The Wolf Warriors by Kayla Larson

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The gods are at war, The land of Argethlam is beset by hard times, and Atreyavahl is near collapse because of the assassination of their Queen Viesha a century before. A prophecy tells that the god of darkness, Ardeth Anubace’s Black Wolf will bring the fall of the Inner Kingdom and then Argethlam, leading the world into Ardeth’s rule. But Ramos Ra, the Sire-God, created his own champion, the White Wolf to defeat the Black Wolf and purge the land of Ardeth’s curse. Mercenary daemon Debello has wandered Argethlam for 100 years with amnesia. He searches for the only clue to his past, a daemon named Vaulx. Once pieces start to come together, Debello soon realizes his forgotten memories were to a life hidden in the Inner Kingdom of Atreyavahl. And that he may indeed be one of the Wolves of the prophecy. But which one? Ardeth’s Black Wolf, a paragon of death and destruction? Or Ra’s White Wolf, the only hope Debello’s world has? Is Debello Life…or Death?

 

Rated 5 stars overall. Readers are calling The Wolf Warriors “a great read!”

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Visit Kayla Larson on the web.

Distraction & Desire by Kizzie Darker (Book 1 of the Desire series)

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Distraction & Desire.
Copyright Kizzie Darker 2014.

I lift my head. Our eyes lock. My lips latch onto his, Playing, tasting, and teasing him with my mouth. It feels like I am in heaven, feels like I am floating. His manly scent lingers in the air and plays with each of my senses.
“You look so good.” I whisper. His black tailored suit looks crisp and clean. A slim black tie accompanies somewhat compliments his blood red shirt. His polished shoes finish the look. His hair, newly cut and styled in the latest look looks perfect and suits him beautifully.

Rated 4 stars overall. Readers are calling Distraction & Desire  “Lots of fun and intrigue”

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Chelsea Avenue by Armand Rosamilia

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Excerpt from Chelsea Avenue by Armand Rosamilia

CHELSEA AVENUE

 Armand Rosamilia

 

 PART ONE

 

One: July 8th 1987

 

He ordered a beer but didn’t bother with it, entranced with the crowd. His long, black trench coat swished as he moved slowly, methodically. His black-gloved hands brushed ever so slightly against a shoulder here, the small of a back there. He wanted to touch everyone in the club tonight. Murphy’s Law was filling up slowly.

Water slipped in slow rivulets from his clothing, lost underfoot in the darkness. If anyone noticed his damp clothing or his oceanic smell, they didn’t bother to let him know. Since he was in the mood to kill tonight, for fun as well as for his goal, it was just as well.

Tonight is the night I will Ascend.

He estimated less than one hundred people shuffling around with their drinks and cigarettes in hand; the women were busy posing, the black-attired men pretending to ignore them. Everyone’s hair was long and piled to the rafters, both men and women wearing touches of makeup. He cared nothing about the music scene or any of these posers—wasn’t that a word they used?

A couple locked in a frenzied, alcohol-induced kiss brushed past him, and he stroked their arms. Stephanie Lehman. Nick Martin.

The headline act had a special meaning for him tonight: a group of young Satanists who spread their gospel through song lyrics about Hell, death, and suffering. As if they knew. As if anything they said was real.

I will show you Hell. Death. Suffering.

He didn’t want to wait another two or three hours for the night to really kick in. He was growing impatient already. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm down and focus. It would be of no use if he lost it now, especially after all the planning. What were another few hours when time would have no meaning after this?

Without thought, he reached out and stroked a young girl’s hair as she swept past him to the bar. Jennifer Jacoby.

When the band with the unwieldy name of Spawned Against the Acrid Nemesis took the stage tonight, the real Hell would begin. The band itself didn’t matter, but they were the focus of the power tonight. With their music as his conduit, he would be able to wield the noise and ascend to power.

A petite blonde, garbed in an Anthrax concert shirt and hair reeking of Aquanet, smiled at him when he touched her shoulder. Melissa Swaim. If this were any other night, he would most likely buy her a few drinks, watch the bands play, and then seduce her on the beach and enter her before ripping her entrails from her still-warm corpse.

Any other night.

He could hear the driving beat from the strip club next door and hoped that he had enough time to touch everyone there as well. The more he marked, the more he was assured of his Ascension.

Seventy-two, seventy-three… He counted each person as he touched them, walking slowly around the 21 and over bar area and into the main room, where a local heavy metal band was setting up their equipment. People passed him, and he instinctively knew which ones he still needed to feel. No one seemed to notice him. He was just another hair-bag metal dude in a stupid black coat with thick black boots stomping on the dirty floor. He didn’t feel a part of these sheep, but he knew he blended in with them, and he needed that for tonight.

“Great night for a show, huh?” Anthrax Girl asked him. “The band that just went off is my brother’s band; he’s the bass player. Did you like them?” She touched his coat and frowned. “Is it raining outside?”

This one was persistent. He looked into her eyes as he brushed his long, black hair back behind an ear and smiled. She shuddered but didn’t look away.

“Do you wanna die?” he whispered in her ear, his stubbly face against her soft cheek.

Her smile fell but only for a second. “That’s a Slayer lyric, right? They rule.”

After tonight, I rule.

He had two to three hours before he would need to do anything important, and there was something about this stupid little girl that made him want to kill now.

Without another word, he took her hand and led her through the crowd, rubbing against as many bodies as he could while he was moving. Eighty, eighty-one…

The band members were climbing off the stage and cut right in front of him. He bumped into the two lead guys: long-haired freaks that looked like him but had none of the power.

“Watch out, asshole,” one of them murmured. He smiled and made sure every one of them had been touched. He would save them for last tonight.

Craig Reynolds, Brian Philbin, John Regan, Will Anderson.

Hooking her hand in his, he made a zigzag pattern around the club, tapping at people with his free hand and savoring it as each person’s name came unbidden to his mind.

Karen Johns, Debbie Wright, Russ Meyer, Bob Dennison.

Satisfied that everyone in the vicinity had been marked, he moved toward the exit. He tapped the patrons huddled near the entrance; they didn’t feel his touch.

“Where are we going?” she yelled over the noise, but he ignored her. As a man of action, he was done talking.

At last, satisfied that everyone in the building was accounted for and primed for his Ascension, he relaxed slightly.

He pushed through the bouncers at the door and dragged her outside. There wasn’t time to take her far, but he didn’t care. He wanted one last time to sweat and rut like a mortal, one more weakling squirming under his thrusts before he gutted her and spilled her life into the ocean.

She looked up at the sky. “It didn’t rain. There’s not a cloud in the sky. All I see is stars.”

“Where are you parked?” he asked impatiently.

“The next block over. Are we leaving?” She hesitated.

“For a few minutes.” He pulled her close and squeezed her ass. “I’m going to take you in the backseat of your car and then go back into the club.”

“What?”

He slapped her across the mouth. “Lead me to your car. We’re running out of time.”

Her mouth gaped open in shock, but there was a hint of a smile.

She is enjoying this, stupid bitch.

Without another word, she led him a block away to her small Hyundai. As soon as the door was unlocked, he rushed her, pulling her Anthrax T-shirt over her head. “Be careful! It’s the only shirt I have with me.”

“You won’t need it, trust me,” he said and yanked her tight jeans down, ripping her pink panties as he did.

“I like it rough,” she exclaimed as if he didn’t know already.

I wonder if you want it this rough.

Rated 4 stars overall. Readers are calling this “a terrific horror story told in a unique way” – “Armand Rosamilia weaves a dark, and horrific tale.”

Click here to purchase on Amazon.

Visit Armand Rosamilia on the web.

Unexpected Surprises by Janet A. Mota

Unexpected Surprises by Jane A. Mota

 

Five years ago, Kat lost her family in a car accident.  Ever since, she has been in a deep depression.  She quit her job and started writing so she would not have to leave her house.  She lost herself.  She has no idea how to come out of the ugliness.  She decides that she needs to push herself out of the house but she needs to go where no memories exist.  She decides to go visit the country where her family was from, Portugal.  She rents an apartment from her uncle with the hopes of finally being able to start moving on.

Rey is serving in the United States military.  He is living in Germany but only has a few more months before he contract is up.  He goes on leave for his cousin’s wedding which is taking place in Portugal.  He rents his uncle’s apartment for a few weeks.  When he gets there, he realizes someone is staying in there.  When he realizes it is Kat, his world is turned upside down.

Kat and Rey have a history.  Although nothing ever happened between them, there were some feelings and emotions that were never expressed to no one.  Rey vows to help Kat get out of the depression by getting her to go sightseeing and possibly open up.  Will Kat allow Rey to help her? Can Kat get past the death of her family and allow someone into her heart?  Will Rey’s military career put a stop to a relationship before it starts?

 

Unexpected Surprises is the debut novel of Janet A. Mota

Rated 5 stars overall. Readers are calling this “touching and filled with love” – “great read, very heartfelt” – “Readers will instantly fall in love with Kat and Rey.”

Click here to purchase on Amazon.

Follow Janet on FaceBook.

Advice from Random House – The Hard Truth from Editors that Every Author Needs to Hear

I am no stranger to the indie scene, nor the trade publishing scene. In recent months, however, I have noticed a growing trend among authors who are constantly losing their cool and ranting all over FaceBook, blogs, Twitter, and writing groups about the bad reviews they are getting from reviewers. It’s something that I can no longer sit idly by and watch as countless authors step up onto a soapbox that they have no business being on in the first place.

For now, I’m going to play devil’s advocate. As I said, I am no stranger to the publishing game, neither indie nor trade. I began my decent into this dog-eat-dog world some twenty-three odd years ago, when I was but sixteen, when I first started sending out query letters to every publishing house in the country. I was met by nothing but rejection letters and a lot of well-meaning editors who were more than willing to give me advice on what all I was doing wrong, and what I needed to work on to become a better writer.

A lot of what I heard from editors was cut-to-the-bone insulting. It hurt, a LOT. I cried an ocean of tears the first few years I spent trying to get published.  I, like so many other aspiring authors, thought I had written an absolute masterpiece beyond compare.  I could not understand why they were not jumping all over themselves to publish me. Their advice couldn’t possibly hold any type of truth to it. After all, all of my family and friends all raved about how well I had done. These editors had to be doing this out of spite because their own writing careers had failed.  They just wanted to take out their own inadequacies on good writers, ruining their chances of ever becoming published. Because, let’s face it, if there was a single shred of truth to anything they were saying, it would mean I was no where near as good a writer as I thought. Worse, it would mean that maybe I just wasn’t cut out to be the one thing on this planet I really wanted to be good at, and that was weaving a tantalizing tale.

I will admit that it took me YEARS of writing and editing other people’s work before I realized that 99% of what those editors told me over the years had been 100% truth. It took me even longer to admit that I actually NEEDED to hear the earth-shattering truth as to just how gawd-awful my first attempts at writing truly were. They were not secretly out to destroy me or my career; they were trying to get it through my thick skull that NO ONE writes well the first time around, and that EVERYONE needs to practice, practice, practice in order to hone their writing skills. It took me a while, but I finally stopped whining about how they were all plotting against me and actually looked at my writing through their eyes. Only then, once I stopped being so full of myself and to actually look at the work without any emotional attachment, that I realized they were all RIGHT. Most of my first few attempts at writing novels truly sucked eggs.

The self-publishing industry has done authors a great injustice because there is no longer editors standing in the way telling authors exactly what improvements they need to make to their manuscript before it can be published. Today’s fly-by-night, work-at-home editors are out to make a few quick bucks, and the scene has been flooded with phony basement-built publishing houses filled with ‘editors’ who will take anyone’s manuscript, tell them how greatly written it is, and be more than happy to publish it on Amazon for a cut of the royalties.

It’s a business built out of scores of poor, unsuspecting writers who are so eager to become published that they will do, and believe, anything, so long as they get to see that book in print. These people never stop to think that, out of hundreds of thousands of submissions sent in to the several hundred publishing houses in the country each year, only about 1/3 of them ever get any type of contract. So why on earth would some no-name publishing house suddenly take their first attempts at writing and be willing to publish them? It never occurs to these writers that these companies are not about quality literature and making your manuscripts the best it can be; they are only out to piggy-back off of the little bit of royalties you might can make them if you have a strong enough social media presence. These writers have never had a professional editor tell them the honest truth about their manuscripts. And since none of them have ever had any type of rejection letters or had anyone to tell them the cold, hard truth of just how badly written their work really is, it has left them unable to adequately deal with reviewers who not only know what makes up a good book, but also may be editors and authors themselves.

I can honestly say that, as a freelance editor with nearly two decades’ experience, a good 95% of what I have seen come across my FaceBook feed would NEVER be allowed to see the light of day by any self-respecting, professional editor. At least, not as-is.

One of the best pieces of advice I ever received in a rejection letter came to me when I was about twenty years old , and it came from an editor from Random House. The rejection letter I received (and ripped to shreds in a fit of rage) called my work ‘amateurish’ and my writing style ‘bland.’ The editor went on to say that it was ‘painfully obvious’ (one of my favorite things to say now) that this was my first attempt at writing a novel (it was) and as such he had this advice to give to all aspiring writers: Never try to publish your first book, your second book, or even your third book, because it takes a writer approximately four novels before they settle into their ‘writing voice’ and really get a feel for what they are doing.

I cannot possibly stress how right this editor was. I have seen it happen time and time again, not just in the indie community, but in the trade publishing industry as well. Those who like to read series have no doubt noticed the change in an author’s style as the series progressed, the storyline becoming richer, the characters more tangible, and the overall flow of the writing much more palatable. Whether you like to admit it or not, the first thing that you write is going to be utter crap, pure and simple. The second thing is not going to be much better.

Now that I have adequately pissed off all the authors reading this, let me say that there is hope for every single writer out there, and it comes in the form of criticism and practice. A lot of authors are cutting their noses off to spite their face by NOT listening to all those negative reviews. Sure, it’s easy to chalk it all up to haters, jealousy, people just trying to pull you down. And while there ARE legitimate cases of weird people out there who make it their sole mission in life to ruin an author, most reviewers’ only intent is to warn people away from a book they deemed truly heinous.

We have all seen the mountains of astro-turfed reviews sitting on independently published “Amazon Best Sellers,” reviews  that are all the work of family, friends, fellow authors, ass-kissing bloggers and hundreds of street team members all singing the praises of an author. So you buy the book, get a chapter or two into it and wonder how on earth anyone could think it was actually a good book. So you start looking at the one-star reviews and realize that it’s not just you, there actually ARE people out there who thought the book stunk as much as you did.

But now here’s the question: how many of those authors blew a gasket on FaceBook and proclaimed to the social media world that they were being ‘picked-on,’ ‘bullied,’ or otherwise had jealous people ‘hating’ on them because of a few bad reviews? If you see any of them doing this, what is your first reaction? Chances are you feel like telling them to grow up, and take some notes, because you actually thought the book was terribly written as well.

You’ve heard the old saying, “The proof is in the pudding.” Well, in the publishing business, editors like to say, “The proof is in the one-star reviews.” It doesn’t matter how many perfect reviews you have if people are also complaining that your manuscript sounds childish and is an editing disaster. It’s one thing when someone just doesn’t like a story for no reason other than they just couldn’t get into the storyline. There’s not a whole lot you can do when they hate romantic comedies but read it anyway and still hated it. However, when you have people complaining about actual, tangible problems within your manuscript that an editor would have warned you about, such as typographical errors, bland writing style, formatting issues, etc., then it’s time to stand up and take notice.

I have often told writers, “If you want someone to stroke your ego and tell you how great your writing is, go talk to your mother. If you want to actually learn how to become a better writer, come talk to me.” What separates a mediocre writer with great potential from a mediocre writer without any potential is ability. Not the ability to get better, but the ability to WANT to get better. A mediocre writer who thinks they don’t need to practice or listen to criticism or to improve on their craft will never be anything BUT a mediocre writer. They will turn their noses up at the fountain of help that reviewers are offering, think none of it applies to them, and will continue to float around in their self-absorbed bubble until one day their rose-tinted glasses come off and they see their writing for not only what it IS, but what it COULD HAVE BEEN this whole time, if they had only listened and taken heed to what others had been trying to tell them.

This is not meant to discourage. Writers who are willing to listen to the criticism and try to get better WILL get better. It is those writers who want to throw pity-parties about how everyone is against them that will not improve their craft. Writers need to be encouraged, yes, but they need the RIGHT kind of encouragement. So if you want to get better, to really, truly become a better writer and have a snowball’s chance in hell of making it in the writing world, you are going to have to put on your big-girl panties, listen when others are trying to help you better your writing, and DEAL with the criticism. Otherwise, you are just another lonely, bitter author raving on FaceBook about how the whole world is out to ruin you. No, they’re not. But they may be trying to tell you to take that manuscript to a decent editor who isn’t afraid to tell you that you suck.