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If you’re a fan of Outlander, and now want a visceral, morerealistic telling of the 1745 Jacobite Uprising, devoid of all the incessantromanticism, you will enjoy this new series!

Broadswords Over England

Crimson Empire Book 1

by James Mace

Genre: Historical Fiction

In 1745, Charles Edward Stuart, claimant prince to theunified thrones of England and Scotland, leads one final uprising to seize thecrown for his father, James Edward Stuart. This is the third attempt by James’followers, known as the Jacobites, to depose the ruling dynasty and restore theHouse of Stuart.

Though most Jacobites come from the Scottish Highlands, English, Scots, Welsh,and Irish alike fight for both sides, with few caring who occupies the throne.For many Scots, it is a clan war, a chance to settle centuries’ old scores. Forothers, it is a civil war, with red-jacketed soldiers compelled to fight theirplaid wearing fathers, brothers, or sons on the opposing side.

“The ’45,” as it is referred, is a dark chapter from a merciless age. The fateof the burgeoning British Empire, and that of the Highland people, will besettled in a crucible of cannon, musket, bayonet, and broadsword, all wroughtwith ruthless fury. Many combatants and innocents alike shall grievously sufferin its wake, with only the faintest glints of humanity. This is their story.

 

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Though they could not yet see theenemy, the Recoat defenders could certainly hear them. In the faint glow oftorch and starlight, they saw what looked to be a pair of barrels, overflowingwith God knew what, being heaved against the sally port entrance.

“They’re going to try and burn the sodding door,” Lewiswhispered with a disbelieving grin.

“I’ll sort that,” Molloy replied. “You give them a properreception once they light the barrels.”

The sergeant then hastened along the western rampart untilhe found his lone sentry. He ordered the man to bring up water from thekitchen, as much as he could carry. He then raced across the courtyard and gavethe same order to the other sentry before returning to the north wall.

Crouching low, he stared through one of the firing ports. Hecould see the shapes of men shuffling around the barrels, which as best hecould tell were a couple of feet from the door. They scraped loudly across thegravel. To his left, Molloy saw the two privates returning with a pair of waterbuckets each. They hunkered low behind the parapet, near Corporal Lewis. Theyoung NCO held his musket ready as he saw the sparks coming from the enemy’sflint and steel. A small fire soon started. It quickly grew, taking hold ofsome dry straw and kindling.

“Now,” the corporal said calmly as he shouldered his weapon.

As eight muskets unleashed a close range salvo, they couldonly clearly see the man who’d sparked the flames. The dense smoke clouded thevision of the Redcoats, who hastily began to reload. From his position,Sergeant Molloy could see the effects. The Jacobite visible in the burninglight was struck at least three times, through the guts and neck. Doublingover, he pitched forward, nearly upsetting the other barrel. Molloy saw theshape of another man clutching at his shoulder before stumbling away.

The sounds of musketry from at least two score of enemyfighters flashed and echoed in the dark, peppering the ramparts.

“Easy, lads,” Molloy said. “They can’t hit a fucking thingso long as you use the firing ports, and only when ready to fire.”

At Corporal Lewis’ command, all but one of the Redcoatsloosed another volley. This man complained about not being able to see a thingand thus stood to peer over the rampart.

“God damn it, Private Thomas!” Sergeant Molloy snapped. “Getyour fucking head down—”

He was interrupted by an even more intense return of musketfire from their enemies. Most shots smacked harmlessly into the wall or sailedover the ramparts. One, however, struck the errant private in the head. Hestood rigid for a moment before his convulsing body tumbled into the courtyardbelow.

“Tommy!” one of his mates cried out, starting to stand.

“Get back to your post!” Molloy snapped, rushing over to theyoung man at a low crouch and cuffing him across the head. “There’s nothing youcan do for him. He’s dead because of his stupid negligence. Now keep yourfucking head down and reload your damn firelock!”

As the barrels started to blaze, the two privates bearingwater buckets upended these over the rampart, all the while keeping low behindthe defences. Within seconds, the fire was completely extinguished and theRedcoats let out a cheer.

Molloy crept over to Corporal Lewis, who’d just finishedreloading his musket.

“You have this situation under control,” the sergeant said.He nodded to the water bearers. “I’ll take these two and head for the southwall.”

In the distance, the Jacobite musketry continued, albeit indiminished numbers, with no coordination.

“They won’t be getting in this way,” Lewis confirmed beforeissuing the command for his men to fire once more.

He knew their chances of hitting their enemy in the darkwere slim. Still, this gave his soldiers, especially the newest ones who’d onlybeen with the army a few months, a chance to practice their musketry drillswhile under fire.

Sergeant Molloy ordered the water bearers to follow him,along with two more privates, before descending the steps and crossing over tothe south rampart at a brisk walk. This left Corporal Lewis with five men tohold the rear entrance. Their enemy may have numbered in the hundreds, yettheir one attempt at breaching the rear entrance had proven as pathetic as itwas foolish.

The crack of musket shots came from the three men dispersedalong the south rampart. Upon ascending the steps, Molloy could just make outan enemy combatant lying face down along the steep path leading into the fort.

“They’re trying to bring up a ladder, Sergeant,” one of themen explained. This was an older private in his late twenties, who Molloytrusted to keep his mates from shooting at mere shadows.

“Only one ladder,” the sergeant replied, shaking his head inamusement.

“What’s more, the path is too steep,” the private said.“They can’t even carry the damn thing up to the wall! And with the rain soakingthe grassy slopes on the flanks, it’s too damned slippery. They won’t be comingup that way.”

“Splendid,” Molloy said.

His four accompanying soldiers took up positions at variousfiring ports. He then ordered them to reload but wait for his command to fire.He then checked his watch. It was nearly 3:30 in the morning. While the sunwould not rise for nearlyan hour, the faint glow of predawn now made it easy tospot their enemy. He counted at least a hundred gathered in a column about ahundred yards away. It was they who bore the lone ladder. Pops of musket firefrom frustrated Jacobites came from both these men and several clusters alongthe western base of the hill.

Molloy ordered a volley fired at the ladder group, as theywere closest. While waiting for the smoke to clear, and his men to reload theirmuskets, he hastened over to the eastern wall, where he saw not a single enemyfighter. Returning to his men, they fired another pair of volleys. SeveralJacobites had fallen, only to be abandoned by their companions, who fled backdown the path to return to their camp.

It was then that the sergeant stood. He ordered his men toremain hidden, lest they give away their true strength to the enemy.

“Three cheers for His Majesty, King George!” Molloy shouted,removing his hat.

James Mace is an author, historian, and life-longstoryteller. He began writing as a hobby in the early 2000s, penning physicalfitness articles for a bodybuilding website and a magazine called HardcoreMuscle.

James wrote the initial draft of his first novel, Soldier ofRome: The Legionary, as a cathartic means of escapism while serving in Iraqfrom 2004 to 2005. He has since released thirty-seven books, including fifteenAncient History best-sellers, and five South African History best-sellers. Hisworks currently span his two favourite eras: Ancient Rome and the BritishEmpire.

Outside of writing historical novels, James is a ResearchHistorian and Script Writer for the channel, Redcoat History. He maintains ablog called The Buffed Historian, sharing random fitness articles and othertales from across history. His hobbies include weightlifting, road cycling,foothills hikes, travelling across the globe, live theatre, video games, andsitting down for a game of Dungeons & Dragons with friends.

 

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I can scare and thrill you in only…100 words!

Stay at CastleDracula…and Other Short-Short Stories

by Jim Nemeth

Genre: Horror Short Stories

Do youenjoy a good drabble? No, not America’s most popular word game—that’s Scrabble.No, not those cute, furry little creatures from Star Trek—those are tribbles.A drabble is a form of intense fiction writing consisting of 100 words. Not 100chapters, not 100 paragraphs, nor even 100 lines. 100 words. Exactly.

 Author Jim Nemeth loves the format and is anaccomplished dabbler in drabbles. “Whenever I explain to friends what a drabbleis,” Nemeth relates, “I get the exact same expression of disbelief: ‘100 words?’In fact, I took these reactions and wrote a drabble about it, “ImpossibleAssignment,” which leads off the collection.”

Stayat Castle Dracula and Other Short-Short Stories, a chapbook,collects 26 tales, 23 of which are drabbles. With the three other stories, theauthor “splurged” and indulged himself with an additional 100-200 words.

Othertales of five score words include “Disgruntled,” where a joyous familyChristmas celebration turns horrific when a little boy doesn’t get the toy hewanted; “Love Potion” relates what happens when a witch’s magic works toowell. And in the title story, another young English traveler debates hisdecision in staying in Count Dracula’s centuries’ old castle.

 

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Love Potion

 

“I’ll always love you.”

Sarah, disrobing in preparation for bed,recalled the first time Michael uttered these words, mere days after she’dslipped the love potion into his wine. She’d only half-heartedly believed thatthe vial of liquid given by the wiccan witch could turn Michael’s barelypassing interest in Sarah to all-enveloping devotion!

Four years of bliss before Michael’suntimely passing in a car accident.

They say that love never dies. Sarah hadnever really believed that old adage until a few days after Michael’s funeral.

As she lie in bed, Michael stretched adecayed arm across Sarah’s waist.

 

In 1993, Nemeth won first prize in a national magazine’s short storywriting contest for which legendary authors Ray Bradbury and Robert Bloch werejudges. The award held special meaning for Nemeth, as Bloch remains hisfavorite writer and main literary influence. Nemeth is the author of twoadditional books: It Came From…The Stories and Novels Behind ClassicHorror, Fantasy, and Science Fiction Films and Robert Bloch: AnUnconventional Bibliography, as well as being the webmaster of The RobertBloch Official Website (robertbloch.net).

A long-time community activist, the author is particularly committed tothe cause of animal rescue. He lives in the historic harbor town of Marblehead,MA.

 

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I’ve always run away from labels. 

Now there’s one I cannotrun away from.

Father.

Choose Me

The Ballerina Series Book 4

by Ursula Sinclair

Genre: Contemporary New Adult Romantic Suspense

I refused to be placed in anyone’s box.

Vin
I’ve always been the best friend, the one nightstand, the groomsmen never thegroom. Then I go and become that ‘F’ word. Yeah, I become a Father before I ameven part of a couple. I’ve never been one to live a normal life. Whatever thatis. It’s never been for me. But then a woman and my child change everything.They become everything. I will become whatever they need. Because that will bewho I am.

Samantha
My husband and I always wanted a child, but it was not meant to be. Until oneday, one came into our lives, and she became my everything. But the man thatshould have protected us didn’t, he betrayed us. Exposed us to men whothreatened the safety of my child and me. Then someone came into our livesamidst the chaos, but who was he there to save, me or his child?

 

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Future

Vin

 

“Vin!”

“What!” Something about the way she said my name had meblinking and trying to focus my sleep fogged mind. A shudder traveled throughmy body. What the hell time is it?The connections in my brain were still a bit fuzzy, but I recognized the pitchof that voice. I’d heard it enough times. Something was wrong.

“Christie?” I spoke into my phone.

“I’m at the hospital, Vin. The baby…” Terror laced her tone.

“What? Isn’t it too early?” I questioned. Christie wasn’tquite eight months pregnant, since that was the last time we’d hooked up. “Issomething wrong?”

“You’ve got to come now!” Fear rippled in her voice.

I’d never heard her sound like this before. My heart pressedagainst my chest. “Okay, okay on my way.”

I glanced at the time on my phone. Since my head hit thepillow, I’d gotten less than three hours of sleep. Rolling out of bed, I downedsome aspirin I kept on the nightstand. Staggering to the bathroom, I washed myface with cold water. It helped a little. My eyesight was no longer quite soblurry. When I glanced at the mirror, I could at least make out my blood shoteyes from too little sleep. But my mind was clear.

Quickly, I tossed on some clean clothes then caught a taxito the hospital, Christie had scheduled her delivery in. I hoped like hellshe would be there. This woman prepared for everything.

Except for an unplanned pregnancy.

I pulled out my phone to shoot a group text to my bestfriends, Maze and Dante. To let them know Christie was in the hospital and tomeet me there but stopped myself before pressing send. First, it was threefucking o’clock in the morning and secondly, I had no idea what the hell wasgoing on, other than I could hear the panic in Christie’s voice. I’d wait untilI knew more.

At this hour, it only took about fifteen minutes for me toget to the hospital in midtown. Still, by the time I got there—it was the righthospital—they’d already taken Christie into surgery. I wasn’t family, just thefather of the child we’d both agreed to put up for a private adoption. Whichmeant no one would tell me anything, other than to have a seat and wait for thedoctor. Or the lawyer, for the couple adopting the baby. But I wasn’t sure ifthe hospital or Christie had notified the lawyer, or the couple, and I wasn’tgoing to remind anyone. At this point, I also didn’t give a rat’s ass. Christiemight have been a one or two night hook up, but I still cared about her and thebaby we created.

“Mr. Tinsdale?” A pretty young woman in plain purple coloredscrubs stood in front of me.

I stood up. “Yes, that’s me. How’s Christie and the baby?”

“Christie signed a form before they took her in, allowing usto talk to you as the biological father of the baby. The baby is in distress,the doctor is performing an emergency C-section, as soon as he knows more,he’ll come out to speak to you.”

“Thank you.” Even if her words did little to relieve myanxiety. I plopped my ass back down onto the seat. It wasn’t until the nursedisappeared through the double doors, I questioned what she’d said. Or ratherthe way she said it, know more about what? Shouldn’t it only be to tell me ifit was a boy or a girl? Oh, God! Did distress mean the baby might die? WasChristie going to be, okay?

I ran my fingers through my shorthair as these thoughtsplayed table tennis in my mind. I’d made a bit of an ass of myself earlier atthe nurses’ station, demanding someone come out to tell me something. All Icould do now was sit and wait for the doctor.

I sat there alone, my hands rested on my knees, head down,eyes staring at the floor, seeing nothing but my f’ing life rolling away fromme. Tied to someone I didn’t even like—for life. One who would be the mother ofmy child. All because some shitty piece of latex malfunctioned. Fuck of amalfunction. Still, I prayed to a supreme being or beings somewhere out therethat Christie and the baby would be okay. Even if I’d agreed to the adoption,the thought of my child dying sent fear zinging through me.

I took a deep breath. Single mother, single father, nothingsingle about it. Not when an innocent life was involved. A life who apparentlywanted to make an early appearance. Way early. A preemie. My child would be apreemie. Labels—fucking labels. All my life I’d dealt with them. But I refusedto be placed in anyone’s box.

Don’t miss therest of The Ballerina series!

Find them on Amazon

UrsulaSinclair is a USA Today Bestselling Author and the alter ego for LaVerneThompson, a USA Today Bestselling, award winning, multi-published author. Anavid reader and a writer of fantasy, paranormal, contemporary, and sci/fisensual romances. She loves creating worlds within and without our world. She enjoys good action scenes. Most of her books undereither name, also have a touch of violence and a few more than that. Shewrites romantic suspense and new adult romance under her alter ego.

Sheis a certified chocoholic and is currently working on several projects. Somemight even involve chocolate. But writing helps maintain her sanity.

 

Sign up for her newsletter for sneak peeks andadvance information on new releases as well as a few freebies to subscribers. http://bit.ly/1hA7C9W

 

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A missing cousin, 

A Mysterious Mansion, 

Family Secrets, 

anda “ghost” cat. 

Looking For Lucy

by Debbie De Louise

Genre: Gothic Mystery, Psychological Thriller

 She was never meantto be the brave one.

Despite their different personalities, cousins Mary and Lucy are closer thansisters. Mary, a teacher in a small town, fears change and suffers fromclaustrophobia. Lucy, a thrill-seeker, travels around the world in search ofadventure.

When Lucy goes missing, Mary, her mother, and aunt visit a Long Island mansioncalled Hollingham Hall where Lucy had been employed as a tour guide before shedisappeared. There, Mary meets three men, one of whom may have been romanticallyinvolved with Lucy – a charming historian, a volatile artist, and a friendlylandscaper.

As Mary searches for her cousin, she is drawn deeper into Hollingham’slabyrinthine gardens and shadowed corridors where she discovers a chillingconnection between Lucy and a woman who vanished seventy years ago on the eveof her wedding. She also learns of the “ghost cat” rumored to prowl theproperty.

When strange events take place at Hollingham, the police are called toinvestigate. But is Lucy alive and is her disappearance connected to themissing bride or one of the men on the estate?

A mystery of illicit affairs, hidden passageways, and family secrets, Lookingfor Lucy is the perfect read for fans of gothic novels, psychologicalthrillers, and atmospheric suspense.

 

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The wallet was evidencethat Lucy’s call wasn’t a false alarm. I felt a chill running through me, andmy mother was already looking in her purse for her phone to call 911. AuntLinda, however, was fully in control. “Now let’s not jump to conclusions,” shesaid. “There’s no evidence of a crime here. The wallet may have fallen out ofLucy’s purse or duffel bag. When she discovers that she left it behind, she’llcome back to get it.”

My mother sighed, and it was one of those sisterly sighs I’dwitnessed her make many times around Aunt Linda. “That’s not the point, Lynn.How can Lucy get anywhere without money and her I.D.?”

“You don’t give my daughter credit for her resourcefulness. She’stravelled halfway around the world, for gosh sakes.”

Walter observed the sisters’ exchange with curiosity. I had nodesire to take either side. I was just concerned that Lucy, as resourceful asshe was, could be in danger.

“Well, you’re her mother,” my mother added. “If you’re notworried, then I guess her aunt shouldn’t be either.”

I had to add my two cents. “What about her cousin? I was the onewho received her call for help.”

Both women seemed to run out of ammunition at that point, soWalter interjected. “I think the best thing to do is to tell Mrs. G.” Heglanced at his watch. “The tour should be over soon. I can take you back to thehouse to wait for her.”

Mom was mollified by that suggestion because, at least, it wasdoing something. Aunt Linda shrugged. She and my mom followed Walter out of thecarriage house. He waited for me and then locked the door. Aunt Linda had putLucy’s wallet in her purse.

“Instead of going back the way we came, I’d like to take youanother way,” Walter said, turning right from the carriage house. “We’ll passmy cottage. It’s a circle.”

It was a short walk to Walter’s cottage. Like the Carriage House,only slightly smaller, it was bordered by flowers. A black and brown stripedcat was munching on some green leafy plants growing under the front window.Walter smiled. “That’s my cat, Toppy. I grow catnip for him.”

“Toppy, what an interesting name,” I said.

“It’s short for Topiary,” Walter explained. “I found him near oneof the Topiaries about a year ago and adopted him. I think he wandered into theestate, but he was only a kitten and no one in the area claimed him when I putup notices.”

“You have a topiary garden?” Aunt Linda asked. “I adore topiaries.You have to show me.”

Walter’s face brightened. “You’ll probably also enjoy the maze.”

“A garden maze, oh how delightful!”

Icouldn’t believe that she was more interested in the estate’s botany than infinding her daughter. 

Debbie De Louise is an award-winning author and a retiredreference librarian. She is a member of Sisters-in-Crime, InternationalThriller Writers, the Cat Writers’ Association, and the South Carolina WritersAssociation. She’s written over twenty books including three cozy mysteryseries: the Cobble Cove Mysteries, Buttercup Bend Mysteries, and her newseries, Soup the Supernatural Kitten Mysteries. She’s also written a paranormalromance, standalone mysteries, a time-travel novel, and a collection of cat poems.Her stories and poetry appear in more than a dozen anthologies. Originally fromLong Island, she moved to South Carolina where she now lives with her husband,daughter, and three cats. Learn more about Debbie and her books by visiting herwebsite at https://debbiedelouise.com.

 

 

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When your mind makes you the enemy, either your mind mustdie, or you will. 

Unless yours is the mind they can’t break.

Adverse Reactions

by Deborah J. Lightfoot

Genre: Dystopian Paranormal Suspense

Purity demands abullet. Devin brings a reckoning.

Since she was six years old, Devin Perridin has been locked behind the walls ofthe family home to keep her hidden from those who would kill her. But atsixteen, she is exposed as a “Syke,” one of an outlawed minority whopossess extraordinary powers of mind over matter. Snatched from hiding, sheescapes the firing squad, but only to be imprisoned in a house of horrors: thePeaceful Hills Sanatorium and Rehabilitation Center for the Treatment ofPersistent Mental Disorders. After an unknown time of torture and“behavior modification,” brutally designed to destroy herpsychokinetic reflexes, she emerges from the asylum severely damaged in mindand spirit. Her salvation may lie in the series of crimes triggered by herrelease: first kidnapping, then attempted murder, and then a mustering offorbidden forces to assault the remote pseudo-psychiatric facility where shehad been tortured into near-mindlessness.

Drawing upon a strength she had always known was hers but had never before beenable to consciously control, Devin defies the authoritarian society with itsunjust laws that demand her death. She pushes through pain, isolation, andmoral quandaries to seek justice for not only herself, but all members of amaligned and cruelly persecuted minority. A post-apocalyptic, paranormalallegory for the times in which we live.

When your mind makes you the enemy,either your mind must die, or you will. Unless yours is the mind they can’tbreak.

 

“This novel isimmediately immersive, with an opening scene that sucks readers in with vividsensory detail and a great sense of suspense.” —The Black List

“What a story!I was picked up from the first page and you never let me go thereafter. Thepremise is original … compelling … convincing.” —ARC Reader

“A veryenjoyable read. Excellent pacing. Immersive language. Polished, effortlesswriting. I’d love to see a prequel (or three)!” —ARC Reader

“Relevant tothe current situation in the world. Ostracizing others who are different out offear and ignorance. Cruelty and inhumanity.” —ARC Reader

“Believable andrelatable.” —The Black List

“Thematicallyrich, as Devin faces constant self-doubt but eventually comes to findempowerment in the unique abilities that have made her an outcast.” —TheBlack List

 

**Get it #OnSale for only $1.99 4/21 – 4/24!**

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Chapter 1

 

VAPORS BILLOWED INTO the chamber in thick masses of orange. Devin chokedon the sickly sweet odor.

“Don’tfight it, child,” came the voice—equally cloying—from the darkness beyond thefloodlit, glass-walled chamber. “Give yourself up to it.”

The gassurged into Devin’s face, blinding, gagging her. She made it go away. By forceof will, a moment’s mental reflex, she flung it back.

Freshair flooded her nostrils and drove out the syrupy stink. She sucked in a cool,clean breath.

“No!”snapped the voice, crackling with amplified static. “You must not.”

Thetherapist dropped her with two thousand volts. Devin collapsed to the chamber’sfloor, her body jerking, her nerves on fire. The pain was beyond enduring. Apain this intense must be lethal. But she did not die. As she convulsed, hermuscles knotted in spasms, she could not scream. No part of her, not even hervoice, was under her voluntary control.

“Try itagain, child.” Smooth and saccharine once more, her unseen therapist spoke fromthe concealing shadows as the shock ended and Devin’s pain faded. “Stand up,”the torturer ordered. “And this time, do not fight it. Or yourpunishment will be the same: swift, sure, and severe.”

Devinstruggled upright. She had to brace against the curved glass wall of the gaschamber to keep on her feet. Her muscles had melted from knots into jelly.

Anorange cloud flooded the chamber and filled her nose with the stink of rottingfruit.

“Breatheit,” her therapist instructed. “You must.”

Butagain, Devin reacted by instinct alone. No conscious thought interposed betweenstimulus and response. The cloud approached; she pushed it away. Pure reflex,action of mind: act of self-preservation. The gas held back, suspended inmidair, blocked by the power of her impulse.

On theinstant, thousands of volts knocked her to the floor. Pain engulfed Devin, sucha pain as must be lethal but wouldn’t do her the service of killing her. Shewrithed, silent and barely conscious.

Hertherapist withdrew the punishment. Devin remained on the floor of the isolationchamber, curled in the fetal position, her long brown hair covering her face.Her body was hers to command once more, but her muscles had no strength toobey.

“Yougive new meaning to the word persistent, don’t you, girl?” muttered thedisembodied voice. Then, more forcefully: “The first step toward healing is toadmit you are diseased, Miss Perridin. You have an illness. A mental disorder.I am offering you the cure—in a pleasant aerosol spray that you need onlybreathe. Once inhaled, the drug acts quickly, and its effects are lasting. Butyou must take the first step and acknowledge that you want to be cured.”

Thevoice grew soft, sugary. “Child, for as long as you hold to the notion—themistaken notion—that your disorder is in some way a strength or a benefit toyou, you will continue to fail. And you will suffer the consequences of thatfailure. We can’t have that, can we?”

Devingathered the remnants of her strength and rolled onto her back. To stand wasimpossible; she could barely shape a word.

“No,”she whispered.

Shewasn’t speaking to her tormentor.

But:“That’s the spirit!” the therapist responded, sounding genuinely enthused. “Nowwe try again. Take your medicine like a good girl.”

Theorange stink flowed in at the top of the chamber. Devin, lying face up, watchedthrough the curtain of her hair as the cloud descended. She had time to ward itoff, to make it go away. But in the soul of her being, nothing sparked. Herreflexes, her instincts, failed to respond. What had been a spontaneous forceof mind over matter could offer no resistance.

Devin’smouth filled with the sickening taste of defeat. The orange cloud envelopedher, a sticky weight, and she choked down lungfuls.

“Wonderful!”her therapist exclaimed. “My dear, I couldn’t be more pleased. This is thetipping point. Your recovery will be much easier from now on, I promise.”

Devinbreathed the sickly sweet drug and felt the core of her mind go dead.

Then camethe retching. Her body contorted in gut-shredding paroxysms as the drug madeher vomit—or attempt to vomit. Her keepers had starved her for so long, herstomach had nothing to bring up. The dry heaves racked her with such violencethat she could not breathe. After long moments, unconsciousness brought relief.

Castles in the cornfield provided the setting for Deborah J.Lightfoot’s earliest flights of fancy. On her father’s farm in Texas, she grewup reading tales of adventure and reenacting them behind ramparts ofsun-drenched grain. She left the farm to earn a degree in journalism and writeaward-winning books of history and biography. High on her bucket list was thedesire to try her hand at the genre she most admired. The result is Waterspell,a multi-layered fantasy series about a girl and the wizard who suspects her ofbeing so dangerous to his world, he believes he’ll have to kill her … whichtroubles him, since he’s fallen in love with her.

 

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Two worlds.

One forbidden relic.

A battle for survival or ruin.

Battle Beyond theVeil

by Cassie Sanchez

Genre: Urban Fantasy

The Celestial Warshattered the Heavens; after millennia, the battle still rages.

On the most important day of Zahra’s career at the Gallery of Time Museum,everything unravels. A mysterious package arrives from her estranged father,and the Atar’zul, a relic that could secure her promotion goes missing. Whilebetrayal festers within the museum, a long lost love returns, throwing Zahra’sworld into chaos.

Kyden, a warrior angel and demon slayer, has guarded the spiritual realm forcenturies. When a famous archaeologist and forbidden artifact vanish, Kyden isforced to protect a human, a job he vowed long ago to never do again.

Together, Zahra and Kyden must face rising demon threats and the cursed magicof the Atar’zul. As darkness closes in, they join forces to defend both realmsand find that ending the battle beans trusting each other. Sacrifices must bemade—the cost of which might be their very souls.

Welcome to the battle for humanity’sfuture—a story of loyalty, temptation, and the fragile line between light andshadow.

 

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Cassie Sanchez is the award-winning author behindthe Darkness trilogy—a whirlwind of fast-paced fantasy romancewhere danger dances with desire and magic always has a price. Based in theenchanting Southwest, she lives with her husband and two crazy labs namedBullet and Scout. When she’s not writing happily-ever-afters, she can be foundwielding a Pickleball paddle or cuddling with her nogs for an afternoon nap.

 At the heart of Cassie’s stories are characters whostumble, fall, and rise again—wrestling with forgiveness and searching forredemption. Step into her world, where every story casts a spell and loveconquers all, even the shadows.

 

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Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler ….

She isdescended from the masters of the universe.

To hold her he challenges the godsthemselves. 

Wind From the Abyss

The Silistra Quartet Book 3

by Janet Morris

Genre: Dystopian Epic SciFi Fantasy Romance

Dystopia. Fantasy. Science fiction. Allegory. Political.

 

Wind from the Abyss is the third volume in Janet Morris’classic Silistra Quartet, continuing one woman’s quest for self-realization ina distant tomorrow.

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler …. She isdescended from the masters of the universe. To hold her he challenges the godsthemselves.

 

Praise for Janet Morris’ Silistra Quartet:

“The amazing and erotic adventures of the mostbeautiful courtesan in tomorrow’s universe.” — Fred Pohl

“Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure.”— Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine.

“The best single example of prostitution used infantasy is Janet Morris’ Silistra series.” — Anne K. Kahler, ThePicara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine.

 

This Perseid Press Author’s Cut Edition is revised andexpanded by the author and presented in a format designed to enhance yourreading experience with larger, easy-to-read print, more generous margins, andcovers designed for these premium editions.

 

Wind from the Abyss starts with this . . .

 

“Since, at the beginning of this tale, I did notrecollect myself nor retain even the slightest glimmer of such understanding aswould have led me to an awareness of the significance of the variousoccurrences that transpired at the Lake of Horns, I am adding this preface,though it was no part of my initial conception, that the meaningfulness of theevents described by “Khys’ Estri” (as I have come to think of theshadow-self I was while the dharen held my skills and memory in abeyance) notbe withheld from you as they were from me. I knew myself not: I was Estribecause the girl Carth supposedly found wandering in the forest stripped ofcomprehension and identity chose that name. There, perhaps, lies the greatestirony of all, that I named myself anew after Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, who inreality I had once been. And perhaps it is not irony at all, but an expressionof Khys’ humor, an implicit dissertation by him who structured my experiences,my very thoughts, for nearly two years, until his audacity drove him to bringtogether once more Sereth crill Tyris, past-Slayer, then the outlawed Ebvrasea,then arrar to the dharen himself; Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of Nemar,co-cahndor of the Taken Lands, chosen son of Tar-Kesa, and at that time Khys’puppet-vassal; and myself, former Well-Keepress, tiask of Nemar, and lastlybecoming the chaldless outlaw who had come to judgment and endured ongoingretribution at the dharen’s hands. To test his hesting, his power over owkahen,the time-coming-to-be, did Khys put us together, all three, in his Day-Keeper’scity — and from that moment onward, the Weathers of Life became fixed:siphoned into a singular future; sealed tight as a dead god in his mausoleum,whose every move brought him closer to the sum total, obliteration. So did thedharen Khys bespeak it, himself. . .”

 

“Morris, so goodat giving us characters we can identify with, characters we can love and hate,strikes at the very heart of the human condition and the duality of humanity —both good and evil. Her prose is lean and spot-on, every word carefully chosento enhance the milieu of her imaginary world and advance the plot, giving usaccess to the thoughts, emotions and machinations of the people whose storiesshe is presenting to us. Once again, she gives us a “thinking man’s” sciencefiction/fantasy that explores the nature of power and sexuality, and how theycan be used, misused and abused. This is a brilliant, mature and very adultnovel that will not only leave you thinking about your own place in theuniverse, but questioning the very nature of existence.” – Goodreads reviewer

 

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I.In Mourning for theUnrecollected

 

The hulion hovered, wings aflap, at the win­dow, butting itsblack wedge of a head against the pane. Its yellow eyes glowed cruelly,slit-pupiled. Its white fangs, gleam­ing, were each as long as my forearm.I screamed.Its tufted ears, flat against its head, twitched. Again and again, toothedmouth open wide, it battered at the window, roaring.Once more I screamed and ran stumbling to the far wall of my prison. I poundedupon the locked doors with my fists, pressing myself against the wood. Sobbing,I turned to face it.The beast’s ears flickered at the sound. Those jaws, which could have snappedme in half, closed. It cocked its head.I trembled, caught in its gaze. I could retreat no farther. I sank to my knees,moaning, against the door frame.The beast gave one final snort. Those wings, with a spread thrice the length ofa tall man, flapped decisively, and it was gone.When the hulion was no more than a speck in the greening sky, I rose clumsily,shaking, to collect the papers I had strewn across the mat in my terror. Theywere the arrar Carth’s papers, those he had forgotten in his haste to answerhis returning master’s summons.I knelt upon my hands and knees on the silvery pile, that I might gather thepages and replace them in the tas-sueded folder before Carth returned.Foolish, I thought to myself, that I had so feared the hulion. It could nothave gotten in. I could not get out: It could not get in. Once I had thrown achair at that impervious clarity. The chair had splintered. With one stoutthala leg, as thick as my arm, had I battered upon that window. All I hadaccomplished was the transformation of chair into kindling. The hulion, Ichided myself, could have fared no better.Hulions, upon occasion, have been known to eat man-flesh. Hulions, furred andwinged, fanged and clawed, are the servants of the dharen who rules Silistra. Ihad had no need to fear. Yet, I thought as I gathered the arrar Carth’sscattered papers, hulions are fearsome. Perhaps if I had been able, as othersare, to hear its mind’s intent, I would have felt differently. My fingers, numband trembling, fumbled for the delicate sheets.One in particular caught my eye. It was in Carth’s precise hand and headed:“Preassessment Monitoring of the Arrar Sereth. Enar Fourth Second, 25,697.”I had met, once, the arrar Sereth. Upon my birthday, Macara fourth seventh, inthe year ’696 had I met him, that night my child had been conceived. I had readof his exploits. He frightened me, killer of killers, enforcer for the dharen,he who wore the arrar: chald of the messenger. Sereth, scarred and lean andtaut like some carnivore, who had loved the Keepress Estri, my namesake, andwith her brought great change to Silistra in the pass Amarsa, 25,695 — yes, Ihad met him.I sat myself down cross-legged on the Galeshir carpet, papers still strewnabout, forgotten, and began to read:The time is approximately three enths after sun’s rising, the weather cloudedand cool, our position just south of the juncture of the Karir and Thossrivers. I highly recommend that you look in upon the moment.The arrar Sereth, on the brindle hulion Leir, touched his gol-knife. It was thefirst unnecessary movement he had made in over an enth. My presence, alongsideupon a black hulion, disquieted him. The brindle, gliding at the apex of itsbound, snorted. He touched its shoulder, and the beast, obedient, angled itswings and began its descent.When its feet touched the grass, he set it at a grounded lope. 1 followed suit,bringing my black up to pace him.Sereth regarded me obliquely. I, as he, served the dharen, he thought, andtouched his hulion to a stop.We had been riding all the night, up from Galesh, where I had met him with thetwo beasts. He had served the dharen, most lately, in Dritira. And before that,in the hide diet, and before that upon the star world M’ksakka had he dealtdeath and retribution at Khys’ whim. And dealt them successfully, though thosetasks had been fraught with deadlier risk than a man might be expected tosurvive. His thought was wry, recollecting.“How did you find M’ksakka?” I asked, to key him, to bring something else abovethe impenetrable shield he has constructed. My hulion rumbled at the brindle herode, and that one answered.“I will make a full report to Khys,” he said, slipping off the hulion’s back.“Let us rest them.”I joined him where he lay upon the grass, staring at the sky.“I missed this land,” he said. “The sky there is dark and ominous, alwayscloudy. M’ksakkan air stings eyes and lungs. Everything is covered with a fineblack dust. I would not go again off the planet.”“Perhaps he will not send you,” I conjectured.He saw M’ksakka, and that seeing was colored by his distaste, both for theworld and the work he had done there. The methods he had employed displeasedhis sense of fitness. The value of the M’ksakkan’s death was to him obscure. Isaw the moment: the adjuster’s surprised eyes, wide and staring as Sereth’sfingers closed on his throat, around his windpipe,·the M’ksakkan’s clawing handupon his wrist as he ripped out the man’s larynx, vocal folds dangling; thenthe blood, spurting, and the sound of the adjuster’s choking death. And I sawothers he had killed, those who were anxious to try their skills against a reallive Silistran. He had been hesitant to do so, but more hesitant to face anendless line of their ilk, so he had killed the first three. Again, histhoughts sank below readable level. The hulions lay quiet, lashing their tails.The clouds scudded heavy over the sun. A soft, drizzling rain commenced.“The dharen is pleased with you,” I said.He sat up, his mind absolutely inviolate. “What do you want, Carth?” He stareddown at me. I lay perfectly still. He made no attempt to read me for hisanswer. He merely waited.“A first impression. You are coming up for assessment.” I rose up. “We want toget some sense of you. Your mental health is now our concern.” He ducked hishead, ripping grass from the sward. “You brought child upon that well woman inDritira,” I prodded.He saw her. In many ways she had reminded him of the Keepress. It had beenpasses since he had taken a woman. On M’ksakka there were females, but nothinghe understood to be a woman. He had not couched many of them. And in hide diet,there were only forereaders. In Dritira, with that woman who reminded him ofthe Keepress, he had spent his long-pent seed. Four times he had used her,before she was more than a receptacle in his sight. And he had abused her, morethan was his custom.“Get me the forms. I will collect my birth-price,” he answered. He did not wantthe woman.“You should take her. We have been considering her. She might yet make aforereader.”“Then it is a pity she caught. From inferior blood can come only inferiorstock.”“Khys has asked me,” I told him, “to bid you welcome to any of the forereaderswe hold in common at the Lake. Spawn from such a union surely would bepossessed of talent. The bitterness you hold is out of proportion to thereality. We all, at one time or another, find there is something we want thatwe may not have.”He did not answer me, but rose and went to his hulion. He thought of theKeepress Estri as one thinks of the dead, with acceptance; and then thought ofhis own life, and what compromises he has made to keep it. What he let me know,I have no doubt, will please you. What he did not — that is what concerns me.He allowed me nothing else for the duration of our return.His shield, as you will find, is set lower and much farther into his deeperconscious than any I have encountered. Most of his processing must take placebehind it. Deep-reading him is out of the question. He visualizes barely enoughto verbalize his will. That he is functioning superbly is attested by hisworks. That he feels it to his advantage to serve us at present is a certainty.I worry over what might occur should he choose, eventually, not to serve us.My formal recommendation is for a complete and detailed assessment. Also, Ifeel some attempt might be made to pacify him, in light of what he is fastbecoming. Or perhaps even to eliminate him, lest he become, like Se’keroth, theweapon turned upon the wielder.And it was signed Carth.“Carth!” I gasped, as a dark hand snatched the sheet from my grasp. Still uponmy knees, I twisted to see him. His dark eyes gleamed. He ran his hand throughhis black curls.“Did you find this informative, Estri?” he asked, towering over me, the papercrumpled in his fist. Carth was furious.I dared not answer. I started to my feet.“Pick these up!” he commanded, pointing.I scurried to obey him, scrambling for the leaves strewn upon the web-work carpet,my stomach a knot. Once before, I had seen Carth this agitated, when I hadwritten for him a certain paper. And he had called it audacious, and destroyedit. I finished, and rose to my full height, handing the tas envelope to him. Myhead came to his shoulder. He looked down at me, stern-faced.“You were ill-advised to do this,” he said. “The dharen is not pleased withyou. This” — he threw the crumpled sheet across the room — “will only aggravatematters. You had best make some effort to placate him.”“What do you mean?” I demanded. “Has he taken some sudden interest in me?” Ihad seen the dharen precisely three times since I had come to reside at theLake of Horns: the night he had gotten me with child, the day following, andonce while I lay near death when the unborn had driven me to seek it. He hadnot been at the Lake of Horns when I bore his he-beast into the world. I hadcried out for him during that premature and extended labor. He had beenunavailable. Now, nearly eight passes later, he had returned.“Do not be insolent!” Carth’s voice rasped as his palm cuffed my face to oneside. Tears in my eyes, I put my hand to my cheek. It was what I had thought,not what I had said, that had brought me chastisement. Shaking my head, Ibacked away from him. Though I had known Carth a telepath, a surface-reader,rarest of Silistran talents, never had he shown his skills before me, one whoneither spoke nor heard the tongues of mind.“Estri, come here.”I went to him, my hand trailing from my cheek to the warm, pulsing band lockedabout my throat.When I stood before him, he lifted my face, his hand under my chin, so I mustlook into his eyes.“He is very angry, child. You must realize that what you think is as audible tohim as what you say. I know it was not malicious, that you read what you found.Forget it, if you can. Concentrate on what lies before you.” He patted my back,all the anger gone out of him.“I do not want to see him,” I said, toying with the ends of my copper hair,grown now well below mid thigh.Carth pursed his lips. “You have no choice. He will see you in a third-enth.Make ready.” And he turned and strode through the double doors that adjoined myprison to Khys’ quarters. Khys, my couch-mate, was again in residence. Thedharen of all Silistra, back from none knew where, would again rule from theLake of Horns.Make ready, indeed, I thought, combing my hair. I had only the white,sleeveless s’kim I wore; thigh-length, of simple web-cloth. My jewelry was theband of restraint at my throat. I retied the garment upon my hips. Throwing myhair back, I regarded myself in my prison’s mirrored wall. My body,copper-skinned, lithe, only shades lighter than my thick mane, postured at me,arrogant. I had thought, for a time, that the he-beast had destroyed it, butsuch had not been the case. Exercise had given its grace and firmness back tome. My legs are very long, my waist tiny, hips slim. Pregnancy had altered melittle. My breasts were still high and firm, my belly flat and tight. Goodenough for him, surely. I widened my eyes suggestively, then stuck my tongueout at her. She made a face back. I grinned and wondered why I had done so,turning from the wall that ever showed me the boundaries of my world.

*Don’t miss theprevious books in the series!**

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Best selling author Janet Morris began writing in 1976 andpublished more than 30 novels, many co-authored with her husband Chris Morrisor others. She contributed short fiction to the shared universe fantasy seriesThieves World, in which she created the Sacred Band of Stepsons, a mythicalunit of ancient fighters modeled on the Sacred Band of Thebes. She created,orchestrated, and edited the Bangsian fantasy series Heroes in Hell, writingstories for the series as well as co-writing the related novel, The LittleHelliad, with Chris Morris. She wrote the bestselling Silistra Quartet in the1970s, including High Couch of Silistra, The Golden Sword, Wind from the Abyss,and The Carnelian Throne. This quartet had more than four million copies inBantam print alone, and was translated into German, French, Italian, Russianand other languages. In the 1980s, Baen Books released a second edition of thislandmark series. The third edition is the Author’s Cut edition, newly revisedby the author for Perseid Press. Most of her fiction work has been in thefantasy and science fiction genres, although she has also written historicaland other novels. Morris has written, contributed to, or edited severalbook-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethalweapons, developmental military technology and other defense and nationalsecurity topics.

Janet said: ‘People often ask what book to read first. Irecommend “I, the Sun” if you like ancient history; “The SacredBand,” a novel, if you like heroic fantasy; “Lawyers in Hell” ifyou like historical fantasy set in hell; “Outpassage” if you likehard science fiction; “High Couch of Silistra” if you like far-futuredystopian or philosophical novels. I am most enthusiastic about the definitivePerseid Press Author’s Cut editions, which I revised and expanded.’

 

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This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Stu Strumwasser will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

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A Real Collusion is about the secret conspiracy between the Republican and Democratic parties to control the US government through an illegal duopoly.

From the author of the bestselling novel, The Organ Broker, (hailed by Lee Child, New York Times # 1 bestselling author of the Jack Reacher series as, “Exciting and thought-provoking–the perfect package”) comes, A Real Collusion, a stunning political thriller and expose.

A Real Collusion is a David Vs. Goliath(s) story about a man who accidentally becomes the leader of an independent political movement that nearly takes down the two-party system in America, while exposing a conspiracy that affects the results of the 2016 election. It explores universal and deeply human themes of loss, and the tension between justice and power. In the opening sentence the narrator points out that, “Ordinary people often do extraordinary things.” The characters in the book do, and the action is driven by the fantastic events of a unique political satire. It is also the heartfelt story of regular people struggling with lost love, alienation and nearly universal disaffection who find strength in enduring loyalty and friendship

This is the story of John Campbell (a regular guy from the lower east side of Manhattan) as recounted by his friend Skip Winters. Skip becomes John’s campaign manager and later, a congressman in his own right. He narrates the stunning-but-plausible story of how John Campbell and The American Coalition race to popularity, raising over a hundred million dollars from grassroots contributors—and become a threat to the political duopoly of the Democratic and Republican parties. The book sprinkles in references to real events from recent history, and real political leaders including Trump, John McCain, and more. This imbues the novel with a sense of realism, albeit one of an alternate reality. Skip discovers a deep-seated conspiracy within our political system whose leaders orchestrate a murder, destroy his friend and tip the scales of the election. The novel turns out to be Skip’s exposé of the secret collaboration between the two major political parties in our country—a cooperation to protect the duopoly that is, in part, real.

Read an Excerpt

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is John Campbell, from the lower east side.”

The crowd responded with another enthusiastic round of cheers, but this time John held up his palm and said, “Please, please….” And that threw a quasi-hush over the audience.

“Thank you for coming to this little park tonight to hear me speak. Three nights ago, on the evening of July 10th, I attended our local Community Board meeting to propose that cigar smoking not be allowed on the sidewalk in front of bars and restaurants. That’s all. I was not there to critique our government and I didn’t ask for any of the attention that I have since received. I’m just like most of you, and I never anticipated that newspapers and newscasters would ever solicit my opinions on political issues. But now they’re asking, and I have decided that I have a responsibility to answer. I am not embarrassed to say… I care.”

Then, John paused. He had their rapt attention and he knew it. He looked directly at me, suddenly brimming with confidence. It might have been the kind of glance that Keith and Mick sometimes give to the roadies right before they go into the encore. I think that the feeling which washed over me then was pride. John turned back to the crowd and loudly said, “So, would you like to hear my answer?!”

Thunder from the crowd. “Yeah!” they yelled, some pumping their fists in the air.

“I won’t give it to you!” John shouted, but then quickly added, “Instead, I will give you my proposal for OUR answer!” which elicited yet another roar.

“In recent years our system of government has broken down. Everyone knows it. Washington has become caught up in never-ending partisan fighting. It was on display during the recent government shutdown. The two major political parties no longer represent us. Frankly, how could they represent the spectrum or sum total of the thoughts, feelings and will of three hundred million citizens? There is a reason that more young people now choose “Independent” than either party when they turn eighteen. The political parties today exist as little more than machines for the never-ending raising of money to combat the enormous amount of money raised by their opponents (their “enemy counter-party” or, as I prefer to refer to them: “fellow Americans.”) Let’s stop standing for it. The Democrats and Republicans currently run our nation like two petulant children fighting over which show to watch on TV and who gets to hold the remote. When one party chooses the program, the other storms out of the room. Is that really the way we want to be led?

About the Author

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Stu Strumwasser is a modern-day muckraker who writes literary novels that address important sociopolitical issues. His first novel, The Organ Broker, was published by Skyhorse (distributed by Simon & Schuster) and shortlisted as one of five finalists for the Hammett Prize for literary excellence in crime writing. Strumwasser was also the primary songwriter and drummer for the indie rock band Channeling Owen. He is a longtime investment professional (investing in sustainable technology that improves the manner in which we make food) and hails from Brooklyn NY. His new novel, A Real Collusion, is both an exposé and analysis of broken government and a fictional David Vs. Goliath(s) story of the man who almost took down the two-party system in America.

WEBSITE: https://www.arealcollusion.com
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/244895746-a-real-collusion
Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/stuthemeddler
Tik Tok: http://www.tiktok.com/@stuthemeddler
To read the first two chapters of the novel please visit: https://arealcollusion.com/first-two-chapters/

Amazon Link to pre-order Amazon EBook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G5K3BJ1K
Amazon Link to pre-order Amazon Hardcover: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GCCR2XMS
BN.com EBook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-real-collusion-stu-strumwasser/1148954359?ean=2940185040737
BN Hardcover: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-real-collusion-stuart-strumwasser/1148954359
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/a-real-collusion
Google Play EBook: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=NxSlEQAAQBAJ&hl=en_US
Google Play Audiobook: https://play.google.com/store/audiobooks/details?id=AQAAAEDqp1LnqM&hl=en_US
Apple Books: http://books.apple.com/us/book/id6757249400
Payhip for the book: https://payhip.com/ARealCollusion

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The cards await,ready to unveil their secrets. 

Are you prepared to witness their magic?

The Book of Wands

The Tarot Series Book 1

by Lauren Louise Hazel

Genre: YA Academy, Urban Fantasy

The cards await,ready to unveil their secrets. Are you prepared to witness their magic?

Olivia Pembroke is in her final year of The School of Wands, where she willvie against her friends and rivals for qualification in The Final Judgment.Designed to be the ultimate test of Intelligence, Strength, Creativity andCourage, The Final Judgment is set by a mysterious figure called Rasmus, who iswrapped in secrets.

Olivia has no doubt she is going to win and claim victoryand pride for her family. That is, until her grandmother dies, and leaves herwith her old Tarot Deck, which she claimed could see Past, Present and Future…

 

**Releases July 2026 – PreOrder Now!**

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PROLOGUE 

 

Olivia’s head was bowed, and her neck straining in itsawkward position. She had plaited her hair neatly, in a half-crown at the topof her head, at her mother’s insistence. Olivia was already regretting thedecision. The weather was drizzling, the mist cool on her flushed skin, but shehad no protection from its light drops. 

Nor did she have any shield from the flurry ofmourners. 

Her mother was standing at the front, clad in a black suitand skirt and black boots. Her face, starting to line with age, was stone coldand remote. Her father was standing at her side, and like Olivia, he waslooking at the floor. He looked hunched and strangely small. 

The casket, black and shiny, was lowered slowly into theground. 

The priest was speaking, but his words were wrong. He wastalking about Olivia’s grandmother like someone who had never met her before;he called her a bright and radiant light, kind and gentle and generous. She hadnot been any of those things, but Olivia had loved her anyway. She had beenstrong and resilient and a force of nature. She had advocated for Olivia whennobody else had – attending every school event when her parents could not. Hergrandmother had stayed at the Pembroke Estate with her while her parents weretravelling for work, assisting with schoolwork and answering Olivia’s manyquestions. She was always supportive and never judging. She always made timefor her.

But now she was gone…

And Olivia had never felt so alone. The distance between herand parents was like a chasm, so far and almost unbreachable. Olivia blamedthem for their part in her grandmother’s death – for all that they had done toher – and it was a thought, a feeling, that she could not shake. If they hadnot sent her away, maybe she’d alive… maybe she would still be with Olivia.She did not know what to do now. 

How could her grandmother leave her? She didn’t understand.What had seen done wrong? Olivia wanted to cry, the conflicting emotionsbubbling beneath her skin. She felt trapped, like she was suffocating under ablack cloud that only she could see.

After all, her mother was always watching – as soon as thethought crossed Olivia’s mind, her mother turned towards her, reaching, asthough she hadn’t done anything wrong. Olivia swallowed and backed away. 

“Don’t let this distract you, Olivia,” said her mother, herquiet voice loud in the oppressive silence. Olivia jerked slightly, unable tosuppress the flinch. She did not reply.

Her mother barrelled on. “This is the most important yearfor you,” she continued, oblivious to Olivia’s thoughts and feelings, asalways. “You could achieve anything.”

            Inthat moment, Olivia did not care.

Her grandmother was not coming back. 

 

Lauren Louise Hazel is a Cyber Security Manager by day andwrites YA fantasy by night. She has one annoying brother and younger sister. Asshe was growing up, the only item her dad would buy her without demanding herpocket money was books. He’s hoping the writing is successful so he can get aFerrari!

Some of Lauren’s favourite books and influences include theclassics – like Lord of the Rings and The Hunger Games – and anything by HarukiMurakami and GRR Martin.

 

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This is my first #playthrough of #skyrim and these are snippets of some of my amusing, or not-so-amusing moments. You can see my full #gameplay here:

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