Category: giveaway

Nathan Tolley is a
talented mechanic who has watched his business dry up due to gas
shortages following the drastic tectonic shifts. His wife, Cyndi, has
diligently prepped food and supplies, but it’s not enough to get
them through a never-ending winter. With an asthmatic young son and a
new baby on the way, they’ll have to find a safe place they cancall home or risk freezing to death in this harsh new world.

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Combine
this survivalist mentality with a vivid imagination (as well as a
slightly unhealthy day dreaming habit) and you get a prepper fiction
author. Grace spends her days thinking about the worst possible
survival situations that a person could be thrown into, then throwingher characters into these nightmares while trying to figure out “What
SHOULD you do in this situation?”

It’s
her wish that through her characters, you will get to experience what
life will be like and essentially learn from their mistakes and
experiences, so that you too can survive!

CHAPTER ONE
“What’s that?” Freeson asked, pointing beyond the wrecker’s windshield.
Nathan squinted through the swirling snowflakes peppering the glass, but the wipers were struggling togive meaningful vision beyond the red expanse of his Dodge’s hood. He thought they were on the spruce-
lined Ridge Road running between Lake George and Glens Falls but he couldn’t be sure. The cone of

light thrown out by its headlights only illuminated the blizzard itself, making it look like a messed up TV
channel.
Without any real visibility, the 1981 Dodge Power Wagon W300 4×4—with driver’s cab, a four-person
custom-sized crew cab behind that, a wrecker boom, and a spectacle lift—grumbled deep in its engine as
Nathan slowed the truck. To stop the tires fully, Nathan had to go down through the gears rather than by
the application of the discs. There was a slight lateral slide before the tires bit into the fresh snow. The ice
beneath was treacherous enough already without the added application of fresh flakes.
Who knowshow thick the ice is over the blacktop, Nathan thought.
With the truck stopped, he tried to follow Freeson’s finger out into the whirlpooling night.
For a few seconds, all he could see was the blizzard, the air filled with fat white flakes, which danced
across his vision like God’s dandruff. Nathan was about to ask Freeson what the hell he was playing at
when he caught it. He saw taillights flicker on and the shadow of a figure move towards the truck’s
headlights.
Sundown for late April in Glens Falls, New York State, should have been around 7:50 p.m. The Dodge’s
dashboard clock said the time was 5:30 p.m. and it was already full dark out on Algonquin Ridge.
The world had changed so much in the last eight years since the stars had changed position in the sky and
the North Atlantic had started to freeze over. The pole star was no longer the pole star. It was thirty
degrees out of whack. Couple that with the earthquakes, volcanoes, and tsunamis wrecking countries
around the Pacific Rim, and the world had certainly been transformed from the one Nathan had been born
into twenty-eight years before. And this year, spring hadn’t come at all. Winter had spread her white
skirts out in early December and had left them there. It was nearly May now, and there was still no sign of
her fixing to pick them up again.
A face loomed up in the headlights, red with the cold, hair salted with snow, the flakes building up on the
shoulders of the figure’s parka. It was Art Simmons.
Nathan zipped his own puffy North Face Nuptse winter jacket up to his chin, opened his door, and
jumped down into the powder. The snow came up to his knees and he could feel the hard ice below the
chunky soles of his black Columbia Bugaboots.
Even through the thermal vest, t-shirt, and two layers of New York Jets sweatshirts, the cold bit hard into
Nathan. Without the meager, volcanic-ash-diluted sun in the sky, the early evening was already steel-cold
and the blizzard wind made it near murderous. He rolled his hips and galumphed through the snow
towards Art.
“Nathan! Is that you?”
Art had, until recently, been a Glens Falls sheriff. He’d been a warm-hearted gregarious man whose
company Nathan enjoyed a lot. But since being laid off when the local police department had shut down,
he’d become sullen and distant. Seeing Art so animatednowoffered the most emotion Nathan had seen
coming from the chubby ex-cop since before Christmas.
“What’s the trouble, Art?”
Art’s words tumbled in a breathless rush. Sharp and short, it was clear that the cutting air had begun
constricting his throat. “Skidded. Run off the road. I couldn’t even seethe road… I’m in the ditch… Been
here an hour…”
“Runoff the road?”

Art nodded. “Glens Falls has been overrun, Nate. Scavengers tracked me. If I wasn’t trying so hard to
outrun ’em, I wouldn’t be here now. Hadn’t driven so fast, when I lost them through Selling’s Bridge…”
Nathan had heard the rumors of small packs of raiders using snowmobiles to hold up residents in their
cars, stealing supplies and invading homes. But he hadn’t seen evidence of them himself. He’d only been
told by neighbors and friends they were operating in other parts of New York State, fifty miles further
south than Albany, but not until now had he gotten any notion they might be as far up in the state as Glens
Falls. But now that they were here, the lack of an operational police department in town might just make
them bolder and more likely to try their luck with what they could get away with.
“Where did they go?” he asked.
Art shook his head. “Guess they lost me in the blizzard when I came off the road. Maybe gone off to track
some other poor bastard. They won’t be far.”
Freeson joined them in front of the truck, banging his arms around his own parka to put feeling into his
fingers. His limp didn’t help him wade through the snow and his grizzled face was grim, but Nathan knew
the determination in Freeson’s bones wouldn’t allow his physical deficiencies to stop him doing the job
Nathan paid him for. The cold might freeze and ache him, but the fire in Freeson’s belly would counter
the subzero conditions for sure.
Freeson hadn’t been right since the accident, maybe. Quiet at times, and quick to anger at others, but he
was always one hundred percent reliable.
Together, they walked the ten yards down through the snow to the roadside ditch beneath the snow-heavy
trees.
An hour in the blizzard had made Art’s truck almost impossible to recognize. Nathan only knew it was a
white 2005 Silverado 1500 because he’d worked on it a dozen times in the past ten years. The last time
had been to replace a failed water pump that had fritzed the cooling system. Nathan smiled wryly. No one
needed their cooling system fixed now—not since the Earth’s poles had shifted. Since that unexplained
catastrophe, the Big Winter’s new Arctic Circle had been smothering Florida and the eastern seaboard, all
the way up to Pennsylvania and beyond. It had frozen the Atlantic clear from the U.S. to North Africa.
The world was a very different place from the one Nate had been born into twenty-eight years ago.
Art told them he’d been turning the taillights on and off every ten minutes to signal to anyone who might
be passing, trying to preserve battery life at the same time. He said Nathan’s wrecker had been the first
vehicle to show up since his slow-motion slide into the ditch.
Nathan scratched his head through his hood and looked up the incline of Algonquin Ridge. The Silverado
was trapped between two spruces on the edge of the ditch. The tail had kicked up as the front end had
dropped, leaving the back wheels floating in space—or, would have done that if the snow hadn’t already
drifted beneath them and begun to pack in.
There was no leeway in the tree growth to get the wrecker onto the downslope of the road, either, though
the easiest way out of this would have been to pull the Silverado down the thirty-degree incline. Instead,
they were going to have to pull Art’s truck up the slope and fight gravity all the way.
Nathan opened his mouth to tell Freeson to get back in the wrecker and start her up, but Art placed a hand
on his shoulder and pointed into the trees. “Look.”
Through the forest, three sets of Ski-Doo headlights were moving along two hundred yards up beyond the
treeline. The blatter of two-stroke engines was dampened by the snow, but still unmistakable. This part of
the ridge was well out of town and had once been a popular tourist trail. There were wide avenues
between the spruce where summer people rode chunky-tired trail bikes, and winter people, Ski-Doos.
They had room to maneuver.
“They’re back,” said Art.
Better get this show on the road.
In theory, it should have been a simple operation. Nate turned the wrecker around and reversed it towards
the ditch while Freeson and Art cleared as much snow as they could. As they worked, Freeson bitched
about the way the town was dying and how you couldn’t get much of anything from the last store in town,

and that the hospital was going to be shutting down and you couldn’t get fuel oil, and… and… and…
Nathan knew Freeson was just working his jaw to keep his mind off the cold, but the litany of unhappy
changes on his lips, when run together like that, did nothing to spread warmth through the three men. In
the past, Freeson would have been telling a stream of off-color jokes that would make Nathan groan at
best and look for a stone to render his employee unconscious at worst. But since the Arctic Circle had
shifted, leaving a trail of dying towns and cities in its wake, the resulting changes had been the only topic
of Freeson’s conversation. That was when he wasn’t weeping because of the loss of his wife.
Nathan and Freeson latched the boom hook from the wrecker to the rear of the Silverado with a tow strap
while Art got into his cab and started the engine. The blizzard maintained a steady build-up of snow on
anyone who stood still for more than ten seconds, wind whipping at their faces like slaps from an angry
girlfriend.
Through the trees, the scavengers’ Ski-Doos circled like sharks. Not getting any nearer as yet, perhaps
waiting for the right time to take advantage. They could have just dived down on the trio and trapped the
truck where it was, but Nathan figured they were trying to raise the tension and get them more scared—
scared enough to abandon the trucks without a fight, maybe.

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 by

Karen S. Bell won the Bronze Medal in the Fiction – Thriller –
Psychological category

Would
you be willing to make a deal with the devil to have your hopes and
dreams come true?

Witnessing
a lightening bolt on a sunny day, author Alexa Wainwright doesn’t
realize she’s been transported to an alternate universe. Here, she
meets media mogul and publisher King Blakemore who offers her a
lucrative book contract that will guarantee her comeback.

This
publisher seems odd. This book deal is too good. Suddenly, the
contract’s been signed. Now what can she do?

Desperate
to get her life back, Alexa devises schemes to untether herself from
this hellish existence but to no avail. Can Alexa find her way out of
this nightmare?

Buy
this book if you’re a reader who loves a page-turning,
heart-stopping, psychological thriller with some magical realism
thrown in.

“RIVETING”–Kirkus
Reviews

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Chapter Two
The stranger

Margaret is on my permanent access list with the concierge and I gave her a key for my private elevator. She can just come up without the concierge notifying me. When I configured this condo
loft space, I opted to put in a small, enclosed lobby so that the elevator didn’t land right in my
living room. The wooden door with etched glass insert added an elegant touch and was rarely
locked but Margaret always knew better than to barge in without ringing the doorbell buzzer. It’s
a purposely-harsh sound that I can hear when lost in thought in my study at the other end of my
loft. Finishing the wine in one gulp, I open the door.
I greet Margaret with forced enthusiasm. I still wasn’t in the mood for company, but it
was worse than that. She was not alone. I sigh and brace myself for another hanger-on trying to
get into our inner circle. At least he’s better looking than some of Margaret’s other sycophants.
Adoring fans wanting me to sign their books is one thing. People wanting to invade my space to
gawk right here in my loft, well that’s entirely another matter. Invasions of that sort still annoy
me, especially when I’m unprepared mentally to receive anyone. But then, I guess it means my
mojo is still working to some degree.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I say smiling slightly as I let them in.
“Lex…Alexa, I’d like you to meet my cousin, Alex. How funny is that?”
A cousin this time. How tiresome.
“Nice to meet you,” he says while nodding and shaking my hand. “That Chinese Emperor
in plastic in your anti-room there is quite…”
“Lucite, not plastic,” I interrupt.
“Yes, of course, wearing those beautiful red-silk robes. It’s quite a lovely piece and that
porcelain umbrella stand almost too pretty for an umbrella.”
What is he a decorator?
“The emperor was a present from one of her Asian…” Margaret adds before I interrupt
again.
“It was sent to me through my agent by a loyal Asian-American fan and is one of my
prized possessions. The umbrella stand was bought at the big flea market in Paris. The mahogany
console that the emperor sits on is a valued antique and the Art Deco octagon-shaped beveled
wall mirror I found in SoHo. So, you’re a designer, interested in that sort of thing, I guess? I
wasn’t forewarned that Margaret was bringing someone, but I’m in no need of a designer just
now.”
I give Margaret my blank stare of annoyance. Then I study her cousin and immediately
become transfixed. Something…odd. He doesn’t seem to notice my scrutiny. Walks right past
me into the living room. Something about this guy is not right. Something…is…very weird. I get
a rush of a nervous feeling. An awful creeping premonition of strangeness. Unsettling. What is
it? Hmm. He reminds me of someone.
But who?
“Didn’t I tell you this was a fabulous place?” Margaret asks Alex as she drags him over
to see the view. “Nice, huh?”
He nods slowly, like he’s impressed.

“Can I get you something? Water, coffee, tea?” I ask being polite but actually becoming
increasingly irritated along with feeling rattled at this intrusion. Margaret should know better
than surprising me with a guest. I’m not that vain, but come on. She knows what I look like when
I’m working. No make-up. Greasy hair. Comfortable sweats. It would have been nice for a heads
up. Plus, I’m in no mood to be social after working almost all night with just a few hours cat nap.
Maybe if I yawn, they’ll leave soon. I yawn. No reaction. But then I remember, she has some
important news for me. Oh well. Better make the best of this.
“Some ice water would be great,” he says.
“I’ll get it,” says Margaret and runs into the kitchen slamming cabinet doors and getting
ice water from the fridge dispenser. “Wait,” she yells, “Do you want sparkling water or plain?”
“Great, I’ll have some Pellegrino,” he says in a strong, deep voice with no discernible
accent.
“No, it’s straight from the fridge, one of those fancy-schmancy kind that serves sparkling
from the dispenser,” she calls to us. “How about you, Lex?”
“Sure, fizzy sounds good.”
I direct him to have a seat and he walks with a slight limp over to my cushy cream-
colored leather, L-shaped sectional sofa, puts his briefcase on the floor and sits down resting his
arms on the back. The body language of being in charge. I sit opposite in my club chair from my
old apartment. This well-worn greenish, suedeish recliner, a garbage night found treasure, is a
constant reminder of how far I’d come and stands out as an oddity in my well-furnished home.
It’s also my talisman for chasing away writer’s block. Sit in the chair and ideas being to flow. I
don’t understand how it works, it just does. I’d had a lot of need for its remedy in the last few
years.
Cousin Alex sits looking at me and then around at the loft and back to the view offered
by my wall of glass, like he’s making a mental calculation of the cost of my lifestyle. The rather
large sofa that he’s sitting on is dwarfed by the 15 ft. ceilings and more than ample square
footage of the open floor plan. Soft, soothing earth tones are the color palate for my walls,
pillows and throws, offset by the large, woolen antique Oriental rug in opulent blues, reds, and
greens over my dark, bamboo floors. I see him eye my wildly colorful and quite costly Chihuly
hand-blown glass bowl, the perfect complement to the glass coffee table designed by Piero
Lissoni, where it is placed for optimum enjoyment. While he studies the surroundings, I study
him boldly in the silence before Margaret comes in with the drinks. He wasn’t much of a talker
and I wasn’t feeling like making small talk myself, which afforded me the opportunity to
continue observing him quite intensely until I knew why he seemed familiar.
Stonily observing every detail of his face, it suddenly became clear to me in a rush, that
Alex was actually someone I knew very well. It was so startling that I almost gasped audibly at
the shock when I realized he was a character from one of my books sprung to life. Not in name,
of course, but in every other way. A dark-haired, blue-eyed handsome lad that is the consistent
image in my mind when I write the villain or the love interest. With his chiseled features, thick
black hair, lightly tanned skin, sexy stubble of facial hair, Alex is the manifestation of the exact
words used to describe the good guy in my debut.
And he is right here in this room. Right here in the flesh. Alive. Sitting on my sofa. I
know that description is not like looking at a photo and readers can come up with their own
mental image. But here’s the thing, his face, Alex’s face is what I saw in my mind when I wrote
his character, Rick, in Foregone. The first romantic hero that I pictured and the basic model for

all the others that came later. His exact face. A knot forms in my stomach. How does one deal
with absurdity?
“Okay, here we are,” says Margaret, as she sets the tray of drinks on the coffee table and
joins Alex on the sofa. “Let me give you some background here. Alex just moved here from LA.
He’s the creative director and set designer for Off Street Films, a newly formed but apparently
well-funded production company in TriBeCa that’s looking for new projects. I gave him the first
two manuscripts of your trilogy and told him about Darkside.” Now it makes sense why he’s
been scoping out my apartment. A set designer.
“Let me take over here, Peggy.” Peggy? I ask her with my eyes and she just shrugs.
“I love the concept of these books,” Alex continues, “the different dimensions of the
female psyche manipulated by life’s challenges, molded by unique circumstances. From what
Peggy tells me, Darkside is kind of a modern day Looking for Mr. Goodbar meets Sons of
Anarchy. So I was thinking of combining all those stories into one. Have a tragedy happen just
after Jodie gets married when she graduates college, and before any kids, throwing her into the
Jodie of Darkside. That version of Jodie and her terrible choices becomes the main plot of the
movie.”
This angers me. “Whoa. Stop right there,” I say in a tone of displeasure. “Is this the
interesting marketing idea you mentioned when you called me, Margaret?” She looks at me
perplexed. Then to Alex, “You sound as if there’s an imminent deal. There’s no imminent deal.
This is the first time I’ve heard about this. Did Margaret tell you she spoke to me and I was
interested? If she did, she was deceptive. She knows how strongly I feel about this.
“I swore I would never allow any of books to be made into a film again after my horrible
experience with A Foregone Conclusion. I felt violated. The story was in tatters, the movie was a
bomb and probably led to my subsequent work not selling as well, now that I think about it.
Right off the bat, you brazenly tell me how you intentionally want to destroy the integrity of the
trilogy. No-no. Emphatically, no. I don’t even know the movie you mentioned, the mister candy
and the other…sons…whatever you are referring to.”
I stand up to signal the end of this meeting. My eyes send daggers to Margaret and I have
already fired her in my mind. She knows she’s in trouble when she catches my look.
“It’s Looking for Mr. Goodbar, a financial and critical success, I might add, and the other
was a recent hit TV show about a biker gang.”
“I don’t care. Not interested. Sorry. I’m busy just now and exhausted. I need to rest
before taking care of important business. If you’ll excuse me. You can show yourselves out.”
“Wait, Lex! Hear him out. This is different,” says Margaret jumping up and looking
petrified as if she just saw a spider. She definitely caught the meaning of my look.
“No, I’m done. As I said, not interested. Good day.” I walk into the hallway to my
bedroom and shut the door firmly. I hear murmuring in the living room for about two minutes
and then the front door clicks shut. I’m furious and run the water for a bath to calm myself. Half
undressed, I decide another glass of wine is warranted and walk out to get one. I stop short and
let out a startled scream.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says, as I run back to get a robe and turn off the bath before
coming back out.
“What in the hell are you still doing in my loft? Look, Alex, mister, whoever you are,” I
say calmly trying to recover some decorum by acting in control, the mature and successful
woman who’s no longer half-naked. “I could have you arrested for being here uninvited. When I

asked you to leave, I meant it. Margaret’s cousin or not. I don’t know you. And actually, I don ’t
care to. So please leave. At once.” And I walk toward the door.
“At least read the offer,” he says as he pulls a packet out of his briefcase and puts it on
the coffee table before walking over to the door. “Read the offer and then come out with me for
dinner tonight. Make reservations at your favorite and most expensive restaurant. I’ll come back
here at 8:00. Even if you’re still not interested in working on this project, I’d like to take you to
dinner.” He leans in as if to kiss me and his alluring, strong, masculine scent, a mix of the
freshness of a pine-tree forest, wood fires burning, worn leather, and the wind-whipped sea
knocks me back and arouses me. My unexpected reaction confuses me, as he hands me his
business card instead of a kiss.
“Oh,” I say awkwardly after snapping my head back before realizing what he’s really
doing. I look at his card. “What? What is this? Your name is Wainwright? Alex Wainwright?
This is a joke, right? And not funny at all, I might add.”
“One of life’s strange coincidences,” he says playfully. Before I can say any more, he’s
out the door and jumps in the elevator. I’m more than shocked. A coincidence? He being a ringer
for Rick? Having the same name as me? Well, not really my name. Of course, Alexa Wainwright
is a made-up perfect pen name that I changed legally.
Gladys Lipschitz, my real name, a major misstep on the part of my mother, was a name
that belonged embroidered on the shirt of a pink waitress uniform. Gladys evokes an image of a
woman who wears a hairnet and keeps a small lead pencil tucked behind her ear and an order pad
shoved into her skirt pocket. She works the late shift serving greasy food at a dive luncheonette
on the upper far West Side under the elevated trains. That Gladys personified my obsessive fear
of being a failure as a writer. I wanted to get as far away from her as I could. Alexa connoted
sexy and sophisticated. Wainwright sounded snooty, British, non-ethnic.
I also played with the idea of calling myself Alex instead of Alexa, but I really didn’t
want any gender confusion. I was proud of being female and wrote mainly for a female audience.
If I had done that, though, Alex Wainwright and I would have the exact same name. Odd, so odd.
Also odd is his lingering scent. From that quick close encounter when he leaned in and his
masculine aroma filled my nostrils, I now smell it everywhere. It has taken over my loft. I spray
Pledge on my furniture and mop the floors. Pour my favorite perfume all over me after I take that
bath. Spray it into the rooms. No good. His scent is in my nose. In my being. Leaves me restless
and uneasy and doesn’t go away. I’m edgy, unsettled, fearful that I’m being marked for
something. A spider web of intrigue is ensnaring me. Pulling me closer to its center where I can’t
escape. First it’s his scent that I can’t get rid of.
What’s next?
The packet stays untouched on my table for several days. Not interested. Why bother
reading it? Finally, I grab it and throw it in the trash. Sitting down in my club chair with my
morning coffee the next day, I pick up one of my gossip magazines that’s sometimes on that
table with the mail, a guilty pleasure. Actually, it’s more of a compulsion, checking to see if
there are any articles about me. Of course not. Not anymore. But wait. What the…? It’s not a
magazine. It’s that damn proposal. Shape shifting into a magazine and then back again to mock
me. I drop it in horror on the table and then throw out the rest of my magazines. The packet gives
me the willies, but I won’t touch it again. Trying to bring logic into the equation and rekindle the
memory of throwing it out, I recreate the steps. Envision the garbage can and try and feel the
packet in my hands. Can’t completely remember doing it. I don’t know, maybe I really didn’t
throw it out. Still creepy, though.

Margaret repeatedly calls and I won’t answer. She texts me incessantly and I don’t
respond. She knows better than to just show up here when I’m angry at her, afraid of my
reaction. Afraid I might actually fire her. She’s learned that it’s best to give me a cooling off
period when I’ve outright threatened to fire her in the past or just have given her that look she’s
come to know. It has worked before but not now. I’m so livid with her presumptuousness. A
movie deal! When she knows full well how I feel. Then I just go for it. “You’re fired,” I finally
text her at a random moment on a random day.
I had already begun busying myself with editing and copyediting Darkside and, although
boring, it was important. By now, I was pretty good at catching wrong words that spellcheck
didn’t catch, “faze” instead of “phase” and the like, and missing periods at the end of sentences.
So…who needs Margaret? Saved me money and her bothersome obsequiousness. The editors at
Jameson would go over it again, so no real worries about missing something.
However, there’s one aspect of Margaret’s help that I will miss, but oh well. She gives
my writing a brightness that sometimes gets lost in the complicated story lines. Tightens the
narrative. Fills in the plot holes. Sharpens the tone. Her instincts are genius. She’s the perfect
collaborator. I found her on a jobs website for editors and she polished up Foregone for not
much money. She was probably responsible for Gloria, saying “yes” and then Jameson House
offering that three-book deal and hefty advance. Yeah, she was a real find and was also
company. A welcome disruption from the intrinsic isolation of being a writer. I admit, I’ll miss
her spontaneity, her easy laugh, and her off beat style. But I’m stubborn and she crossed the line.
No regrets. Well, maybe. Firing her in a text was a chicken shit thing to do. I feel better about
myself after I mail her a large severance package.
Done.
Not done.
I forgot to take her off the easy access list and to lock my front door, which I rarely ever
do because my private elevator needs a key. Margaret still has a key, an unfortunate oversight on
my part.
“Please Alexa, don’t do this,” she says hysterically crying as she rushes into my study
unexpectedly and makes me burn my tongue on a hot sip of coffee. “I’m sorry I brought him
here. He’s not really my cousin. I just met him at a script-writing seminar. He was giving one of
the classes…”
“Wait. Thstop,” I say, my sore tongue making it hard to speak for a moment. “What? You
brought some jerk that you didn’t even know up here to my home? You know what, Margaret,
you’re still fired…and moreover fired again! Now get out and don’t come back.” And I turn back
to my computer screen and cool off my tongue with a sip of bottled water.
“Alexa, please listen. He’s not some jerk. He can do what he says. Okay, the cousin thing
was stupid. But when I saw your face as you opened the door, I had to think of something fast, so
you would let us in. Please just listen. This could be big for you. Put you back in the spotlight.”
I turn around slowly. “Peggy,” I say sarcastically, “you are not in charge of my career.
You cannot create any spotlights for me. You and your fake cousin Alex Wainwright do not have
the magic. I make my own magic. I alone. Now get out.”
“Wait. What? His name is Alex Wainwright?”
“He didn’t tell you his name?”
“Well, I knew it was Alex, but I never really paid attention to the seminar materials
listing the leaders. They just called him by his first name and only mentioned his title as the

creative director of the production company holding the seminar. And it never came up at
dinner.”
“You went out with this guy?”
“Well, yes. He asked me after the lecture when I mentioned to the group that I worked for
you. He wanted to know if you were working on the third book of the trilogy. When I told him
you were, he took me out to dinner to discuss it.”
“This makes me angry on so many levels. The book hasn’t been published yet and you’re
discussing the plot with him before it’s officially out, and worse yet, giving him manuscripts,
which probably violates something in my publishing contract.” I shake my head in disgust. “I
should probably sue you, but I know you’re broke.”
“Except for my severance pay. Do you want it back?” she asks sheepishly.
“You’re fired. It’s yours. Go away. But first tell me how did he know anything about my
first two books of the trilogy? That there even is a trilogy. Jameson is waiting to begin a big
marketing push and until then keeping things very secretive. No one knows, outside of my
editorial team.”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t tell him anything because he already knew. All I did was mention
that I work with you, as I said. Maybe he knows someone at Jameson? Or possibly, Gloria? I’ll
try and find out. But let’s look at the bright side, pun intended. The trilogy is already creating
some buzz.”
Bingo. She said the exact right words to bring me around.
“Anyway, as I was leaving that afternoon to come here, he called and asked to join me.
To have me introduce you to him. We met in the coffee shop and he showed me the offer.”
“Wait, so you called me before you met him? What were the marketing ideas you had
that you wanted to tell me about?”
“What? I called? I never…”
Just then the phone rings. “Hello…hello?” No one there. No caller ID.
“So, what did you think of it?” she continues forgetting our conversation thread, as did I.
“The offer. You can’t be upset about the offer. It’s mind boggling.”
“I haven’t looked at it.”
“No wonder you’re so angry. It’s an amazing offer. You have to look at it.” She sees me
contemplating what she’s just said and senses the fight is out of me. At least toward her. “How
about I make us some fresh coffee and those grilled cheese sandwiches that you love so much,
and you come into the living room and read the proposal packet, okay? By the way, your place
smells nice. Have you installed an air freshener?”
I just look at her not knowing what to say. I haven’t left the apartment, so I don’t smell
him anymore. Gotten used to it, I guess. It’s too weird to explain, so I just nod my head “yes”
and she goes happily into the kitchen. I sigh. You just can’t get rid of some people. And really
deep down, I don’t want to. I’ve been quite lonely during this altercation and missed her…a lot.
I’ve also been missing my mom. Right now, she’s probably sleeping off an all night observation
after gazing at the stars somewhere for a well-funded research project. I’ve become accustomed
to her absences as a professor in Theoretical Astrophysics, but there are times I really need her.
And I need her right now. Need to be in her presence. Need a hug. Being overwhelmed
by the emptiness and fear when I complete a new book project can be assuaged by a little
mother/daughter time. Her remarkably inquisitive mind and nurturing attention has the power to
soothe and the sweet scent of her signature lavender perfume always calms me. I also want to
know if she thinks Darkside will be my big comeback. Being desperate for positive feedback and

assurances borders on the ridiculous and is embarrassing. But I’m trapped by these hated
insecurities. I know she’s proud of me. Proud of my accomplishments thus far. Just then the
phone rings, again.
“Hi, my darling.”
“Mom! Hi! Where are you?”
“Well, I can’t really tell you. Top secret location and all that,” she says laughing. “I tried
to call a few minutes ago but couldn’t get through. Bad signal. Damn cell phones.”
“Is the research going well?”
“Better than expected. The additional funding has been approved and I get to stay and
play for a few more weeks, maybe longer. I must say, the work here is so exciting. We’re finding
some very interesting things about dark matter. All of us are psyched about making major
advances in this field. Might solve all the mysteries of the universe,” she says laughing, “but we
have to do it before the funding runs out. What a crazy business. And how about you? I’m glad
you finally finished that book. I know it was a hard one for you. Emotionally, that is.”
“How’d you know I finished it? I haven’t spoken to you in a while.”
“You know, one of my silly dreams. I see big things with this one darling. But be
careful.”
“Be careful? Why be careful?”
“Not quite sure. Just a feeling. Big successes sometimes come with drawbacks, as you are
well aware. Anyway,” she laughs again, “you’ve been warned, so be alert. By the way, has Jerry
called you?”
“No.”
“Well, if he does, tell him I’ll call him in the next few days and send him kisses. Gotta go
now, darling. I’ll call soon. Love you. And remember, just be careful.”
Jerry was my mother’s most recent beau. No one can call her because of security. Also,
due to the delicate aspect and precision of the work, none of the scientists wanted to be disturbed
by ringing phones. When she wasn’t at the observatory she was asleep. So she made all the calls
and everyone respected that, even me. This latest project was top secret because it was funded by
NASA, the results solely owned by the agency. It was kind of fun thinking of my mother as a
NASA scientist involved in a high stakes game.
Maybe she was really at Area 51 interviewing aliens. I pictured the aliens looking at my
mother with awe and wonder. She’s tiny, only about 5 feet, like the grays, those big-eyed aliens
of myth and legend, but she wears dangerously high heels to disguise her height. Her blazing red
hair is cropped short and her enormous blue eyes, aided by colored contacts, are mesmerizing
and make her appear touched by the gods. She’s a curvy size 6 with ample breasts and can pull
off wearing body conscious clothing of tight jeans and boob hugging tops. No stodgy scientist
attire for her even at her age, which she won’t tell me.
I assume she’s at least in her late-40’s or early-50’s because I’m 31. Sometime ago, I
found a hard to read birth certificate but she told me it was fake. So her exact age remains a
mystery. With limitless energy and a magnetic personality, she attracts all within her purview. In
articles written about her, she has been described as a fireball, a force to be reckoned with, a
dynamo, and so on. I’ve tried to capture her essence, her vitality, to own it for myself, but alas, I
never could. The genetic pool of my DNA must favor my father, whom I have never met or even
seen in photos. I would have loved to be a red head and have her coloring, but my hair is nearly
black and so are my eyes. No one would describe me as petite at 5 feet 7 inches and although I’m

slender, I can’t get my butt into her jeans or walk for very long on the circus clown stilts that she
calls heels and wears even when home.
“Coffee and sandwiches are ready,” Margaret calls from the kitchen.
I waddle into the kitchen, still in my bathrobe and slippers and grab a sandwich and
almost swallow it whole without chewing. I realize that I haven’t eaten since yesterday, my
absorption into grammar, style, and usage being my sole focus. It will be a relief to hand it off to
Margaret. Even with her meshugas, Yiddish for craziness, her input will be invaluable. Margaret
watches me wolf down the food and sits down with me at the kitchen table in the breakfast nook
of my chef’s kitchen. The kitchen has all the current trends in design with its concrete
countertops, stainless steel Miele appliances, and multi-colored mosaic glass tile backsplash. The
rage. It opens to the living room/dining room combo where the untouched packet can be seen
still on the coffee table from the week before and it still looks…sinister.

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They
say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer, but In
Egalion’s Imperial court, you can’t tell one from the
other…especially when they change at the flip of a coin. Behind the
luxury and splendor lies a realm of treachery where cloak-and-dagger
political maneuvering threatens to destroy the peace of two thousand
years.

Twenty-five-year-old
Battlemage Jex Xander has a mouth that frequently gets him into
trouble, while in contrast, Enari Namelum speaks not at all. When Jex
becomes the target of a faceless curse-slinger, Enari, the girl he
has protected since the day they met, must now protect him. A string
of ritual human sacrifices coupled with Jex’s growing inability to
keep his feelings (and hands) to himself only serve to complicate
matters. Amidst the mounting chaos, passion and romance should be the
last thing on their minds, but life and the Goddess seem to have
other ideas.

In
a world as enticing as it is perilous, love, danger, and magic will
collide, leaving lives irrevocably changed. The events of a single
summer stand to change the course of more than just the kingdom of
Egalion and the ones dismissed as pawns may yet prove to be the most
important players.

***

Fantasy?
Action? Romance? Yes! This romantic fantasy novel by Ronelle
Antoinette is a broad, epic, sweeping fantasy with more twists and
turns and ups and downs than a wild roller-coaster! The first
installment of the Elemental Trials series is one of those books that
really is so much more than what the blurb can convey. Described as
“surprisingly complex and visionary” by one reviewer, “Errant
Spark” will leave you mesmerized from the first page to the
last.

Hailed
by Amazing Stories Magazine’s Ricky L Brown as “a simple story
about interesting characters with just enough romance and magic to
make it work. […] Errant Spark is as complex as George RR Martin,
with a world that is well-suited for conniving and cavorting. Rest
assured, there is plenty of sex and violence, but not as raw and
stabby as the aforementioned works. It’s more like a big kid’s
version of a fairy tale.

Recommended
for:

Update:
As of 11/21/16, a series glossary has been included at the end of
this novel (in ebook and print form only).

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A
night of careless passion leaves Battlemage Jex Xander and Adept
Enari Alycon in a precarious position. Long-time lovers they might
be, but the Imperial ambassador and the daughter of Egalion’s High
Mage have rather public roles in the court—whether they wish it or
not—and scandal couldn’t come at a worse time.

Treachery
will tip balances.

When
a hostile kingdom reluctantly agrees to parley, the fate of
two-thousand years of peace is on the line. In the midst of
negotiations, Enari becomes the target of one of the Greater
Maelstrom. She and Jex must race against time to save her life and
that of her unborn child. What happens when an earth-shattering
secret, a demon bent on destruction, and a kingdom teetering on the
brink of war collide is anyone’s guess.

The
decisions of a few will determine the fate of many, and who or what
will remain standing in the end is still uncertain. Hearts and lives
are on the cusp of irrevocable change…and not necessarily for the
better.

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“May I join you?”
Without waiting for a response, Jex Xander settled gracefully to the ground beside her. He
offered her a tin cup and she took it, warily examining the contents.
“You have the look of someone who could use that.” He jerked his chin at the cup before
turning his attention to his own bowl of stew and chunk of bread.
Chamomile and meadowsweet wafted up on the steam and she inhaled appreciatively, but
didn’t drink.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Fishing a flask out of his pocket, the mage unstoppered it and leaned
over her, pouring a small amount of something brownish into the tea. “Not the best quality, I’m
afraid, and I know it smells vile, but it’ll take the edge off your sore muscles, I promise.” He
grinned at her startled expression before settling more comfortably and beginning to eat heartily.
Enari took a tentative sip and tried not to gag. It was horrid, but the warmth that spread in
her belly was soothing, so she continued to drink. They sat in silence for several moments as
stars twinkled to life overhead. A few even shot brightly across the sky and Enari watched them,
still awed at the sheer immensity of the view above her. At the Temple, parts of the night sky had
always been obscured by foliage, even when viewed from the high branches of the trees she
climbed.
“Mmm, Plamen works his forge tonight,” Jex observed around a mouthful of bread,
“Wonder what he’s making?”
Enari didn’t answer and after a moment, he tried again.
“Did the kvinna speak truth? Are you really still a novice?” He used the remaining crust to
mop out his bowl before licking his fingers and wiping them in the grass beside him.
She nodded, still not looking at him.
“May I ask how old you are?”
It was a rude question to ask a woman, he knew, but he’d been watching her all afternoon
and hadn’t been able to guess her age. ‘Young’ was all he’d determined for certain. Probably too
young.
Using a stick, she drew a number in the dirt and his conscience eased. Eighteen. Not too
young, then, or at least not so much that he felt guilty for looking. And he definitely had been
looking. Couldn’t blame a man, really.
Well, the kvinna probably would. She seemed the excessively protective sort.
“I have a sister about your age, back in Rowan. Not as quiet as you, though,” he mused,
hoping to at least get a smile out of the girl. She was exotically appealing and he could only
imagine how much more radiant she would be if she smiled.
Enari stood quickly. She didn’t know how to fend off interested men and retreating to bed
seemed like the easiest way out of this awkward situation.
“Novice!” one of the guardsmen called out. To Jex, he sounded more than a little drunk. “If
you be done with that pretty boy, come and spend time with a real man. The night promises to be
chill, but I’ll warm you well if he won’t!”
Jex rose to his feet upon seeing her uncertainty and embarrassment.
“You!” he called back, “Didn’t your mother teach you how to address a lady?”
“Mind your own business, mage,” the man retorted. He got up unsteadily and swaggered
towards Enari. She hurriedly backed away, eyes darting left and right as she sought an avenue of
escape.
Before the man could reach her, Jex stepped up and put his palm in the center of the other’s
chest. He gave him a stiff shove, eyes dark with menace.

“Don’t be a fool. I wasn’t sent to protect these women from their own escorts but I will. I
suggest you find your bedroll, friend,” he said dangerously, “Sleep it off, or you’ll be no good to
anyone on the morrow.”
Enari stared at the pair with round eyes. The mage didn’t even know her, yet here he was,
protecting her honor like she was some grand lady.
After a moment of glaring at each other, the guardsmen broke eye contact first. Muttering
sullenly under his breath, he retreated and Jex released a sigh. He really hadn’t wanted to fight
the drunken lout, even though he was confident he’d have won.
“Silent little thing, aren’t you?” Returning his attention to Enari, he reached out and touched
her cheek gently.
Weariness in blurry waves of gray, spikes of hard red adrenaline and anger, fading sparks
of vibrant blue lust… Goddess, she’d be so pretty if she smiled. Too pretty to stay much longer in
a group of men with no one but her Sura to look after her. Stupid, stupid to send such a small
party across so much open land.
Quiet thunder of a rapidly pounding heart, the sharp tang of fear-sweat, nervous little
brown mouse… That man almost…he could have…and the mage. I don’t even know him, he
doesn’t know me, but he stopped the other one. His hand is on my skin and…
Starting in alarm, Enari recoiled and the string of awareness that was and wasn’t hers
snapped like gossamer thread. She took a quick step back and the sudden movement unbalanced
her. Her sore leg muscles were unable to compensate and with a surprised gasp, she fell onto her
bottom in the dirt. Jex looked down at her, clearly as startled as she.
A heavy hand grabbed the back of his tunic and the grizzled old guard captain shook him
roughly. His voice was deep and his accent was rough. “She dun’a like to be touched, mageling.
Keep your mitts to yourself!”
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know, I,” Jex stuttered and cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he finished
lamely, looking back and forth between Enari and the captain, as if unsure who he was actually
apologizing to. He offered her a hand up, took a look at the captain’s face, and put both of them
in his pockets.
“You alright, little mistress?” the captain asked Enari.
She nodded and climbed stiffly to her feet, brushing dirt from her trousers.
“I’m sorry for startling you, Nani,” Jex apologized again. Enari smiled and waved it away.
He frowned at the captain and opened his mouth.
As if guessing the younger man’s thoughts, the captain shook his head. “She dun’a speak,
either.” He narrowed his eyes threateningly at Jex, thick brows beetling down even further. “But
dun’a you be going and thinking she be stupid for it, mage. She ain’t.”
Jex held up his hands in placation and took a step away. “I would never!”
“See that you dun’a.” With that, the captain strode away into the darkness. Jex made a face
and gestured rudely at his retreating back. Enari covered a smile.
Turning back to her, he raised a speculative eyebrow and put his hands on his hips. “He
wasn’t having me on, was he?”
Enari’s expression turned distant.
“Alright, alright. Keep your secrets.” His eyes darted to the bowl of stew she’d somehow
managed not to drop or spill all over herself. “Are you going to eat that?”

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TEN
MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING: Scott’s girlfriend breaks up with him in the
café’s basement storeroom because he’s late picking her up for the
big end-of-the-year party. Now he can’t go to the party, but he can’t
go home, either–not knowing his dad will still be in a drunken rage.
Meanwhile, Winny wanted one night to let loose, away from her
mother’s crushing expectations. Instead, she’s stranded at the café
after her best friend ditches her in a misguided attempt at
matchmaking.

TEN
MINUTES AFTER CLOSING: The first gunshot is fired. Someone’s dead.
And if Winny, Scott, and the rest of the hostages don’t come up with
a plan soon, they may not live to see morning.

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Jessica
Bayliss is a fiction author with a Ph.D. in clinical psychology who
loves all things reading and writing. Author of the young adult
horror novella, BROKEN CHORDS, and her upcoming YA thriller, TEN
AFTER CLOSING (Sky Pony Press, September 2018), she has been alover thrillers and ghost tales since her days scanning VHS rental
shelves—admittedly with eyes half-averted from the gory covers. She
also loves to eat, cook, and exercise—in that order—and is a firm
believer that coffee makes the world a better place.

In
the psychology world, she has more than fifteen years of experience
and training in the cognitive-behavioral model. She’s a
psychotherapist, a teacher, and a researcher. One day it hit her: Why
not combine writing and psychology? Just like that, PsychWRITE, her
series of lectures, workshops, and coaching services for writers was
born. Her blog features motivational posts for writers that combine
her passion for writing with her love of psychology.

Scott and I make six turns. The farther we go, the faster my pace. Every time we come to another bend, I
expect to find the way blocked by a fall of rock or dirt or both. Every time the path stretches clear before
us, a new flare of hope ignites within me. Before long we’re jogging.
We’re going to make it. We’re going to get out, get to a phone, call for help. Save the day.
“Nine one one. Please state your emergency,” the dispatcher will say. A woman. It will be a woman who
answers.
I rehearse my words so I don’t waste a single precious second. Later, when the cops replay the recorded
conversation, they’ll marvel at how clearly, concisely, and calmly I communicated the information they
needed.
The passage shifts to the left, then climbs uphill.
This is it. We’re almost there.
“Winny, slow down. Be careful.”
I don’t listen. Another corner and three steps later, I skid to a stop.
A wall of cracked concrete, fallen stone, collapsed dirt, and tangled roots blocks our path.

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Piper Goldhirsch,
head reporter for the tabloid TV show Business Buster, is all workand no play. When she and the all too tempting Jack Spencer have a
one-night stand that turns out to be the greatest sex of her life,
she is haunted by the powerful magic between them. Sent undercover to
expose his whale watching business, she is torn between her
assignment and the first man she has ever wanted. With her happiness
on the line, Piper has only one choice.

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Roxanne
D. Howard is a romance novelist who resides in the mid-western United
States. She is a RWA PAN member. She loves to read poetry, classical
literature, and Stephen King. She is also an avid Star Wars fan,
musical theater nut, and loves everything related to marine biology.
She is the proud mother of two beautiful girls, several pets, andloves to spend time with her husband and children when she’s not
writing.

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