Archangel's Desire

Monday, May 18, 2015

Book Blast, Giveaway & Interview: Destiny by @AuthorCAWilson

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Book Blast

 

 

clip_image002Destiny

Cornerstone Deep

Book 3

Charlene A. Wilson

Genre: Paranormal/light sci-fi/ Fantasy

Publisher: Spectrum Publishing

Date of Publication: May 11, 2015

ISBN 10: 0989984656

ISBN 13: 978-0-9899846-5-2

ASIN: B00W35XAY8

Number of pages: 200

Word Count: 52,886

Cover Artist: Charlene A. Wilson

Book Description:

Angels, Gods, High Ones… Could anything else find its way into the prophecy caused by their father, Sylis Shilo, the renowned realm traveler? Vincent understands there were things in his father’s work he wasn’t privy to simply because his soul was too young, but how could this be kept a secret from even his brothers? The more he learns, the more he’s glad he hadn’t known.

The sentinels of Cornerstone Deep are in for their most difficult challenge yet. The portal to the Spectrum of the Realms must be sealed, and punishments must be carried out. Will the Gods take all that is dear to Vincent, James, and Cole Shilo?

“Flesh cannot take away that which our souls have united.”

Available at Amazon

Excerpt

Stars blinked, and Vincent scowled at the firmament. They mocked him—tiny gems as out of his reach as the treasure he sought. With a snarl, he scanned the area around the empty town square, whirled to face Simpson drive, and then jabbed his hand toward the deserted street of the city’s east side.

“Orvertre!”

The summoning command echoed through the night and then ebbed into the quiet atmosphere with no result.

A frog croaked from Center Creek somewhere within the park to his right. The urban green rustled and deep shadows waved as the breeze whispered along the tall border hedges. A cat padded from an alley between the north side commerce onto the sidewalk and then looked his way. The dim streetlight reflected in its eyes, two silver discs that taunted alongside the night sky.

With a growl, he punched his frustration into the air. Blue neon flashed from his fist. The bolt highlighted the crimson brick storefronts and plowed into the street with a resounding blast. Asphalt bulleted the commerce, shattering glass behind the barred windows, and pelted the granite griffin perched on top of the corner archway of the entrance to Shilo Park.

The cat darted back the way it came.

Vincent snarled. Turning toward the city center, he clenched his jaw and glared around the empty court. How many times have I tried to summon the Mother Earth beads from here already? Every faithful follower of the gods had come to witness the absence of Gryffin. When they left, the park was in shambles. It took three weeks to pick up all the rubble and return the vegetation to its rightful state. He glanced over his shoulder at the stone gargoyle. The god of conformance couldn’t have made a more striking statement with that disappearance act—and the beads couldn’t have been lost at a worst time. Anyone could have stashed them away, thrilled to find such a keep.

Vincent ground his teeth together so hard his temples ached. Humidity thickened the early summer night and carried the sulfuric odor from the west side industries. It coated his senses with added irritation. Where was the floral scent of Shilo Park? He needed the sweet comfort it held.

Releasing his breath, he whispered a vow he didn’t intend to sustain. “Elaina, you will never touch another magical charm as long as you live.”

He glanced at his watch and sighed an anxious breath. I need to get home.

How long before his brothers questioned his excursions? How long could he keep the disappearance of the relic a secret?

Furling his cape, he dispersed his elements into a fine mist. He allowed his dark essence to meander as he flew the length of the boulevard, recalling the crowded scene. Pilgrimage buggies, tents, covered wagons; they were only a portion of the massive gathering of faithful that had finally cleared the area.

Irritation rippled his essence. With a growl, he conceded failure and headed over the southern apricot orchards to Shilo Manor.

  Author Interview

Did you always wanted to be a writer? If not what did you want to be?

I thought of it as a teen, but had no idea how to make it a career. I studied the arts intent on being a teacher. Funny how things end up.

When did you first consider yourself a “writer”?

I wrote short stories in my teens and considered myself a bit of a writer then. But life carries you in all sorts of directions, doesn’t it? I’ve served in several settings… from caregiver to detention deputy. I finally got to settle into my calling in writing.

How long did it take to get your first book published?

I wrote The Transformation of Anna in the fall of 2009 and it was published Nov. of 2010.

Do you do another job except for writing and can you tell us more about it?

I have the opportunity to be a full time writer, mom, and wife…

What is the name of your latest book, and if you had to summarize it in less than 20 words what would you say?

Destiny

Angels, Gods, High Ones… Could anything else find its way into the prophecy caused by their father, Sylis Shilo, the renowned realm traveler? Vincent understands there were things in his father’s work he wasn’t privy to simply because his soul was too young, but how could this be kept a secret from even his brothers? The more he learns, the more he’s glad he hadn’t known.

The sentinels of Cornerstone Deep are in for their most difficult challenge yet. The portal to the Spectrum of the Realms must be sealed, and punishments must be carried out. Will the Gods take all that is dear to Vincent, James, and Cole Shilo?

Who is your publisher? Or do you self-publish?

I do have a publisher, CleanReads.com. I also self-publish. I like the challenge and freedom of having both.

How long does it usually take you to write a book, from the original idea to finishing writing it?

I hear of authors who can write several books a year, and you always see a new title from them. But it takes me about a year to flesh out, revise and edit a manuscript.

What can we expect from you in the future? ie More books of the same genre? Books of a different genre?

Oh yes, more books in the paranormal/light sci-fi/fantasy and most definitely romance genres. But I do have a couple in the sidelines that are contemporaries waiting to be seen.

What genre would you place your books into?

They are actually categorized as sci-fi since they take place in other dimensions, but I think paranormal better suits them with all the magic, Gods, and such.

What made you decide to write that genre of book?

I love using my imagination. Let it flow and create! I don’t particularly like to be tied to a normal way of existence. Lol

Do you have a favorite character from your books? And why are they your favorite?

I think I’d have to say that Cole Shilo from my Cornerstone Deep series is my favorite. Bless him, he’s lead by the heart, moody, grumpy (unless he’s around his love), and has been through so much. But he fights with all he has to keep his love. He’s such a romantic and while he might grumble about a task, he fills it whole-heartedly. I just love my Cole.

Do you read all the reviews of your book/books?

Yes, the good and the bad. It gives me insight as to how readers are translating what I’ve written. And it helps me improve as a writer.

Do you choose a title first, or write the book then choose the title?

A title usually comes when I’m outlining/fleshing out the story. If not, I’ll mull it around and ask my fans or characters.

How do you come up with characters names and place names in your books?

Would it make sense to say they are already named and just let me know who they are? It feels that way most of the time.

Are character names and place names decided after their creation? Or do you pick a character/place name and then invent them?

Names usually come first with the first impression I get of the character. A couple of times I’ve had to tweak a name. One example is Rhune in my Destiny book. He was originally going to be Rayne. But his personality just didn’t fit the name. It morphed into Rhune.

Do you decide on character traits (ie shy, quiet, tomboy girl) before writing the whole book or as you go along?

These are some hard questions! Lol. It seems like the characters are who they are. To me they live in the world and just really let me know what they’re like as I plot out the book. They just fit.

Are there any hidden messages or morals contained in your books? (Morals as in like Aesops Fables type of "The moral of this story is..")

No real morals unless it would be, when you find love, fight with all you have to keep it.

Which format of book do you prefer, eBook, hardback, or paperback?

Paperback when I’m at home relaxing, but I really like my e-reader when I’m out an about.

 

 

Giveaway

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  About The Author

clip_image004

Charlene A. Wilson is an author of tales that take you to other dimensions. She weaves magic, lasting love, and intrigue to immerse you into the lives of her characters.

She began writing in her early teens when her vivid dreams stayed with her long after she had them. The characters and worlds were so amazing she brought them to life through her books.

Charlene resides in a small community in Arkansas, USA, with her two beautiful daughters, husband, a cuddly Pekingese, and a very chatty cockatiel named Todder.

Author site: http://CharleneAWilson.com

Blog: http://charleneawilsonblog.blogspot.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Charlene-A-Wilson-Romance-Author/162568770441255

Twitter: http://twitter.com/AuthorCAWilson

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4550595.Charlene_A_Wilson

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/pub/charlene-a-wilson/15/989/1b8

Book Blast, Giveaway & Interview: Amaranthine: The Heart of Decompose by Nina R Schluntz

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Book Blast

 

 

 

71X-i9VFsWL._SL1500_Amaranthine: The Heart of Decompose

Nina R Schluntz

Genre: Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Horror, Romance

Publisher: Rainstorm Press

Date of Publication: 19 December 2014

ISBN-10: 1937758532

ISBN-13: 978-1937758530

Number of pages: 230 pages

Word Count: 80,580

Cover Artist: Nina Schluntz

Book Description:

Dragons, unicorns, fairies, zombies… and Santa.

At the center of it all stands Dee, a man immortalized in legend as Decompose. An ongoing war between unicorns and dragons has led to the creation of a plague… a deadly infection Dee is the host for. Not quite human, but not a unicorn either, Dee and the plague form a symbiotic relationship, resulting in immortality of the undead kind.

Every ruling Empire has desired control of Decompose. Controlling the infection means control of the people. An intervention of an old rival, Santa, results in Dee going missing. When he resurfaces decades later, Dee has one goal: locate the mythical cure to his plague.

However, complications of the heart force Dee to decide whether he truly wants to find the cure and give up being Decompose.

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/93Yoo-LcPZo

Available at Amazon

Excerpt

Jhon.

Dee focused on the name, pulling strength from it. Jhon contained the cure. Dee had to live so he could find Jhon. The cure was his way to correct all the wrongs he had done.

Dee ripped at the flesh surrounding him and clawed his way to the surface. The guts of the creature spilled out onto the ground, and he fell with them. He coughed, spitting out bodily fluids of the creature that had eaten him.

Jhon.

Dee rolled onto his side and threw up. The acidic stomach bile had left him temporarily disabled. His hearing returned before his vision and he heard voices near him.

“That?” A boyish voice asked. “That’s what you call a great and powerful present?”

“Trust me.” Another male voice said. “Throw the net on him and all your wishes will come true.”

“What is he, a genie?”

“You can treat him like one. He will be able to grant your every wish.” The older voice sounded familiar. Air rushed into Dee’s lungs, and his heart gave a painful beat. “Throw it over him now, before his strength returns.”

“Santa,” Dee managed to say. He gritted his newly mended teeth and gave a low growl. What did that man want now?

Dee’s vision returned in time for him to see a large, light- weight fishnet fall over his head and shoulders, covering his entire body. There was something claustrophobic about it. The more he struggled, the more of a mess he made of himself and the net.

“Stop moving around like that,” the boy said. Every muscle in Dee’s body stiffened. “Straighten the net out and get to your feet.” Dee moved as quickly as his wounded body would allow. His skin continued to burn from the acidic digestive juices still covering his flesh. The child before him didn’t look nearly as young as he’d expected. He was a teenager. And a dorky looking one at that, dressed in dark green pajamas with a cowlick on the back of his head.

“Santa, what is this?” Dee asked.

“Show me a trick,” the boy said. Dee obediently raised his hand and created a tennis ball sized orb of fire. It hovered in mid- air a few inches from his hand.

“He can do whatever you want,” Santa told the boy. “He is yours. No one will miss him. They all think he is dead.”

Dee put the fire out and lowered his hand. Fear rose through his healing body as he realized Santa was right. Dee had just crawled his way out of a dragon’s belly. Everyone who knew him thought a giant winged lizard had digested him. Even if someone searched for his remains, they would likely find nothing awry with his missing body.

“What is this?” he asked again.

“You’re my Christmas present,” the boy said.

Santa leaned in close to Dee. “The boy is clever, Dee. He caught me in a trap. You wouldn’t want all the children in the universe to miss the joy that Santa brings, would you? Of course, you wouldn’t. Therefore, I bartered with him. I gave him you in exchange for my freedom. You understand, don’t you?”

“You gave me to him as a present? I’m not an object to be owned.”

“Well, let’s be honest here, Dee. Most of your life has been spent in exactly that manner. At least this time your owner only wants you for your power, not your plague. Consider it a blessing—besides you’ll still have my visit to look forward to every Christmas Eve.”

My plague. Dee tried not to cringe at the reminder.

“Can you teleport him directly to the shower? He’s disgusting. My mother will throw a fit if he brings all that goop into the house.”

“Then you’ll take him?” Santa asked, as though Dee were a puppy for sale at the pet store.

“Yeah, he’ll do. Thank you, Santa.”

“I should have thought of this years ago,” Santa said.

“Santa, please,” Dee said. “I have to find Jhon before Emperor Emanuel does. He’s the only one who can cure the plague.”

“I’m sure Jhon will be fine without you, Dee.”

Character Interview

Character Name: Dee McPowin, aka Decompose

Character Bio: Two thousand year old warlock, from Earth, currently the host for the Plague of Decompose.

Thank you for joining us today Dee. I know you have a busy schedule. I want you to know how much of an honor it is to be interviewing you.

Dee: No problem.

So the great Decompose has been missing for fifteen years. How does it feel to be “found?”

Dee: I’m just glad to be able to resume my search for the cure.

That’s right. You’re on a quest to find a cure for your plague. We all certainly wish you the best of luck in locating it. So let’s get down to the questions my viewers are interested in. What would you describe as your worst and best quality?

Dee: I think my worst is rather obvious, I’m infected with a plague that makes me want to devour human flesh. My best quality would be my self-control, you can attest to that as you’re still alive.

(laugh nervously) Yes, indeed. What is the one thing you wish other people knew about you?

Dee: That I’m not a heartless monster. Most of my plague wasn’t spread by me but others who—

Let’s avoid politics and keep this strictly about you, shall we? What is your biggest secret, something no one knows about?

Dee: I have no real friends.

I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps after this interview you’ll be able to find some.

Dee: Are you offering?

(Nervous laugh) Sure. So back to the questions, what are you most afraid of?

Dee: The very thing I create.

Can you clarify?

Dee: The zombies my plague creates. My worst fear is being eaten alive by them, for all of eternity.

Oh my, that is… a horrid fate. Um, what do you want more than anything?

Dee: To find the cure to my plague and remove it from existence.

That would make you mortal, wouldn’t it? Isn’t it true the plague is what keeps you alive?

Dee: Yes, I would no longer be able to regenerate like I do. But my father was a warlock, so I’ll still be immortal.

Just not undead.

Dee: Correct.

What is your relationship status?

Dee: Single.

How would you describe your sense of fashion?

Dee: I don’t understand the question.

That’s fine, we’ll skip it. How much of a rebel are you? Huh, you know what, I don’t think we need to hear the answer for that either. Umm, what do you consider to be your greatest achievement?

Dee: Murdering my entire family.

Oh wow, that um. What is your idea of happiness?

Dee: Peace. The brief moments that there is no hunger, no voices or demons, (gestures at head) telling me to feed on flesh.

Huh, speaking of that, what is your current state of mind?

Dee: Distracted.

What is your most treasured possession?

Dee: A trinket I took of my adoptive father’s corpse.

What is your most marked characteristic?

Dee: My mixed heritage.

That’s not quite what, never mind. What is it that you, most dislike?

Dee: Zombies.

Right. Which living person do you, most despise? Or, uh, have you killed them all?

Dee: I thought you wanted to keep politics out this interview.

Yes, indeed I did. Moving on, what is your greatest regret?

Dee: Failing to verify that all of my family members are dead. I’m worried a few might have recovered.

Ah, yes. Nothing like a job half done. I’m sure many of us can relate, sort of. What is a quality you most like in a person?

Dee: Fat and slow, bigger the better.

So, you’re interested in physical qualities?

Dee: Yes.

Who is your favorite hero in fiction?

Dee: Superman.

Why?

Dee: He has a few superpowers I lack.

Uh huh, if you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?

Dee: To not be the host for the Plague of Decompose. To be normal, human, mortal, live a normal life.

What is your motto?

Dee: Don’t eat him.

Huh, that’s a very inter—

(We’re sorry, this broadcast is experiencing technical difficulties)

 

 

  Giveaway

 

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About The Author

 

clip_image004Nina Schluntz is a native to rural Nebraska. In her youth, she often wrote short stories to entertain her friends. Those ideas evolved into the novels she creates today.

Her husband continues to ensure her stories maintain a touch of realism as she delves in the science fiction and fantasy realm. And their kitty, a rescued Abyssinian, is always willing to stay up late to provide inspiration.

Visit her blog; mizner13.wordpress.com for information regarding previous and upcoming publications. She also posts book and movie reviews for a wide variety of genres.

https://www.facebook.com/nschluntz

https://www.facebook.com/amaranthine.mizner

Book Blast, Giveaway & Interview: Heuer Lost And Found by @iamfunkhauser

Heuer Lost and Found Banner 851 x 315_thumb[1]

 

Book Blast

 

clip_image002_thumb[2]Heuer Lost And Found

Unapologetic Lives

Book 1

A. B. Funkhauser

Genre: Adult, Contemporary, Fiction,

Metaphysical, Paranormal, Dark Humor

Publisher: Solstice Publishing

Date of Publication: April 23, 2015

Number of pages: 237

Word Count: 66,235

ASIN: B00V6KLAMA

Formats available: Electronic, Paper Back

Cover Artist: Michelle Crocker

Book Description:

Unrepentant cooze hound lawyer Jürgen Heuer dies suddenly and unexpectedly in his litter-strewn home. Undiscovered, he rages against god, Nazis, deep fryers and analogous women who disappoint him.

At last found, he is delivered to Weibigand Brothers Funeral Home, a ramshackle establishment peopled with above average eccentrics, including boozy Enid, a former girl friend with serious denial issues. With her help and the help of a wise cracking spirit guide, Heuer will try to move on to the next plane. But before he can do this, he must endure an inept embalming, feral whispers, and Enid’s flawed recollections of their murky past.

Is it really worth it?

Book Trailer 1 Book Trailer 2

Available at  

Amazon  and  Book Goodies

Add it to your Goodreads List

clip_image004_thumb[1]Reviews:

Fresh writing filled with rich vocabulary, this story features a vivid cast of colourful, living-breathing characters. This one will keep you reading late into the night until the final page.—Yvonne Hess, Charter Member, The Brooklin 7

Ms. A.B Funkhauser is a brilliant and wacky writer …Her distinctive voice tells an intriguing story that mixes moral conflicts with dark humor.Rachael Stapleton, Author, The Temple of Indra’s Jewel and Curse of the Purple Delhi Sapphire

The macabre black comedy is definitely a different sort of book! You will enjoy this book with its mixture of horror and humour. —Diana Harrison, Author, Always and Forever

Heuer Lost and Found is a quirky and irreverent story about a man who dies and finds his spirit trapped in a funeral home with an ex-lover who happens to be the mortician. The characterization is rich the story well-told.—Cryssa Bazos, Writer’s Community of Durham Region, Ontario, Canada

Author A. B. Funkhauser strikes a macabre cord with her book "Heuer Lost and Found". I found it to have a similar feel to the HBO series "Six Feet Under".--Young, Author, A Harem Boy’s Saga Vol I, II, and III

 

  Excerpt

Two Weeks Ago

The house, like the man who lived in it, was remarkable: a 1950s clapboard-brick number with a metal garage door that needed serious painting. Likewise, the windows, which had been replaced once in the Seventies under some home improvement program, then never again. They were wooden and they were cracked, allowing wasps and other insects inside.

This was of little consequence to him.

The neighbors, whom Heuer prodigiously ignored, would stare at the place. Greek, Italian, and house proud, they found the man’s disdain for his own home objectionable. He could see it on their faces when he looked out at them through dirty windows.

To hell with them.

If the neighbors disapproved of the moss green roof with its tar shingles that habitually blew off, then let them replace it. Money didn’t fall from the sky and if it did, he wouldn’t spend it on improvements to please strangers.

They were insects.

And yet there were times when Jürgen Heuer was forced to compromise. Money, he learned, could solve just about anything. But not where the willful and the pernicious were concerned. These, once singled out, required special attention.

Alfons Vermiglia, the Genovese neighbor next door, had taken great offense to his acacia tree, a towering twenty-five foot behemoth that had grown from a cutting given to him by a lodge brother. The acacia was esteemed in Masonic lore appearing often in ritual, rendering it so much more than just mere tree. In practical terms, it provided relief, offering shade on hot days to the little things beneath it. And it bloomed semi-annually, whimsically releasing a preponderance of white petals that carried on the wind mystical scent—the same found in sacred incense and parfums.

What horseshit.

It was a dirty son of a bitch of a tree that dropped its leaves continuously from spring to fall, shedding tiny branches from its diffident margins. These were covered in nasty little thorns that damaged vinyl pool liners and soft feet alike. They also did a pretty amazing job of clogging Alfons’ pool filter, turning his twenty-five hundred gallon toy pool green overnight.

This chemistry compromised the neighbor’s pleasure and it heightened his passions, blinding Alfons to the true nature of his enemy. He crossed over onto Heuer’s property and drove copper nails into the root system. It was an old trick, Byzantine in its treachery; the copper would kill the tree slowly over time leading no one to suspect foul play.

But Heuer was cagey and suspicious by nature, so when the tree displayed signs of failure, he knew where to look.

The acacia recovered and Alfons said nothing. Heuer planted aralia—the “Devil’s Walking Stick”—along the fence line and this served as an even thornier reminder that he knew. And if there was any doubt at all, he went further by coating his neighbor’s corkscrew hazel with a generous dose of Wipe Out.

Intrusive neighbors and their misplaced curiosities were, by turns, annoying and amusing and their interest, though unwanted, did not go unappreciated. The Greeks on the other side of him weren’t combative in the least and they offered gardening advice whenever they caught him out of doors. The man, Panos, talked politics and cars, and expressed interest in the vehicle that sat shrouded and silent on Heuer’s driveway. He spoke long and colorfully about the glory days of Detroit muscle cars and how it all got bungled and bargained away.

“They sacrificed an industry to please a bunch of big mouths in Hollywood,” Panos would rant in complete disregard for history: Al Gore and Global Warming didn’t kill the GTO; the OPEC oil crisis did. But there was no point in telling him that.

Panos was an armchair car guy and incurable conspiracy theorist. He also kept to his side of the fence, unlike his wife, Stavroula, who was driven by natural instinct. Not content to leave an unmarried man alone, she routinely crossed Heuer’s weedy lawn, banging on the door with offers of food and a good housecleaning.

Heuer had no trouble accepting her cooking. But he declined her brush and broom. Was it kindness, or was she trying to see inside? He suspected the latter.

No one was ever seen entering Heuer’s house and while this piqued public interest, he never gave in, not even to those who were kind to him. He liked Panos and Stavroula and he regretted poisoning their cat.

But not enough to let them in to his home.

Others on the street had less contact with him. Canvassers at election time would disturb him, in spite of the lawn sign warning the solicitous away. That this didn’t apply to neighbor kids brave enough to pedal cookies and magazine subscriptions in spite of the sign, was a testament, perhaps, to some residual soft spot in his heart that endured.

Even so, he knew that people talked about him and, frankly, he had trouble accounting for their fascination. Short, curt, bespectacled, he courted an ethos that favored enforced detachment. When people got close enough to hear him speak, they detected a trace of an accent. Now faded after years of U.S. residency, his speech still bore the unmistakable patterns of someone undeniably foreign. Elaborate, overwrought and heavy on the adverbs, he spoke very much like his neighbors. Yet the distance between them was incalculable…

***

Day 1: Post Mortem

Heuer shook his head, finding it especially odd that he would think of such things at this particular moment. The circumstances, after all, were beyond peculiar. Coming out of thick, dense fog, standing upright, looking wildly around, and having difficulty comprehending, the last thing that should trouble him was human relations.

The man on the floor would have agreed, had he not lacked the resources to speak.

Heuer canvassed his surroundings. The room, still dark, the shades drawn, and the plants Stavroula forced on him, wilted and dry, bespoke of an unqualified sadness. His computer, left on and unattended, buzzed pointlessly in the corner, its screen saver, a multi-colored Spirograph montage, interspersed with translucent images of faceless Bond girls, twisting ad infinitum for an audience of none.

What happened here?

The bottle of Johnnie Black lay open and empty on the bedroom floor, along with a pack of Marlboro’s, gifts from an old friend. The desk chair lay on its side, toppled, in keeping with the rest of the room. His bed sheets were twisted, the pillows on the floor, and there were stains on the walls; strange residues deposited over time representing neglect and a desire to tell.

He looked down at his hands. They kept changing; the veins, wavy, rose and fell like pots of worms.

Trippy.

There was no evidence of eating, however, and this was really weird, for it was in this room that Heuer lived. Flat screens, mounted on the ceiling and on the desktop, kept him in line with the world outside in ways that papers could not. Screens blasted twenty-four and seven with their talking heads and CNN, whereas papers were flat and dirty, suitable only for the bottoms of bird cages. He cancelled the dailies first and then the weeklies, seeing no value whatever in printed words.

Pictures were another matter. Several in paint and charcoal and sepia covered the walls and floors. He loved them all, and he stared at them for hours when he pondered. His beer fridge, humidor, and model rocket collection completed him; housing the things he loved, all within perfect reach.

His senses, though dulled, honed in on a scent, distant yet familiar, coming from inside the room. It was bog-like-foul like a place he’d visited long ago, buried under wood ash. He frowned.

What was the last thing he ate? Did he cook or go for takeout? He wanted to go down to the kitchen to check, but found, to his astonishment, that he could not get past the doorframe into the outer hall.

Nein, das kann nicht sein!—Now this is not right!—he fumed, switching to German. He would do this whenever he encountered static. The spit and sharp of it forced people back because they could not understand what he meant.

Unballing his fists he felt his chest, registering the sensation of “feel”—he could feel “touch,” but he could not locate the beating heart. Consciously knitting his brows, he considered other bodily wants, his legal mind checking and balancing the laws of nature against the laws of the impossible. He could not, for example, feel “hunger” and he wasn’t dying for a drink either.

Was this a mark of passage into the nether? The man on the floor had no comment.

He thought about his bowels and if they needed attention, but that, to his great relief, no longer appeared to matter. Regularity, in recent years, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. When he was young, he reveled in a good clean out after the morning coffee because it reset his clock and established the tone for the rest of the day. Not so latterly. His prostate had kept its promise, letting him down, enlarging, pressing where it ought naught. Awake most nights, he lost sleep and dreams.

With this in mind, he bounced up and down on the soles of his expensive shoes in an effort to confirm if he was awake or not. Perhaps he was sleepwalking, or heading off to the can for another urinary evacuation that wouldn’t come?

The man on the floor ruled out these options.

He tried the door again, and again, to his dismay, he could not leave.

What to do? What to do?

‘I think, therefore I am,’ went the popular saying, but what good was ‘being’ when one was confined to a bedroom like a rat in a cage?

He struggled to remain calm, just as he became aware of that heavy oppressive feeling one gets before receiving bad news. Pacing back and forth across the ancient floorboards in the house he was born into, he checked for the kinds of incriminating evidence the court of public opinion would hold against him once found. Pornography, loaded handguns, too many candy wrappers all had to be dispatched before someone inevitably broke the door down.

As light turned to dark and day gave over into night, Heuer’s thoughts came faster and faster, in different languages, interspersed with corrugated images, accompanied by generous doses of Seventies rock; a fitting sound track for the old life, now ended.

He fell to his knees. Somewhere in this mélange was something to be grateful for and with time, he was sure, he would figure out what that single, great, thing might be. For now, all he could really do was take comfort in the fact that his death had been perfect.

Character Interview

Character Name:

Charles Emerson Forsythe

Character Bio:

Born March 1945 in the bible belt in the aftermath of war. Raised on prayer and the Farmer’s Almanac Charlie grew up believing that faith, hard work and a little treachery would see him through. A dedicated funeral director, he has little patience for self delusion, but infinite hope that humans, like great works of art, get better the longer he looks at them.

Excerpt:

From where Charlie Forsythe stood, this Monday was no different from any other. He rose at the appointed hour, switched on CLASSICAL Radio One, caught the morning news, and consumed the light breakfast of a poached egg and grapefruit that had been placed on the settee by his faithful steward Bernard.

He took the morning meal in his boudoir; as always a place of calm, studied elegance. It was, he thought, worlds removed from the hideousness and brutality of the street below. In actuality, it afforded him the tactile calm one needed to make a living off other people’s misery. And the room was positioned beautifully, facing east to catch the rising sun.

The condominium he called home was well placed at the centre of his city, with tony shops and fine dining mere steps away. Secured with gates that covered off locked doors, and a concierge to keep out those he cared not to meet, it was a testament to a life of hard work and the rewards it reaps. His success was his own, and he achieved it boldly and unapologetically.

His manner of dress was dictated by personal choice, buttressed by confidence gained through years of slips and falls. Charlie, without question, was above critique. It was, for example, going to be a hot day, yet this did not dissuade him from choosing the winter weight Savile Row in charcoal. To that, he paired a Nautica button down shirt in grandee pink, and a Milano silk tie with tumbling cascades of diagonal bars in strawberry and slate. He did not wear the Italian cufflinks, newly acquired through the broker. In a conservative business like his, these were too rude, too over the top; a gross advertisement that hinted at poor taste.

 

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Describe yourself what is your worst and best quality?

Well, dear, where I come from we were taught not to go on about ourselves; that is, unless we belonged to the Roman Church where extolling one’s virtues and vices is encouraged in the confessional. But since I’m pressed, I suppose my best quality—and indeed my worst—is that I watch and then I act, and not always with precision. I suppose if I took more time to get to the heart of what’s happening in front of me, I would be rewarded with a nice ribbon or medal. But I don’t, so commendations elude me.

What is the one thing you wish other people knew about you?

I grew up on a pig farm so I know about getting dirty and what it takes to get clean.

What is your biggest secret something no one knows about?

(Smiles) The young people like to march in the parade every summer and good for them. I’m so very proud of them. But old fellas like me are less—what’s the word—demonstrative. I’m old school, you know, but I am tremendously proud of who I am and will tell you more if you really must know. But you do know, don’t you?

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What are you most afraid of?

Having to start all over again and remembering. Have you ever heard of the old soul? And if you believe in the mythology of it, you have an idea of where wisdom comes from. If I am to return to this life, let me return brand new, with a clean slate. If I come back and remember everything that came before, I’d very likely quit school and become a juvenile delinquent. (laughs) I mean, can you imagine? Having to learn sums and letters all over again? Surely not! I’d rather be born thirty with a nice convertible in the garage.

What do you want more than anything?

I want to die at work. Retirement is not something I see for myself. And I don’t golf.

What is your relationship status?

I’m never lonely, yet I have never married. There was a woman once. Played the organ at the first church I belonged to after moving up from the country. She was lovely, but my aunt suggested I not pursue it. She said that some men are better off devoting their life to duty and community. At least, that’s how we talked in those days. And I was too old to go to Vietnam, so I served my community in other ways. Through charity work, and of course, through the funeral home.

How would you describe your sense of fashion?

What do you kids call us now? Back in the day I was a “clothes horse.” Still am. Kids these days—if they wear a suit at all—wear it with an open shirt and without a tie. Fine for the club: I don’t dispute that. But for a work day? And what are these casual Fridays? We don’t have those in funeral service, thank God.

How much of a rebel are you?

(Laughs) My goodness. You are digging aren’t you? Rebel is not a word I like to use, though I have been accused of not supporting General Washington or his revolution. I collect Britannia. I like antiques. I am old fashioned. But I am an American first and foremost. I love this country. (Thinking). No. I’m not a rebel at all.

What do you considered to be your greatest achievement?

Staying in one place for more than thirty years. It’s not an easy thing to do. Life pulls, makes demands. Yet I moved to Michigan and I stayed in Michigan. I’ve never had any desire to live anywhere else…other than the Kingdom of Heaven. (winks)

What is your idea of happiness?

Balancing quiet time with friends and family time. I love my family, but I have to drive to Ohio to see them and I absolutely will not fly. People bring suitcases on board as carry on and it’s a bother. What happened to cargo? But I digress. I love a nice BBQ by the lake or long afternoon’s motor boating down the river. Maybe I should retire? I think I just contradicted myself.

What is your current state of mind?

I try to keep it peaceful. Not allow myself to get bothered by little things…like suitcases being brought on to aircraft as carry on. I don’t watch the news anymore and I hardly ever pick up a paper. You see, dear, when you live long enough, things start to repeat and the bad things I just don’t want to look at. As to my current, current state right now:

I am thinking about a nice single malt scotch, three fingers deep, and I’m wondering if I should invite you along.

What is your most treasured possession?

I could say my health and my faculties, which is true, but I really love where I live. I’m on the top floor with a nice 9 foot ceiling and I can see clean through the skyscrapers right down to the lake. I think I treasure the view.

What is your most marked characteristic?

I’ve been accused by the one’s I love (and the one’s I don’t) of being persnickedy; fussy. I fuss about things far too much.

What is it that you most dislike?

Grandstanding, probably because I do it too. There are times in this life where we are forced into corners and must rise above the rest. Fifty percent of the time I don’t have a problem with this, but at other times I do. I don’t like being an arrogant cuss. But sometimes it’s my only defense.

Which living person do you most despise?

I will never say, because in addition to working in an extremely spiritual profession, I also come from a devoted group of Believers. To despise and to hate is negative and it eats you. I’ve felt this many times in my life and I fight it back. It’s something to defeat rather than nurture. Am I being preachy? Forgive me if I am.

What is your greatest regret?

No regrets. I may have acted hastily in some situations, but the results of my actions never resulted in the physical injury or deaths of others. I did ignore a friend’s plea for help once and he never spoke to me again. I suppose I could regret that. But then, neither one of us suffered…

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Virtue.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Virtue.

Who is your favorite hero in fiction?

Michelangelo’s David and the story that comes with him attaches itself to me. Strength under adversity followed by triumph: I like that. You ask about fiction and some say David is a fiction, but then the same thing was said about Troy and they found Troy didn’t they? I supposed I shouldn’t be obstinate: Hemingway’s Old Man from Old Man And The Sea is a favorite. I liked his doggedness though he fought a losing battle and knew it.

Which living person do you most admire?

Malala Yousafzai for all the obvious reasons. What that girl has gone through and she still keeps coming back. She makes me feel rather small and rightly so.

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If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?

I need to be more patient. Maybe I once was, but I’ve forgotten how and I would like to get that back.

What is your motto?

Carpe diem, of course. (Laughs) I’m seventy years old and so I must seize the day in case it’s the last.

 

 

  Giveaway

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  About The Author

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A.B. Funkhauser is a funeral director, fiction writer and wildlife enthusiast living in Ontario, Canada. Like most funeral directors, she is governed by a strong sense of altruism fueled by the belief that life chooses us and we not it.

“Were it not for the calling, I would have just as likely remained an office assistant shuffling files around, and would have been happy doing so.”

Life had another plan. After a long day at the funeral home in the waning months of winter 2010, she looked down the long hall joining the director’s office to the back door leading three steps up and out into the parking lot. At that moment a thought occurred: What if a slightly life-challenged mortician tripped over her man shoes and landed squarely on her posterior, only to learn that someone she once knew and cared about had died, and that she was next on the staff roster to care for his remains?

Like funeral directing, the writing called, and four years and several drafts later, Heuer Lost and Found was born.

What’s a Heuer? Beyond a word rhyming with “lawyer,” Heuer the lawyer is a man conflicted. Complex, layered, and very dead, he counts on the ministrations of the funeral director to set him free. A labor of love and a quintessential muse, Heuer has gone on to inspire four other full length works and over a dozen short stories.

“To my husband John and my children Adam and Melina, I owe thanks for the encouragement, the support, and the belief that what I was doing was as important as anything I’ve tackled before at work or in art.”

Funkhauser is currently working on a new manuscript begun in November during NaNoWriMo 2014.

Website: www.abfunkhauser.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/iamfunkhauser

Facebook: www.facebook.com/heuerlostandfound

Publisher: http://solsticepublishing.com/

Book Blast, Giveaway & Interview: Circle of Sun by @kimluke_

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Book Blast

 

clip_image002_thumb[1]Circle of Sun

Circle of Sun Series

Book 1

Kim Luke

Genre: Fantasy

Cover Artist: Anne and Marshal Tezon at Personal Chapters

Book Description:

Something is wrong in White Oak, MO After a deadly climbing accident, 30-year-old Quinn Clarke loses her job and retreats to the sleepy Missouri riverside town of White Oak to heal her fractured body and rebuild her life. But the tourist village, with its wineries, quaint shops and rich history, turns out to be anything but sleepy.

Something is wrong with the water in White Oak. Birds are dying and bizarre weather conditions threaten the town’s future. Quinn is sucked into the chaos, beginning with a mystery woman who delivers a message suggesting her climbing tragedy was no accident. Quinn meets handsome detective Keefe Remington, then visits nearby Royce Estate. She loses her way and her peace of mind on that visit and is confused and unprepared for what lies behind the massive stone walls and how she is somehow connected to the Royce family.

The first book of the Circle of Sun series takes Quinn from main street bookstore owner to unlikely heroine and straight into a darkness that could turn White Oak into a battlefield . . . and into her destiny.

Book Trailer https://youtu.be/0k3GDE87Ud8

Available at www.kimlukeauthor.com

Amazon BN Smashwords Createspace

Excerpt

No one will visit his final resting place. In death, as in life, his name had long been associated with broken promises, broken rules and broken lives. He embraced nothing, and was embraced by nothing. His only lasting impression was darkness, keeping even the most forgiving souls from speaking a kind word about him, even in death. A brisk October wind forces a tighter clenching of the scarf covering her throat. The only sound heard is the crunch and swish of fallen leaves as she walks to the pauper's section of the cemetery. She pauses, and kneels with devotion to the memory of Colton LaMont. Melanie clears debris and places a few flowers upon the site. Sorrowful tears fall for her undeclared love, and the parched and thirsty soil drinks.

Chapter 1

Brilliant sunlight floods the rock face we climb. The quartz veins in the limestone shimmer near my gloved hand. The two of us scale the forty-five foot challenge with ease. We take pictures of one another.

Alec teases me about my pink camera, and my sloppy climbing technique. We gather our gear and walk across to the next plateau, passing crevices and brush. He leads, and I follow. His sandy hair dances with every September gust. Alec's shoulders are broad and he is tall compared to my petite frame. His body is fit and the bronze of his skin reveals seasons of living to the fullest. Alec is beautiful. The adage might be true that opposites attract. He is dark, and I am fair. Alec thrives on adventures while I find adventure in books and history. I am not glamorous like the women I would pair with his kind, but his love for me is pure. I don't have to be anything more than what I am, making me love him even more, if it were possible.

The azure sky is a breathtaking backdrop for puffy white clouds to sail by. This day is magical only because I am alone with him.

Alec jogs back in the direction of our last climb when I realize my camera is missing, and I continue on the trek to set up for our next climb. I grow uneasy; does he need my help? He's been gone too long, and I try to stay calm as I make my way back to the top of the ledge.

"Alec...Alec!" I say, but no answer comes.

Eyeing the ledge, my fear mounts and can no longer be ignored. Panic grips me and without hesitation I make my way to the drop off. I slowly peek over. His voice behind me says my name.

"Quinn!"

Turning, I am blinded by the searing rays of the afternoon sun. I see only a tall shadow before large hands violently shove my shoulders with such force I am thrust over the rock wall. My scream fills the canyon. I am free falling down, down. My lungs ache for a breath in this deep darkness. I am suffocating. I experience excruciating pain and ultimate despair. All hope escapes my consciousness.

Sound and sight are extinct now. My world is black.

Warmth surrounds my feet and travels slowly up my body. My afflictions are gone. My eyelids are open, to a foreign place. I rise and begin to walk, but my feet don't touch the sand. I float along a quiet shoreline. The sterling sea is calm. Without sun or moon this place is neither day nor night, but dusk-like. Through the mist a figure approaches.

Her body glides towards me. She is draped in shimmering silver, her face expressionless. Her gaze is not at me, but beyond me.

Curious, I turn, only infinite shoreline. My quivering hands cover my racing heart.

She seems to sense my fear as she studies me. Large round eyes peer into mine, into my soul. Her blank expression is replaced with tender mercy. Her friendly eyes promise no harm. I am no longer afraid. I can't see, but I feel her smile. She is blissful; her immense joy radiates around her like sparkling crystals.

My face is now wet from the mist, yet her ivory skin is smooth and dry. Before I can form words, she does.

"No one can prepare for a time as this. The sun itself fades in brilliance a bit with each passing day. Eyes look but do not see. Purity drains from the hearts of good men. Find the Circle of Sun. A tender seed must push through bitter soil to survive," she says and points behind me. "Let the prints lead you."

The footprints behind me are mine.

She interrupts my thoughts.

"Follow their path to your sun."

I bask in her radiant warmth as her graceful hand touches my face.

Her gaze never leaves me as she glides away.

I watch as she melts into the distance. I want to follow, but she is gone. Few and unclear were her words. All I can do is begin. I turn and take the first step.

My heavy eyelids open to blurred edges of brilliant color, strange bouquets cover the ceiling. I blink to focus and the scene becomes clear. Taped to the ceiling are vivid crayon-filled pictures, children's artwork thoughtfully placed for those waking up.

Suddenly a face casts a smile down at me.

"Dr. Crenshaw is here to check in on you," says a nurse.

"Quinn, how are you feeling? Your surgical procedure went very well, and with your recent progress, we can begin to discuss getting you out of here after all of these months. I am sure you are ready," the doctor says.

I am completely baffled by this conversation and I struggle to communicate. My confusion is obvious to him and he pats my hand. Me? In the hospital for months? I am disconnected to reality, free falling again.

"You are still groggy, I will be back in the afternoon to check in on you," he says kindly.

My drowsy state can only mean I am still dreaming. The memory of the misty grey ocean beckons and I remember the mystical place. Desperate to return to the silver shoreline, I fall into sleep hoping to see her again.

During the next week reality rolls in like an unwelcomed storm. Added to confusion is loss. Alec is gone. Pain permeates every fiber of my being, and the waves of grief crest and ebb. Hikers found us at the bottom of the rock face, Alec dead and me clinging to life. In death, Alec saved my life, his body breaking my fall. I am horrified at the picture this paints in my mind. Alec is gone, and even though I survived the accident, I will need months of recovery. Investigators did not seriously consider what I told them about being pushed. My pink camera was never found, perhaps it never existed. Trauma can produce false memories, they explained. The only logical theory of what happened on the cliff has been difficult to accept. Alec fell and my shock at seeing him dead, caused me to fall too. Although I could not identify who the shadowy figure was, I know it was Alec's voice making me to turn. How is it possible? If he pushed me, how could his body break my fall? I can't put the pieces together. As my body heals, answers elude me. I recall the panic as I approached the edge. I heard Alec's voice behind me saying my name. I was blinded by the sun. I remember hands forcefully pushing me. It's not possible. Alec would never hurt me. I reluctantly accept their version of the accident as reality. Logically it makes sense, so I struggle to recapture my confidence and stabilize my mental state.

 

 

clip_image004_thumb[1]Black Inferno

Circle of Sun Series

Book 2

Kim Luke

Genre: Fiction Fantasy

Date of Publication: March 28, 2015

ISBN: 1508936234

Number of pages: 218

Word Count: 79,999

Cover Artist: Anne and Marshall Tezon

Personal Chapters

Book Description:

The second installment in the Circle of Sun series finds the Guardians on a quest to save a city of innocent souls from potential decimation by illness and some seemingly innocuous chocolates.

As some of the Guardians are battling unseen evil away from home, their former leader and patriarch is falsely imprisoned and his daughter disappears. What does it take to recover another Fidesorb?

The discovery of a secret society of Guardians has created a new reality for Quinn Clarke and her friends in the little riverside town of White Oak. The first Quest with Quinn as the Polaris to the Circle of Sun transports our Guardians to a suspended season in time. Wearing the armor of faith, will they be able to rescue a city of innocent souls spellbound by a faceless enemy? Is the return of tranquility to White Oak after the defeat of the River People only the calm before the storm?

As new ties of friendship are laced, they quickly become restrictive and threatening. A tragic turn of events puts Romulus in danger of losing his freedom, and Sapphire is missing, leaving the Circle of Sun fractured and vulnerable.

Will a victorious Quest cost lives on the home front? What secrets lie within the lush rolling vineyards, hidden oak barrels, the Grand Royce Estate and even Fireside Books?

In the second installment of the Circle of Sun, our characters must grow into courageous defenders of light, if they are to break free of the vast and sticky web of deceit that threatens them. Their goal is to recover another precious Fidesorb so it can be returned to its rightful place in the angelic realms.

Book Video https://youtu.be/NkJvzjpZcpk

Available at www.kimlukeauthor.com

Amazon BN Smashwords Createspace

Excerpt

Quinn can't sleep. She takes in the view of the rolling Missouri hills from her window at Royce Estate. At first glance she could be any woman, but Quinn Clarke Royce is no ordinary woman, not any more. Since discovering her family and being chosen as the new Polaris to the Circle of Sun, there is little remaining of her former life. Quinn and those she loves navigate in a new world as Guardians. The lack of sleep is a fraction of the price she will pay while growing into a leadership role that defies reality. Few days remain before the announcement of the Quest. A selected Guardian must accept before knowing any details about the Quest, and only Quinn knows a Quest can take them to a place untouched by the passage of time.

Her past days of collecting and selling books, merchandizing and marketing, are replaced by a crash course in the angelic realms. She's learned the various ranks of Guardians, Sleepers, Pathfinders and Knights and the existence of Living Stones and how they are used to measure the balance of goodness. Like opening the cover of a book and reading a fantastic tale of the battle between light and dark, her journey now spans the ages.

Quinn's homeland, identified in the angelic realm as Nadellawick is peaceful this night, but only a short time ago the battle raged, destroying the evil Petulah and her River People. The victory over the darkness and recovery of a missing Fidesorb in Nadellawick was celebrated by everyone except one. A storm brews and bubbles and a thick fog moves in from the river.

Chapter One

White Oak, Missouri

Present Day

There is nothing good about a bad dream, except waking up. His new reality is a walking nightmare. The initial shock faded but his hopelessness remains. The emptiness is constant, his existence black like this moonless night.

The windshield wipers cannot compete with the driving storm. Wheels careen around a sharp curve high on the bluff. The lost soul pushes harder on the accelerator, inching closer to the white line. Air fills his lungs as he inhales for the last time. A loud and deafening crack of lightening jolts the senses of this broken man and illuminates the road and a figure before him. Thud! A sudden impact thrusts the car into a spin, ripping a path into the opposite ditch. He lies motionless, sprawled across the seat. Regardless of his intent, consciousness returns in fuzzy lined scenes. The engine is dead, but he is not. Headlights show nothing but pellets of rain cutting through the darkness. For a moment he forgets the incident that put him there. Nothing happens when he turns the key. The driver side door can't be opened so he slides to the passenger side for exit. With the vehicle at a steep angle, the weight of the door flies open and dumps him into the saturated roadside.

Attempts to stand are thwarted by the relentless wind. Not wearing boots his shoes fill with water as he sloshes through the tall grasses. Relieved when his feet reach pavement, he scans the perimeter for a victim. The gusts whip drops that sting, making the search difficult. A flickering light between boulders at the bluffs edge captures his attention. Could it be a signal for help? The massive rock is slippery, but his second attempt finds a small foothold to boost himself up. The boulder places him even higher above the dangerous rim. Unsteady against the punishing winds he crouches down. The source of the mysterious flashing illuminates his wide-eyed gaze and nature muffles his terrified gasp. The empty man searches for signs of life amidst the blood and bits of fur. Motionless, he stands as the familiar moves and reveals itself to him. On this night, seconds before his life should have ended, he finds the reason to go on.

Character Interview

 

Character Name: Quinn Clarke

Character Bio: A young career woman, Quinn’s future takes a dramatic turn after an accident that she barely survives. Quinn’s strong faith sustains her road to recovery and is her beacon as she is called to defend light in a battle between good and evil.


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Describe yourself what is your worst and vest quality?
My best quality is believing before seeing. My worst quality is discounting the interest Keefe had in me from the beginning.

What is the one thing you wish other people knew about you?
I must constantly remind myself that I He doesn’t call the qualified, He qualifies the called.

What is your biggest secret something no one knows about?

I was in love with Cashton before we found out the secret of my past.

What are you most afraid of?
I have the same fears as you do, but I refuse to discuss it, or give it any power over me.
What do you want more than anything?
I want to surround myself with my family and make up for the lost years.

What is your relationship status?
My heart belongs to Keefe Remington

How would you describe your sense of fashion?
I like classic lines and simple elegance. Less is more

What do you considered to be your greatest achievement?
Leaving the city and my career and starting over in White Oak, MO.  Walking through the darkest valleys and keeping the faith I could again be happy and safe.

What is your idea of happiness?
Spending time enjoying a glass of wine with my best friend Tera at Bordeaux’s. . . horseback riding with Keefe along the bluffs of the Missouri river. Having dinner at the Royce estate with Romulus, Sapphire, Jexis and Cashton.


What is your current state of mind?
I am filled with anticipation about the announcement of the first Quest. What does it mean to be a Guardian? I must trust I will be supplied with all I will need to know when the time comes.

What is your most treasured possession?
The Saint Benedict amulet I have worn around my neck my whole life. Although my past is shrouded in mystery, I need only to touch the amulet and I am somehow connected to it.

What is your most marked characteristic?
Loyalty

What kind of people do you avoid?
 
Narrow minded, small thinking doubters

What is your greatest regret?
Not knowing my mother

What is the qualities you most like in a man?
Honesty, strength, commitment and kindness

What is the qualities you most like in a woman?
Honesty, strength, commitment, and kindness

 

Which living person do you most admire?
Romulus Royce and his selfless bravery, his devotion to family and his battered heart.

If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?
I dislike how ridged I can be, working towards flowing and enjoying instead of orchestrating

What is your motto?
Faith is a weapon

  Giveaway

 

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  About The Author

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Author Kim Luke once had to help a customer at her family Christmas tree farm chop down a fresh tree in a business suit and heels. She was comfortable in that attire, the “uniform” of her marketing profession. She was not as comfortable as a Christmas tree farmer, but she’s learned to be supportive in this family endeavor.

The tree farm is located in Missouri, the setting for both of Kim’s two novels in her Circle of Sun series. A literature major in college, Luke has always enjoyed a good story and loves using her imagination. Of her many passions, writing has been with her the longest.

The cornerstones in her life are her faith and family. Kim and husband Bob are blessed with three children, incredible in-laws and three grandchildren. The Lukes live with their Alaskan Malamute dog on a beautiful 20 acre farm, where Kim indulges her love of books, coffee, wine and positive thinkers.

You can connect with Kim at www.kimlukeauthor.com, on Facebook at Circle of Sun or on Twitter, @kimluke. She is also a Goodreads author.

Web/blog- kimlukeauthor.com

Twitter: kimluke_

Facebook: circleofsun/kimluke

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5818830.Kim_Luke

Cover Reveal: Insignificant - The Goldenrod Series # 1 by @KLincolnWrites @sparklebooktour

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Presented by: Sparkle Book Tours
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Insignificant - The Goldenrod Series # 1
by Kelly Lincoln

 
Audience: New Adult 18+ - Genre: Romantic Suspense - Format: E-book and Paperback - Publisher: Kelly Lincoln - Cover by: Najla Qamber Designs. Cover photo by Lindee Robinson Photography - Editor: Editing 4 Indies - Date Published: 6/10/15
 
 
blurb
Due to explicit language, sexual content, and dark themes, reader discretion is advised.
When Taylor was four years old, she became an orphan and her childhood spiraled into darkness. She spent years lying, hiding, and avoiding any love offered to her until she was old enough to run away from all the threats of her past.
Now twenty-two, Taylor doesn’t think she’s worth more than being the kind of girl a guy hooks up with in the back room of a bar after her band plays. She definitely isn’t the one you bring home to meet Mom and Dad.
An unlikely rescue puts her in Ethan’s sight. He’s her total opposite, though. Ethan is a sexy dork who sees beyond Taylor’s guarded exterior. He sees past the tattoos and piercings. He sees her.
But they both have secrets capable of destroying their relationship. And if Taylor’s past ever catches up with her, the consequences could be deadly.
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excerpt
My breath caught when he stood behind me to look over my shoulder. We weren’t touching, but my skin broke out in goosebumps and my body ached for contact with his. Heat swirled in my stomach at the thought. How easy would it be to lean back against that awesome chest and have those killer arms hug me? I gripped the table to keep myself from doing anything stupid.
“Beautiful,” he said softly.
“Cool.” I shined the enlarger on the paper and picked up the photo after I turned it off. Ethan was still behind me, and I swallowed as I turned around. Looking at him in this sexy orange lighting was really—
A quiet popping noise invaded our silent room, and the orange light went out, leaving us in darkness. I flinched in surprise, brushing against Ethan. He put his hands on my arms. "The light burned out."
I laughed, trying to distract myself from my tingly arms. "Yeah, Captain Obvious. I can tell."
He laughed softly. "I have another one, I'll go change it. We just have to..." His grip tightened, and he drew me closer to him as he turned me so we switched places. One hand moved off my arm and to my back as his voice dropped. "Trade places. Because it’s on the shelf.”
"Right," I whispered. When he moved us, I dropped the paper, but I really couldn’t have cared less now that his arms were around me. Without thinking, I reached out and held my breath when my fingers brushed against smooth skin. I trailed to the side and found his hair. Moving along the side of his face, I stopped right before his chin and hesitated. Touching him was so ballsey. He might not want me doing this.
When I stopped, he let out a soft groan, and his fingers moved under the hem of my shirt, barely grazing the skin of my lower back. I took a shaky breath and raised my other hand, tracing the planes of his face, the one line across his forehead, the rise and fall of his glasses, the bridge of his nose, and the indent in his chin, so slight it was barely noticeable. His thin top lip. His full bottom one. Over and over again, and his breaths came out deep as his fingers kept moving lightly against my bare skin.
I whimpered as he put his other hand on the side of my face. Fucking whimpered.
“I like this,” he whispered as his fingers followed my eyebrows, over the piercing and down toward my cheek.
I kept tracing his lips as he touched me, all too aware of the strong ache between my legs. “Me too,” I breathed.
My pulse echoed in my head as his hand rested under my chin with his thumb on my lip ring. Neither one of us moved.
I couldn’t fucking handle it anymore. “Ethan?”
“Yes?” his soft voice replied.
“Kiss me already.”


about the author
 
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Kelly Lincoln is pretty lame but she’s okay with that. She enjoys reading, inappropriate jokes, all things Disney, and spending time with her family. She lives in the northeast and drinks way too much Diet Coke.
For character bios, playlists, and news about upcoming releases, please visit www.kellylincoln.com. You can also find Kelly when she’s avoiding writing on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKellyLincoln?ref=aymt_homepage_panel or on Twitter @KLincolnWrites.
 
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