Lee Hunt has a new fantasy audiobook out in his Dynamicist Trilogy: Herald. And there’s a Giveaway!
Robert thought becoming a dynamicist would enable him to change the world, starting with saving all his friends from being slaughtered. He was wrong.
Acts of genuine creativity used to bring mortal punishment. But now, wizardry is dead and Robert, Koria and Eloise live in a world where change and invention is possible.
Robert hopes that mathematically-framed dynamics will enable him to change the new world. But he keeps having prophetic dreams where his friends are all murdered by a mysterious cloaked man, and the grain protestors are more menacing than ever. They declare dynamics is dangerous and that the changes must stop. They are right about one thing: dynamics is dangerous, especially for someone so hopeful, angry and impetuous as Robert.
Soon Robert’s horrific nightmares come true and a cloaked man appears on campus, stalking and murdering students –his friends are next.
Desperate to change the future, Robert recklessly pushes the bounds of both dynamics and reason. Every crushing failure dampens Robert’s hope for the future and pushes him a step closer to the powerful, nihilistic, and merciless Lonely Wizard.
Series Blurb:
Would it kill you to create something genuinely new? In Robert’s world, it used to. Supernatural vengeance for invention is now a thing of the past.
Young, optimistic, quick of mind and quick to act, Robert thinks being invited to the New School is an invitation to change the world. But change is difficult when there is no history of innovation.
He is initially successful in his studies, but nothing is as simple as he naively imagines. His classmates confuse and frustrate him. One is a drunk, while another two constantly stalk him. Is it for love or something more sinister?
Robert’s optimism is further tested by protestors who circle the campus, decrying the newly invented breed of grain. They claim it is poison and that the New School should be punished by Nimrheal, the god who formerly murdered inventors. Robert suspects foreign business influences are behind the protests, but he quickly finds that investigating their cause is dangerous.
Robert’s most difficult challenges are his unresolved childhood issues. His mother died while he was a child. Robert’s formative helplessness and inability to remember her face projects into a powerful and blinding protectiveness towards all women. When a campus assault pushes Robert over the edge, his hopes of even staying at the New School are jeopardized. He cannot aspire to change the world if he does not even know himself.
At the same time as Robert struggles on campus, a powerful, ruthless and emotionally closed man known only as the Lonely Wizard journeys across an empty wilderness to return home. As Robert and the Lonely Wizard move closer together, Robert finds that instead of entering a golden era of invention, he may instead be on the brink of a cold war and an endless, unchanging dark age.
Davyn’s whistle tore the air again, but someone lunged at him and the big man stumbled and swallowed the thing. He staggered back, choking.
Whesplurgh!
“He is liar!” roared one of the bald, stocky men in his thick accent, pointing at Endicott. “We’ll beat the truth out of him!” He stepped forward and began drawing his sword.
Cyara rallied from her shock. “No one beats anyone here!”
His bald, stocky companion pushed Cyara roughly, and she stumbled backwards into the crowd. This was too much for Endicott. His heart leapt, and without thinking, he grabbed the heavy iron bacon pan and swung it, bacon-outwards, at the thug who had struck Cyara.
Gong! Glahhr!
Bacon, grease, and pan connected ferociously, and as a unit, with the man’s rotund head, knocking him heels over cartwheeling head to the ground. His sword clattered to the floor. The other bald man came on, lunging with his sword. Endicott turned the blade aside with the pan and tried to step back, but he stumbled over Purple Hat, who was arguing with someone else behind him. The swordsman saw his opportunity and rushed forward, sword raised for an overhead strike, but stopped short with a puzzled look on his fat face. Something had caught hold of his foot. It was Cyara. She had him by the ankle in a surprisingly strong grip.
Gong! Glahhr!
Endicott struck him in the face with the pan before the swordsman could kick Cyara loose. As his attacker fell back, Endicott looked for Cyara, but she was hidden by a shift in the crowd. Then he saw Davyn. His big friend was surrounded by a group of people who were trying to help him cough out the whistle. Endicott almost laughed and was about to return to the two bald protestors when he was savagely struck on the temple by a blow he did not see.
Author Bio
After having the Last Rights read to him at the age of twenty-five, Lee Hunt came to appreciate the power of catharsis. He was born on a farm with only one working lung but has gone on to become an Ironman triathlete, sport rock climber, professional geophysicist, and writer.
As a scientist, Lee has published close to fifty papers, articles, or expanded abstracts, has been awarded numerous technical awards, and was even sent on a national speaking tour. He enjoys discussing the amorality of science and is useful at parties in explaining the physics of whether fracture stimulation might be a risk to the fuzzy, cuddly things of nature. After 28 years trying to understand the earth as a geophysicist, Lee turned to writing fiction. He now spends time hiking, cycling, floundering in a lake, clinging desperately to a wall, or at his desk trying to write an entertaining story.
Leigh Jarrett has a new MM fantasy romance out: Age of Mycea. And there’s a giveaway!
The Marjar attack on Mycea sets in motion a series of changes in the ruling structure of the empire that will forever impact the lives of three powerful men. King Meshia, supreme ruler of the empire, Sebastian of Cardin, Commander of the Third Empirical battalion, and Sebastian’s Cardinian lover, a gifted healer beyond any that have come before him.
King Meshia has a secret, one that might lose him his crown. One that would certainly diminish his capacity to rule and lead the empire’s forces into battle. One night of unbridled passion, one weakness, one longing that could bring the monarchy to its knees.
Sebastian of Cardin, Commander of the Third Empirical Battalion knows that love comes in many forms. He lives it, he breathes it. He is unapologetic. The military and his home in the Entertainment District in the Neter Colony on Mycea suit every aspect of his life.
Leo of Cardin, a conjuring Cardinian, an anomaly of nature. Skilled in his craft. A force to be reckoned with in his own right. His relationship with Sebastian does not define every aspect of his life. He too has a secret, his family heritage placing him in a position of incredible power.
Their world in turmoil, they will be called upon to embrace the love in their lives and abandon their long-held prejudices against one another in order to preserve the survival of their people.
They were all going to die. As soon as the morning sun rose over the tundra, their few remaining troops would be wiped out. They were surrounded. Permitted one final night.
Sebastian trudged through the offering of fresh snow, his chest tightening, his breath billowing clouds of mist before his eyes. The snow’s arrival had warmed the frigid air somewhat.
His men were suffering.
Early spring on Kronos was not for the weak-hearted. Any season would test the hardiest of those who found themselves there. The third planet from Mycea had five seasons ranging from sweltering heat to bone-chilling drops in temperature few could survive. The five seasons coinciding with the animals and fauna that could be hunted and gathered during those times.
Fortunately, spring had brought them an abundance of game to feed themselves. Early spring had not been as kind. They had lost dozens of men to hypothermia and starvation.
With one of Kronos’ moons reflecting off the fresh snow, it was light enough to see, but the Marjar would bide their time until morning. They had been trying to take control of Kronos for months. What was one more night? Sebastian looked out over the undulating, treeless hills of white. The ore-rich mining planet was desolate but had a haunting beauty to it.
Perhaps death would be as peaceful.
Sebastian nodded to the guards, their sheathed swords likely chipped and grubby with blood. They would not be granted a reprieve to tend to them tonight.
The king deserved one last night of peace.
The flap of the canvas tent was stiff from the cold but folded back enough to allow Sebastian access. It fell into place behind him, containing what little heat was being offered by the oil lamps scattered about the interior.
He had been summoned here tonight.
His heart thundered heavy and rapid in his chest at the reason why.
It all started the day he stepped off a warship at the Neter colony, the heart of the empire, eight years ago. The respect—the mutual admiration. The stern face that had simply cocked one eyebrow upon seeing Sebastian for the first time.
Blood, glory, and conquest; eight years of battles had been fought by his side.
He was not there to talk.
Sebastian stepped forward into the tent and bowed deeply to the man watching him. “Your Majesty, you summoned me.”
“This is the end for us, I fear.” The king shifted in his seat and motioned to the chair across from him. As always, there was kindness in his brilliant green eyes, a kindness that rarely reached the other features of his face. Firm jaw jutted, his lips were drawn tight, his breathing steady.
“Have we no options?” Sebastian settled into the seat across from his king, accepting the cup of wine offered him.
“You know we don’t.” The king rose to his feet, circled around to Sebastian’s side of the table, and laid his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “That’s not why you’re here.”
Sebastian placed his hand atop the king’s. “I know.”
The king leaned down and kissed the side of Sebastian’s neck, his warm breath drifting seductively across Sebastian’s skin. It made its way to his lips. Sebastian breathed it in.
“Tonight, I need to know what I’ve denied myself of for so long.”
Sebastian wrapped his hand around the back of the king’s neck, drawing him closer, the king’s short-cropped, blond hair bristling against his palm.
“Meshia …” A simple whisper of desire. The fires that had been burning for years between them would be quenched this night.
And tomorrow, they would die.
Author Bio
Leigh Jarrett is an unabashedly queer, quirky, and passionate author of LGBTQ+ Romantic Fiction, her books embracing the full spectrum of the rainbow. Her published contemporary works include gritty and angst-filled romances featuring Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, and Lesbian characters. And her fantasy series, “Drakkar Coven”, which is brimming with lust driven vampires, werewolves, and shapeshifters.
Having been bullied as a child for being “different,” writing, and publishing LGBTQ+ Romantic Fiction has given Leigh an opportunity to express her uniqueness, inspired by the LGBTQ+ community she calls home, her books highlighting their struggles, while celebrating their diversity, and affirming their most basic of human rights … to love and be loved.
In her hometown of Victoria, BC, in Canada, Leigh can be found nestled up with her fabulously supportive wife and her trusty laptop, or enjoying the wonderous outdoors that is Vancouver Island.
Please join me in welcoming Natalina Reis to the Land of Make Believe! She has stopped by to share her thoughts on writing outcasts and celebrate the release of her new MM gay/bi paranormal/urban fantasy romance, Of Magic & Scales book two: Of Scales and Fire. And there’s a giveaway!
Welcome, Natalina!
Natalina Reis on Writing Outcasts
I’m often accused of writing “weak” characters, immature and insecure. I admit, I often write characters riddled with doubts about themselves and how others feel about them. I also know my characters usually come off as being a bit childish either because of my penchant to use a lot of humor or because, well, they display a lot of insecurities. But I never write weak characters.
People normally equate being assertive and secure with being strong. To me what makes a person strong is the ability to face those things that make you uncomfortable or to soldier on when you’re afraid or anxious. Not much different from the definition of a hero. A hero is not someone who is not afraid but someone who acts despite being terrified.
Aiden, in the Of Magic & Scales series, is only sure about one thing: his sexual prowess. Other than that he second guesses himself at every turn including doubting that anyone could ever really love him. Does that make him weak or immature (well, he is immature by his own admission)? I beg to differ. Despite all his doubts, his fears, Aiden is always willing to risk it all for those he loves and willing to change and accept things he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—before. To me that’s the real challenge, to be able to surpass your fears and doubts and come up on top in the end.
My writer’s tagline reads “Writing romance for the misfits, the outcasts, and the lovers unafraid to go against the grain” and that’s exactly what you will find in all my books, it doesn’t matter whether it’s a FM romantic comedy, a romantic fantasy, a dystopian romance, or a MM paranormal. In each of my stories there is someone who struggles against his/her own doubts and limitations but does not let that stop him/her from achieving his/her goals.
Of Scales & Fire
The cast of supporting characters from Natalina Reis’s “Of Magic and Scales” are back and stronger than ever, and so are the pop culture references and silly jokes Aiden likes so much. As Aiden and his new family are joined by an unexpected antagonist that may yet prove to be their undoing, will their (un)domesticated new life as a couple be turned upside down?
Aiden Mercer’s life has changed dramatically since his days of being a man-whore, where he spent most of the time either running his coffee shop in sunny Portugal or man-watching at the beach. He now has Naël, a cranky merman to love and to hold, and his sister, Vee, and friends to care for. Life is good.
But life never seems to stop surprising the American ex-detective. A mysterious order of monks, a mermen poacher, shocking revelations about his parentage—and whoever is hunting him down—turn Aiden and Naël’s summer into one to remember. Or maybe one they’d rather forget.
It had become a running joke with us—the fact that I had no clue who or what I was. It was painfully obvious I was a magical of some kind, but no one seemed to be able to identify which one. I had lived my whole adult life thinking I was just a Joe Schmo, only to find out that was far from the truth. I was still pretty ambivalent about it. It was nice to have powers other humans could only dream of, but on the other hand, it also meant I was forever linked to a group of creatures I had fought so hard to stay clear of.
I pushed him away, pretending to be mad at him. “Well, I am very poorly acquainted with my own powers, and until I learn how to better control them, I’m not much help to anyone.” I took another quick peek at the couple now walking out the door.
Fouchard slapped me with the kitchen towel. “Those powers were what saved my sister two months ago.” It was true; I had helped rescue his sister from the hands of a serial killer bent on getting rid of all magicals who didn’t fit the traditional mold. My boyfriend took a couple steps until his lips hovered over mine, his heady scent invading all my senses. He was the one who held all the magic. “Stop being so down on yourself and own it. You do with everything else, why not with this too? It’s part of who you are.” True, except I really didn’t know who I was. Fuck, I didn’t even know my own birthday. “Besides, you have magic in those fingers of yours,” he whispered, a wicked smile spreading on his lips. “You’re a true sorcerer with that mouth.” He brushed a thumb along my lower lip. Then he looked down at my crotch and licked his lips. “And other magical parts.” He let it hang as he lifted his eyes to mine.
Author Bio
Natalina wrote her first romance at the age of 13 in collaboration with her best friend. Since then she has ventured into other genres, but romance is first and foremost in almost everything she writes. She’s the author of We Will Always Have the Closet, Desert Jewel, Loved You Always, and Lavender Fields.
After earning a degree in tourism and foreign languages, she worked as a tourist guide in her native Portugal for a short time before moving to the United States. She lived in three continents and a few islands, and her knack for languages and linguistics led her to a master’s degree in education. She lives in Virginia where she’s taught English as a Second Language to elementary school children for more years than she cares to admit.
Natalina doesn’t believe you can have too many books or too much coffee. Art and dance make her happy and she is pretty sure she could survive on lobster and bananas alone. When she is not writing or stressing over lesson plans, she shares her life with her husband and two adult sons.
Jeff Jacobson has a new queer YA urban fantasy romance out, Broom Closet Stories book 3: “The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow.” And there’s a giveaway!
What If an Evil Witch Was Controlling Your Thoughts Without You Knowing?
Soon after being whisked away to Seattle to live with an aunt and uncle he barely knew, Charlie Creevey learned that he hailed from a family of witches. After settling into this unfamiliar life, his feelings toward his new friend Diego Ramirez began to grow into something more serious. And if that wasn’t enough, he failed to stop the nefarious witch Grace and her cohort from using the dreaded deathcraft and killing his mentor Malcolm.
In Book 3 of this riveting series, Charlie discovers that Grace has gone into hiding and is acting behind the scenes. Able to influence minds in ways that were previously unheard of in the witching world, Grace compels Charlie to unwittingly do things like taking on the bullies at Puget Academy and lying to his family. The more Charlie believes he is acting of his own accord, the more Grace secretly rebuilds her strength and plots her comeback.
Will Charlie ever be able to overcome Grace and her coven? Or is Charlie destined to live life as a gay teen witch, shrouded by the evil veil of the deathcraft? And can he ever share his secret with Diego—or will he have to keep his identity as a witch hidden in the broom closet forever? Find out in The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow.
High school life as a gay teenage witch is never easy. Ask Charlie Creevey, the boy who’s busy developing his witchcraft abilities while navigating romance with Diego Ramirez. Forget about focusing on schoolwork, too, thanks to an evil witch and her ilk who will stop at nothing to destroy everyone around them, including Charlie and his family, for power. All he wants is some normalcy… but will Charlie ever be able to share who he really is? Or must everything remain a secret?
From paranormal adventures and a whirlwind romance, to battling evil witches and a gripping conclusion, enjoy all the thrills and excitement, in the supernatural world of the Broom Closet Stories.
Giveaway
Jeff is giving away a $25 Amazon gift card to one lucky winner:
“JACK-O’-LANTERNS,” DIEGO WAS SAYING, the carving knife in his hand glinting in the dining room’s candlelight, “started as tiny squash containers to hold the coals from the fires built by the ancient Druids. Each household carried a coal home and used it to start a fire in their hearth. They believed this would bring them luck and blessings for the coming year.”
Beverly, Randall, Charlie, and Diego, along with Rita and Jeremy Lostich, sat together in the dining room at the house on Washington Street. The dining table, covered in layers of newspaper, was laden with mugs of hot apple cider for the boys and pumpkin IPA for the adults, plates of cake donuts, two bowls of roasted pumpkin seeds, regular and tamari-flavored, plates of Spanish tapas stuck with wooden skewers, and an array of pumpkins. The smells of cinnamon, apple, and clove, mixed with the raw scent of pumpkin flesh, hung above the carvers. In the background, vintage Halloween music from the thirties and forties by Cab Calloway, Rosemary Clooney, and the Bones Boys added to the holiday atmosphere. True to form, Amos wandered back and forth between the promise of warmth from the roaring fire in the fireplace and the possibility of a dropped piece of food near the table.
Charlie had scooped out the innards of his soccer-ball-sized pumpkin, wondering exactly what kind of face to carve. He watched Diego slice into the top of his mostly untouched pumpkin. He seemed more interested in educating the adults on the origins of Halloween than actually making progress on his jack-o’-lantern.
“I think it’s a cool tradition. I’d like to bring an ember from your fireplace home in my pumpkin tonight—if that’s okay with you,” Diego said, looking at Beverly and Randall. “It’s a thing we witches like to do.”
Jeremy, who at that moment had just taken a large swallow of pumpkin IPA, began choking on the liquid.
Rita set her knife down and patted her husband on the back as he coughed. “There, there, dear, you okay now?” she asked. Diego missed the smirks shared between the adults.
“Went (cough cough) down (cough cough) the wrong (cough) pipe (cough cough),” Jeremy managed to say.
With a final swat of her hand to his back, which nearly sent her husband sprawling forward on the table, Rita picked up the small craft knife again and made a tiny cut on the face of her pumpkin.
“Well, however the tradition started, I think this is a lovely way to spend an October evening together.”
The group voiced their agreement and continued to chat, carve and laugh together.
Charlie was about to ask Beverly if she thought he should carve a grinning mouth or something more sinister, when out of nowhere, his vision began to swim, followed by a blackening down his eyes and face, as if someone had poured a bucket of shadows atop his head.
The warm, festive dining room in which he sat, the place where he had eaten many meals at the house on Washington Street, disappeared. He felt a soft carpet beneath his feet. He was looking down at a glass coffee table, under which lay a teenage boy with short, dark hair. Blood coated his arms and cheeks, and his eyes were both tired and horrified. Next to Charlie stood Thomas, Tony, and Claudia, droplets of blood on their clothing.
Charlie burned with a hint of the same kind of bloodlust he felt when gripped by the deathcraft.
He wanted more. “No, please,” the boy begged.
“Don’t you mean ‘Yes please’?” asked Tony as he leaned down over the table. Charlie watched as blood dripped down Tony’s bare forearm.
“Wait!” he shouted in Grace’s voice.
It took him one horrific second to realize that he was inside of Grace, looking down at the boy through her eyes, before his head filled with memories that were neither Grace’s nor his own: walking hunched against the windy cold in downtown Seattle; seeing a dumpster fire; sitting in the backseat of a red Ferrari as Tony and Thomas drove up and over a hill; the two men and two glamorous and beautiful women surrounding him; sharp pain as a knife made gashes in his chest, his arms, his neck.
The personality and identity of the boy filled him: Tristan Cloud, a young teen from Olympia, who had run away from home because his father couldn’t accept that he was gay, hustling on the streets of Capitol Hill, dread in his gut turning to terror and helplessness as he realized what a bad decision he had made to get into the car that night. Then, a confusing mess of days that involved cutting, screams, cajoling, cruel laughter, and an overwhelming desire to fall asleep and be done with life.
It took Charlie a moment to figure out that the Fab Four were taking sips of Tristan’s life force, which gave them full access to the boy’s thoughts, memories and emotions. And because Charlie was linked to Grace via the deathcraft, he’d been yanked inside her once again.
“No!” Charlie shouted, standing up from the dining room chair on which he sat at the house on Washington Street.
Four adults and one teen looked at him, hands holding carving knives and drinks frozen in midair.
“Charlie?” asked Diego, confused. The adults were already looking at each other, already trying to communicate ideas and plans without Charlie’s boyfriend noticing.
He knew he had to say something. “No! I forgot the, uh …”
Desperate, he looked over the table for some excuse. Gutted pumpkins with carved faces stared at him, their insides in piles on the table, making his stomach turn. Candles, Halloween decorations, food … “The special decorations! I forgot the special, secret decorations!” he cried, looking hard at his aunt as he spoke. “Be right back!”
Author Bio
Jeff Jacobson was born and raised in Seattle and graduated in 1991 from the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, Wash., with a degree in Asian studies and a minor in Chinese language (Mandarin). He works both as a coach and a trainer of coaches, and is passionate about how evolved leadership can help transform organizations, their clients, and even the world.
The Broom Closet Series emerged from a challenge/dare after Jeff Jacobson criticized other books for how they depicted witches (“Windswept hair… spells, always in Latin…” no, no, no). The friend he made these comments to called him out on his critique, noting that the authors wrote their books, not Jacobson’s. Could he write his own witchy books? In 2008, Jacobson decided to find out.
Already top sellers on Amazon, The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Straight and The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Home chart teenager Charlie Creevey’s double coming out – as a young gay man, and as a witch. He lands in the hamlet of West Seattle and becomes part of the local coven, which he needs in order to fight off Grace, a murderous villain who’s killing teens to fuel her power and control. Jacobson picks up the thread yet again in The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow as Charlie’s feelings for classmate Diego Ramirez deepen, and Grace’s pitiless murders terrify and threaten the community.
Vampires and werewolves live long lives. The Sleepless City saga might have ended but the story continues…
Welcome to The Vampire Guard, where legend and myth meet science and technology.
Vampires make the best spies. Throw a smart-mouthed werewolf in with three vampires, mix well, and The Vampire Guard’s newest team is bound to become one of their greatest assets. Super spies with a full range of skills. Warrior, hacker, thief, and scientist. They get in, do the job and get out before the bad guys ever know what hit them.
Forge, Blair, Declan, and Lucas are thrust into the world of high-tech spies and top-secret espionage conspiracies. Recruited into the world’s most elite and secret organization with one singular mission. Protect those who can’t defend themselves from ruin.
Life becomes complicated when an impending Presidential visit to their town, Boggslake, throws them headlong into the world of the vampires and werewolves of the Vampire Guard. Very quickly they uncover and confront a werewolf terrorist organization known as the Qiguan.
Together they must thwart an assassination attempt on the open waters of Lake Superior while tracking a previously unknown biological weapon controlled by the Qiguan—a weapon which may very well mean death for one of them.
After Sellers left his office, Forge leaned back in his chair, pulled out his phone, and sent Blair a text. “Which do you like better, yellow gold, white gold or platinum?”
Blair’s text response was simply, “Huh?” His emotional response was similar. Thanks to their soulbond, even though they were separated by a little more than mile, they felt each other’s emotions almost to the point of mind reading.
Blair was amused. Forge was not.
“And what’s your ring size?” Forge picked up his coffee mug.
“For my finger or my cock? ’Cause if it’s for my cock, duh, extra-large!” Blair added a string of jumping emoticons at the end of the message.
Forge choked on the coffee and coughed. People outside his office turned and looked at him. “Went down wrong.” He thumped his chest with his fist and coughed again. He typed “FINGER” on his phone and hit send.
A second later Blair’s text came back with “Aww, you’re such a romantic. You wanna kiss me, you wanna marry me. Smooth talker.” Blair must have felt Forge’s annoyance since that message was followed with “I don’t know. Why?”
“Dinner with the president.”
Blair’s text read “Be nice.” While his shock washed over Forge.
Forge stuffed his phone back in his pocket. He liked platinum. Blair would have to deal with it. He swung his chair around and looked out the window. The president would be in Boggslake just before July Fourth, Independence Day. The man, his family and his security would likely be in the same room with Blair, who had amazing cyber-hacking skills, though he taught others how to protect against such things. Declan, who could pick every pocket in the room clean within minutes, and Lucas, who when he drank too much tended to let his inner wolf out.
Too bad vampires weren’t affected by alcohol. Forge could have used a shot and a beer—or five—about now. It had to be five o’clock somewhere in the world. He’d have to settle for another bagel and more coffee. He’d need it. Forge sighed as he took another glance out the window at the sky before pushing out of his chair and leaving the office. Was it too much to ask that the aliens show up to take over the world now? He heaved a sigh. There was nothing but a few wispy clouds and sunshine. Not an alien invasion in sight.
Mystery, action, chills, and thrills spiced with romance and desire. ELIZABETH NOBLE lives by the adage “I can’t not write.” She doesn’t remember a time when she didn’t make up stories and eventually she learned how to put words on a page. Those words turned into books and fan fiction that turned into a genuine love of M/M fiction. A part of every day is spent living in worlds she created that are filled with intrigue and espionage. She has a real love for a good mystery complete with murder and twisty plots as well as all things sci-fi, futuristic, and supernatural.
When she’s not chronicling the adventures of her many characters, Elizabeth is a veterinary nurse living in her native Cleveland, Ohio. She has three grown children and now happily shares her little, brick house with a spunky Cardigan Welsh Corgi and his sidekick, tabby cat. Elizabeth is a fan of baseball, basketball (go Cavs and Cleveland Baseball) and gardening. She can often be found working in her ‘outside office’ listening to classic rock and plotter her next novel waiting for it to be dark enough to gaze at the stars.
Elizabeth has received a number of amateur writing awards. Since being published, several of her novels have received Honorable Mentions in the Rainbow Awards. Jewel Cave was a runner-up in the Gay Mystery/Thriller category in the 2015 Rainbow Awards. Ringed Love was a winner in the Gay Fantasy Romance category of the 2016 Rainbow Awards.
Jeanne Marcella has stopped by the Land of Make Believe to celebrate her new MM/MMF dark-fantasy release . She explains a very unique way that mail is delivered in her world (you REALLY need to read it, you won’t be sorry.) And she is having a giveaway!
Welcome, Jeanne!
Jeanne Marcella has a new MM/MMF dark fantasy out: Through Rain and Missing Mantaurs. And there’s a giveaway!
Her past is postage due and centaurs are ready to collect.
Through Rain and Missing Mantaurs is a dark fantasy most daring and eccentric. A tale not for the faint of heart. Pony is a bipedal half-breed centaur with no desire to waste tears on a past she can’t remember. She’s busy enough with her mail routes and package deliveries, and of course, floundering through hot-cold love affairs with the high class courtesans Mardyth and Lullaby.
The mundane drudgery of her life shatters when Konstantine Bywater takes over as Lightfoot Delivery’s new boss. He asks questions she can’t possibly answer, and stirs up a tragic past better left dead and buried.
But running away is no longer an option. Not when Kon and his minions accuse Mardyth of an unspeakable crime. With her lover’s life at stake, Pony won’t stop until she uncovers not only the truth of Mardyth’s innocence, but the truth of the past as well.
The Curious Case of How Mail Works in My Fantasy World – by Jeanne Marcella
Ah, worldbuilding. Mail is no exception in a society. In my gritty dark fantasy, Through Rain and Missing Mantaurs, or TRAMM as I call it, the world of Nura is certainly different.
Got a nice big package to mail? Find yourself a mail company, make an appointment and interview them. If you like how they do things, start up an account. Go home with a bunch of stamps and permission notes. Slap those stickers on that box and abandon it on a shelf in your front yard. Deal done.
Or if you’re lazy, shove that box out on your mailing shelf with the shipping information and be billed by the first mail carrier who happens on by. (Employers often give nice bonuses to carriers for finding packages to ship.)
But Jeanne, you say, don’t packages get stolen?? Yeah, sure, there’s always a chance of that, but the chances are so low, it’s practically nil. Why? Well, two reasons. For one, it’s just the way things have always been done. The societies and cultures in my worlds aren’t perfect, but thievery isn’t much of a problem, especially in the confines of civilization. It’s just the nature of the beast. Those who are caught are folded into society through mentorships or work programs for the good of the community. A well-run community means more profits and prosperity. Jails, prisons, and police controllers are there for the more violent crimes and patrolling for dangerous Elementals, but I’m getting off topic.
That second reason? No one wants to get gutted and left on the street. You see, mail couriers, at least the civilian-run companies, are a collection of ex-bandits from outside the cities, ex-military, and those who’ve lived on the streets. Burn-outs and screw ups, nearly all of them. If a mail courier catches someone stealing mail meant for their company, you’re likely going to end up dead or gushing blood out in the street. That includes rival couriers horning in on another mail company’s established routes. And it’ll be your own fault. As Pony says in the novel, mail couriers are very protective of their routes and customers. It’s their livelihood after all. It’s not unusual at all to look out your window and see two mail couriers hissing and spitting at each other like alley cats, scrapping out on the street.
Civilian couriers see mail through from start to finish. That is, if mail is sent to another city, it’s delivered by a single person, all the way through the line.
There are also military mail couriers in my story universe, that run very similar to the post offices here in our world. Mail has always fascinated me, and it’s such a fun subject. I can’t wait to explore more of it beyond the Elemental Rain trilogy. Who knows, maybe Pony won’t be the only main character mail courier in town!
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Saddle-sweating, horse-humping, gods-cursed bastards! The rumors were true. Shit! Bad luck must be in love with me or something. Maybe it could give Mardyth lessons.
Arms pumping high and heart hammering in her parched throat, Pony pushed to reach her top speed. The rumble of centaur hooves behind her vibrated both earth and air. She absorbed those rumbling shock waves into her svelte, bipedal runner’s body. And knew her two human legs—versus their four equine ones—would not be enough.
Still, she would try.
The sweltering heat weighed heavy. Her ratty brown and tan courier’s tunic clung like a starving tick. Rocks and pebbles further split the threadbare soles of her worn-out boots as she pounded down the rutted road. She grimaced at the sweaty slap of calloused arches sliding around in rotted footwear that could fall apart any day now.
Pony squinted at the onslaught of bright blue sky. Her brain cooked in its own juices as the summer sun withered the forest corridor. Her brown hair slipped from its limp topknot; stray strands plastered her sunburned cheeks. It was almost too hot to breathe. Too dry to live. And the damn fools giving chase wanted to die of heatstroke right alongside her.
As it always did in situations like these, Callum’s unfavorable input surfaced to harass her. Stupid, gods-damned centaurs—worthless scraps of horsemeat to toss to the dogs. Her former guardian’s mantra, though crude and offensive, might hold slivers of truth. It was most certainly stupid to be running full-out in this blistering heat. At any other time, she might’ve been curious about this, her first ever centaur encounter.
Just to say she’d finally met one.
Give a lecture about overexertion in extreme weather.
Maybe engage in some harmless flirting.
To finally decide, once and for all, that Callum was right about them.
Or wrong.
But not when this chase proved that they were hunting for courier blood.
Any courier’s blood.
Keep running. Don’t look back.
She looked back.
Six tall shapes, the merging of man and equine. Hooves kicking up clouds of rising dust. The whip of long, flashing manes. The distance between them shrank with each passing second.
Her mail satchel, empty except for the meager bait of Escape Plan Number Two, bounced against her spine. Slung across her chest and anchored into the strap of her mailbag, a dozen small throwing blades awaited use. The large knife hanging at her hip, anchored at her thigh, allowed slight consolation.
Escape Plan Number One took the form of the few coins she couldn’t spare; the bits of metal jingled in her trouser pocket, muffled by a scrap of cloth.
Your job is to run, but hold strength in reserve. Callum’s voice echoed in the back of her mind. If cornered, kill without hesitation or remorse.
Okay. Good advice. She was good at running. That was all she ever did.
Pony crushed dry cracked lips between her teeth. Escape Plan Number One never failed. But would this tactic work on centaurs?
Wait. She had to revise that. Would Escape Plan Number One work on murderous, marauding centaurs who’d probably noticed she was a half-breed suffering through the last few days of her estrus?
If Callum were alive, he would’ve wagered against her.
Might as well give the plan a go, Horsemeat.
She sensed the distance closing between them. Imagined their hot breath blowing down the back of her neck. Their tall, bizarre forms hovering over her. Their hands tearing at her tunic to confirm the hidden tail braided and wrapped around her waist like a belt…
Pony shook off the terror. No time to panic.
Dipping into her trouser pocket, she pulled out several bronze skull coins and flung them over her shoulder. It was back to rummaging through garbage cans when she got home. The currency thudded along the highway and pinged off rocks. On her old southern routes, tossing money always worked with the undesirables skulking around looking for a mark.
The thundering sound of hooves sped up and deepened. Pony ground her teeth. All right, so they weren’t after money. Not typical highwaymen then. Why couldn’t they be greedy bastards like everyone else?
Escape Plan Number Two.
Reaching into the mailbag, Pony pulled out the four carrots she’d pilfered from the company stables. She glanced at the vegetables, shrugged, and took a bite out of one. Then she proceeded to fling the orange darlings over her shoulder in two-second intervals.
High-pitched squeals of disgust and indignation answered.
Oh well. It’d been worth the try. Maybe they weren’t all animal after all. Or maybe centaurs were fussy eaters. Maybe she should’ve grabbed a salt brick instead. Then she could’ve brained them with it.
Escape Plan Number Three then.
The road continued to bend, the thick forest jutting into her direct line of sight. She darted for the ferns and scrub brush. Towering pines blotted out some of the sun’s glare—for a few seconds she was running blind.
Two centaurs armed with longbows jumped out in front of her. The younger one took aim at her heart.
Horseshit! She was speedy, but not quick enough to outrun a flying projectile. Gulping, she dropped into a slide, feet first. Gravel tore open her calloused palms and ripped holes into the back of her trousers.
Great. Bleeding in several places, and now she had clothes to repair. “Arggh!” She slammed slick fists to the ground. “What’s wrong with you swag-bellied tail-waggers? You’d shoot one of your own?”
Author Bio
Jeanne Marcella writes dramatic, and often character driven fantasy fiction not for the faint of heart. Quests, adventure, danger, and the grit of living are foremost, but relationships and mild romance might also share the pages.
Granted unlimited access to books at a very early age via the library, she quickly acquired a fondness for creating her own stories through word and drawing. She was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Please welcome first time guests, Beryll and Osiris Brackhaus.
They have a new sci fi/space opera book out, Virasana Empire: Dr. Laurent Book 1: “The PV-3 Mutagen.” And there’s a giveaway!
Blurb:
As a history scholar and courier for the secretive Circle of Thales, Rene Laurent is a man of many talents – none of them lending themselves much to a life of adventure.
But when a chance meeting with a young, idealistic Belligra priest drags him into a wild quest to keep a dangerous mutagen off the streets of Floor, his curiosity gets the better of him. Between monsters both human and man-made, he realises that maybe fieldwork is more of his game than he had ever thought possible…
Written by Rainbow-Award-winning authors Beryll and Osiris Brackhaus, ‘The PV-3 Mutagen’ is a colourful non-romance sci-fi adventure set in the wildly diverse ‘Virasana Empire’, and the first novel of the ‘Doctor Laurent’ series.
Warnings: Not a romance. Harsh setting, but hopeful.
There were five of them. At least, five that Rene was aware of.
He had spotted the three following him when he took the escalator to the bottom floor of the mall. He had originally planned to take the tube train to Cherry Hills, but instead he turned into the access tunnel that led up to the street, trying to shake them off. Judging by the two who were now cutting him off just ahead, that had been a bad idea. The tunnel they were in was sufficiently removed from the cheap glitz of the mall to be only dimly lit, and the only other person here was a woman pushing a shopping cart, purposefully hurrying away from the developing confrontation.
A quick look around showed Rene there weren’t any convenient emergency doors he could slip through, either. He was in trouble.
At least, they didn’t seem to be professional mercenaries, just some gangers, though they moved with too much purpose to be out simply to mug him. And no ganger deserving of their colours would mug a scruffy street rat like him, anyway. To them, he had to look like he didn’t have anything worth the trouble, as much a carefully crafted facade as laziness – he liked his comfortable rags a lot, thank you very much. So what did these particular thugs want from him?
And more importantly, how to get rid of them?
He was well aware that he didn’t stand a chance against them in a fight. Combat skills were at the bottom of the list of things he was interested in. Also, the mall was too cheap to have any sort of camera surveillance. It didn’t even have security guards though Rene doubted any would have come running if they had existed. He wasn’t a valued customer, and as long as the gangers didn’t make too much of a mess, no one would care.
The best course of action seemed to be to play the helpless victim and let them rough him up a little. It wasn’t like they would manage to inflict any lasting damage, anyway.
He had come to that conclusion when one of the thugs, whom Rene mentally labelled their ‘leader’, shoved him against the wall.
Rene turned to face them, clutching the stack of folders he was carrying to his chest protectively, trying to present a credible picture of being scared. The other thugs had formed a semicircle around him and their boss. Judging by the nasty grins of his ambushers, it wasn’t very hard to fool them.
“Gimme that,” the leader snarled and grabbed the folders.
They held the weekly update on the topside situation in this sector of Floor. Nothing too important, and certainly not irreplaceable. Rene had picked them up a few minutes ago at the office of the info broker the Circle of Thales was currently employing. He congratulated himself on not yet having picked up the datacrystal with the off-planet reports from the Beetle Shack under Cherry Hills. He had planned to do that on the way back down before having a lunch of lava beetle while he was there.
He let go of the folders with a strangled whine and cowered.
“Hank’s Beehive is off-limits,” the leader sneered, “didn’t you get the memo? He is about to shut down.”
So that was what this was all about. The info broker Rene had just visited had been in a turf war with another info broker two malls down the street for a while, but apparently, things were heating up. Not something he cared to get involved in even though Hank was a decent guy. Well, make that a decent guy for Floor.
“Can’t have that idiot handing out charity, can we? Not the Floorian thing to do, eh?” The leader clearly wasn’t expecting an answer as he rammed his fist into Rene’s stomach.
The punch drove the air out of his lungs and hurt like a bitch. Or rather, it hurt for the few seconds it took his body to repair the damage. Rene crumpled to the ground in a heap. If he looked sufficiently hurt, they would hopefully leave him alone quickly. And not search him. If they tried to take his phone, he would have to do something, though he admittedly had no idea what.
“You understand me, little shit? You stay away from now on!”
“Hey! Stop that!”
A voice ringing out loud and clear in the narrow tunnel rudely interrupted the leader’s little speech.
Rene glanced up through his long hair hanging in his face and did a double-take. The tunnel leading back towards the mall was almost filled out by a tall figure in heavy, plate armour, wielding both a broadsword and a fucking tower shield so large he could completely hide behind it. The symbol on his surcoat and shield was unmistakable – Temple Belligra, the Fist of the Church. It was about the last faction Rene wanted to have get involved in this minor scuffle.
Priests were infamous for poking their noses where they didn’t belong. Luckily, they were rare on Floor. Yes, they had a few Verata, but they mostly remained inside their Fort Phosphoros Monastery. The occasional Jansahar only paid attention to the local flock who worshipped at the small shrines they kept all over the planet. Both groups were easy enough to evade for someone who didn’t need supernaturally talented people scanning them and finding out they were an unregistered psion.
But seriously, a Belligra? There were no faithful in need of protection here on Floor, mostly because there were no faithful here. Floor prided itself with being the most secular planet of the empire, and it was a reputation hard-won.
But apparently, this particular Belligra was set on rescuing him.
Excerpt 2 – Confrontation
Riccardo was prowling towards them, now, with his sword drawn, cutting quite the figure in his bulky armour. He looked like he might be able to hack the probably armoured limousines to pieces. Rene followed him at a safe distance.
The driver of the front limousine was standing next to the access console of the garage’s roller gate. He must have noticed Riccardo already, because he was staring straight at him, like a rabbit frozen in an oncoming car’s headlights.
“What are you waiting for?” An angry voice came from the open backseat window of his limousine. “Open the fucking gate and get us out of here!”
“You will not touch that console,” Riccardo commanded, his voice booming in the harsh acoustics of the garage. “Back away from the glider, get on your knees, and fold your hands behind your head.”
Riccardo was halfway across the garage from the gliders, so the driver would have had time to press the button to open the gate and hide in his armoured vehicle. Instead, he hectically looked back and forth between the approaching Belligra and the open window behind which his boss must be. He took a tentative step away from the console.
“Don’t you dare!” the voice from inside the limousine yelled, now even angrier. “I won’t just fire you, I’ll make sure you never find a job on all of Floor again, you ungrateful son of a bitch!”
Rene was beginning to see why everyone they had met so far hadn’t shown a shred of loyalty towards Mr Gutierrez, assuming that was him. The driver came to the same decision as his expression shifted from insecurity to grim resolve. He firmly stepped away from the console and the glider, got on his knees demonstratively facing away from both and folded his hands behind his head.
“Claude! Claude, you do it!” the man in the limousine screamed, “You drive the limousine!”
“Mr Gutierrez, I am not licensed to…” another shaky voice, also inside the limousine, answered.
“I don’t care! We have to…”
He was cut short as Riccardo arrived at the limousine, reached through the rear window and – judging from the choked yell – grabbed the man inside by the throat and shook him none too gently. “You’re not going anywhere!” Riccardo snarled, “You will face your crimes like an adult. You have sinned and God has sent me to exact punishment!”
Not exactly how Rene would have phrased it, but certainly impressive. If this was the man in charge, he deserved everything Riccardo was going to do to him.
The backseat window of the second limousine whirred down and a haggard woman in her fifties looked out. She was wearing her blonde bleached hair messily piled on top of her head and an expression of haunted horror on her face. “I confess!” she proclaimed loudly, “I confess everything. We have done wrong! All of us! This whole project is…”
“Shut up, Gabriella!” another female voice from inside her limousine interrupted her, “Shut the fuck up, you’re burying all of us!”
“You don’t understand!” Gabriella turned back to her colleague, “Don’t you see it? God has sent…”
“God has better things to do than…”
“Silence!” Riccardo’s thunderous voice echoed in the garage, followed by exactly that. “Everyone step out of the gliders,” Riccardo ordered at a much lower volume. “Do not resist or I swear by God, I will cut in half anyone who does.”
Gabriella yanked open the door of her glider and scrambled out so quickly, she stumbled and lost her footing, ending up on her knees. She quickly decided that it was a great position to be in and copied the driver of the first limousine, folding her hands behind her head. She was wearing a long, green lab coat. The technician by the elevator had mentioned Mr Gutierrez being in the company of scientists, so Rene guessed she was one of those. Her name tag identified her as Dr Gabriella Sanchez.
She was followed more slowly by another woman, this one in her early thirties, with perfectly coiffed, red locks, wearing too much makeup on her admittedly pretty face, and the same green lab coat. Her name tag said Dr Jada Shekyim. She looked down at Gabriella disdainfully and remained standing, studying Riccardo with an aloof expression. The limousine’s driver exited as well and calmly joined his colleague on the floor. The last one to emerge was another scientist in a lab coat, a man with obvious cybernetic enhancements to his left eye, evidenced by metal elegantly merged to skin around it and several dataports on the same side of his shaved skull. His name was Dr Silas Bisgaard. He looked mostly bored of the whole episode.
The passengers of the first limousine weren’t as cooperative. Rene had no clear view of what was going on inside, but from the sound of it there was a scuffle going on, with Riccardo holding on to – probably – Mr Gutierrez.
Then the other passenger door opened and a young man spilled out, scrambling away from the car hurriedly. Early twenties, cheap suit in last season’s style, a mop of tousled, brown hair, glasses clutched in one hand. Claude, Rene guessed, and by the look of him, Mr Gutierrez’s personal assistant. That finally stopped the struggling inside the limousine.
“Let go of me, you brute,” Mr Gutierrez grunted.
“Are you ready to obey?” Riccardo asked.
“I comply under duress.”
Why he thought that would mean anything to Riccardo, Rene had no idea. But it certainly sounded like company speak. Riccardo withdrew his hand and the door opened. Mr Gutierrez stepped out in as dignified a manner as he could under the circumstances and made a show of straightening his tailored designer suit. Around forty, carefully groomed from his slick black hair, over his thin moustache, down to his shiny, black shoes, probably made from real leather. Everything about him screamed upper management position. Not rich or powerful enough to get away with wearing whatever eccentric shit he pleased, but with enough disposable income to show off.
He glared first at Riccardo, then at the drivers, the scientists, Rene, and finally at Claude, who was coming around the glider to where Riccardo could see him.
Claude shrank from the baleful glare of his boss, but he was the only one to react.
“Mr Gutierrez,” Riccardo addressed him coldly, “you and your company have committed severe sins against the order God has given our universe by messing with his designs in ways that endanger innocents and pose incalculable risk to humanity as a whole.”
Mr Gutierrez scoffed at the accusation, but Riccardo’s phrasing gave Rene an idea. He pulled out his phone for some quick research.
“You have broken into our building and are threatening me and my employees with violence,” Gutierrez wasn’t backing down. At least, he was doing it from a reasonably safe distance and not getting right into Riccardo’s face. “I’m going to sue you and your Church! You will pay for this…”
“A Belligra can not be charged with forced entry, property damage, assault or manslaughter crimes when on a mission for the Temple,” Riccardo cited in turn. “I have every right to be here.”
“What? A thug like you has no right to lay a finger on me!”
Riccardo leaned in close, threatening Gutierrez with his sheer physical presence. “Go ahead. Give me a reason,” he quoted Lady Rage’s catch phrase when she was dealing with stubborn officials.
Gutierrez had obviously seen a few Lady Rage movies too, judging from the way he instantly recoiled.
“I believe he is right, Mr Gutierrez. Temple Belligra has special rights,” Claude supplied helpfully.
“That’s ludicrous!”
“If you think that is ludicrous you will like this even less,” Rene chimed in, having finally found what he had been looking for. “Imperial Decree #354.223 states that the Church, in their sacred mission, is exempt from several prosecutions, citing that, among others, Temple Belligra cannot be charged with anything concerning the actus reus of manslaughter, assault, property damage, forced entry and trespassing. Also, and I think this might be of more relevance to the matter at hand, as stated in the bannbulle ‘De sacris separatio Anima et Materia‘, the Church has banned all experimentation touching in any way the supernatural abilities of any creature, except for cases explicitly waived after church examination.“
Everyone was staring at Rene as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head, like he was now the most dangerous thing in the room, not Riccardo.
“That’s from the Fort Phosphoros netsite, by the way,” Rene added gleeful.
“Well, shit, we’re fucked,” Dr Bilsgaard commented dryly.
“Why didn’t the legal department check this beforehand?” Dr Shekyim turned on Mr Gutierrez. “You’re telling me I have invested months in this project to have it yanked from under my ass by some robed freaks?”
“I told you what we were doing was wrong,” Dr Sanchez whimpered from the floor, “That we shouldn’t mess with…”
“You scared, little bitch! What I have accomplished is unparalleled. Once we moved to human applications we could have…”
“Silence!” Riccardo bellowed again.
Author Bio
We are Beryll and Osiris Brackhaus, a couple currently living our happily ever after in the very heart of Germany, under the stern but loving surveillance of our cat.
Both of us are voracious but picky readers, we love telling stories and drinking tea, good food and the occasional violent movie. Together, we write novels of adventure and romance, hoping to share a little of our happiness with our readers.
An artist by heart, Beryll was writing stories even before she knew what letters were. As easily inspired as she is frustrated, her own work is never good enough (in her eyes). A perfectionist in the best and worst sense of the word at the same time and the driving creative force of our duo.
An entertainer and craftsman in his approach to writing, Osiris is the down-to-earth, practical part of our duo. Broadly interested in almost every subject and skill, with a sunny mood and caring personality, he strives to bring the human nature into focus of each of his stories.
Colin D. Vaughn has stopped by the Land of Make Believe for a quick chat plus a giveaway to celebrate his new release, Expression: Telepaths Rising. Welcome, Colin!
Exclusive Interview
AQG: Would you visit the future or the past?
CDV: As a writer of science fiction I know I’m probably supposed to pick the future, but I think I would visit the past. Specifically, I’d probably go to the Roman Empire during the Pax Romana. I’ve always had a strong interest in the time period and even studied Classics in high school.
This interest is reflected in my book by the questions that try to wrestle with. What does it mean to be a citizen? What’s good government? What’s it like to live in a world where you feel like anything is possible?
Also, classism and elitism are important themes to my story. What social stratum would a telepathic segment of the population occupy? While it’s easy to imagine them as an elite, and they are to a significant extent in the first book, I also wanted to show an Earth where that’s not universal, accepted or enduring. Even having a significant advantage over others is not necessarily enough to keep one from being relegated to an oppressed class.
Tying that back to history and the Roman Empire, it’s informed my writing with respect to issues of class. It’s allowed me to complicate things in a way that I find more interesting.
AQG: Complicate things how?
CDV: Well, I’d read recently that archaeological finds has changed the way some historians think of slavery and class in the Roman Empire. There seems to be evidence that movement was a lot more fluid and complex than previously believed. A person of that era might reasonably aspire to a full citizenship no matter how “low” their origins. They might have dreamed (however realistically) of a citizenship rooted not in race or pedigree but in the adoption of a way of life. Or, in a darker way, what would society be like in a place where one slave could own another slave?
For me, as a Black American, that’s a far more interesting view of society and oppression than the American experience which was far more rigid. In other words, for my story, if telepaths are oppressed somewhere, how might that look if it wasn’t a formal, legalized system – less America or South Africa and more Roman. What if it was a system based on the vagaries of individual treatment and local mores? And how might individuals act in a world where anything goes and anything is possible, for good or ill?
Colin D. Vaughn has a new queer multi-racial sci fi book out: “Expression: Telepaths Rising.” And there’s a giveaway!
It’s the year 2113. Telepaths are real. They’re exalted. Feared. Hunters. Hunted. Kingmakers and slaves. With his expression, Ken is catapulted into the ranks of a tiny elite. With immense telepathic potential, he will have to learn how to use his powers and whom to trust. And quickly. Because there are enemies, both within and without, and they’re not going to wait.
Tarrington placed his datapad on the table. “This begins the psychic assessment of Kenneth Jared Kawashima. Nigel Tarrington, Authorized Facilitator of the Ministry of Citizen Services and Mauricio Vargas, an Authorized MCS Liaison from the Ministry of Psychic Affairs, presiding. Also in attendance are the subject’s father, Takahiro Kawashima; mother, Claire Alma Reed; and sister of minor age, Stephanie Fusako Kawashima.”
Tarrington turned to me: “Kenneth, pursuant to the Telepath Registration Act, as a suspected telepath you are required to undergo psychic assessment. You may not decline, delay or obstruct this hearing in any way. You may, however, have the presence of counsel at this proceeding. If you do not have one available to attend within 24 hours, one will be provided to you by the Ministry. Please touch the datapad and state whether you request or waive counsel.”
All of this was rather pro forma – I was surrounded by my family and it wasn’t as if a lawyer could stop or save me from this process. Not that I wanted it to stop. I touched the pad. “I waive counsel.”
The datapad chirped: “Identity confirmed. Waiver of counsel acknowledged.”
Tarrington turned to my parents. “Please touch the datapad to confirm that you have no objection to this proceeding, its recordation, or your son’s waiver of counsel.”
My parents touched the pad and it chirped: “Identities confirmed. Acknowledgements confirmed.”
Tarrington smiled, “Well, now that all that fussy business is complete. I will turn things over to Mr. Vargas.”
Vargas smiled at me, and then, clear as a bell in my head, I heard him sing a jaunty tune: I am the very model of a modern major general. I am the very model of a modern major general.
I laughed and asked him, “So you’re a general, eh?”
He smiled: No, more like a lowly foot soldier, little brother. Ask me a question. In your head – look into my eyes and say the words of your question one at a time. Remember, don’t speak.
I looked him straight in the eyes and thought: Where. Are. You. From?
Honduras. Suddenly I could see a wide stretch of forest, leading to deeply forested mountains, their tops veiled in low-lying clouds. Though I knew I was still crouched on the floor of our living room, I cool also feel moist spongy earth under my feet, a cool breeze across my cheek. This is my home. Well, actually, my hometown is the metropolis of Gracias a Dios, but the rainforests on the outskirts are what I think of as “home.”
For a moment, I almost felt like it was my home, too. I, who had only ever left Tennessee for our family’s annual trip to the Japan Territory, almost ached to return and hike those forests. Gracias a Dios. Thank you.
It wasn’t until Vargas smiled and said aloud: “My pleasure” that I realized that I had spoken to him mind-to-mind again, but in a natural, almost instinctual, way.
Was this what it meant to be a telepath? This incredible sharing, this intimacy? I felt as if Vargas – no, Mauricio– was some long-lost friend. Could he sense the same about me? I was just about to ask him for more when Tarrington clapped his hands once and said, “I take it that it was a success? He’s a true expressive?” I came to and looked around. My family was just staring at me. At me and Mauricio.
Mauricio nodded, then reached and touched the datapad: “Confirmed that subject’s telepathic gene has expressed, as verified through the receipt and transmission of audio, visual and tactile stimuli between subject and myself.”
Tarrington said: “Excellent! Now, Ken… I may call you ‘Ken,’ yes? . . . You understand that you will be more fully and properly assessed by the Psych Ministry at a later point?” I nodded. He then continued, “However, for myMinistry’s purposes an initial, somewhat rough assessment is necessary. Mr. Vargas will perform this. I am sorry for any discomfort.”
Mauricio then said aloud: “Ken, I will now force myself onto you” – at my sister’s gasp, he addressed everyone and continued – “in a very safe and controlled way, I assure you all. Though unpleasant, I will not harm Ken, I promise you.” Then turning to me: “Ken, what you must do is push me away. Pretend there’s a door that you’re trying to push closed. Or pretend there’s a pot on a heating unit bubbling over that you need to slam a lid onto. Or think of it however you think right – trust your instincts. OK, here goes.”
Then, before I could even begin to ponder what Mauricio was getting at, I saw his green light brighten and felt him touch me as he did before, but somehow both heavier and louder than before. Where before I felt like I was sharing with Mauricio, walking in his shoes, I now felt like he was walking on me. Instead of beautiful forests, I saw a man wielding a leather strap. The man – Father! – started hitting me over and over with the strap, shouting. It hurt! God, had this really happened to Mauricio? Or was this all part of the test? I couldn’t imagine my own gentle father or mother (however strict) ever acting so. But – ow! – the bastard kept hitting me! And I felt so angry, that he was hitting me, that he might possibly once have beaten my friend this way. I jumped up and yanked the strap from him. I then pushed him and lashed the strap across his face. He started to back away and I lunged after him hitting him again and again with the strap…”
Author Bio
Colin is a Midwesterner by birth who lives in Washington, D.C. with his husband. Lawyer by day and aspiring writer by night (and lunch break). Since discovering Asimov and Tolkien as a child, he’s had a lifelong love of science-fiction and fantasy. And he has enjoyed the explosion of wonderful stories featuring fellow LGBT and people of color.
But the more he read, the more he realized that he had his own tales he wanted to tell. And themes he wanted to explore – power and temptation, social progress, the fall of civilizations, ways to love, futurism, beloved community, and many more.
Anthony Dobransky stopped by the Land of Make Believe for a chat on writing craft and to celebrate his new release, The Demon in Business Class. Welcome, Anthony!
Interview
AQG: When did you know you wanted to write, and when did you discover that you were good at it?
AD: I first said it aloud to other people when I was 15, but I could already see my connection to it around age 11 or 12. Not that I was some literary event! I wrote dark, angsty stuff, of course, what you expect from a teen who reads a lot of dark fantasy. Just, I did it well enough to keep doing it, a good feedback loop. My friends, my teachers and my mother were very encouraging. I even wrote about being a writer in a college application essay. Since I got accepted into that college, I guess it worked!
AQG: Do you ever base your characters on real people? If so, what are the pitfalls you’ve run into doing so?
AD: I’ve used my friends in mental casting, in minor characters, more for their look or style — as if I was making an indie movie with them. One secondary character in The Demon in Business Class who is based on a real person is Walt, who is based on me! Or really, what I might have become in another life, if I never took writing as seriously as I did.
I don’t know about pitfalls, exactly, but I was conscious that Walt, however he began, had to grow his own way in the novel. He does things I would never do. If you’re going to base a character on a real person, be true to the character. Let them go their own way. Let them surprise you.
AQG: Have you ever taken a trip to research a story? Tell me about it.
AD: Three places I went specifically for The Demon in Business Class were Pittsburgh, Detroit, and Aberdeen, Scotland. Pittsburgh and Detroit were meant as research trips. I knocked around them for three days each, walking and riding buses in Pittsburgh, walking and driving Detroit. I visited city planning offices, talked with locals about how the cities had changed during what would have been my character’s time there. Mostly it was aimless, just to see and learn.
Once Scotch whisky became a thing for Gabriel, I wanted a locale in Scotland. As it happened, I had plans to go to Prague for a wedding, so I added a week in Scotland to the return trip. A woman I met in an Edinburgh pub told me about the hotel in Craigellachie, with its amazing bar of thousands of whiskies, so I rented a car and drove there. I stayed in Aberdeen, where, like my characters, I was disappointed with the hotel I picked. Together those created kind of an arc.
AQG: What is your writing Kryptonite?
AD: Brand names. Can’t stand them. If a writer tosses in brand names as a shorthand to convey wealth, glamour, expertise, anything really — in Ray-Ban glasses, looking at a gold Rolex watch, pushing Manolo Blahniks hard on the pedal of a Corvette Stingray — I just shut down. I’m like that character in William Gibson’s Pattern Recognition who has allergic reactions to the Michelin Man. I can forgive it if it’s done with a point, like the yuppie totems in American Psycho. Using brand names to say something the writer doesn’t actually say… it leaves a bad taste.
AQG: If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?
AD: People are not going to help you or take you seriously until you reach a certain level of success, or at least completion. You need to do it for yourself and for your vision. Expect indifference or contempt, even from those closest to you. Sorry! I’d like to believe they mean well, all those people who are negative about your dreams, and maybe they think they do mean well. But, to hell with them, expect nothing from them, they are messing with you, they are psychic farts in your elevator.
Seek out other writers, seek out readers of what you want to write, even if it’s not an exact match, even if it seems a huge effort. They are your only colleagues. Everyone else will class you as a wannabe until you actually are what you want to be. Now, get back to work.
AQG: What are you working on now, and when can we expect it?
I’m finishing up my new novel, The White Lake. It’s an Earth-based science-fiction, set in a future Budapest destroyed in a war, where the toxic waste has become its own very valuable industry. As I mentioned, it came in a dream, and it’s become a wild tale of Old World decadence, artificial intelligence, and sports media — like a cross between The Grand Budapest Hotel and Rollerball. Look for it next year!
She can speak all languages. He can smell evil intent.
They’re enemies. They crave each other.
With secret magic, international settings, a conspiracy plot, and star-crossed lovers, The Demon in Business Class is a stylish modern fantasy spanning continents and genres.
A shady executive hires Zarabeth Battrie to help start the next global war, giving her a demon that speaks all languages. But other people know more about her job than she does…
A resolute investigator recruits Gabriel Archer to use his emerging psychic powers, for a visionary leader who turns others from evil. As his senses develop, his doubts grow…
When the two meet by chance in Scotland, passion becomes fragile love, until the demon’s betrayal drives Gabriel away. Before Zarabeth’s revenge destroys the visionary’s plan, Gabriel must stop her — for both to survive, neither can win.
Fans of Jeff VanderMeer, David Mitchell and Michel Faber will love this cross-genre novel with crisp literary style. The Demon in Business Class is an international story of fantasy, intrigue, and love, on the uneasy ground where the human meets the divine.
YOUR NEXT READ IS NOW BOARDING
“If William Gibson wrote paranormal …. weaves the dark worlds of the occult and big business into an intoxicating tale.” – D. J. Butler, author of Witchy Eye
“Creative spark? Anthony Dobranski ignites a creative bonfire …A masterwork of invention.” – Mary Kay Zuravleff, author of Man Alive!
“A swank cocktail of international intrigue, steeped in the supernatural, mixed with literary flair …. so sleek it flies off the page.” – Zach Powers, author of First Cosmic Velocity
Warnings: FOR ADULTS! Drugs, fistfights, vigorous sex, murder, an orgy (witnessed), a cult, and a (told not shown) history of child sexual abuse.
In the fake-oak-paneled conference room, Zarabeth Battrie found a dozen others standing. All looked wilted and worn, with bunched shirts and bowing ankles. The plastic tables were gone, the plastic chairs stacked in the corner. More people arrived but no one unstacked the chairs. A herd instinct, Zarabeth decided, to keep a clear path for fleeing.
A natty beige man in a crisp blue plaid suit came in, pushing a low gray plastic cart with stacks of documents. If the standing people surprised him, he didn’t show it. With practiced ease he lowered the room’s screen, plugged in his powerstrip. Someone passed the documents around but no one spoke. In the silence, Zarabeth felt anxieties around her, about money, status, children, groping her like fevered predictable hands. Too intimate, these people’s worries in her skin when she didn’t know their names, or want to. She shook them off, pushed through to the front so as not to stare at men’s backs all meeting.
Projector light bleached the natty man while he talked through slides of sunsets and bullet points, with the real news a seeming afterthought. Her office and two others were merging with Optimized Deployments, in Boston. A great move. Efficiency for all. The animated org-chart realigned over and over, three squares gone and Optimized’s no bigger. Reorganized like a stomach does food.
People asked tired questions, their hot worry now clammy hope. The natty man smiled no matter what he said. Yes, redundancies. Jobs would move, details to work out. All would be well and better.
He left to spread his joy. The room lights rose.
Zarabeth’s boss, Aleksei Medev, slouched in the corner like someone had whacked his head with lumber. His unshaven olive skin hung gray and limp. With all eyes on him, he straightened.
“A very challenging time,” he said. “We’re sending reports to justify — to guide the transition. Client work is secondary.”
Zarabeth was in no hurry to fill out Aleksei’s useless reports. Nothing she had done in the last two months justified keeping her employed, she knew that. She went out the broken fire exit to a stand of pine trees behind the parking lot. She lit a cigarette, paced in the shade.
Once, Zarabeth Battrie had traveled the country as an Inspiration Manager, connecting the best people at Straightforward Consulting to an in-house knowledge network. She had good instincts which managers to flatter, which to cow, which to sneak past. It surprised her how much she understood when she finally got her quarry to talk their special arcana, over morning jogs, lobster lunches, steak dinners, midnight hookahs with shots of tequila. Later, on airplanes, she’d think of those and other conversations, watching the pieces fit together in this strange unity and balloon, her world growing with a drug-like jolt. To let her do that, week in week out — taking off, landing, on the move, on her feet — had been the greatest praise.
On Valentine’s Day, it had evaporated without explanation. Zarabeth had been reassigned to Reston, in the Virginia suburbs, to do public-relations grunt-work for industry trade groups. Aleksei Medev, still shiny then, had put his feet on her new desk and spun a great tale, core knowledge toward a turnkey marketing solution, select team deep study. At least she got an office with a door.
Zarabeth had visited Boston twice in her old job. Optimized had smart people and kept them by being greedy. They would suck the money from her division like marrow from bone. Everyone fired, no matter how they danced.
Doubt ate through her like some parasite come to lay its eggs. She pinched the cigarette’s cherry to burn it off with pain. Six years at this firm would not end this week.
#
Zarabeth sublet a furnished apartment in Foggy Bottom, facing west and the Potomac River. She had chosen it for the balcony view and the location near the highway, but she didn’t like the place much. The heavy dark furniture and metallic abstract art looked good at night, but menacing in morning shadow and grim in afternoon sun. Some days Zarabeth fantasized trashing it, taking a sledgehammer to the whole gloomy aquarium. This was a good day for that.
But Missy Devereaux was there, watching TV, in new red hair, her dirty bare feet on the coffee table.
“Hey, sugar,” Missy said, in her perky Kentucky accent. “Want some wine?”
“Get your bow legs off my table,” Zarabeth said. “When did you go ginger?”
“Do you love it?” Missy muted the sound. “I love it. Gramma hates it. Do you love it?”
A year ago, Missy Devereaux had been a Straightforward legislative liaison, frost-blonde hair and pricey suits, working her congressman daddy’s contact list. Now on the ground floor of Missy’s Georgetown mansion, her grandmother died slowly of bone cancer. Missy came to Zarabeth’s place as a retreat, a chance to smoke without blowing up the oxygen tanks. In return Missy watered the plants and filled the wine rack. It was a good arrangement, most days.
“It’s great.” Zarabeth went to her bedroom. She wiped off her makeup, washed her face with cold water. Her copper skin looked flushed. Small zits on her forehead. Twenty-seven, and she still broke out. She turned from the mirror so as not to smash it.
Missy came with a glass of white. “Three hours ’til the nurse leaves. You want dinner?”
Zarabeth shook with fury. “I so don’t deserve this.”
“I know, sugar-pea. I know.”
“The fuck you know, witch?”
Missy’s eyes flashed, from blue to bright green. Like the unlocking of a cage.
Zarabeth backed down. She checked herself by punching her palm repeatedly. “Fuck me! Fucking fuck.”
“You just relax,” Missy said. Maybe to herself too. Her eyes blue again, at least. She pulled a joint from behind her ear. “Drink and smoke. I’m ordering food. Lamb kebab with fries, right?” She closed the door.
Author Bio
Anthony Dobranski is a native of Washington DC. He studied English Literature at Yale and made his first career working internationally for AOL. His first novel is the cross-genre modern fantasy The Demon in Business Class. He also created Business Class Tarot, a modern Tarot deck inspired by his novel. He is a member of SFWA, and serves on the board of The Inner Loop, a Washington DC live-reading series. He lives in Washington now with his family. He loves to ski.
Eric Alan Westfall has a new queer fairy tale out: Prince Ivan, “A. Wolfe & A Firebird.” And there’s a giveaway!
Dear Reader,
What do you get when you combine a greedy Great Tsar, his two cheating, bullying older sons, his youngest esser (shh! no saying that aloud) son, stolen gold apples, a Firebird quest, A. Wolfe who has the power t’assume a pleasing shape, a magickal sandstorm, as well as two bands and a full Symphony of Gipsumies?
A rollicking, roisterous Russian Fairy Tale, with vigorous esser activities in tents, halls, bedrooms and alcoves, with and without the assistance of PSTs. Plus princely parades, a duel over Gus, new lyrics to an old drinking song, and the possibility of bits of blood, gobs of gore or moments of mayhem. As required by CORA (the Code of RFT Authors), should these occur, your author will give you timely warning.
Ah. Still not ready to part with your kopek-equivalent? Consider the fun you’ll have reading chapters like:
“To Kvetch, Or Not To Kvetch? A Reader’s Choice”
“Ivan Has A Close Encounter Of The F-Word Kind”
“Second Direction Questers vs. The Caliph’s Sayer Of Sooths”
“Will Sasha Succeed In Seducing Prince Ivan?”
“Bad Prince Ivan! No Touch Cage!”
“A Travel Pause For Gratuitous Sex In The Tent—Which Does Not Advance The Plot—At The Insistence Of The Characters”
“A Necessary Interlude To Consider The Age-Old Questing Question: What The [Expletive Of Your Choice, Dear Reader] Do We Do Next?”
If you buy it and try it, you’ll like it, or so says your most talen…er…humble author.
p.s. If Karrie Jax and I have covered you and blurbed you to buy, look for “Dear Reader, Along The Way, Did You Happen To See The Allusion To Olivier?” in the TOC. It’s a spot-the-allusions chance at gift cards of $25, $15, or $10.
166,000 words of story fun and frolic, plus a 2160-word teaser from another MM fairytale: The Tinderbox.
Anatol had no plan for preventing more apple-depredations, though he had the morning to think of one, and the afternoon to pull the pieces together, before implementing it at nightfall.
He made an Imperial choice. Stealing an idea was far easier than creating one. He would do Vlad’s plan, only right. Without flasks. Even if Father hadn’t noticed the faint flask clink-clank, Anatol had. And the Vlad-servant on Anatol’s payroll later confirmed both four and Moskvaboya.
By late afternoon, Anatol had supervised the servants in setting out a triple row of lanterns, with all the supplies necessary for three re-lightings. Which is to say, he watched them figure out how many were needed for the three around-the-tree circles, far enough out there was no risk of the tree catching fire. Plus figuring the right distance between the circles, so when one was bending, lifting, lighting, and setting down again for the middle circle, one didn’t get one’s bottom burned by the next circle out or in.
It never occurred to the servants—perhaps it never occurred to them—to base their distances on the amount of space taken up by a big-boned middle prince, as opposed to basing distances on underfed, overworked, short, skinny servants like themselves.
Ha! So there, Vlad! was a thought which might have galloped across Anatol’s mind, as he examined the lay-out immediately after all the lanterns in each of the tree-centered circles were lit. Despite having watched all those servants, doing all the work, Anatol was confident he could repeat their efforts one or two times, depending on how long the lanterns lasted, by himself. The work would keep him awake, aware, and apple-alert.
No apples would be taken while he was watching!
When Anatol woke the next morning, slumped against the trunk, he realized an apple-watching truth. A body more used to acceptable aristocratic and/or Imperial activities—including, but not limited to, wining, dining, whoring, wagering, dancing, fencing, fisticuffs, riding, racing, et cetera, plus the occasional brawl with his older brother—wasn’t up to the strain of doing all the work required for lighting and re-lighting, so many, many, many lanterns, all on its own.
Like his brother before him, four apples were missing. Like his brother, he was asleep during the red-gold-white flashes, the fluttering and the flapping. Like his brother, he was upright and fake-alert when the Great Tsar, Vlad and Ivan arrived. Anatol followed in his brother’s mouth-steps, lying with exquisite believability, and head-down humility, about having stayed awake all night.
The Great Tsar did not take it well, but not having made a spectacle of Vlad, he couldn’t very well do it to Anatol.
“Your turn, Ivan,” the Great Tsar said. His face and tone said he had no expectation of a different result from an Ivan-watch, not when the boy’s bigger, better, brighter, stronger, older brothers, had done their duty by staying awake all night and still failed. In fact, he suspected his youngest would soon fall asleep, and since he was as honest and truthful as Vlad and Anatol, Ivan would admit his fault.
And perhaps give the Great Tsar a reason to vent some of the rage over lost apples.
“Sire,” Ivan said with a deep and respectful bow, before walking away.
An authorial note of some pertinence for thaose impertinent enough to whine, whinge, or under-breath mutter or murmur about the shortness of certain things.
No, not those things. Those things, and the shortness or longness thereof, have not yet been fully, as it were, introduced in our tale, aside from the brief references above.
Thus: yes, this is a short chapter, but if you’re really interested in a lengthy description of Anatol doing his own walking, bending, et cetera, and other tree-watching activities, the author respectfully suggests the following:
1. Find a Song Mage despite being on a World Beside with no magick.
2. Mortgage all you own, or sell your soul to whatever demon desires it, to meet the Mage’s price.
3. Turn all your money and/or cash equivalents over to the Song Mage and have him Sing the Door to Prince Ivan’s World Beside all the way open.
4. Step through quickly.
5. Find me, somewhere in a strange, strange, really strange land with no one to help you grok anything.
6. Ask me politely to provide you with the longer version of this chapter.
7. Accept what happens thereafter.
Just sayin’, as someone sometimes says in your World Beside.
Author Bio
Eric is an American Midwesterner, and as Lady Glenhaven might say, “He’s old enough to have sailed with Noah.” In the real world he writes for a living, with those who would claim what he writes is fiction. His partner of thirty years—who died unexpectedly in 1995—enthusiastically encouraged him to try to get his writing published (mostly poetry back then, plus some short stories), but he didn’t have the guts to do so until 2013. At this point he’s not sure which was officially first, The Song, or Like a Mountain, Waiting.
Starting then, he’s published 13 novels and novellas, 1 poetry collection, 2 short story collections, and 3 short stories. God willin’ and the crick don’t rise, 2020 will also see The Tinderbox out and about. But since real life is, as we all know, a pain in the (anatomical site of your choice)…no guarantees.
