, and submitted to writing contests and magazines as I focused on developing my craft.  I wrote a paranormal mystery about a woman who suspects she has lived before, and titled it A Portal in Time. Vinspire Publishing published the book, so I decided to show them the manuscript of my Irish novel. Vinspire Publishing published it under the title Dancing to an Irish Reel the following year.

My third novel is titled Mourning Dove. It’s a sins-of-the-father, Southern Family Saga, set in 1970’s and 1980’s Memphis, and  I’m thrilled to report that Firefly Southern Fiction will publish it in June of 2018.

I love the lifestyle that writing affords. I write daily, on one project or another, and like many writers, I have an inexplicable urge to interpret the world around me, in hopes that readers will not only be entertained and have something to think about, but be able to see themselves.

https://www.facebook.com/clairefullertonauthor

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https://www.clairefullerton.com/

The Reaping Release Announcement

On June 24, 2016, THE REAPING will be available in both
print and e-book format. To celebrate the release, the first book in the
DREADLAND CHRONICLES series,  ALL ROADS
LEAD TO TERROR will be free from Friday June 24, 2016 until midnight Sunday
June 26, 2016. There will also be a second chance weekend on July 16 & 17
to give those who missed the first free weekend a chance to enter the drawing.

Anyone who downloads a free copy of All roads lead to terror
and leaves a review on Amazon.com before midnight on August 20, 2016,will be
entered into a drawing for a one of a kind candy jar to take place on August
21, 2016. Full details about the giveaway can be found here:

http://www.richardschiver.com/p/giveaways.html

The Reaping Synopsis

Man is no longer alone at the top
of the food chain.

From the East a new threat to a struggling civilization
emerges, spreading across the land like a cancerous stain, leaving in its wake
the shattered remnants of a species teetering on the brink of extinction.

After the dead walked and society crumbled, mankind
struggled back from the brink of extinction. Having fled the cities, the
survivors lead a more pastoral lifestyle, while the cities to the east stand as
silent monuments to the former progress of man.

But they are not empty.

Not only did mankind leave behind the trappings of his
progress, but the creatures of the night that once fed along the shadowy edges
of a well lit world. Inhabiting that twilight space between day and night, between
what is real and imagined, between dreams and nightmares.  

In Bryn Mawr Window is infected when he is bitten by a
Reaper. As he struggles against the rising bloodlust, viewing his friends as a
potential meal, they set out to the East in the search of a cure.

Along the way they learn more about the nature of the world
they inhabit, their own past, and the part they each play in a potential
future. Crossing paths with a shadowy figure who leaves small tokens from each
of their own history. Little objects that carry powerful emotions linked to
major changes in their past lives.

In the nations former capitol they are confronted by the
master who reveals the cold truth about the cosmos as he prepares his own army
of the undead to enslave what remains of mankind.

Links:

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DYDG2XI

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01DYDG2XI

Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B01DYDG2XI

All Roads Lead to Terror Synopsis

The horrors of the
past meet the brutality of the present.

On the day of his birth the dead walked and society
crumbled. His mother took one look at him and pronounced him Meat. He survived,
she didn’t.

Fourteen years have passed and obscurity means survival in an increasingly
dangerous world. For the survivors compound at Bremo Bluff that obscurity is
threatened when a savage band abducts a group of children from the compound.

Accompanied by his three friends Window, Einstein, and Billie-Bob, Meat embarks
on a quest to rescue the children. A journey that will lead them into
adulthood, with a brief detour through the Dreadlands, as they confront the
harsh reality of a brutal world beyond the barriers that had served to protect
them.

In the dead city of Richmond they will confront that savage cult of children
who worship a creature of the night. These creatures, once considered the
nightmare imaginings of a fevered mind, are now awake in a world where the
population that once served as their food source has been reduced.

Awake and very, very, hungry.

Links:

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B016MLXM32

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B016MLXM32

Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B016MLXM32

The Reaping Excerpt:

They heard her before they saw her, whistling a soft tune, a
haunting melody that was anything but  upbeat. Like a funeral dirge best
shared during the procession when the casket takes its final journey to the
grave. From around a bend in the small stream the sound came, competing with
the babble of the water rushing over smooth stone, and the restless voice of a
soft breeze that stirred what leaves remained, their dead bodies chattering
against one another like skeletons dancing a frenzied jig.

Cautiously they approached the sound, coming upon an old woman kneeling on the
bank as she washed clothes in the cold waters of the stream. Her calloused
hands were red with the cold, and as they rounded the bend she pushed herself
to her feet with the help of a gnarled cane, tilting her head to one side like
she could hear their footsteps on the grassy bank.

“I been waiting for you boys to find me. Mama said you would be around,” she
said as the hem of her long dress caught in the moving water and the fabric
drank its fill. She wore a black shawl stretched across her shoulders, her
white hair in stark contrast as it rested against her back.

“Don’t be bashful now, I know you’re out there, I can smell ya.” She turned her
head to look in their direction, the cataracts coating her eyes capturing the
sunlight to lend them a silvery appearance. Her face was a road map of
wrinkles, each one denoting a different emotion, the lines radiating out from
her narrow lips ready at a moments notice to punctuate a smile or a frown.

Window moved past the others, following the narrow strip of brown grass that served
as a bank to keep the stream on its course. She blinked several times as he
approached, taking a hesitant step back as he got closer, his six two frame
towering over her diminutive five three posture.

“He got to you, didn’t he boy?” She said with a faint quiver in her voice. It
was obvious she was frightened by Windows sudden movement, but at the same time
she carried herself like one who was prepared to meet her end. She reached out
with one hand, and gently caressed Windows cheek like a mother comforting her
child.

“How did you know we was coming?” Window said.

She smiled then, relaxing her grip on the walking stick she used to keep
herself upright. “Mama told me back when I was a young un. She said, Sophie,
you help them four boys when they come, you wait right there, don’t go running
off, cause they’s gonna need your help.”

“How long ago was that?” Window said.

“All my life I’ve known, and I’ve waited, cause mama told me I had to. From the
time I was a wee child running barefoot down to old man Winner’s little store,
I’ve known of you.”

“But that was before we were even born,” Window said as the others joined them
and the old woman tilted her head to each in turn.

“You can see us?” Billie-Bob said.

She laughed then, her voice filled with a joy that helped push back the chill
of the late fall day, offering a brief respite from the cold as a spreading
warmth filled each of them at the sound of her merriment.

“Everything that has been, and is yet to be, has been writ down for those who
know where to look,” she said before turning to look in Billie-Bob’s direction.

“I can see you with my heart, and that’s all I need. I can see your pain, you
did something you thought was bad, but it wasn’t. Sometimes we are pushed to do
things we otherwise would not do, for these things we can’t be held
accountable, least ways not to ourselves. Where each of you are going you need
to leave your guilt behind, it’s the only way you will survive, the only way
the world as we know it will continue on its way.”

“What good is this world?” Einstein said, “why should we worry about letting it
continue on its way.”

The old woman reached over and touched Einstein’s cheek, “I feel your pain son,
but sometimes we have to know loss before we can know joy. It’s the way of the
world and it won’t do us any good to fight it. You can’t see that now, but you
will.”

“Can you help us?” Meat said.

“That’s why I’m here,” she said as she took Windows hand into her own, “he’s
got something very bad in him,“ she said as she nodded at Window,
"they calls them reapers, I can see it hunkered down next to his soul,
trying to hide from me. I can’t help with that, but I know what you need to do.
Let’s go inside where we can talk.” She looked around, searching the woods
around them for other intruders, the boys followed suit, finding only the empty
forest.

When they turned back a small cabin stood behind the old woman. It hadn’t been
there before, Meat was sure of it, it was like it had materialized right out of
the forest behind them.

About the Author

Unlike other writers who knew they wanted to write the
moment they became self aware, Richard’s path to taking up the pen followed a
more leisurely route.

As a child he wanted to be a fighter pilot, later he thought
it would be neat to be a rock star. Unfortunately, as an introvert, he was not
suited for the stage. Once he gave up the guitar, much to the relief of his
parents, he turned his attention to making movies.

Armed with an 8mm movie camera, several rolls of aluminum
foil liberated from the kitchen, and the spare bed sheets, he filmed his first
masterpiece. The story was about a space ship crash landing in the woods behind
his house. His sister starred as the damsel in distress while his little
brother, wrapped like a mummy in the spare bed sheets, chased her through the
woods.

His career as a famous director ended before it even got off
the ground when on opening night his mother recognized the missing bed sheets
and  aluminum foil resulting in his
grounding for the remainder of that summer.

A voracious reader, he believes writing is the most intimate
form of communication possible. The reader permits the writer access to their
mind, and the readers reality dissolves as they focus on the narrative of the
tale being spun.

His love of the macabre was sparked at an early age when he
would sit on his grandmother’s porch listening to her tell ghost stories.
During the summer he and his cousins would sleep in his grandmother’s back
yard, within sight of the abandoned haunted house next door, and spend the
night scaring one another with gruesome tales of shadowy creatures that went
bump in the night.

During his life he has played a series of roles, husband,
father, son, and lover, but his favorite by far is grandfather. He and his wife
of twenty plus years have raised four children, and helped raise eight
grandchildren. They provide a secure home to a yellow lab named Max and a cat
who will answer to either Flame or Furball. His loving wife, Dena has
experienced first hand the exasperation of living with a writer whose mind has
a tendency to wander at the most inappropriate times. Yet she manages to keep
his feet firmly planted on terra firma.

Richard can be found online at:

Facebook: http://www.facebook/RichardSchiver

Follow Richard on Twitter: @RichardSchiver

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/richard-schiver

Written in Blood is Richard’s personal blog where he shares
his thoughts on writing, and whatever else might strike his fancy.
http://www.richardschiver.com

He can be contacted directly at rschiver@gmail.com and would
be delighted to hear from you.

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