Book Spotlight: The Glass Thief

Today I have a wonderful book spotlighted, the new fantasy novel, The Glass Thief by Jon Ryers. There's also an excerpt, and a mini interview with the author. Enjoy!

The Glass Thief by Jon Ryers

A debt is owed.

Del Kanadis–indentured thief to the King of Fires–desires freedom above all else. When given the opportunity to repay his debt with a single job, he begrudgingly accepts, believing it to be a fool’s errand. His task: infiltrate a secluded village rumoured to hold a relic capable of defeating the Fire King’s enemies.

Living amongst the townsfolk and gaining the trust of those in charge, Del quickly discovers they know more than they’re letting on, and that perhaps the relic truly does exist. Upon discovering their ultimate secret, he realizes winning his own life back could come at the cost of everyone else losing theirs.

The Glass Thief is available on Amazon and Kobo

Excerpt:

CHAPTER XXI:

If you could describe Uri’s home with a few words, it’d be sterile, bare and spartan. Almost militant. It reminded Del of the early days, back when he’d steal glass from the barracks and keeps of human kingdoms before the Glass Wars diminished their numbers and put the faen into power.

Nothing was out of place here. His clothes were organized into two sections: patrol Uri and magistrate Uri. Light armour and leather on the left and garish robes and ceremonial trinkets on the right. No Glass Crown.

A mouse would be hard-pressed to find a crumb of food in the kitchen. The floors were scrubbed, the table clean and polished, and the scent of citrus lingered in the air. No Glass Crown.

Upstairs was, as expected, equally tidy. Saria’s bedroom would seem chaotic compared to the order of Uri’s, and all she had was a bed and a book of poems. The sheets were pressed and fitted tight around a bed that’d hold no more than a single person. If Uri had anything going on with Renny, it sure as hell wasn’t going on here. Perhaps they rolled around on the floured floor of her bakery. An image both amusing and disturbing. No Glass Crown.

Del returned to the kitchen and grabbed a glass along with the bottle of wine beside it. He pulled the cork out with his teeth, spit it onto the floor and filled the glass, putting his feet up on the table. A small consolation for a fruitless search, but a deserved one nonetheless. He had after all saved Uri’s life.

Mini Interview With Jon Ryers

Please tell us your name (or pen name) and a little bit about yourself.

My name is John Ryers and I write predominantly dark fantasy. I have written a few short stories in YA and Sci-Fi genres as well. I live in Ontario, Canada with my wife and twin daughters, and work as a graphic designer to pay the bills.

How old were you when you started writing? When did you know you wanted to be an author?

I knew I wanted to be a writer from a very young age. I wrote my first story at aged six (complete with amazing (not really) crayon illustrations). It was about my hamster and his inevitable death, and so I’m entirely surprised my favourite genre to write is dark fantasy.

Who are some of your favorite authors?

My favourite author is John Green. It’s his style of writing that I felt a connection to and his books helped me find my own narrative voice. For a while I was floundering with a lack of style and voice and it was through reading his novel A Fault In Our Stars that everything seemed to click for me, despite him not writing anything remotely close to dark fantasy.

What is your novel’s genre? Would you say there is a sub-genre? What makes yours different than other books in the same genre?

My genre is Dark Fantasy, and I’ve been told I could classify it under the sub-genre of Heist/Swashbuckling Fantasy. I think my narrative style makes it a little different than the usual dark fantasy tales. It is set in the middle ages but I use anachronistic language that borders on contemporary, and I also implement technology that didn’t exist during that time period such as magical firearms and a steam-powered suit of armour in one particular scene.

What inspired the current or most recent story you’ve completed?

I think I pulled the inspiration for The Glass Thief from my own past, in that, I was a very different person a decade ago than I am today. A lesser person so to speak. The Glass Thief is a story about betrayal and redemption, and I wanted to write a story that showed no matter what your past entailed, you always have the power to set things right, if you truly want to.

You can find out more about the author at these sites:

Website: www.johnryers.com

Facebook: www.facebook/com/jryers

Twitter: @johnryers

Instagram: @johnryers

ABOUT JOHN RYERS

John is a graphic designer by day, and graphic designer by night (depending on the client), but most importantly, he's a writer at heart. His dreams include writing for a living, experiencing virtual reality on a Matrix-esque level, and flying unaided (or possibly via really sweet jetpack).

John writes all genres but prefers Dark Fantasy over most anything else. This is due in part to the fact that he likes it the best, and because it's awesome.

John prefers blue cheese over cheddar, cats over dogs, and will attempt to answer any question with sarcasm whether appropriate or not.

He completed his first novel The Glass Thief in 2017 and you should buy it. Or don't. He's not the boss of you.

Book Spotlight: Mourning Dove Locket

Today I have a special treat, with a book spotlight for the paranormal novel Mourning Dove Locket by author Juli D. Revezzo. There's a peek at the book, it's trailer, and an excerpt. Enjoy.

Mourning Dove Locket by Juli D. Revezzo

For antique shop owners Caitlin and Trevor Fulmer, the intrusion of gods and ghosts is an unfortunate daily occurrence. After a young girl offers Caitlin a gold locket, however, she can’t help but notice it’s oozing with paranormal energy.

More significantly, the locket’s owner is surrounded by Otherworld spirits. Caitlin recognizes in the girl all the signs of a budding witch in the midst of a dangerous crisis.

Can she and her covenmates protect the girl and assist her in embracing her powers, before those beyond the veil extract their revenge?

Mourning Dove Locket is available at:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

iTunes

Smashwords

and in Paperback

Book Trailer

Excerpt from Mourning Dove Locket

“Hi,” a girl’s voice drew Caitlin’s attention away from the jewelry. Behind her, for an instant, something shimmered in the sunlight. An old woman smiled, there and gone, startling Caitlin.

She’d had bad luck with fear the last year and wondered when her heart would give out from it. Ghost, another pesky ghost, she thought. Gulf Breeze was full of them, these days. The apparition already gone, Caitlin scrutinized the girl, taking in her dark ponytail, her shorts. She was about fifteen or maybe sixteen, Caitlin judged from the braided bracelet on her wrist, and her height. But more important markers interested her. The girl’s solidity, that she couldn’t see through her, the perfume-cloud around her, and the sheen of sweat on her lip and staining her blue short-sleeved school uniform shirt, told Caitlin she must be alive.

“You like jewelry,” she said.

Caitlin’s hand sought out her peridot and gold ingot necklace, the one she’d received from the goddess Arianrhod, an heirloom her former incarnation had left in her care. Payable on her next life.

The necklace had almost come at a stiff price, very nearly the loss of her beloved Trevor. If she ever met her other self, Kate, in a dark forest, they were going to have a long, serious discussion. She wondered if the other Kate understood what “what the hell, woman?” meant.

She’d seen enough of Kate’s tribulations to know she did.

Caitlin scanned the store, seeking out Hofter—the evil imp who had given them both fits.

Seeing that he wasn’t doing handstands near the doors of the dressing room—or anywhere else, for that matter—she turned back to the teen.

“Sure. Some pieces. Why?”

From her pocket, the girl produced a small, oval gold locket. “I bet you’ll like this.”

Caitlin cocked her head, studying the piece.

She offered it but Caitlin kept her hand firmly placed on her warm hip. She’d learned never to touch first. She’d even become wary of sniffing strange things, in the last few months. As there was no sense in jumping to conclusions yet, she met the girl’s hazel-eyed gaze. Clear and calm, yet expectant.

Her fingers proved warm and soft when she laid the necklace in Caitlin’s. This girl was no ghost.

“It’s my abuela—grandma’s.” She glanced over her shoulder to, Caitlin thought, a woman. “Mom doesn’t want it. She wants to sell it anyway.”

“You should give it back to your grandma, then.”

“I can’t.” The girl shook her head, disturbing her shining black curls. “But my grandma needs it.”

Caitlin wondered how many times a year her heart could stop, and yet, keep her alive. It is my Grandma’s. I can’t give it to her. But Grandma needs it. Oh…

Surely, these weren’t normal verbal slips. She knew present tense when it was used.

Caitlin studied the locket in her hand. Some sort of dove graced the smooth gold cover. She flipped it over, squinting for the maker name or some sort of engraving to identify the owner. She didn’t see one.

Turning it over one more time, she ran a finger over the dove, closed her hand around it. “I can’t take it from you, dear, but let me go talk to your mom.” She smiled at her. “Maybe we can work something out.”

The girl shrugged and headed in the direction of a table full of pots and pans. A woman of clear Hispanic descent stood there, perusing the items. Caitlin approached her yet her daughter made the introductions. “Mom, she’ll give Abuela her necklace.”

Did the teen have any idea what she said? She peered at the girl. She was no ghost.

The woman blinked dark eyes. “It’s a locket, mija, and you know she doesn’t need it anymore,” she said, a hint of accent to her voice. The woman met her gaze, a sheepish smile on her face. “Don’t pay any attention to her, ma’am.”

She doesn’t need it anymore. The grandmother might indeed be dead.

“She has an active imagination.” Yet Caitlin had a feeling the girl was more than imaginative. Was she a budding medium?

Caitlin knew how treacherous the training was. Her heart twisted for the girl. Was she too about to go through hell, as Caitlin had?

She held her hand out for the locket, but a little voice whispered in her mind that it would be better if she made a deal. “I’ll tell you what.” Why can’t Trevor be here for this? Buying and selling antiques was his forte; she was still an apprentice. “My husband owns an antique shop.” She opened her purse, pulled out a Starfort Collectibles business card, and handed it to the woman. “Your daughter says you’d like to be rid of this necklace. I’m sure my husband can give you a fair price for it.”

The woman took the card and studied the embossed lettering, the star sitting beside Trevor’s name.

Starfort Collectibles; Trevor Fulmer, Owner, Proprietor. Caitlin was still pleased with the printing job she’d done here. For however much she hated working for Kameko’s Print Shop, they’d done good work together.

Caitlin frowned at the memory of the print shop’s jackass manager, Calvin. Glad to be out from under Calvin’s thumb, she retrieved her cell phone. A quick search of Starfort Collectibles’ website gave her a good idea of a preliminary offer. Without Trevor, it felt strange to make such a promise, but then she remembered what Michela once told her: Legally, she owned half of their business. Wouldn’t any offer she made be just as valid? Still, flipping the piece over in her hand, she wasn’t sure. “Let me see what I can do.” Caitlin took a few steps away, dialing Trevor’s cell phone number.

“Starfort Collectibles,” Trevor answered in two rings.

“How much would you give someone for an old locket?”

“What age?”

“I don’t know,” Caitlin admitted.

“Condition?”

“It’s a bit banged up. There’s a teenage girl offering it to me, so I suppose it’s expected.”

“Why would she offer it to you?” he asked.

“Don’t know. But I have a hunch.”

“Do you?”

Caitlin glanced over her shoulder. The mother was trying to mind her own business, so Caitlin lowered her voice. “She claims her grandmother wants me to have it.”

“What’s the grandmother say?” he asked.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t think she cares for money anymore.”

“Oh…” The tone in Trevor’s voice told her he absolutely understood in what world the grandmother currently resided.

Author Bio

Juli D. Revezzo writes fantasy and romantic stories filled in with elements garnered from a lifetime love affair with magic, myth, witches, wizards, and fated lovers and legend. She is the author of The Antique Magic series and the Paranormal Romance Celtic Stewards Chronicles series, New Adult romance Changeling's Crown, and short stories published in ETERNAL HAUNTED SUMMER, LUNA STATION QUARTERLY, among others. She is also a member of the Independent Author Network and the Magic Appreciation Tour. 




To learn more about this and future releases, visit her at:

Homepage: http://julidrevezzo.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/julidrevezzo

Good Reads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5782712.Juli_D_Revezzo

Google+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/111476709039805267272/posts

Instagram: http://instagram.com/julidrevezzo

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/jewelsraven/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/julidrevezzo

Sign up for her newsletter at: http://bit.ly/SNI5K6

My 777 Challenge - Paranormal Style

I don't usually post twice in a day, but I was nominated to take part in the 777 Challenge by fellow Xchyler Publishing author, the very talented Danielle E. Shipley. So I say...

Challenge Accepted!

Basically this is how it works:

THE CHALLENGE: 

SHARE 7 LINES FROM PAGE 7 OF YOUR MANUSCRIPT + TAG 7 BLOGGERS.

And like Danielle, I've decide to share a snippet from my story that is soon to be part of the upcoming  (and as yet untitled) paranormal anthology from Xchyler Publishing.

My story, The Weeping Lady, is loosely based on the La Llorona and White Lady ghost tales. This excerpt is a flashback, to the first time the main character of Eva has an encounter with the ghost.

Excerpt from The Weeping Lady

Hunched under the tree, young Eva didn’t hear the weeping at first, the sound drowned in her own tears and the noise of the river. Then it grew louder, more insistent, until the forest reverberated and the trees quaked with the heartbreaking wail intoned of aching sorrow. Her child’s mind imagined a gruesome horror, and terror sprinted within her skin. Her tears dried up, replaced with frightened whimpers. She pressed against the tree, wishing she could vanish inside the bark. Something was coming for her; she knew it.
The surrounding mist coagulated, twisted, taking strange form and ethereal substance before her eyes, transforming into the figure of a woman.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved 

I hope you enjoyed that little snippet, and check out the book this fall.

(And don't worry I'll keep you updated on its release) 

And now for my nominations.

The seven bloggers I choose are:

Aaron Paul Lazar

Nina D'Arcangela

Clarissa Johal

Sheila Deeth

Angela Yuriko Smith

Ash Krafton

Carole Gill

#CoffinHop Day 4: Bête Noire

For today's dark offering, I bring you writer and senior editor at Bête Noire Magazine, Jennifer L. Gifford, with an excerpt from her story, The Dollhouse, and also a bit about the magazine itself...

THE DOLLHOUSE

By Jennifer L. Gifford

I’m an artist. I confine myself to one simple medium, but my art is one of a kind. Working in fear and pain, much the way Picasso worked in oils, I utilize whatever tools I have around me to complete my dark masterpieces. I specialize in the macabre, emulating the dark essence of it, capturing it in all its dark twisted beauty. Death, sweet death, is my greatest creation.

My pieces are never seen by others, and while one day I hope that my creations bring me notoriety, I make them for the soul purpose of my own enjoyment. They are my creations, though they didn't start out that way. At first they belonged to God, but I stole them from Him, and I made them my own.

My pieces, as a novice, were rough, choppy, and out of proportion with the form. But over time I learned to correct the broken limbs, the pasty complexions, and yellowish skin that had once been a drain on my energies, not to mention the scarcity of my precious resources. Much like any other hobby, it takes practice, dedication, and commitment.

Helena was my first success. She was so breathtaking, and still is, that I sometimes sit in awe of my own handiwork. She was handpicked from hundreds of others. It was her face that captivated me, drew me to her. Helena was special.

She had a heart shaped face, soft and round with the cheeks of a cherub. Her hair flowed around her feminine features like spun corn silk. And the eyes, oh the eyes, so full and round--like her lips--were deep pools of cerulean.

I took her one night, bringing her to my studio, where I do all my work. I prepare them there, before putting them in the dollhouse. The building is old, a three story brick structure down along the Detroit River, and I own the whole thing. It’s in a seedy part of town where everyone minds their own business, and doesn't ask questions. But its quiet and I need quiet when I work.

The dolls always seemed so shocked to find themselves my helpless guest. I believe it’s because they have never been in the presence of a true artist before, so I imagine that is where their anxiety comes from.

I gave Helena a lethal dose of sedatives. It’s my own personal blend of prescription painkillers and good old fashioned laudanum.

It’s best to wait until they are fully asleep before inserting the thick embalming needle into the side of their neck, near the carotid artery. Sometimes a dolls eye’s will flutter open catching sight of the needle sticking out of her neck. It’s intoxicating to watch as the fear washes over them in their last moments. 

The needle is hollow, and with it at the neck, it’s easier to elevate the doll to let the blood drain. I empty it of blood, but not completely. That small amount of life left in them keeps them warm just long enough for me to prepare them.

I must also admit, it’s here that I get a rush knowing that their last precious drop of divinity is controlled by me.

Before the body’s temperature cools, I slowly inject heated rubber cement in the joints of the body. Several smaller injections into each of the major muscle groups of the skeletal system, allows me to move the limbs of my doll however I want them. As precious as my dolls are to me, I still like to take them out of their box from time to time and play with them. When I do, the rubber cement gives the flesh a firm, supple feel that bends, but never damages the body.

I remove all the unnecessary hair from the body. I like my dolls to have skin as smooth as porcelain. I use large strips of wax I purchase at a local beauty supply store, and strip every inch of my new doll’s precious form. It’s during this process that I start to get intimately familiar with every crevice and line of her delicate form, and in that very moment, I own my doll, body and soul. I have thought about branding my dolls, burnishing my initials onto their cool flesh, but the thought of that dark blemish, that blight upon my perfect canvas, is almost more than I can bear.

Through trial and error, I discovered that by spraying a thin coat of silicone floor sealant over the body carefully, the sealant acts as a protective barrier and completely closes the pores on the body. It also prevents the often inevitable darkening and rotting of the flesh. It’s so heartbreaking to painstakingly toll over such a magnificent body of work, only to have it wretched from your desperately clinging hands by the cruel ravages of time.

Starting with her lips, I formed the full oval into a tempting pout. Next I slowly bathe her form from head to toe before spraying her with a painting primer that serves as a sealant and top coat.

Using a small butane kitchen torch, like the ones the chefs use for making Crème Brule, I apply a small localized amount of heat to her cheeks, to naturally and permanently heat her cheeks to a pleasant rose hue.

It is here in this process as well, that my dedication, handiwork, and artistic abilities often lull me into a restful daze as my new doll, my muse, inspires me into artistic daydreams.

From past experiences, I force myself to pay close attention to the methods in which I use in my erotic taxidermy. Too much heat can blister and blacken the skin beyond all recovery. I have ruined several earlier dolls that way.

I use spray paint as a foundation. It’s cheap, and it comes in a lovely variety of shades that I can match to any of the dolls’ skin tones. After, I painstakingly airbrush on all the subtle lowlights and glowing highlights their natural skin tone had.

While the paint dried, I started on her hair. I always like all my dolls hair to have loose curls that frame and accent the face. I want to show off the natural beauty of my dolls, not hide it. I think that’s what makes them all lifelike. The rest of the embalming process is completed while I finish the hair.

Next, I use a light finishing sandpaper before applying her make-up. I want the face to be smooth. When my fingers caress her cheek, and stroke her swan-like neck, I want the cool flesh of my doll to be as freshly spun silk.

I artfully made up her face. Dramatic eyes, like a movie star. I injected super glue into the eyeballs themselves, at the corners. It keeps the eyes from decomposing, and gives their eyes that glow that seems to gaze at me with longing.

Jennifer L. Gifford is a writer and senior editor for Bête Noire Magazine

Bête Noire is a quarterly print magazine headed by authors A.W. Gifford and Jennifer L. Gifford, along with its sister publication, Dark Opus Press. 2014 sees Bête Noire Magazine celebrating its fourth anniversary, continuing to publish the best in dark speculative fiction that showcases the creative talents of both new and established authors, Bram Stoker award winners, Pushcart prize nominees, and Nebula Award winners.

Blending a mix of horror, science-fiction, Victorian, gothic, suspense, and steampunk, Bête Noire Magazine creates a unique mix that’s redefining the speculative fiction realm.

Bete Noire magazine is also a platform for photography, original artwork, and poetry that encompasses the subgenres of dark fiction, striving to uphold the talents of reputable authors, while bringing new authors to the forefront.

Remember, fear is just a point of view.

http://www.betenoiremagazine.com/

And don’t forget to enter my contest, or creep over http://coffinhop.com/ and check out more of the Coffin Hoppers.

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Excerpt from Killers and Demons II: They Return

My latest horror story collection, Killers and Demons II: They Return, launches tomorrow, and here's an sneak peek at what to expect...

Family Trait

Sarah sat in a coffee shop, staring out a window. She didn't want to think about what happened with Jason, about why she was single again, or why he was gone. Sarah thought she found her home with him, that they belonged together, but it fell apart so badly. She wanted to act as if it were just another breakup, except this time things were different.

“God, I acted like a crazy freak. I bet Jason thought so too before…” Sarah closed her eyes, blocking the memory of that night.

That’s why she sat here drinking a latte instead of going home. She didn't have to face her troubles here, just stare out the window and pretend. In her apartment, the reminders lingered.

“I know I’m going crazy.” She whispered her fears into her half-empty coffee cup. “I’m turning out like Mom.”

Sarah could still hear that phrase in her head.

The strong don’t break; they snap.

That’s how her mother’s problem was explained to a five-year-old Sarah by her Aunt Rachel.

And here I am at twenty, wondering if I've snapped too.

She didn't know how else to explain the things she wanted, the thoughts in her brain, her behaviour for the last few weeks. She drained the last of her coffee and sighed.

Hiding isn't going to help me though. I need to find answers. I just wish I knew where. I wish I had someone to talk to. I wish I didn't feel so alone.

She certainly couldn't count on her mess of a family. Her father moved out of the city last year, but even before, they had never been close, never connected after her mother went away. And her Aunt Rachel drifted out of her life after high school. She was on her own, the same old pattern.

Sarah sighed again. She knew she couldn't put it off anymore. She trashed her disposable coffee cup, left the shop, and drove home.

Inside her apartment, Sarah gazed over the stylish space that used to be her sanctuary, her refuge. She walked across the tile to the kitchen, trying not to look at the pale, scrubbed spot with its still-visible bloodstain. She opened the refrigerator and took out some of the raw meat that used to be her boyfriend Jason. She preheated a frying pan, added a little olive oil and seasoning, and fried part of his arm for supper. After that, she watched some TV and went to bed, dreading the next day.

Check out Killers and Demons II on Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MRKCFWM

#CoffinHop Day 3: Fairy Tale Confessional

Another day, another coffin. This time it’s Sleeping Beauty’s…

An Excerpt from Fairy Tale Fusion:

I Cursed Sleeping Beauty... And She Deserved It

So you want to hear my side of the story? All the dirt behind the scoundrel of the Sleeping Beauty Tale?

Well here’s the scoop...

The fact is I've gotten a bad rap. I've been branded the bad guy because I put some prissy, pink-cheeked spoiled princess under a curse and she fell asleep for a century. Big deal, so she took a nap. She woke up eventually and now she’s got her happily-ever-after and a dreamy prince. Plus, she’s over a hundred and she still looks like a teenager. I bet she'll be wishing she was still snoozing when things start to sag.

Yes, dear little Sleeping Beauty’s got it good, and what did I get? Bad PR, that’s what. Of course nobody ever looks at it from my side. It’s all, well, “she’s the bad fairy.” Was it my fault that fate chose me to be the keeper of the darker things in life? No it wasn't, I was born into it; I've been up against it since I came into this world.

A numbers game, that’s what my life started as, a freaking unlucky chance of being born the thirteenth heir of the ruling fairy families. All my life I knew my destiny would be to follow the path of Dark Magic.

As a child, I was sent to magic school with my cousins. I learned curses and poisons while the rest of my family made love potions and fancy fairy dust. On the playground they shunned me, taunted and teased me. I toughened up quickly in that school.

I spent my teen years crawling around swamps for toads and lizards while the other girls dreamed about boys and lacy dresses. No one teased me anymore, though; you turn one girl blue for a week and that sort of thing stops cold.

After graduation (head of my class, but I never got credit for that) I found myself at loose ends and an outcast in my own family. I went to live on my own, shut myself away in a lonely tower, while my twelve cousins went on to fame and fortune. They flitted about, bestowing beauty, happiness, and charm on the world; I dished out warts and bad luck spells. Is it any wonder I'm a little bitter?

It’s not like I looked for any trouble, I just did my job. I went out of my way to temper all that evil I was in charge of and make the best of it. All I asked for was some respect. Not too much to request, but still I got shafted.

You see, there’s a part of my story that tends to get glossed over, you know the part about me being snubbed, publicly. They knew the tradition, that a royal child is christened in attendance of all the fairy houses, even the Dark Fae. I wanted to go, to have a new elegant dress, and maybe dance a waltz at the after party. I picked out the right gift—nothing too ostentatious, just a touch of temper—a flaw to give her a rounded personality. I figured with all those other gifts like wit, charisma and beauty she needed a little something to make her more human.

But the King and Queen couldn't bear to have their precious daughter marred (their word, not mine) so they made the wrong decision to change the centuries old custom. Did those royals ever consider my feelings? No, they went and left me out of the christening party. An oversight they said later, they simply forgot to dispatch my invite. Yeah, right. And I was supposed to stand back and suffer that slight, take the insult? Well, not this gal, I can tell you. I had a reputation to maintain.

So I crashed their soiree and cursed the little princess. Sure, I went a little overboard with my original, “prick her finger and die” proclamation, but I've always had a tendency to overdo when I'm mad. It’s not like she died or anything. And maybe I did cheat a little on her sixteenth birthday to ensure my curse, but hey, a bit of chicanery is my trademark. I needed some insurance, to show those royals that I was still in control.

I stand by my actions. I was justified and they all had it coming. What did they expect for offending the Queen of the Dark Fairies? It’s the spin that bugs me, this whole “wicked fairy godmother” crap. Where do they get off judging me? A bunch of snooty royals screw up and for that I get labelled a villain!

Life just isn't fair.

Fairy Tale Fusion is available at:

Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00G1RJUCA
Amazon.ca: http://www.amazon.ca/dp/B00G1RJUCA
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/356889
Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-CA/ebook/fairy-tale-fusion
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fairy-tale-fusion-a-f-stewart/1116913271
iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/fairy-tale-fusion/id706475602?mt=11

Don’t forget to scroll down for the list of more Coffin Hoppers, and enter the Rafflecopter contest before you turn out the lights. See you tomorrow …I hope.

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Above Ground: A Blog Tour

As promised, A. M. Harte stops by on her Above Ground blog tour.  Today, All Souls Day, she brings an excerpt from her new dark fantasy, Above Ground.  Not only is she sharing a tantalizing tidbit to read, she comes bearing gifts, in the form of a Rafflecopter contest.  So read on and then enter (the contest that is)...

Excerpt: Above Ground by A.M. Harte

The midday sun beat down on werewolf and girl alike, withering the plants, sucking every ounce of moisture from the air. Great clouds of red soil swirled upwards with every beat of the werewolf’s paws, and within minutes Lilith’s cheeks were stinging from the heat and the flecks of grit in the air. She pressed closer to his fur, jostled by each leap, certain she would soon fall.

“Hey!” The wind tore the word out of her mouth. “Hey you! Slow down!”

No response. Ahead there was nothing but open land. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed Lilith's suspicions: they were going the wrong way. She tugged on the thick fur of Wolf’s neck, trying to steer him towards the cliffs, but either he couldn't feel what she was doing or he was ignoring her.

“Turn around! You’re going the wrong way!”

Wolf flicked back an ear but didn’t stop running. With every passing moment the theatre—her only way back home—faded further into the distance. Unless she wanted to remain stranded in the middle of nowhere, it was time for drastic measures.

This was going to hurt.

She let go of Wolf’s neck. There was no time to think. Lilith threw herself sideways and saw the ground rush up to meet her. Her eyes squeezed shut. The air was kicked out of her, dust rising in a cloud as she tumbled across the sandy soil.

It took a moment for Lilith to realise she had stopped rolling. Dirt choked the inside of her nose and mouth, and her head was still spinning, struggling to catch up. She kept still, winded. Her shoulder ached and the oppressive heat made it almost impossible to move. A tall shrub obstructed her line of sight, yet she could feel Wolf looming.

Lilith flexed her right leg, then the left. Her fingers curled into the dirt, her shoulders rolled obligingly. Nothing broken.

She sat up carefully. Her clothes were streaked with red dust and her palms stung.  She wiped her hands on her jeans as she stood slowly, legs trembling. Then she forced herself to turn around and say, “I asked you to take me home.”

The werewolf ignored her—or, more likely, didn’t understand. He stood still, ears pricked forward, tail up, staring warily in the direction from which they had come. A vast expanse of barren earth separated them from the theatre, its domed roof reflecting the sunlight. At this distance the building was no longer impressive; it was not, as Lilith had initially thought, reaching towards the sky. Instead it huddled at the base of the cliff face, cowering into the ground.

The enormity of the situation struck her: she was above ground.

     This was unchartered territory, the heart of wilderness: the land stretched out uninterrupted in every direction, and the sky above was a flat, endless blue. Not even the largest of caves in the Lower Halls could compare to the infinity of the sky. Even the air was different, drier, as if someone had left the dehumidifier on all night—but up here there were no dehumidifiers. Above ground, there were only monsters.

Above Ground

The first glimpse of sun may be her last.
When Lilith Gray goes above ground for the first time, she hardly expects to stay there — much less be trapped on the surface with no way home.
Hunted by trackers and threatened by the infected, Lilith is on the run, desperate to return underground. Her only hope for survival lies with a taciturn werewolf with a dark agenda of his own.
Lilith’s old carefree life has been reduced to one choice:
Adapt. Or die trying.

Author Bio:

A.M. Harte writes twisted speculative fiction, such as the post-apocalyptic Above Ground and the zombie love anthology Hungry For You. She is excellent at missing deadlines, has long forgotten what ‘free time’ means, and is utterly addicted to chocolate. She lives in London, a city not half as foggy as some seem to think.

You can find her Above Ground blog tour schedule here:  http://amharte.com/aboveground/

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Excerpts, Stories and Poems for CoffinHop

I’m away today at the Hal-Con Sci-fi Convention (happening in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada) so I’m leaving you with some creepy stories, excerpts and poems to keep you amused. I’ll be back later this evening to check out any comments.

Here’s a scary story for you:

Margot Wants To Play

Margot tugged her mother’s skirt.  “Come play with me, Mommy.”

“I can’t right now dear, I’m making dinner.  Why don’t you go read a book or watch the TV.”

“Cause I don’t wanna watch the dumb old TV or read a dumb, stupid book.” Margot whispered, safely out of earshot of her mother.  She sighed and took her ball outside.

Across the street Mr McNally waved at her.  “Hi, Margot.”

“Would you like to play with me, Mr. McNally?”  She held up her ball.

“Sorry sweetie, I can’t.  Got to water my lawn.”

Margot pouted as she watched him stroll over to his garden hose and turn on the water.  She was distracted for a few minutes by the pretty spray of water, before she moved on down the street, idly bouncing her ball.

A few minutes later she saw her friend Dave with his bicycle.

“Dave, do you want to play-”

“Can’t, going down to the arcade!”  His shout flew past as he whizzed by on his bike.

Margot stamped her foot.  “Nobody wants to play with me!”

Just then she saw a shiny thing.  It stuck up from the ground, just behind Dave’s back fence.  Strange, she didn’t see it there a minute ago.  But still, it needed to be investigated.  She tucked her ball under arm and raced to see her treasure.

When she got there, Margot stood over it and frowned.  It didn’t look like much, just a silver stick, stuck in the dirt.  Yet, it was her stick, she knew it.  Margot bent and wrapped her chubby fingers around it.  Her hand tingled and she felt giddy as she pulled her shiny prize from the earth.  For a moment she was happy, just for a moment the object was hers, and she held it tight.

Your name is Margot, isn’t it?

Margot blinked and looked down at the polished item in her hand. It sounded like it talked to her.

I did talk to you, Margot. I want to play with you.

“You can talk? You’re a talking-” She hesitated a moment as she wondered what to call her new toy until she remembered something her father read to her in a story. “A talking sep-step-stepter. That’s right, a royal stepter, and you can talk.”

Yes, Margot, I can talk, but I’m not a sceptre. I’m inside the rod you’re holding.

“Inside?” Margot held up her treasure and took a closer look. There did seem to be a top that might open.

That’s right Margot, open the rod and let me out. Then we can play together.

“You’ll play with me if I let you out?”

Yes, I’ll play with you. I like to play with little girls.

The thought of a new friend made Margot happy. “Okay.” She twisted the lid with her little plump fingers until it popped off with a snap. A shimmer of light flooded outward, followed by a thick, crimson smoke. Margot dropped the rod in surprise as this cloud of colour hovered around her.

Thank you, Margot. Now we can play.

The smoke whirled in the air, a translucent, intangible acrobat and Margot laughed. With her pretty voice still drifting on the air, this vaporous creature lunged, filling her open mouth, swelling down her throat, pouring into her nose and blinding her eyes. Her laughter stopped and Margot fell to her knees, her arms flailing, her now sightless eyes filling with tears. She choked on her own breath and fear, her only screams the ones that echoed in her mind. As the last of the strange mist invaded her body, her thoughts, her world became an empty nothing...

Margot walked down an empty street, the only sound the bouncing of her red, rubber ball.  The bright sunshine of the day had given way to the dusky gloom of nightfall, the time when all children should be at home with their parents.

So why was this little child playing in the lane, all alone?  And why was her neighbourhood so quiet?  Where were all the adults?

Margot paused in her game, and stopped under a streetlamp; the glow of the bulb illuminated her features. She smiled, a satisfied grin full of secrets.  It was a grin of razor-sharp teeth, and it reached towards wide, yellow eyes and the barbed horns on her forehead.  She giggled and bounced her ball, staring down the street into the night.

“Come play with me.”

Here’s an excerpt from Gothic Cavalcade:

The men carrying her lifted her and then deposited her body into a glass tank resting within the stone circle. Althea didn’t resist, couldn’t resist; her body still wouldn’t move. The cover slid into place, enclosing her in the tank. Slowly her prison began to fill with a curious liquid, inexplicably materialising from within the glass container. It churned around her, not water, but a black, icy fluid, thick and sticky.

Bitter, aching cold invaded her bones as the sluice seeped over her skin and her clothes. It oozed into her nose, mouth, and eyes until she submerged in the viscous substance. Althea felt panic, feared she would drown, but she found she could breathe. She inhaled sharp gasps of frigid wash as the emulsion flowed down her throat, expanding into her lungs. It crawled into the very fibre of her, shutting out sight and sound. It engorged every sense in darkness and frost, marinating through her body as it permeated into tissue and blood. She wanted to shriek, but her throat was full of fluid. She could only jerk in the throes of frozen suffering, as her body floated in glacial, silent isolation.

Images flickered under her eyelids, colours of deep crimson, indigo, and amethyst, and flashes of cruel brown eyes. A voice whispered in her memory, the words distant and indistinct, carrying the emotions of fear, anger, and sorrow on its breath. A scream, primal and furious, howled inside her raging for expulsion, but she stayed silent, the ferocity still locked against the world. Her body shuddered in powerful spasms and the tank vibrated violently. It rocked in the throes of her body’s reactions for- an eternity, minutes, hours? She did not know.

And for last, a Halloween Poem:

All Hallows

Moon

Ascends high

Time ticks midnight

Storms

Crackle arcane

Bearing odd whispers

Wisps

Of malice

Rouse in shadows

Hunters

Haunt nightfall

Worlds stand quiet

Silent

No breath

Like a crypt

Until

A shriek

Breaks the hush

Panic

In confusion

A hopeless flight

Blood

Flows scarlet

Staining the kill

And in honour of today's short story and poem I'm including some freebie links from Smashwords:

Even the Paranormal Play Sports (a flash fiction story)
Existence (a flash fiction story)
Twisted Shorties (an anthology of stories and poems)

These three books are also available free from B&N Nook, iTunes, Kobo and Sony


And remember to visit the other CoffinHoppers, for more fun horror happenings.  Check out the list and the bottom of my blog for the participants.  And be sure to check out the Coffin Hop Store for more creepy goodies. 

CoffinHop Begins: Introducing Gothic Cavalcade

Coffin Hop has Landed!

Here are the Gory Details:

1) HAVE A SPOOKY FUN TIME!
2) INVITE YOUR FRIENDS AND SPREAD THE WORD!
3) THIS TOUR STARTS: October 24 at Midnight (PST)
    THIS TOUR ENDS: October 31 at Midnight (PST)
    Winners will be drawn and posted November 1, 2012
4) MEET AND MINGLE WITH THE AUTHORS! EXPERIENCE A NEW DESTINATION AT EVERY STOP! PARTICIPATE IN EVERY SITE'S CONTEST AND BE ENTERED FOR CHANCES TO WIN MULTIPLE PRIZES! EVERY BLOG VISITED IS ANOTHER OPPORTUNITY TO WIN!
5) PARTICIPATION AT ALL SITES IS RECOMMENDED, BUT NOT REQUIRED. THE MORE SITES YOU HOP, THE BETTER YOUR CHANCES OF WINNING PRIZES.
6) DID I MENTION TO HAVE A SPOOKY FUN TIME?

Now that you have an overview, let's get on with the festivities, shall we.  My CoffinHop begins with some shameless self-promotion, and a look inside the creation of my new book, Gothic Cavalcade.

Introducing Gothic Cavalcade

Once upon a time, I wrote a haibun poem for one of my online poetry groups, Mindful Poetry, called Gothic Cavalcade. Now it was a nice poem, well received, and that should have been the end, move on to the next story or poem. But there was something about the poem that kept swirling around in my brain...

Gothic Cavalcade

A leaf spirals through the air, her eyes following its path to the ground. She feels a twinge along her spine as she scurries through the darkening woods. Escaping memories tossed aside and left behind, she can’t stop, she needs to keep moving forward. She needs to run.

Brown-eyed girl astray
still waiting to be rescued
drowning in her doubt

Across the distance, strains of calliope music haunt the trees, the sounds wafting in from the carnival tent she left behind. The music chases her steps, rattling the branches above her head. It is the beckoning lure of the family, to call their wayward daughter home.

Refrains collide, break
under pressure, seep outward
A fractured tune spent

I kept wondering, why was the girl running through the woods, who was she running from and where was she headed? What mysterious event happened and what lurked under that carnival tent? So I took my niggling questions and my itchy fingers and started to write a story about what happened inside the tent.
I started out creating a horror tale set in the early twentieth century about a girl named Althea and a creepy bunch of carnival folks, but it did not want remain just a horror story. The carnival had more secrets to share, Althea wanted to tell her whole story and it turned out that horror tale wasn’t all it seemed. What’s more, romance (gasp) started to creep in as I wrote. In the end, what started out as a poem became a hybrid novella of gothic horror and romance, complete with slightly graphic violence and a sex scene (although not together). There’s even music involved.

So that’s how the book got started, and here’s a sneak peek at the finished product:

Gothic Cavalcade

Gothic romance meets Gothic horror inside a paranormal carnival and beyond...

Meet Althea, a desperate woman running from a secretive and miserable past. She encounters Byron, a mysterious and handsome man with secrets of his own. He brings her to his home, the Masquerade Carnivale, and into the midst of his family. There Althea begins to feel safe, to trust, and to love. She finds friends, laughter and with Byron, romance. She thinks she has found a home, trusts she is protected, until the night Byron and his Family betray her.
But do they? There is more beneath the surface at the Masquerade Carnivale, more to Althea’s past and to her future than she believes. One event puts Althea on a path for her reckoning, a path full of pain, fear and ultimately, revenge. A choice is coming for her, one that will change everything.

The Masquerade Carnivale is beckoning... will she answer?

Opening Night

~

The stars sparkled above the mist shrouded tents and caravans of the carnival. The night crackled with an odd vibration, as if a veil of peculiarity settled over the company. The Family gathered in the main tent, the surrounding canvas rippled lightly and the smell of old dirt and memories were in the air. Voices murmured in subdued tones, wariness was felt among the assembled.
Mother had called.
She stood watching them, and absently pushed a white tinged lock of hair from her face, to tuck it back into her mass of upswept grey hair. She seemed a docile older woman with a few of life’s lines etched on her face, but like much with Mother, her appearance hid secrets.
“Come into the circle, children.” She spoke with a soft, commanding tone, and beckoned her brood into the band of strange rune stones that existed in lieu of a centre ring. One by one, they obeyed, and the family crowded around her, whispering among themselves until a gesture from her drew silence.
“I had a dream last night. A visitor is coming, a new member of the family. We will receive her and welcome her into our fold.”
Gasps of joyfulness rose in the air and excited voices chattered in a cacophony of sound.
“A new family member!”
“How exciting, we haven’t had one for ages.”
“Wondrous news.”
“New blood, excellent.”
“Marvellous, a new member for the family.”
“Oh, just stupendous.”
Mother smiled, indulgent of her brood’s enthusiasm. She waited until the din subsided before speaking again. “She will be here soon and we must prepare for her arrival. But first I must choose her companion, the one who will complete the rites.”
Mother looked over her now silent children. Her practised eye examined each one for the signs and fell at last upon a tall young man with dark hair.
“Byron. You will be the one. You will bring her into the circle and make her one of us.”
The young man bowed his head. “Thank you, Mother, for the honour.”
“It is your time. I know you will do well.” Mother laughed and clapped her hands. “Away with you all. We have work to do. The Masquerade Carnivale must welcome another apprentice.”

You can find Gothic Cavalcade at:

Smashwords (Until Oct. 31st use the coupon code GG32U at the checkout and get it free!)

Amazon

iTunes

Sony

Don't forget to visit the other blogs involved in CoffinHop.  For the full list, scroll way, way down to the bottom of my blog  and check everyone out.  And be sure to check out the Coffin Hop Store for a grab bag of creepy goodies.