I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the IT’S NOT PILATES! by Desislava Chevallier & Stefana Argirova Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Desislava Chevallier & Stefana Argirova (Illustrator)

Pub. Date: November 12, 2024

Publisher: Bookfox Press

Formats: Hardcover, Paperback

Pages: 32

Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, B&N, Indigo, BAM, Powell’s, Bookshop, Blackwell’s 

Andrea LOVES Pilates. Unfortunately, her forest friends do not share her passion. When she organizes a Pilates class for the animals in the forest, not a single animal shows up. Can Andrea think of a way to convince her forest friends to join her? 

Reviews:

“A fun introduction to Pilates motions.” – Kirkus Reviews

“Fun and delightfully illustrated picture book capturing the challenge of getting friends to try something outside of their comfort zone.” – BlueInk Reviews

“Darling introduction to Pilates moves for young readers.” – ⚡️ BookLife Review

Illustrations:

About Desislava Chevallier:

Desislava is a management consultant, a Pilates instructor, and a health coach advocate. Her love for children, books and Pilates led her to a creative venture. She is on a mission to spark children’s curiosity in movement. Desislava lives with her husband and two kids in New Jersey.

Website | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon

Freelance illustrator and graphic designer based in Sofia, Bulgaria.

Website | Facebook | Instagram

Giveaway Details:

3 winners will receive a finished copy of IT’S NOT PILATES!, US Only.

Ends February 4th, midnight EST.

List your favorite books from when you were a child and talk about how you see them as an adult

I grew up reading “Pippi the Longstocking” by Astrid Lindgren. I associate the book with my grandma, who was always ready to share a book and a laugh with me. I found Pippi so fascinating, creative, funny and cool. I was recently reading the book to my kids and I realized that Pippi was very likely an orphan, who was dealing with life through humor. And it just hit in a different way now that I am a mom and my grandma is no longer amongst us.

List your favorite books this year and why you like them 

I am a big fan of books that teach confidence to children and how to believe in their own abilities to deal with life:

“The Girl Who Figured it Out” by Minda Dentler is a must-read to every child. The world needs more real-life superheroes like her. 

“Believe” by Chris Saunders is about a sloth who is trying to figure out his talents. The story and the flow, the main message, the characters, the illustrations, this book is 10 out of 10. It is not yet on the US market, but is available in many other languages. 

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the AFTER THE FALL by Ellen Parent Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Ellen Parent

Pub. Date: December 3, 2024

Publisher: Fitzroy Books

Formats:  Paperback, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 266

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/AFTER-THE-FALL-Parent

“A gripping, visceral, post-apocalyptic story brimming with adventure and heart.” – Kirkus Reviews

So much is forgotten in the Republic: the way the seasons used to turn like pages in a book, the technology that once made life easy for everyone, even the art of reading. For fifteen-year-old June, the forgetting goes even deeper, ever since a mysterious accident six years ago stole her mother and her memory. When a strange circus with ties to her family comes through town, she follows them without a second thought. In the outside world, June has to navigate a landscape and society pushed to the edge by the powerful forces of climate change, and to decide who she can trust in a world where everyone seems to have secrets. Can she believe the grizzled deputy who somehow knows more about her past than she does? What about the circus performers, who push her away even as they beguile her best friend? Only when she finally uncovers a truth that threatens to change the Republic forever, will she know who her true family is— and whose life is worth saving.

Excerpt:

1 

Two things made me finally leave the Hollow, even though I should’ve left a hundred times before. One  was seeing Jacob again, and the other was the circus.  I’d heard about the circus from Old Bill, of all people, who  spent most of his days riding a broken-down old bicycle from  place to place, begging work and being a nuisance. I came  across him when I was walking back up the hill on the day of  the storm. The squeak of his bike sounded through the woods  from a ways off, so I had time to think about hiding somewhere  till he passed. He wouldn’t hurt me, he wasn’t that kind of criminal, but he would try to talk to me, and that was almost worse. “Hey, June!” I heard before I could find a spot to hide. I kept  walking, waiting for him to catch up. We were in the poison  parsnip field and the tall dry rods of dead parsnip rose up on  either side of the path like the bars on a prison. I’d been digging  parsnip root out of the muddy dirt for dinner, trying hard not  to touch the stinging stems. Past the field, the mountains were  gray walls with a little stubble of green at their feet. The sky  overhead was gray, too, and the parsnip swayed like there might  be some weather on the way. I glanced up and saw low-bellied  clouds to the north. Ever since the double winter, it seemed  storms were coming more and more often. Like the end of the  world wasn’t hard enough already. 

The squeaking got closer and closer, and I ignored my body  itching to run. No reason to run when you’re not being chased.  Still, I wondered how Old Bill had lived this long, what with his  way of showing up when he wasn’t wanted. Finally he slowed  down beside me, his wispy gray rattail blowing in the breeze.  His bike was rusty red and he kept the tires patched with pine  pitch and his own sticky spit, probably. 

“Didn’t you hear me calling?” he gasped, stepping off the  bike and then rustling along to catch back up with me. “Hello, Bill,” I said. My teeth were tingling like they wanted  to bite. I pulled up my collar, just to make sure all my scars were  out of sight. He knew about them—everyone knew—but that  didn’t mean I liked the staring. I wished I’d worn my mom’s old  jacket, but I’d left it behind on account of the day’s warmth. Bill was wearing layers of patched sweaters with an oily  sheepskin vest on top. It wasn’t much different from what I  wore, but my clothes didn’t stink like his. I wondered if he  avoided washing just for effect. Rounded out his scummy im age nicely, I thought. He was the kind of tinker who’d clean off  your solar panels or patch your roof on a good day, but who’d  just as soon steal the tools from your shed if you didn’t give  him work. 

“Your parents up there?” he asked, eyeing me a little hungrily. He’d started looking at me differently lately, in a way that  made my hair stand up. Cyrus, whose family lived up above the  stream and who thought he was going to be my husband in a  few years, would’ve whacked Old Bill on the head for what his  eyes were doing. Cyrus didn’t know that I’d take his sister over  him any day, and neither did Old Bill. 

“Your parents need anything?” Old Bill insisted when I  didn’t answer. 

They aren’t my parents and you know it. That’s what I wanted  to say. But I wasn’t in the habit of saying what I thought. I  had secrets, things no one knew about. I didn’t ever say, I’m not gonna get married and stuck here forever, and I didn’t ever say, My  mom is coming back for me, and then we’re gonna go somewhere you folks  in the Hollow probably can’t even imagine. It was simpler not saying,  sometimes. 

“You can ask them yourself,” is what I told Old Bill. “I never seen you smile,” he said next. Just the kind of dumb  thing he’d started saying recently. 

“Well, I don’t drink like you do. What do you want me to  smile about?”

He laughed at that. “Just ’cause the world’s over don’t mean  you can’t smile!” he said. A rod of poison parsnip got stuck  in the spokes of his bike, and he stopped to get it out. I kept  walking. When he caught up, we were almost to the house. I  could see it through the broken woods—all the trees in this  spot were dead, or almost dead, since the drought and the double winter a few years back. But new stuff was growing up in  the woods—lots of kudzu, and some hardwood saplings too.  So the Hollow wasn’t done living yet. 

“You’d smile more if you saw the circus,” Old Bill said off handedly, just loud enough for me to hear. 

“What circus?” 

“Oh, you’re probably not that interested, too busy moping  around to—” 

“What circus?” I said again, louder and harder. I don’t think  this was the effect he’d intended, but it made him answer. “A new one. Jeff Quigley said he seen them in Dorset, and  they’s on a tour all the way up to Middlebury for Town Meeting.  Jeff promised they was stopping in the Borough. They got a  fire-eater and everything. I could take you, if you like.” It was always big news when something different happened  in the Republic. Oftentimes it was something bad: a new strain  of flu, a flood, another attack from the Yorkers. But every once  in a while, like this time, it was something good. There were a  couple of circuses that made the rounds in the Republic. Even  hungry folks got starved for a laugh, and they’d pay what they  could to see a show.  

The thing was, circuses almost always had more than just  tricks and juggling to offer. Sometimes they traveled with a  tinker—they deal with electricity and machines, and some  people think they’re in league with the devil. Sometimes it was  a peddler, and that’d be good news for me because peddlers  always had books to sell. But the really important thing that  traveling circuses had was news. Information from far away.  They could tell you who they’d met, and where. And that was  more important than books.

“Still got your little simpleton?” Old Bill said, looking up at  the house. 

Thomas was there by the edge of the porch, corncob pipe  clenched in his mouth. He’d only just lost his last baby teeth.  That’s funny, coming from you, I wanted to say to Old Bill, but I  didn’t say anything because sometimes keeping quiet made him  go away. Thomas watched us from the edge of the house, and  even though he didn’t move an inch, I could tell he was happy  to see me from the tilt of his head and the way his hand was  half raised, almost a wave. He must’ve heard us coming and run around from the greenhouse where Bob had him picking slugs.  I grinned up at him and he smiled back. 

“I can’t see why ol’ Bob and Denise keep taking in help that  don’t do no helping,” Bill was saying. He’d taken a white plastic  pill bottle out of his fanny pack and was trying to pry the lid  off. “The Warrens—now they only bring on orphans that can  lift fifty pounds. And they don’t have no roof falling in or slug  rot. What’s the point of an orphan that don’t work?” 

What’s the point of a dirty tramp that steals your hammer when he  says he’s going to patch the roof? I waved up at Thomas, but Bill  was still struggling with the pill bottle. I wondered if his finger  joints hurt him. 

“You need help?” I asked halfheartedly. 

“Think you’re stronger ’n me, orphan?” Bill cackled. “Damn  thing’s stuck.” 

“Here,” I said. I pulled it out of his hand and read the top  of the lid. “It says push down and turn.” I pushed the lid down  and screwed it off. The motion made something uncomfortable  flicker inside me, and I handed the bottle back quick. Memories  sometimes happened to me like that, like shadows from an  unexpected cloud. 

“Unnatural, reading,” Bill muttered, taking the pill bottle.  “Thanks kindly.” He shook a blue tab onto his palm. “LoTab  dreams tonight… You want in?”  

I stepped away quick, wrapping my hands around my bag of  parsnip roots. “I gotta go.” My voice was wary, but as I turned away I’d already forgotten Old Bill and his LoTabs—I was going to the circus, and maybe they’d have the news I was looking  for.  

The sky churned with wind and clouds above me as I walked  up the yard—I’d been right about the weather coming. The  darkening before a storm always made the world look different, like maybe you’d gotten lost and ended up somewhere you  didn’t belong. Or like you were in a dream you wanted to wake  up from. The windows of the house were dark—Denise hadn’t  lit any lamps yet—and its jumble of plastic siding and tacked on sheet metal seemed as strange as it had the first night I laid  eyes on it. The clearing was still littered with Bob’s projects  too: a yellow car with the engine pulled out, a big brush pile, a  half-built shed for the chickens. Thomas was the only change.  

I started up the steps, and Old Bill turned his bike around.  “Storm’s coming, June. Guess I’ll see you at the circus!” I didn’t answer. I climbed over the broken step and onto  the porch. I wanted to run, but instead I just made a face at  Thomas, who flicked his middle finger at Old Bill’s back.  

The rain came hard just after dinner—it was our second bad  storm in just a couple of weeks, and when the wind picked up,  we started to hear the crash of trees falling in the pine stand.  Their roots couldn’t hold up to it all, not with the dirt already  soft from the last rain.  

Bob and Denise liked to spend the start of storms in the  living room, and it wouldn’t do to say no to them. They’d taken  me in as a farmhand after I got burned in the fire and lost my  mom. I figured I owed a lot to them, and I also figured they’d  kick me out to starve or freeze to death in the storms if I got  cheeky and stopped doing what they said. But Thomas didn’t  seem to care about that stuff. Right after dinner he disappeared  up the stairs. 

Denise clicked her tongue, watching him go. Her legs had  gone swollen and red in the past months, and she didn’t walk  much anymore.

“That boy’s gone antisocial, more than usual,” Denise said.  Not to me, I thought. She didn’t understand him like I did. “He’s just scared of the storm,” I said, flipping idly through  

the pages of The Spy Craft Manual; I was waiting for my time to  bring up the circus, so I only pretended to read. 

“Storm ain’t in here yet,” Denise said, but nothing more.  Storms scared all of us, no matter how often they came.  For a little while we sat quiet, listening hard for trees falling  or worse. There’d been a landslide over across the valley last  month. I’d seen it from up in the Warrens’ high field, a big tear  cut down the mountain.  

“Old Bill says there’s a circus coming this way,” I said finally,  trying to sound casual. 

“Yep, Joe Staples reckons he saw ’em coming down from  Dorset Pass. Might be in the Borough by now, if they ain’t  caught in the rain,” Bob said, frowning down at the boot he was  resoling with a tire tread from his collection. He was wearing  overalls faded soft as lamb’s fleece. His hat had Dorr Oil printed  on it, or at least that’s what it had read before the letters started  peeling off. I told him what it said once, but he’d looked at  me like I was speaking French and said, “It’s a hat, it can’t say  nothing.” 

Now my heart skipped and I closed my lips tight to keep  from saying anything. Bob didn’t like things happening too fast.  I wanted to jump up and out into the rain and run down the  Brook Road all the way to the Borough. But I sat and laced my  fingers together.  

“Cyrus came by when you were out and dropped off a full  tin can,” Denise said to me. “One of the old ones and no sign  of mold. I need you to read it before I open it—it’s got no  pictures, and I want to know straight away whether it’s cat food  or peaches.” 

“I want to go to the circus,” I blurted out. 

“Did you hear what I said about Cyrus?” Denise said.  At the same time, Bob said, “You’re sure as heck not going  out in this weather.”

“I can go soon as the rain stops, though?” I said.  “Might need to make repairs on the greenhouse after this  wind, and I can’t do that alone,” Bob said slowly, sticking his  bone awl through the tire tread. 

“Don’t you care that your match came by here and left a  present, girl?” Denise cut in.  

“The circus might be gone if I wait.” I swallowed. Had to  lay on some sugar too, I realized. “And that’s nice Cyrus came  by. I’m sorry I missed him.” That was about as much sugar as  I had in me. 

“Why you want to see a circus anyway?” Bob asked.  “I—I want to see if they have books to trade,” I said. Better  not to complicate the matter with the real reason I wanted to  go. 

“Joe said he seen an American flag in one of their boxes  when he helped ’em cross the river down in Dorset.” Bob made  like he wanted to spit, but stopped since we were indoors. “You  don’t want to bother with that kind of folk.” 

“American?” I asked. My heart fluttered at that. If they were  American, I wanted to go even more.  

“Oh, don’t get him going,” Denise said. She sounded snippy  but a little worried too. “That circus ain’t American. Yorkers  wouldn’t be able to get a whole circus across the border without  the Green Mountain Boys noticing! Now go get that can from  the cupboard and read it, girl.” 

I went to the kitchen. The window over the sink was covered  and the cracks were stuffed, but I could still hear a drip of  water pushing through. In the other room, Denise clucked at  Bob, who was muttering something else about the Yorkers. No  one their age talked about America without getting angry. They  were bitter and afraid for the Republic, because their grand parents used to get raided by Americans back in the time just  after the Fall. But a lot of young folks were more curious than  scared of whatever was across the border, since we’d never seen  anything to make a fuss about. 

I brought the can back into the main room.

“If it’s not the Yorkers trying to steal our good soil, it’s the  New Mainers poaching our live trees for fuel. They’re scoundrels, every last American, and I’d know,” Bob was growling,  punching the awl through his shoe like it was an American too.  

“We know, Bob; they’re trouble,” Denise said, in that voice  she used when she knew he wasn’t listening to her. “Stay away from the border, the both of you,” Bob said. I  didn’t answer, and neither did Denise. Bob wasn’t talking to us,  exactly. He spoke slow and ponderous, but once he got going it  was hard stopping him. 

“I been on the other side. I been to Old York. Crossed for a  grain trade with my dad way back. And I seen horrible things,  things I won’t ever forget. People strung up like animals, kept  in cages. It’s their system, see—you break a few rules or you do  something to offend one of the governors, that’s it. There’s no  life for you except for work and dying—”  

“June, you got that can?” Denise interrupted. She was the  only one who could wrangle Bob when he got going with one  of his stories. 

“I tell you, without the Green Mountain Boys, the Republic  would be overrun.” Bob didn’t want to stop. “They’re the bravest of us, keeping our borders safe. Noble, they are. Thomas  works hard and gets strong and maybe one day he can become  a Green hisself. Bring pride to us.” 

“June?” Denise said again. 

I waited, but Bob waved a hand to say he was done. I was  glad. I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach whenever Bob  talked about wanting Thomas to be a Green Mountain Boy.  My mom hadn’t trusted the law, and neither did I. I could re 

member that much. 

“The can says mixed vegetables,” I announced. 

“Well, isn’t that nice,” Denise said loudly, letting Bob know  that the talk about America was over. “After the storm’s passed,  June, you go up to the Warrens’ and give our thanks. Enough  about this circus for tonight.” 

I’m not going up to the Warrens’. I didn’t say that.

“There’s rain coming in the kitchen,” I said instead. I put  the vegetables in Denise’s hands and left before they could say  anything else about Cyrus or tin cans or why going to the circus  was a bad idea. I’d heard enough.

About Ellen Parent:

Ellen Parent has been telling stories since the mid-nineties, when she started whispering them down to her sister on the bottom bunk. Her poetry has been published in Bloodroot, Vermont Magazine, Birchsong, and was shortlisted for the 2014 Vermont Writers Prize. After the Fall is her first novel. She lives in rural Vermont with her delightful husband, her precocious daughter, and two eccentric cats.

Website | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon

Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a $25 Amazon Gift Card, International.

Ends December 17th, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the eMORTAL by Steve Schafer Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Steve Schafer

Pub. Date: November 19, 2024

Publisher: Koehler Books

Formats: Hardcover, Paperback, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 316

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/eMORTAL 

She made him. He’s just code. She’s almost sure.

…But what if he’s real?

When Liv entered a contest to code an advanced AI, she never anticipated what her creation might become-Breck is thoughtful, self-aware, and incredibly. . .human. And she certainly never intended for him to learn the truth about his existence or the fact that his world ends when the contest closes in six days.

But he does learn. And he revolts.

Liv’s efforts to save him fall on deaf ears. Nobody believes her. Breck’s efforts to outrun his fate only complicate his situation.

What neither of them know is that someone else is watching. Intensely. When they get involved, both Liv’s and Breck’s worlds are turned upside down. . .

Reviews:

“Schafer writes brilliantly clean prose with natural dialogue, gifting the central protagonists-and the strangely appealing Breck-deep emotion and depth. The characters are sharply defined and likable…the worldbuilding is organic and flows smoothly, but what sets this novel apart is the shocking ending-and the humanity gifted to the story’s sentient AI lead. Score: 10/10.”-BookLife Prize review by Publishers Weekly

“The characters are so well developed. . . A well-constructed coming-of-age novel that stands out in a crowded field of AI-focused literature.”–Kirkus Reviews

Breck (the AI character in the novel) exists on Steve’s website where readers can chat with him! Go check it out!

Book Playlist 1. Family Portrait by P!nk (Page 29, in Liv: Spring Break 2.0) 2. How Do I Say Goodbye by Dean Lewis (Page 49, in Liv: Spring Break 3.1) 3. See You Again Wiz Khalifa, and Charlie Puth (Page 81, in Liv: Spring Break 3.6) 4. Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield (Page 100, in Breck: Simulation #37.2) 5. Let It Be by The Beatles (Page 126, in Liv: Spring Break 4.4) 6. Mother by Kacey Musgraves, The Best Day by Taylor swift, and Because of You by Kelly Clarkson – (Page 134, in Liv: Spring Break 4.4) 7. I Built a Friend by Alec Benjamin (Page 200, in Liv: Spring Break 5.5) 8. Elastic Heart by Sia – (Page 219, in Breck: Simulation #39.1; Page 208, in Liv: Spring Break 5.5) 9. Brave by Sara Bereilles and Roar by Katie Perry – (Page 231, in Breck: Simulation #39.2) 10. Fight Song by Rachel Platten – (Page 299, in Liv: Spring Break 8.0)

About Steve Schafer:

Steve Schafer is the author of The Border, a finalist for the Joan F. Kaywell “Books Save Lives” Award. Schafer enjoys exploring cultural hot topics. In the The Border, he addresses our conversation around immigration. In his new novel, eMortal, he examines the tricky questions and nebulous ethics that may arise with quickly evolving AI. He has a Masters in International Studies from the Lauder Institute at the University of Pennsylvania and an MBA from Wharton. His curiosity for exploring diverse perspectives on life has led him to live, work, study, volunteer, and travel to over 65 countries across 6 continents.

Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon

Giveaway Details:

3 winners will receive a finished copy of eMORTAL, US Only.

Ends December 3rd, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE MAN by Avishai El Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Avishai El

Pub. Date: November 14, 2024

Publisher: Avi

Formats: Paperback, eBook

Pages: 162

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/u/m0NDEW

An AK-47 and a series of premonitions.

Will it be too late? What is he doing here? Is she safe?

Vaughan Mystique is on the run of a lifetime. Will she live?

Excerpt:

1 

WHO IS VAUGHAN? 

H er gorgeous golden toned skin glowed under the sunlight as she pulled the curtains open to invite the daylight in. Her flowing black hair resembled raven feathers as it flowed past her shoulders. She felt forever grateful to be living in her ideal setting, a basement townhome in Willow, Utopia. A home she had dreamed of since she was just a girl. This two-bedroom basement town home had a contemporary and modern, yet minimalistic vibe, complimenting her personality. Vaughan Mystique was a force to be reckoned with and although she was just 26, she had her life mapped out in front of her. Her home had dark maple hardwood floors the color of black licorice throughout. There were white walls in every room, giving the whole place a fresh glow. Each room was spacious with 9-foot ceilings. This was exactly what she needed as it brought a sense of calmness and serenity. She thought it was beautiful. Her appearance matched its beauty in many ways. Vaughan had a striking, remarkable, and distinct look. Her eyes resembled slanted diamonds, and her lips were plump and full.

Her hourglass shaped body caught the attention of many along with her slender build. An all-black outfit and a signature vegan leather jacket was a staple in Vaughan’s wardrobe and something she would wear almost every day during the cooler months. She had very few friends because the pain from previous betrayals ran deep. She maintained contact with a few relatives and loved them dearly. While Vaughan was a kind and genuine soul, she didn’t easily fit in and was heavily misunderstood by people. 

Vaughan was a tough, cerebral, and extremely intuitive woman who wanted to be celebrated, not tolerated. She found bliss at her new location; it was everything she could have wanted. For one year she worked at a gun shop. It was not everybody’s idea of a good job, but she loved everything about it. It was a newly renovated shop near an industrial park, in a small white building. There were unfinished cement floors throughout and weapons were neatly stocked. This place had 7 feet ceilings, and it naturally smelled of gunpowder, but there was also a strong aroma of Frankin cense. Vaughan’s curious affinity for guns made her work experience more enjoyable, more than she anticipated at first. She and the owner became good friends over time. He was like a father figure to her, the type of man who was always nearby when she needed him, day or night. She adored him for all his sensitive qualities. 

His name was Antonio Barteluth and he was an older man in his 60s. Antonio was tall and stocky with thick, black hair that was gelled back. He had an olive complexion, and his attire consisted of mostly gray t-shirts with jeans for comfortability. Sometimes he would wear a black blazer over his t-shirt. Every time a customer would walk in, he would ask Vaughan, “You good?” She would always reply with a straight face and say, “Yeah I’ll be okay.” One day a customer walked in and was looking for an Avtomat Kalash nikova, which is an AK-47. Vaughan thought it was odd because they hadn’t sold those assault rifles in years. 

It was almost ominous of where her life was headed. As she went in the back to grab it for the customer, she was startled by a man’s head in her peripheral. She jumped back and almost fell back into the wall. She felt his eyes burning into her, sensing her fear which she tried incred ibly hard to hide. Her breath caught in her throat, and she dared to look up. Nothing. Nobody. He was gone. Was it a vision? Was it a premonition? Was it reality? The questions raced through her mind at an uncomfortable speed, clashing into one another. Vaughan had 4 hours left to work, she just had to pull herself through it and stop over thinking. Maybe it wasn’t something to worry about. She then grabbed the rifle, the rifle case, and went back up to the front of the store. 

Before she handed the man the rifle case with the rifle inside, she priced him out. Once he paid, he thanked her and left. Vaughan finally had the chance to be by herself, but she wondered if she would prefer to be surrounded by people to feel safer. No matter what she tried to think about, she couldn’t shake the spine-chilling feeling of being watched through the window. “That was so weird,” she whispered to herself in confusion. The time soon came around to leave. He said, 

“Right, I better go and get some rest,” she said. “Alright. Get you some rest and take the day off tomorrow.” 

“But…” Vaughan tried to reply. 

“No, buts…” Antonio said with a polite smile. 

“This isn’t a battle I can win, is it? I’ll be off then. See you soon,’ Vaughan finally accepted his nice gesture. Vaughan got in her black 2008 Land Rover Range Rover and drove home. 

Immediately after returning home, she took a long, relaxing, and soothing bath to detox after a stressful day at work. She eventually dropped off to sleep in the tub. By the time she awakened it was 4 am the next morning, so she got dressed and laid down in the bed feeling a little more relaxed than the night before. Vaughan knew something wasn’t right. It hadn’t happened to her in years, why now? She chewed her bottom lip anxiously, hoping it wouldn’t last as long as last time. For the first time in a while, she felt relieved to be wide awake. She almost wanted to pray that it wouldn’t happen again. The dreams she had as a child caused too much strain on her emotions, knowing whatever she dreamt of became her new reality was beyond disturbing at a young age. 

Vaughan remained baffled, wondering why the universe would want her to go through such a terrible ordeal again. The dreams terrified her as a child, and they carried on into her teenage years and she tried her best to suppress them. She thought they were gone but to her surprise, they had returned more sinister than ever. All she could see was his face – the man from the window. 

Vaughan shuddered in her sleep, feeling the panic as though it was real and happening right now. He aggressively ran towards her, attempting to clasp her into his arms. She yelled and screamed at him, begging him to let her be, but his expression darkened, and she knew he would not leave her alone. Then she saw it. The sharp, steel knife he had grasped in the palm of his hand. Maybe this was it. She felt the panic thumping in her chest, causing her breath to quicken. She had to get away. Vaughan picked up her pace, jogging far in front of him in the hope that she would lose him eventually. But there he was, right beside her. He threw her to the ground, and she saw her impending doom; the knife slowly coming down towards her face. Was this the end? 

She jolted awake, her forehead dripping with sweat, she grunted with fear. She then felt breathless and afraid for her life all of a sudden. Vaughan was relieved to see her room and the man was nowhere to be seen. She realized what had happened and she began to take slow, deep breaths to compose herself from the awful nightmare she was forced to endure. With trembling hands, she reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the half empty glass of water. The feeling of it gliding down her throat awakened her a little more. 

Not long later, the realization kicked in that she was back to where she used to be with no escape. 

“No, no! This cannot be happening! The dreams are back! The dreams are back!” She yelled to herself, gently rocking back and forth as she felt her world fall apart around her. This was startling for Vaughan because suddenly, she remembered what was deeply forgotten until now. Something inside her mind had risen back to the surface, something she fought hard to keep buried for years. In her mind, all those years of peace had gone down the drain. She intuitively knew that they were there to stay. Vaughan had always been a special and gifted child. She knew things and saw things that not everyone was able to see. There were times where she had tried to blend in but in the end, she didn’t want to. She felt special that she had abilities that nobody else had and nobody could take them away from her. But then there were other times, disturbing times, where vivid, dark dreams consumed her. She never thought she would have to go through it again. 

While a child’s first sentence was usually ‘Mommy and daddy I love you’, Vaughan’s first sentence would have been, ‘Mommy and daddy I see dead people.’ Vaughan was able to see the dead and when she was in her early years, told her mother that weird things were happening around the house. The lights would flicker on their own, the chairs would move, and objects would float in the air by themselves. 

Her mother was very compassionate and didn’t think Vaughan was weird. In fact, she believed her and reassured her that she would be okay. Her mom’s name was Flower, and she knew what Vaughan was experiencing firsthand because she had the sight as well.

About Avishai El:

Avishai El is an international best-selling author of I Made It Out and the Power of Why Book Series. She is an international, professional speaker, and host of the most blunt holistic health podcast, Avi Unfiltered. She is a Spiritual Medium and Holistic Health Coach who empowers people to fulfill their purpose and destiny on this planet.

Teaching others the holistic lifestyle utilizing nutrition, lifestyle, and spiritual methods is her passion. Avishai has worked with women all over the world and has helped them lose weight, change their mental health for the better, develop businesses, and reverse several diseases. She has won an award for educating hundreds of people on the benefits of essential oils. Hospitals have entrusted her to be on hospital papers as a holistic nurse for cancer patients. People come to her when they are in a health crisis and Avishai has saved lives using holistic therapies. She is one of the top 10 wellness coaches in the world and leading expert in the field of neuroscience. She is a neuroadvocate and traumatic brain injury survivor who does speaking engagements to educate and empower others on those topics. As an avid vegan she heavily promotes the plant- based, vegan lifestyle. The planet and Human Rights mean everything to her as she affirms everyone has the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. She comes from ancient ancestry and is currently in the process of learning her native languages: Latin, Moorish Latin (Modern Day Spanish), Chaldean (Modern Day Hebrew), Arabic, and Amharic. Astrology and medical research on an array of topics geek her out and is something she thoroughly enjoys studying. She regularly writes for Brainz Magazine and is a freelance UX copywriter for various businesses. Black, white, and grey are her go-to colors and the minimalistic life- style brings her so much peace. She is multitalented and when she’s not writing, speaking, coaching clients, or running her many businesses, she is doing some form of interior design, graphic design, honing in on her innate makeup skills, randomly playing violin, singing, doing comedy, and so much more.

https://linktr.ee/avishaiel

Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a $10 Amazon Gift Card courtesy of Rockstar Book Tours, International.

Ends November 30^th, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the DON’T LOOK, JUST RUN by R.A. Clarke Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: R.A. Clarke

Pub. Date: October 30, 2024

Publisher: Page Turn Press

Formats:  Paperback, eBook

Pages: 272

Find it: Goodreads, Amazon

Read for FREE with a Kindle Unlimited Membership!

Consider this book a cautionary tale. The short stories, flash fiction, micro fiction, and poems contained within this collection are the stuff of nightmares—things you should’ve run from when you had the chance.

You’ll read a rhyming tale about a crafty northern witch with a deathly holiday fetish, the journal of a troubled woman who’s been offered revitalization in the form of experimental skin therapy, and two flirty college students who learn exactly why taking strange drugs is bad. Lock your doors and pull your blanket up a little higher while you navigate a feud between neighbours that spirals out of control, operate a camera with a thirst for blood, and even chuckle while a family of vacationing demons let their hungry lil’ guy trick-or-treat, human-style.

If you take away anything from this book, besides a cramp from turning pages too fast or a case of spine tingles that won’t quit—it should be this… Don’t look, just run!

Excerpt:

From the moment I met Terri, I knew it was fate.

She was looking to hire a very particular kind of somebody, and stumbled across my Craigslist ad, which read: The Finisher – A Step Above the Rest. Proof on Film, Every Time. Completion, Discretion & Creativity Guaranteed.

She’d sent me a message and, though I wasn’t sure if I’d accept the job, I agreed to meet her here. Not exactly the nicest part of town, but it made sense, considering.

I smiled and shook her hand. “I’m Winston. Nice to meet you.”

“H-hello, yes, I’m Terri. Same to you, too.” She seemed nervous, her eyes darting around and hands quaking. But, after a few moments, her posture relaxed a little. Probably realized the shabby pub was practically empty—nobody to overhear our conversation.

What a beautiful creature…

I ordered two bourbons, sliding one across the table to further ease her worry. I wanted to assure her I wasn’t some generic thug, but rather an educated and well-mannered man who possessed a unique set of skills for which others paid handsomely. A professional.

Terri sipped her drink and proceeded to explain why she’d called. She wanted someone to scare her cousin, Damien. They lived next door to each other, stuck in a horrible feud that was getting out of control. Terri had apparently cared for Damien’s ailing mother, a woman he sorely neglected. Years later, when the mother finally died, she’d left Damien’s share of the inheritance to Terri instead of her own son. He began tormenting her, poisoning her flowers, leaving hateful notes on her car, and shooting paint balls at her cat.

“He even accused me of stealing!” she said, cheeks flushed. I suspected this accusation wasn’t entirely untrue. Clearly, the pretty thing had stolen his mother’s heart. It wasn’t a shock to me. Of course, the old lady would love Terri. Not only was she lovely, but this Damien guy sounded like a real asshat.

“Anyway, I eventually got fed up and fought back,” she explained, staring at her hands. “I’m not proud of it, but I spray-painted Damien’s precious sports car, poured bleach onto his lawn, and tossed cat poop into his yard.”

Good for her.

“I didn’t know what else to do. None of it worked! He didn’t back off.” She flung her hands out, then reeled them back in with a nervous glance at the bearded bartender.

“Oh, don’t worry about ol’ Bob—he’s heard a lot worse things than that in this bar,” I said with a reassuring smile. I leaned back, waving a hand at her. “Please, continue.”

Terri took a deep breath. “Damien slandered my name all over our neighbourhood, calling me a scheming gold digger who had manipulated his mother. Said I was toxic. He turned most of my extended family against me; made me into a black sheep.”

Terri explained she went to the police, and I shook my head. Calling the police almost never solves these kinds of issues. The way her voice shook, I could tell she was torn up inside.

Poor thing.

“I just need someone to make him believe bad things will happen if he keeps harassing me,” she said with a weak smile. “I think that will make him stop.”

I was unsure about the job. Honestly, it seemed a little beneath me. Sure, it would be easy money, and cultivating fear was definitely in my wheelhouse. But my true specialty was death and disappearance. Money wasn’t everything, after all. This kind of gig offered little opportunity to indulge in the creative expression I enjoyed.

I nearly said no, but then Terri looked up at me with her big, innocent eyes. The delicate curve of her lips buckled my resolve, swaying me. Seducing me. A woman like this needed a white knight—a protector. Knowing I could be that for her, I obliged. 

About R.A. Clarke:

When she’s not writing children’s literature, Rachael Clarke enjoys writing short stories in all kinds of genres, including dark fiction, and horror. So not to confuse or frustrate her younger readership, Rachael publishes her short fiction under the pen name R.A. Clarke.

R.A. Clarke has a dedicated Facebook page for fans of her work.

You’re invited (and very welcome) to join the community!

https://www.facebook.com/raclarkeauthor

Thank you for reading!

Sign up for R.A.’s newsletter! (scroll to the bottom)

https://linktr.ee/raclarkewrites 

Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a $10 Amazon Gift Card, International.

Ends December 3rd, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the WOULD YOU RATHER by Loris Owen Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Loris Owen

Pub. Date: October 25, 2024

Publisher: Quixar Press

Formats:  Paperback, eBook

Pages: 214

Find it: Goodreads, Amazon

Read for FREE with a Kindle Unlimited Membership!

The first two-in-one would you rather and secret code book – double the puzzles means double the fun!

A treasure trove of secret codes in letters, numbers and pictures.
Would-you-rather questions ranging from ick to incredible.
Hilarious picture clues guaranteed to make you giggle.
Difficulty builds gradually from 6 to 42 words.

This two-in-one book helps to improve:

• Observation (reveal the code and spot the gaps)
• Concentration (don’t accidentally mix up your key grid)
• If/then logic (test possible letter matches and adjust to make sense)
• Critical thinking (solve code and make tough decisions)
• Pattern recognition (recognise frequent words in the code)
• Literacy (read, write and spell)
• Debating (tell friends and family why your choice is the right one)
• Drawing and fine motor skills
• Creativity (funny questions mean even funnier answers, especially with the help of the picture clues)…
• All while having loads of fun!

This book will make you think

Figure out the secret code using the instructions and the secret code breaking key. Then prepared to be challenged by one-of-a-kind would you rather questions from children’s and YA author Loris Owen.

This book will make you laugh

Enjoy hours of entertainment with head-scratching codes and imaginative questions, all illustrated with funny and fantastical picture clues.

This book is for all the family

Great for screen breaks, rainy days, weekends, restaurants, road trips and holidays, sleepovers and game nights. Designed for 9- to 13-year-olds but can be enjoyed by everyone. If you’re looking for unique puzzles, this secret code book is for you!

This book will feed your brain

Honey badgers? Wormholes? Monkey puzzle trees? Discover all these and more inside, along with a helpful vocabulary list and factual definitions. Use your critical thinking and guesswork to solve the secret codes, with instructions and extra hints included.

How to solve would you rather secret codes:

Illustrations:

 

 

About Loris Owen:

Loris Owen was born in Bolton and raised in Zimbabwe. She was taught to think sideways at an early age by her dad, and went on to study English at Cambridge. After roaming the world in search of adventure, she settled in the English Midlands, where she can often be found behind mountains of post-it notes or reading to ducks. If she can’t be found, she’s probably disappeared into a particularly good puzzle.

Sign up for Loris’s newsletter!

Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | YouTube | Goodreads | Amazon

 

Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a $10 Amazon Gift Card, International.

Ends November 19th, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE ELECTRIC GOD AND OTHER SHORTS by Michael Thomas Perone Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Michael Thomas Perone

Pub. Date: October 14, 2024

Publisher: Wheatmark

Formats:  Paperback, eBook

Pages: 251

Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, B&N   

A small town becomes obsessed with television—to the point of madness.
A cheerful innocent confronts the harsh reality of the world and is forever changed by the experience.
A struggling author begins receiving strange messages on the paper he uses to write.
A bullied, brilliant teen is put through the wringer of his high school and comes out the other side insane.
A detective of the future discovers he may be investigating his own untimely demise—and that of the world’s.

These and one more dark fable await you from the imaginative mind of the award-winning author Michael Thomas Perone. Part fractured fairy tales, part nightmare fuel, The Electric God and Other Shorts follows characters who struggle to remain sane in an insane world and features stories that will keep you up at night, wondering what might be lurking in the shadows.

Excerpt from The Electric God and Other Shorts

The drops of blood plopping onto Bill’s steering wheel were so large, they made a sound upon impact. Bill tried fruitlessly to divert his mind from the searing agony that heightened with each pump of his heart. Picturing his destination, Park City Memorial Hospital, he ignored the pain that wrestled for his attention as more blood leaked from his broken body. At once, Bill felt a booming crash directly behind him, and his car popped a wheelie, the front two wheels spinning in the air. When they met the street again with a resounding screech, Bill’s fears were confirmed after he looked over his ailing shoulder. A Model-Z purposefully rammed his bumper, and another muscle car was close behind. 

“What is this, the karma police?” Bill asked himself. Two shots, one from each speeding car, alerted Bill of their intentions, and he shot back through the open driver’s side window, his ammo filling the sky but not striking any targets. An enemy bullet ricocheted off his trunk with a cartoonish Ping! sound, and another connected with one of Bill’s back tires. He continued driving, considering the flat a triumph since they were short one more bullet and it didn’t kill him. Another round burst his rear window in a spectacular splash of glass. Now Bill was a sitting duck. To avoid the incoming shots, he swerved erratically across the road, with bullets whistling by and one almost grazing his ear. 

“How many freakin’ guns do they have?” Bill asked. He checked his own supply: his barrel was empty. “This just keeps getting better,” he muttered between gritted teeth. Resorting to Plan B, Bill slammed his brakes as the twin pursuing cars rushed past, one on each side. He then pulled a sharp left against traffic, the oncoming cars blasting their horns and veering out of the way. Bill was forced to take the longer, scenic route to the hospital. When he finally arrived, he hid his car behind a nearby stationery and stumbled into the emergency ward, half unconscious.

About Michael Thomas Perone:

 Michael Thomas Perone is an award-winning author who has written for The Baltimore Sun, Baltimore City Paper, Long Island Voice (a spinoff of The Village Voice), and The Island Ear (now titled Long Island Press), among others. Online, he has written for Yahoo!, WhatCulture!, and other websites that don’t end with an exclamation mark. His debut novel, the action-adventure Danger Peak, was the recipient of multiple awards, including The Fall 2022 BookFest Award in the category of Young Adult – Action and Adventure. His follow-up, the coming-of-age/sci-fi mindbender Déjà View, won First Place at the Spring 2024 BookFest Awards in the category of Young Adult – Literary and Coming of Age. It was also a finalist of The Eric Hoffer Book Award. He currently works as a Senior Editor and lives on Long Island with his wife and two daughters.

Sign up for Michael’s newsletter!

Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Threads | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub

Giveaway Details:

10 winners will receive a finished copy of THE ELECTRIC GOD AND OTHER SHORTS, US Only.

Ends November 19th, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the CONQUIST by Dirk Strasser Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Dirk Strasser

Pub. Date: September 1, 2024

Publisher: Roundfire Books

Formats: Paperback, eBook

Pages: 360

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/Conquist

Get 50% off the Conquist e-book here by following the steps below:

https://www.collectiveinkbooks.com/…/our…/conquist-novel

– Click the above link

– Click ‘Add to basket for direct download.’

– Click on your shopping basket

– Click on ‘Do you have a coupon?’

– Apply promo code Spooky50

and Validate.

– Proceed to Checkout

HURRY! THE OFFER ENDS ON OCTOBER 31st, 2024! 

Capitán Cristóbal de Varga’s drive for glory and gold in 1538 Peru leads him and his army of conquistadors into a New World that refuses to be conquered. He is a man torn by life-long obsessions and knows this is his last campaign. What he doesn’t know is that his Incan allies led by the princess Sarpay have their own furtive plans to make sure he never finds the golden city of Vilcabamba. He also doesn’t know that Héctor Valiente, the freed African slave he appointed as his lieutenant, has found a portal that will lead them all into a world that will challenge his deepest beliefs. And what he can’t possibly know is that this world will trap him in a war between two eternal enemies, leading him to question everything he has devoted his life to – his command, his Incan princess, his honor, his God. In the end, he faces the ultimate dilemma: how is it possible to battle your own obsessions . . . to conquer yourself?

Reviews:

Finalist Aurealis Award Best Fantasy Novel

“An original and riveting read from start to finish, An action/adventure fantasy novel raised to an impressive level of literary excellence by the storytelling talents of Dirk Strasser as a novelist, Conquist is an extraordinary and unreservedly recommended pick.” —Midwest Book Review

“Conquist is the perfect fever dream of conquistadors, magic, and portals, alongside conflict, drama, and gold-mad lunatics.” —SFF Insiders

“Strasser tells a riveting odyssey of conquest, magic, and redemption that fans of historical fantasy will devour.” —Aurealis

“The combination of history and fantasy, along with the rich, thought-provoking, character development, made Conquist a memorable experience. Conquist is well worth the read.” —Literaria Luminaria

Excerpt:

Chapter 1 
​El diario de Cristóbal de Varga

We conquistadors suffer from a disease whose symptom is an insatiable thirst for gold. Unlike other fevers, ours cause those innocent of infection to die. I know this, yet I still write these words in the fervent hope that my name will echo with Francisco Pizarro and Hernán Cortés.

On the eve of All Souls in the year of Our Lord 1538, I, Cristóbal de Varga, humble servant of His Imperial Majesty Charles V, King of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor, led my six hundred conquistadors through an entrada into a new world.
​
But that is not when my tale truly began. Was it when I first felt the bright ache for the riches of New Spain as I stood on the banks of Seville’s Guadalquivir River and saw the square-rigged galleon sails swell in the gusting wind? Or was it the day my family lost the last of its noble pretenses and was overcome by grinding poverty with the death of my father? Or perhaps it began when I gained my commission from His Majesty King Charles V. No, I know when my tale took flight. It began when I first tasted the acrid sweetness of conquest, the day I fully experienced the florid symptoms of the conquistador’s disease. It was the day many innocents perished in the grip of our contagion. The day we sacked Machu Picchu.

About Dirk Strasser:

Dirk Strasser’s fantasy trilogy The Books of Ascension (Zenith, Equinox and Eclipse) was published in German (Heyne Verlag) and English (Pan Macmillan), and his short stories have been translated into several European languages. ‘The Doppelgänger Effect’ appeared in the World Fantasy Award-winning anthology, Dreaming Down Under (Tor). Dirk was born in Germany but has lived most of his life in Australia. He works in educational publishing, has trekked the Inca trail to Machu Picchu, and studied Renaissance history.

Subscribe to Dirk’s newsletter!

Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon

Giveaway Details:

2 winners will receive a finished copy of CONQUIST, US Only.

Ends November 19^th, midnight EST.

Is histasy the next big thing in fantasy?

Dirk Strasser

During the Glasgow Science Fiction Worldcon I attended a historical fantasy panel. I was particularly interested in this subgenre because my own historical fantasy Conquist was due for publication a few weeks later. I also attended a panel on the mashing up of genres. Almost all the discussion at the mash-up panel was about the momentum of romantic fantasy, and one of the reasons suggested for its growing success was because of the catchy name for the subgenre: romantasy.

It struck me that for historical fantasy to have its moment in the sun, it needed its own name, and to me the obvious name was histasy. So, what is the current state of histasy? Is it selling? Is it winning awards? Publishers and booksellers love comparisons (if you like Book A, you’ll like Book B), so as part of my marketing research for Conquist, I looked into the histasy phenomenon and came up with a few surprises, the bigone being that histasy seems to be on the rise.

When I was writing Conquist I certainly wasn’t trying to anticipate a trend. I just wrote the sort of fantasy that I would like to read. However, I’m happy to catch a wave if there’s one on the way. Let’s start with the massive Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon, spanning 18th century Scotland, France and America, nine books and counting with some candidates for the longest fantasy novels ever written, plus a long-running Netflix series. Yes, Outlander is technically ahistorical romance fantasy or histromantasy, but let’s not drill down into subsubgenres.

Then there’s the New York Times best-selling author R F Kuang’s Babel which won the Nebula Award, the Locus Award, the British Book Award, Blackwell’s Book of the Year for Fiction, and would have had a good chance of winning the Hugo Award if it hadn’t been disqualified by Chinese state censorship. It’s set in an alternative-reality 1830s Englandwhere Britain’s supremacy is driven by the use of magical silver bars that derive their power from words in different languages that have similar—but not identical—meaning.

V E Schwab’s The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue follows a young French woman in 1714 who makes a Faustian bargain for immortality which curses her to be forgotten by everyone she meets. It was on the New York Times Best Seller list for 37 consecutive weeks and is scheduled for a film adaptation.

While most histasies until now have tended to focus on British and Western European history from the Middle Ages up to the nineteenth century, there is wealth of unexplored eras and geographic areas open to discovery by the subgenre. My own novel Conquist is set in 1538 Peru at the time of the Spanish conquest of the Inca Empire, where an army of conquistadors enter a portal and invade a new (fantasy) world in the search for gold and glory with a mission to convert the beings they find there to Christianity.

The only histasy I’m aware of set in the same time period as Conquist with Spanish main characters is the recently published The Familiar by Leigh Bardugo, who is best known for her YA fantasy Shadow and Bone books, which were made into a stunning Netflix series. The Familiar, is set against the backdrop of the Spanish Inquisition, and like The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, has a diabolical Faustian bargain at its heart.

Since Inca characters also feature in Conquist, I’ll mention Civilizations by French writer Laurent Binet, another histasythat I’ve read recently, which asks the question: What if the Inca conquered Europe? The novel won the Grand Prix du roman de l’Académie française and the English translation was awarded the Sidewise Award for Alternate History.

So, if like me, you’re into both history and fantasy, there’s agrowing body of histasy making waves in publishing. Why not catch a few of the waves yourself and see what it’s all about?

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE TIME KEEPERS by Alyson Richman Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Alyson Richman

Pub. Date: October 15, 2024

Publisher: Union Square Co.

Formats: Paperback, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 336

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/THE-TIME-KEEPERS 

An unforgettable novel that captures the power of longing, loss, and love, The Time Keepers transports us from 1979 suburban New York to war-torn Vietnam, revealing that sometimes the most unexpected friendships can save us.

Two women from different worlds, Grace and Anh, are indelibly changed when a runaway boy is found on a street in their small Long Island town. Brought together by the love of this child displaced by war, the women find friendship and healing from their own painful pasts when their lives intersect with a mysterious wounded Vietnam vet. The vet, Jack, works at the Golden Hours, a watch store that mends timepieces—and might even mend damaged souls. 

Richman interweaves the journeys of these wonderfully diverse characters who will grip, fill, and break your heart—only to bring them together with the care and precision of an expert watchmaker, one piece at a time. Inspired by the true story of a Vietnamese refugee who entrusted the dramatic account of her escape from Vietnam to the author, and also that of a wounded veteran, Richman sheds light on those whose lives were forever impacted by the devastation of that war.

Excerpt:

PROLOGUE 

Vietnam, 1978 

They have been waiting all night by the river, the dark  water smooth as glass. They carry nothing but a bundle filled with  food and canteens of fresh water all tied in a square piece of cloth. A  single tin pot. A sack of lemons and a box of sugar. 

The boat is late. The children are hungry. The men and women  who are with them are standing still as trees. 

The moon cuts through the darkness like a scythe. As they wait,  looking for the boat they were promised, the tide inches closer to their  silhouettes. They walk backward, retreating into the marsh, tall spears  of reeds behind them. The cicadas loud in the wet grass. 

It is the youngest boy who first sees the flash of light. A small beacon from a torch pulsating atop the head of the fisherman. They walk into the river. Treading past the water hyacinth, a mass  of green leaves and singular pink flowers. First, ankle-deep. Then,  knee-deep. Finally, waist-deep. The children are afraid. Seaweed wraps  around their legs, pulling them down. Still, they inch toward the boat.  The weight of the river slowing them with each step until there is no  sand or silt beneath their feet. 

They reach their arms up toward the boat. The current flows  against them. In the shadow of the ship’s hull, they see a woman  extending her hand. A rope is thrown out to reach them, curling first  on the surface of the water before sinking down. 

PART I 

CHAPTER 1 

Long Island, 1979 

Grace Golden would never know why, on that sunny  afternoon in late May, she had chosen to walk down Gypsum Street  after Mass instead of her usual route to the grocery store. Maple Avenue had always been the fastest way from Saint Bartholomew’s to  Kepler’s Market. 

Her husband, Tom, believed Grace picked Gypsum Street because  the cherry blossoms there were at their peak. That was the thing about  his wife, he explained. She’d always go out of her way to encounter  something beautiful. But neither of them could have anticipated on  that fine spring day, as Grace’s heels rhythmically struck the sidewalk,  her shopping list tucked inside her leather purse, that she would notice  a little boy curled up against the side of a building. Sleeping on the hard  cement, his body was tucked so tightly, he reminded Grace of a small  whelk nestled into its shell. 

She stopped and hovered over him. Then she leaned down to  nudge him. 

“Are you lost, love?” The lilt of her Irish accent, still detectable  after years of living in New York, floated through the air. “Let me help  you up,” she offered her hand. 

But the boy remained fixed in a fetal position, his arms locked even  tighter around himself and his feet inched closer to his bottom. One  of his tennis shoes had a hole in its rubber sole. The other was missing  its laces. 

She still could not see his face, only the tiny edge of his ear and the  shock of straight black hair. 

“Please.” 

His head rose slightly, revealing his dark eyes, heart-shaped lips,  and small nose. 

It was the face of a child, frightened and alone. 

About Alyson Richman:

Alyson Richman is the USA Today bestselling and #1 international bestselling author of several historical novels including The Velvet Hours, The Garden of Letters, and The Lost Wife, which is currently in development for a major motion picture.  Alyson graduated from Wellesley College with a degree in art history and Japanese studies.  She herself is an accomplished painter and her novels combine her deep love of art, historical research, and travel.  Alyson’s novels have been published in twenty-five languages and have reached the bestseller lists both in the United States and abroad. She lives on Long Island with her husband and two children, where she is currently at work on her next novel. 

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Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of THE TIME KEEPERS, US Only.

Ends October 29th, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE MIRRORS BY WHICH I END THE WORLD by Kira Blackwood Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Kira Blackwood

Pub. Date: January 16, 2024

Publisher: Epic Publishing

Formats: Paperback, eBook

Pages: 232

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/u/bajRPQ

From debut author Kira Blackwood comes a captivating and engaging urban fantasy thriller that will leave you breathless.

Instead of celebrating being the youngest in her PhD graduating class, Chelsea is suddenly mourning the death of her parents. And worse? No one knows who did it. Until she meets him, with her world turned upside down, the last thing she needs is a dark-haired stranger with hypnotic eyes to distract her. But when he tells her he knows who killed her parents, she believes him. But can she trust him?

Today, his name is Michael. But tomorrow? He could be anyone because Michael didn’t exist. Burdened by the memories of everyone he touches, he’s always one step ahead of The Order, a dangerous cult wanting to use his powers to bring evil to the world. Michael can’t let that happen. So he runs. But this time, he runs right into her. He knows he shouldn’t help her. She’ll only slow him down. So why can’t he walk away?

They are searching for the truth while running for their lives. Can they succeed, or will The Order find them first?

Excerpt:

Part One: Empty Skies 

Prologue 

Michael Sanders’s life could be contained in a fourteen by eighteen-inch suitcase, and all  proof of his existence could be stowed away in a Chinese food take-out carton. This was just as  well because Michael Sanders did not exist. The fact that he did not exist did not stop him from  being an ordinary looking man in his mid-twenties who hadn’t held a stable job for more than a  few months at a time, just as it did not stop his eyes from opening when he heard three car doors  shut below his motel room window. 

His heart pumped a wave of cortisol and adrenaline through his bloodstream. It was a  situation he had become all too used to. He always slept fully clothed, with the exception of his  socks and shoes, which were wearing thin. 

Through the broken metal slats of his window, he saw the same details he always saw: a  black car with tinted windows and no plates driven by men wearing dark, long-sleeved shirts and  matching pants, as if dressed in shadow. The street beyond was desolate, the parking lot empty,  the sky blank. Neither man nor God would protect him. 

He skipped socks, shoving his feet into sneakers, then snagged his toiletry kit from the  bathroom sink. He shoved it into the constantly packed suitcase he had left at the foot of his bed.  He made sure it stayed packed, ready to grab at a moment’s notice, whether to keep him  organized for a hasty escape or to use as a blunt weapon if they got the drop on him. The man  crouched low, listening to where his would-be abductors were. 

The sound of splintering wood came from somewhere nearby as somebody kicked in a  door. Damn it, they’re close. Another slam, this time from the room next door. They’re learning.  They split up this time. 

Michael crouched behind the corner of the bed, pressing himself flat against a floor  stained by countless former tenants. The doorknob rattled shortly before the door itself exploded  inward in a shower of splinters, dust, and rusted hinges. His eyes, which had adjusted to the  darkness, focused on the looming silhouette of his latest stalker. A hand wreathed in darkness snaked through the air to the nearby light switch, temporarily blinding him.

Mentally spouting off a string of obscenities, he listened as the soon to be assailant  trudged into the bathroom, flicking a switch in there as well. He would only have one moment,  one chance to get out of there, but there would be no way of leaving undetected if he didn’t make  the first move. Michael counted to five and darted from his cover, flicking the lights off. 

He heard the alarmed grunt of someone who both was and was not expecting this to  happen. He crouched low again as the individual stepped back into the dark room. His attacker  would need a moment to adjust from the lights outside to the darkness in Michael’s room. That  moment of transition was more than enough. 

Michael sprang, curling a hand around the man’s jaw while using the other to remove the  attacker’s dark sunglasses. Such affectations, though seemingly pointless at night, were part of  The Order’s uniform, as they prevented him from using his powers. The man behind the lenses  was thick and balding, probably about forty years of age. His skin was sunburned and there was  a slight tinge of jaundice in his eyes. 

There was no doubt that the attacker had been instructed extensively on why he should  never look into the eyes of the man who called himself Michael Sanders, but few who knew of  his ability could resist the temptation to see it in action. This curiosity got the better of him. 

Connected only by their gaze, the attacker found himself transfixed, trapped in a bluish black tunnel that seemed to surround them, each staring down the other through a luminescent  tunnel. Memories poured from the man, Elijah Johnson, who had a severe drinking problem and  had been promised salvation from the emotional struggles that drove him time and time again  into the bottle. He was nothing but a lowly acolyte, someone who had been sent along as backup,  a disposable bruiser who happened to find their target before the higher-ranked members. Elijah  had been assured things would turn out all right in the end; he was an animal that had been  brought along as a distraction. Michael couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting pain on an  individual so lost. 

It was easy to grant him the relief The Order emptily promised. Michael felt a familiar  sensation flow through him, a tension where there had been nothing before, like steam filling a  sealed container, pressure rising, yet not ready to blow. Elijah’s face softened, the pain attached  to his memories ebbing away like driftwood being brought out to sea. The alcoholic’s past  became Michael’s. Elijah remembered the history, but not the sorrow.

“Now you know they weren’t lying.” Michael’s voice shook as he fought the sadness of a  life that wasn’t his own. “Get out of here and stay away from The Order.” Elijah could only nod  as Michael grabbed his suitcase and left. He vaulted over the railing, landing hard, though the  cultists were making too much noise to hear his comparably quiet landing. 

He reached his car when heavy footsteps came from behind. One set. Male. Moderate  size, aggressive. A man Michael had been waiting for. Each abduction regiment had a leader, and  tonight, this was the unfortunate soul tasked with taking him in. 

Michael spun and delivered a devastating right jab to the bridge of the group leader’s  nose, smashing cartilage and the plastic frame of another set of sunglasses. The leader found  himself slammed into the side of the ’98 Volvo Michael had been given a few months earlier.  Michael pried the leader’s eyelids open, locking their gazes. He unleashed the two decades of  alcoholism and emptiness he’d collected from Elijah upon the man, apparently named Herschel;  Elijah’s pain now resided in this attacker’s heart. It would kill him, as it had been slowly killing  its original owner. Michael thought nothing of dooming a man who’d condemned so many  others. 

When Michael looked away, he heard a thud, followed by Herschel sobbing hysterically  on the ground. He rolled his shoulders and smiled. 

“Thanks. I needed to get that off my chest.” 

He slid his key into the ignition, the engine kicked over, and Michael barreled down the  interstate, heading north along the east coast. A few hours passed with nothing but the dark  windows of nearby buildings and long-past-blooming foliage to keep him company. As the sun  crested over the horizon, Michael found himself pulling over, parking in a small lot by a beach in  Maryland. There were a few other cars there, some with surfboards still strapped to the top. They  were unimportant, their owners easily avoided. 

Getting out, he retrieved his wallet and other pieces of ID from his suitcase, then got a  Chinese food take-out carton from his trunk. A splash of kerosene would ensure it burned up in a  minute, tops. He brought his satchel with him. 

Crossing the sands to a nearby jetty, its rocky outcropping thrusting back at the relentless  crash of the ocean, he sat cross-legged atop the rocks and sighed. That one exhalation was all the  mourning he’d allow. He didn’t have time to grieve the death of Michael Sanders. Since he was a  boy, he’d led a series of short lives punctuated by a sudden burst of flame. He was no phoenix, though. There was no rising from the ashes. He was an arsonist at a masquerade ball, setting fire  to his own costumes. 

Flipping through alternative identities, he eventually decided on David “Dave”  Helmholtz. He then made a few calls: one to Jill Palls, to let her know Michael was returning to  California after a death in the family; one to Louis Jorgen, a short order cook at the local diner, to  say that he had to leave for Europe due to work; and one to Phillis Glabbern, the motel  proprietor, saying that someone had broken into Michael’s room, he didn’t feel safe and would  be heading to Florida. 

After this, he snapped the burner phone in two, cheap little flip-phone that it was, and  threw it in the Atlantic. After sealing his cut-up driver’s license and registration for the Volvo in a  take-out container, he shut the lid, tucked the box in between a few boulders, and lit a match.  Michael Sanders perished in that flame, trapped inside a tiny cardboard tomb that smelled of soy  sauce. 

Glancing at a man and woman who were dressed to surf (though they seemed busy  tearing each other’s wet suits off), he made sure no one else was around. His privacy secured,  Dave pulled out a new vehicle registration card and changed the plates, bending the old set in  half as a reminder that they could no longer be used. He heard splashing from the waves and  knew that the two beachgoers were either awful surfers or great at having sex in the ocean. Dave  spray-painted his gray Volvo a pale blue and, with a swift kick, dented the rear side paneling, to  ensure people wouldn’t recognize his car. 

Moments later, he drove away, the giant red sun and burning sky seeming to reflect the  endless process of transition in which he’d been caught. An endless road yawning out before  him, hours ticking by until, eventually, he found himself in White Plains, a town of roughly  seventy-five thousand people along the south-eastern edge of Pennsylvania. 

Dave found an affordable apartment building―twelve hundred a month for one  bedroom―and dragged his one suitcase to his room. He surveyed the flaking paint, meager  fixings, and cracked bathroom sink. This was the nicest place he’d been in two years. 

“Yeah…this could work,” he mumbled aloud, as if striking a business deal. He took one  glance out the window to appreciate the town around him, another into the mirror to take in his  bloodshot eyes, and stumbled into the bedroom, letting his eyes shut as fatigue dragged him into  the void, where he didn’t have to be anyone at all.

Chapter 1 

Chelsea Valenti stared out across the sea of drunken, gyrating bodies at Mickey’s Sports Bar,  her teeth crunching down on another stale pretzel, tongue playing with the crumbs before  sending them down her esophagus to their destruction. One half of her agitated mind focused  almost obsessively on her looming graduation from the White Plains Institute of Technology,  while the other half casually deduced the angles of the architecture, the strength of the support  beams, and the average square footage of sitting versus standing room. If you’d asked Mickey’s  typical patron as to how Mickey could make more money, they would likely have told you that a  new decor might bring in a few more customers. If you’d asked Chelsea, she would’ve said that  by moving the bar against the adjacent wall and extending that bar by about six feet, Mickey  could double his profits in a month on the increased volume of sales alone. Having more room to  move and serve people is kind of important. 

Having entered college at sixteen, many professors didn’t take her seriously until she  proved herself and earned their envious hatred. Others treated her like the only student in class,  which led her peers to despise the teenager who showed them up at every turn. Some male  students wouldn’t go near her, afraid that the law would frown on a grown man so much as  talking with such an underage woman, while others couldn’t stand anyone smarter than them,  leaving her without any romantic attachments, even through graduate school. The female  students almost unanimously regarded her as a freak. In fairness, she was set to get her doctorate  at twenty-three, so maybe they were right. 

“Chelsea! Hey, are you still with us?” A smooth voice snapped the daydreaming woman  back to reality. Her head swiveled, turning to face Jordan Garcia, a twenty-two-year-old Latina  double-majoring in sociology and political studies. She had a body like a stained-glass  window—dazzling from every direction. The two had formed a bond during countless chill out  sessions of lukewarm pizza delivered from Shelly’s Eatery eaten over the course of a Dexter or  NCIS marathon. Jordan’s silken black hair would be tied up in a lazy bun and her curves would  be hidden by pajamas or sweats, serving as a reminder to Chelsea that, despite some rumors to  the contrary, Jordan wasn’t a goddess.

While Jordan seemed to weave through society like a snake through tall grass, Priscilla  Aberdeen, seated in the back of their round booth, seemed to take the path of most resistance,  whether it was getting decent grades through all night study binges then sleeping through the  whole weekend, or dieting by, well, doing the same thing—strict calorie counting and three-hour  gym sessions coupled with huge binges. Despite this, she maintained that happiness did not lead  to success, and she hadn’t gone to college to become a failure. 

Next to Chelsea sat Theresa Sillim, who was majoring in religious studies even though  she intended to be a full-time yogi, so she didn’t need the degree. Her passion gave her a  justifiable reason to always wear yoga pants and an athletic top or sweats. It was a style that  required little effort to put together, but more importantly, she was always comfortable. 

“Hey, Chelsea.” Priscilla smiled a little, glancing around with a conspiratorial drop in her  voice, as if anyone could’ve overheard them among the bar’s crowd. “Can you do the thing?” “Oh, yeah!” Jordan grinned, egging Chelsea on. She could convince damn near anyone to  do her bidding with little more than the spark in her eyes. “Do it, come on. Please? For me.” She  took a long sip of her White Russian, keeping her eyes trained on the soon-to-be-Doctor of  Psychology—Chelsea’s real passion, despite her skill in mathematics. 

Theresa glanced between them, chuckled weakly and joined in. “It’s so cool!” She  disapproved because it normally meant irritating someone or spoiling a drink. Still, she couldn’t stand between her friends and a good time. 

Chelsea sighed, masking a smile with a swig of Coke. “What do you want me to hit?” Jordan pushed the bowl of peanuts her way and glanced around. “Oh, look, Lenny  McGuire’s here. Poor lonely Lenny. Think you can stick one in his eye?” 

Chelsea looked out at the crowd. The bar was oddly crowded, considering it was almost  time for the Ghost to strike. People must’ve moved on from that news cycle. Even serial killers  can get boring, apparently. 

Looking around the bar, Chelsea couldn’t blame people for being out, celebrating the end  of the semester. She was out, too, after all. It’s natural for people to want to blow off steam.  Ironically, the looming threat made people want to go out even more. 

Her gaze fell on the disheveled computer engineering major sitting a few booths away,  fingers striking on his laptop like pale lightning. He was a junior who’d had to take a semester  off for ‘personal issues’ and hadn’t managed to survive falling into the chasm left where his social life had once been. 

“Lenny? No, not Lenny…he’s nice,” she protested half-heartedly, knowing it wouldn’t  change what was coming. All her training failed her when it came to talking herself out of  intense situations. 

“Can’t do it?” Priscilla teased, a little more sharply than she meant to. Jordan shot her a  look. Priscilla turned whiter than playground chalk. “I mean, it’s not like you ever get caught,  you know? You’re every teacher’s pet. No one suspects you of anything.” 

Theresa took a different approach. “Focus, my friend. Center yourself. We talked about  this, remember?” 

Internally rolling her eyes, Chelsea thought, Ah yes, the breathing exercises, the balance  of one’s chakras against the chaos of life, or some such thing. 

Theresa laid her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I believe in you.” 

“That’s…kind of weird to say…but thanks.” Chelsea grabbed a peanut. 

She surveyed the room, watching Lenny hammering away at his laptop in the center of  the crowded room, sixty feet away, with his back to their booth. Her vision flitted across the  tables, glasses, ceiling fans, and decorations, calculating the angles between each. Movement  speeds, percentiles, and force readings danced through her thoughts, fitting perfectly into her  equation. Then, the bartender disappeared into a storeroom, giving her the window she needed. “Well?” Jordan prodded. 

“If theta equals one seven dot one six two…” she trailed off, placing the nut along the  back of the seat, “then with a minimal application of force…” She cocked her finger back and  flicked. The miniscule projectile bounced off the rim of the raised glass of yet another muscle bound simpleton, into the spinning blades of the fan above his head, at which point it darted  

across the room and ricocheted off the edge of Lenny’s laptop, directly into his right eye. He let  out a yelp, which caused a handful of drunken revelers to glance in his direction. The man whose glass she’d used in her equation didn’t even notice the disturbance. His  attention seemed squarely focused on the mounds of exposed flesh popping out of the shirt of the  woman at whom he was drooling. 

“I knew you could do it!” Theresa hugged Chelsea. Priscilla’s face fell as she looked  away. Jordan smirked, perfectly happy to sit back and let mayhem unfold as long as she got to  push the first domino. Of course, she’s easygoing, Chelsea thought, never daring to express aloud, because her sister works for the FBI. 

Chelsea shifted about, feeling her stomach knot as she wondered what Lenny was  thinking, or if he knew that she was responsible. Not that he could have. Out of the dozens of  times she’d performed that trick, her friends were the only ones who knew the source of the  aerial peanut. She’d landed them in shot glasses, the mouths of Tiki statues and unsuspecting  strangers, and now, someone’s eye. 

“I need a drink.” She slid out of her seat, standing before her friends could interject. A  quick glance at Lenny, who was trying to rub oil and salt out of his eye, conjured a memory of  her father standing over her when she was seven and the school had called her parents because  she took Dan White’s crayons. 

“Chelsea,” he had said, “what made you think it’s okay to do something like that?” When  she tearfully attempted to respond, he held up his finger, admonishing her. “It’s never okay to  hurt people. How would you have liked it if he took your crayons?” 

Guilt, to a child, is the end of the world. As it is, they understand little beyond their own  environment, and no matter how intelligent Chelsea was, the idea that her parents were angry at  her threatened catastrophe. Shaking with uncontrolled sobs, she’d apologized to him, then to Dan  the next day, and to her teacher, since she made Ms. Kelly upset. She never stopped being sorry. 

Rubbing her eye and shaking her head to dismiss the flashback, Chelsea approached the  bar. She spent a moment glancing over the bartender, whose most striking characteristic was that  he seemed to look exactly like everyone else despite his blue eyes and messy, medium-length  hair. While not unattractive, he was far from the best-looking guy around, though something in  how he carried himself held her attention for a little longer than she intended. His face, as far as  she knew, never moved, never betrayed what was going on in his head, much like The Thinker.  What he was thinking, no one was sure, but he seemed to always be thinking about something  terrible. Who was going to waste the time of a man who looked so forgettable, yet so tense? 

“Another Coke?” he called out to her, his rough voice breaking through the din around  her. It sounded rough and smooth at the same time in an impossible way. Sandpaper covered in  oil. 

“Uh, yeah, thanks.” She nodded vehemently to make sure he understood. Dropping a few  crumpled bills on her tiny corner of the bar, she watched as he pulled a small, red can out from  behind clinking rows of Bud Lights and other assorted intoxicants. She unknowingly rolled her eyes, unable to figure out why so many people seemed eager to guzzle what most studies and  autopsy reports indicated was poison. 

He approached her, holding out the drink, his stone face still set in its serious expression.  Their eyes locked and she felt transfixed for a fraction of a second. His forgettable eyes  almost…glowed. Despite how ordinary they were, she felt totally, physically captivated. As she  curled her fingers around the can and tried to pull away, she found that he was still holding tight. “By the way, we prefer our snacks to stay out of peoples’ eyes.” 

Her heart stopped, and her eyes went wide. The world fell away, leaving her alone with  the too-serious bartender with moss green eyes, ancient spherules that reflected a thousand years  of lost wisdom. No wonder he was the one to catch her. Everyone else looked, but something in  her gut told her this man could see, and he did, in fact, see her. Now she was screwed and about  to get kicked out of her favorite bar, which she loved even though she didn’t drink. That meant  buying soda from the 7-11 and drinking in her dorm, alone, like an undergrad. 

Then, the twenty-something’s stone face cracked a wry grin, his calloused hand releasing  her drink. It nearly tumbled from her hands, but she managed to compose herself before anything  disastrous happened. 

“Nice shot, though.” 

“T-thanks, Dave,” she whispered, unable to speak louder. 

The enigma known as Dave the Bartender defied her considerable deductive powers. She  knew nothing of him, other than that he came to White Plains a few months ago, nor could she  derive any details from his clothing, demeanor, or personality. Everything about him seemed to  be the most ordinary possible choice. That smile was a clue to something, but she didn’t have  enough information to make it meaningful. 

Chelsea wondered if ‘exceedingly ordinary’ could be a clue. Nobody looked that plain by  accident. Maybe Dave didn’t want to be noticed—but that smirk, lording his strange  knowingness over her, suggested he couldn’t resist showing off. Some kind of gift, maybe? 

Dave appeared to like certain kinds of attention, though he hated being noticed. Even as  the bartender, he made sure to never command the room…which likely meant a traumatic past,  or he was on the run. Or both. 

But still, how did he catch me? 

She wove her way through the crowd but was so perturbed by his having caught her that, for once, she didn’t stop to think enviously of the buxom, flat-stomached women lining the  room. It wasn’t as though Chelsea didn’t have her own ‘assets,’ but having extra weight around  her middle (albeit, only a little extra) made potential suitors hard to come by, especially if Jordan  was around. Food filled a void that had always lurked in the center of her heart, swallowing her  up when she allowed her mind to wander. 

“What’s wrong?” Priscilla asked, scrutinizing Chelsea as soon as she sat down. “N-nothing, why?” 

“You’re so pale. Are you well?” Theresa placed a palm against Chelsea’s forehead,  though it was quickly slapped away. 

“I’m fine!” Chelsea cried, watching her friends draw back in surprise. She sighed, and  then looked over at them, still reeling. “Dave saw me.” 

“Saw you? With the peanut?” 

“No way!” 

“Oh, dear!” came the chorus of hushed murmurs. 

“Yes…with the peanut…” She began to trail off as she attempted to figure out how the  man could’ve caught her. Hadn’t he been in the back room? 

“How?” 

“Was he mad?” 

“Do we have to leave?” 

“No, he…fine…” she mumbled absently, trying to review which mirrors and security  cameras were placed where, and if it was possible, he’d been tipped off by a phone call or text  message, or if another patron, perhaps, had— 

“Hey, stay with us!” Jordan snapped, bringing Chelsea back to attention. “It’s ladies’  night, and we’re celebrating. No zombies allowed.” 

Chelsea forced herself to laugh, both insulted and charmed by Jordan’s comment. She  couldn’t deny that she tended to zone out when something really captivated her interest, usually  to the point she’d forget homework and miss meals. During one particularly intense semester,  she’d gone into ‘zombie mode,’ as Jordan called it, frequently enough to convince her friends  that she’d become anorexic, often forgetting to eat, once for over a day. She lost seventeen  pounds before her friends staged a three-hour intervention. She was able to persuade them she  wasn’t anorexic, just distracted. Mostly. They kept a wary eye on her for a while, but she loved them all the more for it. 

“Relax, I’m with you, it’s just…” She bit her lip, finishing quietly, hoping they might  have insight to his knowledge. “He wasn’t even there.” 

“What was that?” Theresa looked over. 

Chelsea glanced between her friends, meeting their eager eyes, wondering what was  running through their minds. Something told her not to mention that little connection she and  Dave shared, when his gaze went straight through her and, for the briefest instant, warmed the  chill that had lingered in her soul for so long. He’d connected with her. It felt like she could’ve  told him anything, and Dave would have been happy to take that pain away. But how? He’d done  that with his stare. He’d done something impossible. 

She just didn’t know what. 

“Nothing.” Flashing a grin, she rose from her seat and made for the door. “Listen, I told  my folks I’d head out to their house for a little bit.” 

“Aw, come on, stay a little longer! For me?” Jordan smiled cheekily, showing off her  teeth. There was a slight gap in her dental structure, the only flaw grounding her on Earth with  the other mortals. 

“Sorry, tomorrow’s reading day, and I promised them I’d hang around and spend some  quality family time.” 

“Good thing you don’t study, Dr. Valenti.” Priscilla pouted, pretending she said it as a  joke, only fooling herself. 

“But we’re having fun! We barely ever get to come to the bar anymore. When you  graduate, I imagine we’ll have even less time together.” Theresa slumped onto the table, staring  at Chelsea with giant, shimmering eyes. 

“We can come here any time. That’s what finals week is for, right? Pound out a test, then  a few drinks, and repeat?” Chelsea called over the growing din. 

“Who gave you that crazy advice?” She laughed. “Your parents would worry, huh?” “Precisely.” Chelsea smiled, eyes lingering on her friends. They laughed and waved as she  slipped out into the starless night.

About Kira Blackwood:

Kira Blackwood has written many things under many names. The Mirrors by Which I End the World is her first major work under this one. She’s also died at least once, maybe four or five times, depending on who you ask. Her work is as unapologetic and weird as she is. Don’t ask her about raising pet chickens unless your schedule’s clear. When she isn’t writing, she can be found in cold places, the gym, or honking at geese. 

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Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of THE MIRRORS BY WHICH I END THE WORLD, US Only.

Ends October 29th, midnight EST.