Medieval Madness Book Tour & Giveaway 5/12 – 6/12

 

Medieval Madness
Mr. Willifred’s Great Adventures Book 1
by Jessica Sara Campbell
Genre: YA Fantasy, Time Travel

Traveling through time is not for everyone, and it’s definitely not Susan and

Freddy’s idea of a fun ride. Their adventurous granddaughter Sylvia,
though, would be happy just to do something new for a change already,
anything!

Travel back in time to medieval London with the Willifred family on a
heart-warming adventure of history, excitement, humor, and love. Meet
the real heroes of the medieval era, some who you may not have heard
about, and some you might know well! Watch history come to life in
this action-packed saga.
As Sylvia discovers, medieval London may not be as glamorous as it
appears in the movies, and there may even be someone up to no good
behind the scenes. No one ever said old age is easy, and no one ever
said being a teen is easy. Join Freddy, Susan, and Sylvia on a
jam-packed ride of a lifetime, for they might find more than they are
expecting in their typical weekday routine this time…

Jessica Sara Campbell was born in Florida and raised in New Hampshire and

Idaho. She loves Disney, teaching, reading, writing, and animals. She
has been married to the love of her life for seven years. Jessica has
been writing since birth, even if it was only scribbles. Jessica has
played both the violin and the piano and speaks French. Jessica has
written articles for several Newspapers in Idaho, but her favorite
writing took place in high school and college where true literary
nerds can let their creativity flow. She loves fishing, horseback
riding, and hiking just as much as swimming at the beach. This is
Jessica’s first book, and it is a dream come true.

 

Follow the tour HERE

for exclusive content and a giveaway!

 

 


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Peace Out Book Tour & Giveaway 5/11 – 6/11


Peace Out
A Peace Series Novella
by Sandra Hurst
Genre: Contemporary Romance

Brent Harrington is gone and Cyn Redman really couldn’t give a rat’s

ass. While the whole town celebrates or mourns the end of the
Harrington dynasty, Cyn’s life is falling apart. Her mother has
recently been diagnosed with cancer, throwing Cyn’s heart, as well
as her future plans into turmoil.

 

The last thing Cyn is looking for is Jericho, the quiet, soft-spoken
ranch hand from the McBride place. Between the clinic closing, her
mom’s health, and Cyn’s long-delayed college plans, there are
already too many uncertainties. Could Jericho be the anchor she needs
so desperately as her world falls apart? Or is he just another excuse
not to let go of Peace and move on.



A mythmaker at heart,
Sandra Hurst has been writing poetry, fantasy and
science fiction since her school days in England. Hurst moved to
Canada in 1980 and was deeply influenced by the wild lands and the
indigenous cultures that surrounded her. Y’keta, her first
full-length novel, is set in a mythical land, untouched by science or
technology, a
n ancient world
where legends walk and the Sky Road offers a way to the stars.

A member of the Alexandra Writers’ Centre Society, the
Canadian
Science Fiction and Fantasy Association, and The Mythopoeic Society,
Hurst works to build fantasy worlds that allow her readers to join
her in exploring the depths of human interaction in a mythical game
of ‘what if.’

Her first novel, Y’keta, is long-listed for the prestigious
Aurora
Award, for best Canadian fantasy novel (Young Adult) and the
American-based RONE award for break out fantasy novel.
She now lives in Calgary, Alberta with her
husband and son, both of whom
she loves dearly, and has put up for sale on e-bay when their
behaviour demanded it.
“A large hazelnut latte, please.” Jericho said, “And for me…” The girl behind the counter winked at him
saucily, her blue eyes more than a little interested. “A fresh Chai for you, coming up.”
“Erm.” On a fair complexion, Cyn guessed, she would have seen a bright-red blush, but on Jericho it was
more like the ghost of a blush. It flashed under his dark skin and an embarrassed smile flickered through
his eyes and was gone.
Jericho coughed, paid for the drinks, apologized for making a mess, and gestured for Cyn to lead as they
headed back toward her waiting laptop.
Cyn took a long sip of her gloriously hot latte and licked the milk froth from her top lip, blushing a little
when Jericho’s eyes fixated on her mouth. She hadn’t meant to do that. Well, maybe she had. My
emotions are getting out of control, she warned herself, terrified that letting her guard down with Jericho
would let the “too much” boil over.
NOT PG 13. –
Sliding his hand into the hair at the back of her neck, he angled her head down toward his, eyes fascinated
by her lips. “Miss Cynthia, may I…”
Cyn had had enough of waiting for her southern gentleman, leaning in she closed the gap between their
lips. Closing her eyes and letting go of all the reasons she shouldn’t be doing this, she gave herself to this
moment, and to Jericho. His lips were firm and soft, the hand against her cheek felt callused, but not
rough. He gently explored the contours of her face, shooting fireworks through her heart and, as he pulled
her closer, warming her body until it melted against his. Her hands wandered, almost instinctively, over
the muscled outlines of his chest, delighting in the contrast between the soft denim shirt and the hot, hard
man who wore it. Jericho growled softly, nipping at her lips in appreciation. She sighed, opening further
to him, asking, although she didn’t quite know what for.
He knew. His hand grasped her head tighter and his agile tongue slipped between her lips to stroke the
roof of her mouth. One large hand cupped her breast, the soft weight no more than a palmful for the big
cowboy. She gasped when his thumb brushed lightly over her nipple, making it pebble tightly beneath the
soft chiffon.
The giggles of a couple of teenagers shattered their privacy. Jericho and Cyn looked at each other withembarrassment, recognizing the same young couple that they had chased out of the stairwell earlier.
“Cynthia, I…” Cyn put a shushing finger over his lips. “Shush, Jericho,” she said quietly, nodding at the
pair of teenagers peering through the windows of the stairwell door. “I think we’ve given them quite
enough to talk about for now.”

Follow the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!


GONE Book Tour & Giveaway 5/21 – 6/21


Gone
by S.H. Love
Genre: Psychological Thriller
Rory Richards is self-absorbed and suicidal.

Over the last year, he has lost his job, has attempted suicide multiple

times, and has gotten his relationship to the point where it is
heading for divorce. Fed up with everything, Rory has accepted his fate.

When he wakes up from a failed suicide attempt, he learns that his wife,

Maggie, has disappeared without a trace. Her car is found abandoned
on the highway, miles away from home. Her purse and her cell phone
are discovered in the trunk. There is no sign of Maggie.

All Rory can remember about the previous night is that the two had the

fight of a lifetime. The dispute causes him to storm out of the house
and steal prescription pills from his neighbors in an attempt to
overdose.

After that, everything is a blur.
Maggie’s sudden disappearance becomes a mystery.
Was she kidnapped? Did she disappear on purpose?

To avoid coming across as insensitive, Rory plays the part of loving

husband and attempts to find his wife. He gives an emotional plea on
television, reaches out to the Missing Persons Network, and even
hires a private investigator to gather information.

All of these actions are to show police that he is actively searching.

Deep down, though, he just doesn’t care anymore. But, does Rory’s
lack of affection mean that he is responsible for Maggie’s

disappearance? Or will he serve as the unlikely hero who finds her?

What happened the night she disappeared?
 
 

S. H. Love writes mysteries and thrillers. S. H. Love is the psuedonym

of a critically acclaimed author.

 

The taste of charcoal briquettes lined the inside of my mouth. It was chalky, almost sweet, but not in a good
way. The charcoal’s texture was thick, pebbly tasting, and difficult to swallow. The sensation remained in my
mouth and almost made me puke.
I had just woken up after what seemed like days. Months, really, the time just flew by. Just like that, it was
gone. My brain was resting after a lifetime of activity, dreams creeping in, only to disappear again.
Body collapsed, exhaustion forcing me to nearly drift into another blackout, I inhaled quickly in order to stay
conscious. Inhaling made my throat sore, the roughness scratching like sandpaper.
In and out, my mind went black, only to resolve to faint lights with warped images. Nothing really resonated
inside, the time lapse unknown in my current state.
What day is it?
Where am I?
My eyes opened wide. Dried and strained, they focused on the ceiling. The drop ceiling tiles multiplied in
front of me, expanding outward, adding four times the amount. Growing larger and then shrinking in a fast
instant, the tiles kept going in and out of focus until they became clear. The mineral fibers absorbed all the
ambient noise that surrounded me. Not that it mattered in my case. I was as laid up as one could get.
After a rush of constant blinking, my vision came into focus. The ceiling was again normal. Water stains
shaped like countries struck out against the plain white tiles. Italy was to my left. Thailand was to the right.
The United States’ forty-eight, it was as if the South had actually won the Civil War and had relocated to
Africa. Stretched across one of the corners in the room was a thin spider web. Part of it was unattached and
blowing from the air conditioner vent. The cold air pushing out of the vent kissed my face, tickling my cheeks
and making them numb.
Looking around my environment, my body depressed in a slow, dragged out sigh.
My tongue worked around my lips, licking the spots where my skin and lips met. The heavy, smoky flavor
was all I needed to know to describe what happened the night before. My face began to crease from the burnt
charcoal taste within. Caving in, it was a crushed aluminum can bending inward. It was as if someone punched
me super hard, my face staying locked in its current position.
The medical staff used the charcoal to absorb the toxins from the pills I had swallowed. All one hundred
thirteen of them. In a single sitting, swallowing the enteric-coated pills until my vision faded. One by one by
one, I had attempted to take my own life. It was a smorgasbord of poison with various colored pills. Some I
had recognized. Others I had not.
There was a bottle for sleeping disorders. There were various prescriptions for pain. One container was filled
with Ativan. Another, filled with God knows what. I had no idea.
It was the perfect cure for anxiety, pain, and seizures, for one low price.
Who would have thought that that many pills could be found inside your neighbors’ medicine cabinets? Then
again, who would have thought that amount of pills could be pumped out of a human body? Gastric lavage
and activated charcoal, these were two procedures that I didn’t recommend.
If you ever need an emergency antidote to combat the dangers of prescription drugs, consider the two-step
process of gutting and then grilling your face. The stomach pump was to remove the pills. The charcoal was
used as a poisoning antidote, to interrupt the circulation of drugs from the liver to the bile, back into the small
intestine, and ending back into the liver. The process was called enterohepatic circulation.
Coming to, I was greeted by a small, empty hospital room. A single bed surrounded by varying degrees of
medical equipment. There was a heart monitor near my bed. An overbed table pushed off to the side. A
cabinet filled with supplies. All the ingredients were present to revive the damaged soul of a person.
The television hanging from above was turned off, an old tube unit sitting on a shelf that was bolted to the
wall. The screen was dirty; it was covered in dust particles from not being turned on.
The thick curtains were closed. Peeking in underneath and on the sides of the curtains’ fabric was a parking lot
streetlight. The light from the tall post cast dark shadows into the room; the shadows creeped me out. They
were monsters ready to attack, ready and willing to conquer under their master’s order. Whoever their master
was, I wasn’t sure.
Swallowing was difficult. There was a tightening in my throat each time I’d attempted. Harder and harder to
bring the saliva up my esophagus, I could feel it start in the pit of my stomach.
This was not my first attempt at suicide. No matter how hard I had tried, I could never fully succeed. Three
fucking times was definitely not the charm.
My first attempt at offing myself happened about a year ago. My wife and I had begun to feel the effects of
money shortfalls.
I had lost my job when the economy crashed and had never really gotten back on track. Sure, there were a fewpart-time positions here and there. And one full-time job that was so out of my field I had to quit. But there
was nothing that had brought in near the same salary, near the same satisfaction, of what I had been living
with for years before.
My wife, Maggie, had said that she understood. That working in a job that did not complement your skillset
was difficult. Deep down, I knew my not being employed (or as Maggie had put it, sitting around) had still
bothered her. She would often throw in sentences such as, “But every little bit helps,” and, “Maybe just stick it
out for a while,” ending in, “Well, it’s your decision and I will support you nonetheless.”
She was just going through the motions at that point. This marked the beginning of the end for us. We were
heading for a divorce.
The truth was jobs were not that available in our hometown of Rock Island, Illinois. A stagnant population of
just under forty thousand, with only a handful of big employers that could provide a decent living. The cost of
living was low, but you would have to be in a position that paid well enough. Most of the residents in the area
worked at John Deere and the Rock Island Arsenal. Neither of which seemed to ever be hiring. It was almost
as if you had to know or be related to someone in order to get your foot in the door. Of course, generations
upon generations handed these jobs down like relay runners passing the batons behind them. With so much
history between the two organizations, getting a job at either of these places was equivalent to being born into
the royal family.
Me, I used to be the operations manager of a manufacturing company. Relative to the size of Deere and
Arsenal, our company was small, a blip on their financial scope, a mere footnote in the conversation. But it
was big for me, and it was what worked. That was, until I was let go.
We specialized in packaging, various types of packaging and shipping methods. One of our contracts was with
John Deere, so you could say that I was a bastard stepson of the prestigious royal family. I was more of a
second cousin that hardly came around, one that never saw the photo ops or royal invites.
I oversaw the plant workers at different locations around the area, who spent most of the days boxing items
and getting them ready for shipment to wherever it was they were headed. Much of my time was dedicated to
streamlining the process in order to cut costs. It took me several months to scheme up the process, paying
particular attention to its destinations and what trucks needed to be loaded and at what times. Logistics wasn’t
difficult; rather, you had to be on your game to know the shortest routes possible. You could say I was so good
at my job that I cut my own salary out of the company. Shipped it out in a nicely packed container. Really,
there wasn’t a need for me anymore. A win/lose situation.
My job, my life, my marriage, they were all packaged and ready to be shipped out. And to be honest, I didn’t
care anymore. To be frank, getting divorced was the only true thing I had looked forward to.
Lying on the bed, my head facing the ceiling, I moved my eyes left to right, and screamed, “NO!” Clenching
my teeth until my jaws hurt, bringing my voice down to a hush, I whisper-screamed, “FUCK YOU!” I had
convinced myself that I had wanted to die this time. Deep down to the depths of my soul, I wished that I was
dead.
All the while, the chair shadow creature was lurking in silence, staring in my direction.
The angled door monster sat mocking me. A malicious grin on its face, it could turn on me at any moment.
My body tightened until I turned bright red. Holding my breath in a weak attempt to suffocate, hopes of
passing out to prevent my brain from picking back up again, my mind started racing. Through the half-closed
blinds leading into an illuminated part of the hospital, two detectives were talking to a doctor. They were in
mid-discussion ever since I had come to. The doctor was, on occasion, looking into my room while he
continued to speak.
Struggling on the bed, kicking my legs under the sheets, the jerking of my body like a possessed demon, I was
vying for their attention. Whipping my head side to side, the air from the vent reminding me that I was alive
and well, I screamed inside, my mouth wide open, stretching until my cheeks became sore.
The officers looked serious, their bodies stiff and alert. Staring with intent into the doctor’s eyes, one of the
policemen leaned in closer. A concerned look on his face, the detective nodded in agreement to whatever it
was the doctor was discussing.
The window made it difficult to make out what they were saying. The light, reflecting off from the other side,
made the men appear translucent. Squinting with a brave optimism that I could read their lips, I saw the
policeman with the crew cut on the right side crane his neck toward me and then slowly return to the doctor.
Leaning in closer to the door, my head pulling forward, a sharp pain ran up my spine and into the nape of my
neck. My body tightened into a crunch, my abs flexing for the first time in years. The balls of my feet were
blistering for some reason, as if I had been on them for days. The soreness caused me to straighten, and before
I could readjust my body, the door opened.
Flipping the light switch, the doctor, wearing multi-colored scrubs and a white smock, entered with the

officers in tow. The shadow demons, they disappeared into tangible objects. One became the sink faucet.
Another transformed into the tissue paper box. In an instant, the monsters assumed their positions in the real
world. Their master, so it seemed, signaled them to be calm. It only took a second for my eyes to adjust to the
bright light. My brain was still disordered. My recollection, it was groggy to say the least. The three men came
into focus as they approached me.
“Mr. Richards,” the doctor said, his eyes scanning the paperwork on his clipboard, never making eye contact.
Nodding his head, his lips curled downward. Skimming the chart before speaking again, he mouthed some
words to himself. He then looked up, rejoining the conversation, and said, “I’m Doctor Wynn.”
Dr. Wynn was a skinny Asian man, his hospital garb baggy off his legs. He was a middle-aged gentleman,

mostly wrinkle-free with not much grey. He had a full head of hair. Crow’s feet branched out from his half-
opened eyes when he spoke. I could tell that he laughed a lot. Other than that tiny flaw, he was well put

together.
I pegged him for having a trophy wife, brunette and much younger, and driving a convertible Mercedes-Benz.
Aside from announcing that he was a doctor, his pickup line could have been, “If you go out with me, it would
be a Wynn/Win.” And then a sparkling smile filled with whites. Who wouldn’t fall for this? Hell, I was
beginning to fall in love with him. But that could just be the medication.
Reading through my charts more in-depth, his lips moving slightly, he scanned the file and then re-addressed
me.
Tilting his head, he smiled, flashing his medical school teeth. “And how’re you feeling today?” His cadence
was quick and with crisp enunciation. He displayed a charming politeness to his audience when he spoke.
Before I could answer, the doctor said, “You’re very lucky, Mr. Richards.”
Was I? Tracing the words with his index finger, he said, “You swallowed a lot of pills.” He was lecturing me
like a third grade teacher would do to one of her students—“Do you know what happens when you don’t finish
your assignment?” I was waiting for him to put me in the corner, but I guess this was close enough.
The officers stood stoic, hearing the diagnosis from the medical expert. Each was attentive for the most part,
often looking down at the floor or around the room to inspect the potential sleeping monsters.
Casual demeanor, reading the shorthand notes scribbled on the paper, Dr. Wynn gave an inappropriate smile.
He said, “Over one hundred.”
One hundred thirteen to be exact.
He looked me in the eyes and said, “How do you feel?” The doctor was full of questions. For someone who
was a supposed expert, he was definitely curious. “Does your throat hurt?” he said.
The large thirty-six gastrostomy tube that was jammed into my esophagus was, to be very thankful, lubricated.
Just because I had tried to kill myself did not warrant a dry throat fuck. Leaning in toward me, he said, “You
were administered two hundred milliliters of warm tap water on a repeated basis in order to be fully drained.”
His crow’s feet, they branched out as he emphasized certain syllables. He said this as if this was an everyday
occurrence, as if he saw attempted suicides all the time.
A cop, the one with shaggier hair of the two, glanced at the doctor’s clipboard, squinting at the small lettering.
The other, staring through me, stood statue still with his eyebrows lowered. He was thinking, or waiting his
turn to speak, one of the two, or both. Dropping the clipboard down toward his waist, cupping it in his hand,
Dr. Wynn said, “I recommend getting some rest. Your body blah! blah! blah! gone through some blah! blah!
blah! and you’ll need some time to recover. And then we’ll have—”
The toll on my body caused me to almost crash out. My attention drifted with quick ambition with every other
word the doctor said. I could hear the voices in the room, consulting each other, but the dialogue was
incomprehensible. It was as if I was sitting next to Charlie Brown in school. At this stage, I wasn’t even sure it
was happening.
Then, my head fell backward, my mind going blank.
Before I went under, the room spun out of focus. The countries on the ceiling tiles began to swirl, spinning
around in a clockwise motion until they transformed into something else. Slowly, the shadow creatures came
out of hiding, taking their positions as the hand sanitizer and drawer handle. My eyes wandered, attempting to
escape their reach.
The voice of Dr. Wynn dissolving, I fell into a deep sleep.

 

Follow the tour HERE

for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!

 

 


How does GDPR affect US Blogs?

This post is sponsored by DiamondLinks. Any opinions expressed are my own. 

So many changes for website owners with the repeal of net neutrality and GDPR (General Data Protection Regulation) with all these changes it can be hard for a website owner to grow and maintain their readership.

When you’re a blog owner like me, without a lot of technical knowledge, it’s also confusing.  I tend to look for professionals to help that are within my budget.  Looking for a way to have a customer success platform on a budget with someone you trust can be difficult to find, but not impossible.

The first thing I like to do is do searches for information on what I need to do. GDPR is the newest thing I had to look up.  I’ve been getting scores of emails asking me to confirm that I still want to be on email lists etc to comply with GDPR.   GDPR is something has an enforcement date of May 25, 2018.  Approved by European parliaments for data privacy.

But I’m in the US how does that affect me?  If you’re a website owner, if you receive traffic and readership from European nations you could be affected. If you have an email list and possibly have European readers subscribed to your email newsletter, you could be affected.

A simple step to take would be to send out an email to your entire email list asking your readers if they want to still receive your emails. They can easily unsubscribe if they want to.   If you somehow have your email list broke up between US readers and other readers, this can be easier for you.

It seems everyone is cracking down on data privacy. It’s definitely a good thing for everyone as a whole.  Website owners just need to be up-to-date and compliant with new changes.   It’s not just email lists though, if you have an app for your site, widgets that collect cookies, etc you’ll need to make sure they are updated and compliant with GDPR.  This is a little bit harder task.   With a simple search, you can find lots of sites with info from tech big wigs like IBM to help with GDPR.

My blog is my small business. I do have a day job but I consider my blog a second job that I love.  If something happened to my blog because I didn’t take necessary steps, I’d be devastated.  A little education, some work behind the scenes, and a few changes can mean the difference of having a 2nd job or not having a 2nd job for me.