Mind Games

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YA
Sci-fi Mystery
Date
Published:
May 2019
Publisher:
Carrick Publishing
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You
know A. B. Carolan as the writer of The Secret Lab and The Secret of the Urns.
Those novels are sci-fi mysteries for young adults (and adults who are young at
heart). In Mind Games, A. B. tells a new story that’s set a bit farther into
the future than his first two books. Della Dos Toros is a young girl with psi
powers living in the Dark Domes of the planet Sanctuary. Her adopted father
doesn’t let her use those powers, but she must do so to find his killer. This
story about ESP and androids adds another action-packed novel to the ABC Sci-Fi
Mystery series. Available in both print and ebook versions.
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About
the Author

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The
reclusive and ageless A. B. Carolan lives in Donegal, Ireland, where he spends
most of his time writing stories for young adults and adults who are young at
heart. There are rumors in Donegal that A. B. was raised by leprechauns. He
says they like to joke a lot there. Other rumors in the Donegal area saying
that he’s a distant relative of the great Irish harpist and composer Turlough
O’Carolan are more believable—he loves O’Carolan’s music. He is good friends
with author Steven M. Moore and communicates with his American friend a lot, as
all good collaborators must do. Readers can reach him via the contact page at
Steve’s website, http://stevenmmoore.com.
Contact
Links
Purchase
Links
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Half Breed Haven: Wild-Fire

 

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Half
Breed Haven #1 Wilde-Fire
Historical
Western Romance
Publisher:
Cedar Ledge Publishing
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A
gun battle on the streets of a fiery ghost town is only the beginning as the
Wildes of the West plunge headlong into danger in another exciting western
adventure. It’s do or die against some of the baddest men in the west and the
price for failure will mean certain death and the end to their fight for
justice along with their scorching escapades with the willing men of the west.
Saddle
up for the ride and be immersed in all the action, adventure, romance and
family drama that comes with being the formidable foursome known to friends and
foes alike as THE DAUGHTERS OF HALF BREED HAVEN. A stunning multiracial quartet
whose bravery, thirst for justice and love for each other is matched only by
their unbridled appetite for the most casual and sizzling encounters with the
opposite (or in Catalina’s case, the same) sex.
With
sharp wits and guns blazing, these four strong women heroines -the fair-skinned
Cassandra, Asian Lijuan, mulatto Honor Elizabeth, and Mexican Catalina, all
half-sisters, will risk it all as they face off against the most fearsome array
of bank robbers, kidnappers, rustlers and murderers the old west has to offer.
Bad
Guys will fall to their hail of bullets and Good Guys will fall as well…under
their spell and into the nearest bed whenever any of these four capable, daring
sexy female heroes come calling.
Wilde-Fire
is the first installment of a female lead novel series, Half Breed Haven, where
action, sibling suspense and bawdy romance combine in this female adventure
novel forming a tale worthy of the wicked Wild West.
PLEASE
BE ADVISED – The Sister’s escapades, be it braving the sometimes-violent west
or their romantic escapades are recommended for readers, who like the Wildes,
are 18+ years of age and above.
Other
Books in the Half Breed Haven Series
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Half
Breed Haven #2-In Danger’s Shadow
IT’S
DARING ESCAPES, HEARTACHES AND PRISON BREAKS FOR ONE OF THE FOUR WONDER WOMEN
OF THE OLD WEST IN A CASSANDRA WILDE ADVENTURE
Half
Breed Haven #3 Dark Rivals
LIJUAN
WILDE MUST DIE!
It
was supposed to be a simple cattle buying trip until marauding cougars and a
deranged cowgirl combine into lethal threats in a Lijuan Wilde adventure.
Half
Breed Haven #4 Silver, Gold and Deception
INJUSTICES
BORN OF DARK DESIRES AND LIES BATHED IN GREED HAVE JUST MET THEIR MATCH AND
GOES BY THE NAME OF CATALINA WILDE!
Half
Breed Haven #5 The Forbidden Ranch
ALL
BETS ARE OFF WHEN A MURDEROUS OVERSEER, A CONVICT’S VENGEFUL BROTHER AND THE
PARTNER OF A MEXICAN CRIME LORD FIND ONE THING STANDING IN THE WAY OF THEIR
EVIL ASPIRATIONS AND HER NAME IS HONOR ELIZABETH WILDE.
Half
Breed Haven #6 Sing the Death Song
WITH
A MOVING WALL OF DEATH SWEEPING IN ON AN UNSUSPECTING WESTERN TOWN, A WILDE AND
HIS WOMAN STAND READY TO SAVE THE DAY EVEN IF IT MEANS COURTING DEATH!
Half
Breed Haven #7 Disaster at Devil’s Canyon
RESCUING
A SEDUCTIVE AND SULTRY SCARLET HAIRED BEAUTY IS ONLY THE BEGINNING FOR BLUE
RIVER WILDE AS HE MUST RISK ALL AS RAMPAGING RENEGADES VS. THE RAILROAD
THREATENS TO TURN ARIZONA RED.
Half
Breed Haven #8 Renegades and Revenge: A Daughters of Half Breed Haven
IT’S
A VACATION TO DIE FOR AS THE WILDES ARE IMPRISONED WHEN ENEMIES OLD AND NEW
ALIGN TO UNLEASH A DEADLY SNARE TO CAPTURE THE VACATIONING SISTERS. NOW THE
DAUGHTERS OF HALF BREED HAVEN HAVE TWO CHOICES…ESCAPE OR DIE!
Half
Breed Haven #9 Into the Lair of Los Rey Lobo
BULLETS,
BRAWLING, BIRACIAL BEAUTIES AND BAD HOMBRES MIX IT UP IN THIS ADULT WESTERN
ACTION ADVENTURE!
Half
Breed Haven #10-Special Edition HBH Version of The Reaper of the Rio Sangre
BONDED
BY BLOOD, BIRACIAL BY BIRTH AND HEROINES BY CHOICE…THE DAUGHTERS OF HALF BREED
HAVEN
Half
Breed Haven #11-Special Edition-The Town of No Return
JUSTICE
COMES IN MANY FORMS: IN THIS SPECIAL EDITION OF THE TOWN OF NO RETURN ITS SHAPE
IS THE SEXY & SEDUCTIVE DAUGHTERS OF HALF BREED HAVEN !
Half
Breed Haven #12-Special Edition HBH Version-The Boot Hill Express
FOUR
BEAUTIES, THREE SEXY SEPERATE ADVENTURES AND ONE EXCITING CONCLUSION IN THIS
SPECIAL EDITION CONCLUDING THE DANGER DOWN MEXICO WAY TRILOGY !
About
the Author

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A.M.
Van Dorn enjoys flipping the script on Westerns believing “Cowboys
shouldn’t have all the fun” by replacing the usual lantern-jawed cowboy
hero with four bold, beautiful and brave half-sisters in the Wildes of the
West/Half Breed Haven Series. Combining a love of old character-driven tv
westerns such as Bonanza, The Big Valley, and The High Chapparal A.M. Van Dorn
pays homage to these 1960’s classics with a decisively 21st-century bent.
Contact
Links
Website   
Purchase
Link
Amazon   
 

 

Andre’s Reboot

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Science
Fiction, Humorous Science Fiction
Date
Published:
February 2019
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A
robot possessing unique artificial intelligence and human awareness, André 1
tells the story of his creation and “growing up” in his inventor’s family.
Often humorously fumbling in his interactions with people, André analyzes his
experiences, attempting to understand the faults and foibles of human
personality. Accompanied by his girlfriend, Dr.
Margaret 13, a droid physician of his own creation, André achieves a
position as translator and self-appointed mendacity-monitor to the American
President and strives to save humans from themselves.
The
novel is a work of science fiction and social commentary. André is wired to
take advantage of artificial intelligence and machine learning so as to be able
to analyze human societies without the usual biases and to propose clear-eyed
strategies for saving humanity from the many calamities toward which it
presently appears to be headed.
Excerpt
CHAPTER
ONE
REBOOTING
“WHAT
IS IT, ANDRÉ? YOU’RE vibrating all over.” Dr. Margaret 13 exclaimed. “What’s
happened?”
“They
threw me out, Margaret. They’re about to make
a
horrendous mistake.” I glanced around the White House Infirmary, noting no
humans present. “He had me ejected from the Situation Room. Secret Service
agents forced
me
out.”
“First,
let’s reduce your electromagnetic activity,” she said. She took me by the hand
and led me over to a chair. I sat but was too excited to be still.
“Now
tell me what happened,” she insisted. “Tell me everything, so your circuits
will release the energy.”
“They
are considering a nuclear attack. Nuclear, Margaret! It’s Armageddon if they do
it.” I paused to release a breath of static discharge. “I must act,” I said,
standing up, “but do what?”
Margaret
gently pushed me back down in the chair. “Just sit here for a moment, dear,
while I go get my meter. I want to be sure your servomotor controller is
functioning correctly.”
“But
I have to . . .”
“Hush,
André. I am the doctor. You must be still for a
few
minutes.”
Reluctantly,
I sat back and shook my head. I had no authority. I merely was the President’s
translator, which allowed me no more than a position against the wall in
the
Situation Room. I had determined, however, that I had
a
more valuable duty to perform, which was to offer observations void of
emotion—something I had learned humans could not do. And with this President in
power, my sober views were vital. Never before had I faced a crisis
like
this. What occurred to me—and it was a dangerous circumstance—because of my
dispassionate awareness, I was as responsible, as liable to blame, as anyone
there. I
had
watched the crisis unfold in the Situation Room, and
my
neural network began to heat up as I realized the circumstances were
intolerable.
“You
must listen to me,” I had shouted at them, with my volume up several decibels.
“You cannot win. There is no way to win. We have tried to tell you that for . .
.”
But
it was uncanny how the assembly silenced me at that point with their jeers and
threats. I was ordered out of the room forthwith, and my departure was between
two burly Secret Service men.
“How
am I to combat such foolishness?” I said when Dr. Margaret 13, a creation of my
own hands, my only real companion, returned with her scanner.
“Combat
is a strong word, André 1, I’ve never heard you use it before.” She opened my
chest and carefully touched probes to my voltage regulator. I processed the
idea of combat 378 times.
“I
do not have any active algorithm for violence in my
entire
circuitry,” I said, “except for what may be required
for
self-defense. And yet to prevent the imprudent actions
of
an unquestioning military, a spineless staff, and a reckless
President,
I cannot calculate any alternative.” I paused 4.96 seconds to reconsider.
“You
were programmed for loyalty, duty and respon-sibility,” Margaret said as she
removed the probes and closed my chest. “You have no algorithm to deal with the
present situation. You have no menu of violent responses to activate any
physical aggression. That is why your circuitry is vibrating with heat.”
“I
must modify my behavior programming,” I said. “I cannot sit idly by and let
these humans destroy everything.” I took her hands in mine. “Years ago, when
Dr. Strauss helped me develop self-defense, I installed secret integrated
circuitry in my legs. These IC’s only need to be connected to my CPU. You can
make the connections and then reprogram me, Margaret, so I can I generate
aggressive behavior. I must be made capable of violent force.”
“What
will we be doing, André?” Dr. Margaret 13 asked. “If I reprogram your CPU to
allow for violent action, the process will corrupt your basic behavior
algorithms. And what right does a droid have to act aggressively? Will we
not
be violating the very principles of ethical behavior?”
“Listen,
Margaret,” I said. “We are facing a tremendously serious crisis, not only for
humans but for the Earth itself. We must act immediately.” I sensed my circuits
abuzz as
she
pulled up the schematic diagram of my system and studied it.
“It
could cause a deep disturbance in your processors,” she shook her head. “I
cannot condone such a traumatic operation. No, André, you are programmed to
obey humans and not harm them.”
I
produced the sound of human laughter. “I have been disobeying the President for
months already. Look how often I have contradicted and argued with him. Not
that it’s done any good.”
“And
now you can do no better than violent attack?” She held up her hands to signal
dismay. …
About
the Author

 photo Andreacutes Reboot Author Steve Coleman_zpslzwielkm.jpg

A
resident of Birmingham, Stephen B. Coleman, Jr. (Steve), a graduate of Indian
Springs School, earned a Bachelor of Arts in history from Duke University and a
Master of Arts in English from the University of Alabama. He is married to the
former Dr. Sumter M. Carmichael, a psychiatrist.  Steve has been a naval officer, a high school
teacher, a businessman, and a commercial real estate broker. After retiring in
2009, he now enjoys sailing, writing, and landscape painting. He has authored
biographies and histories of local interest, magazine articles, novels, and
poetry. His story, “The Meanest Man in Pickens County,” was the first place
(state) winner in the 2013 Hackney Literary Awards for short stories. He has
published two novels: The Navigator: A Perilous Passage, Evasion at Sea and The
Navigator II: Irish Revenge. For more information, please visit his websites:
http://www.captstevestories.com and http://www.andretherobot.com
Contact
Links
Purchase
Links
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IndieBound    

 

 

Tales From the Beach House

 photo 31ALIURobL_zpsoxeodveb.jpgCommercial Adult Fiction

Date Published: June 14th 2019

Publisher: Beautiful Arch

Tales from The Beach House is a satiric work of fiction that sharply captures the “Man-Bites-Dog” world of contemporary South Florida. The Beach House, a crumbling old motel, is home to a collection of eccentric residents. Amongst their ranks; a tennis pro at the end of his game, a mortuary scientist whose love life has flat-lined, a paparazzo photographer searching for scoops, a bawdy duo fronting an improbable Ponzi enterprise, a beauty from “The Islands” with a dark secret, a fried-out TV weather man who claims to channel God, a middle school principal with a soft spot for Crack, a Rod Stewart cover artist searching for redemption, and a waitress serving a side order of erotic fiction. Each member of this cohort is in search of something – fast money, an easy hustle, fleeting romance, enduring love, fame, power, dignity, happiness… a place they can call home. As well as facing their own tender, tragic, and often hilarious personal circumstances, this eclectic gang is compelled by necessity to band together when a sinister developer threatens the very existence of The Beach House.

Excerpt

Contents

Greetings from FloriDuh!                                                       7

Apartment #1 Greyhound Departure                                     15

Apartment #2 Angel of Death                                                35

Apartment #3 Atlantic Crossing                                             53

Apartment #4 Dirty Laundry                                                   67

Apartment #5 The Wolf’s Lair                                                90

Apartment #6 Mayor of The Beach House                            111

Apartment #7 The Barbados Triangle                                   126

Apartment #8 The Intersections of Florida Life                     142

Apartment #9 Mental as Anything                                         169

Apartment #10 Midwestern Sensibilities                               195

Apartment #11 Fifty Shades of Delray                                   219

Apartment #12 Walking on Lake Okeechobee                      237

Bad Men from the North                                                        260

An Articulation of Particulars                                                 287

The Beach House                                                                  312

Apartment #12 Walking on Lake Okeechobee

Randy Showers stood outside the front door of Apartment #12, drinking his morning coffee. He drank only one hundred percent Hawaiian from the Ka’u region of the Big Island. He never added milk or sugar. Any “junk” put into what he said was the finest coffee in the world was, in his opinion, sacrilege.

Randy was well versed in sacrilege; after all, he was a collared Man of God who often told his flock that he personally channeled Jesus. From his elevated second-floor corner position, Randy had a good view of the hive of activity around The Beach House. Palm trees were bending in the force of strong, warm winds that were blowing from the direction of the Everglades. A team of surveyors was measuring up the property parcel with an array of fancy gadgets. A slow-moving and confused-looking man from FPL was tagging and flagging the route of the gas lines between the building and the street. A crew from Surf Way Developments could be seen busily cleaning vulgar graffiti that had appeared on the billboard advertising its new planned development – a large penis and balls in flamingo-pink spray paint wasn’t exactly exuding the dream of luxury that would soon be on offer in this locale. The swimming pool had already been drained and cordoned off to save the Homeowners’ Association spending money on cleaning services for the remainder of the building’s existence. All these events and commotions only added to the general glumness and end-of-days feel circulating around The Beach House.

All the tenants had been served a thirty-days notice to vacate. Pete and Angel, with their inside knowledge as owners, said it was almost certain that nothing could be done to halt the sale, as it had been a binding majority of title holders who had pushed through the deal. Paperwork had been processed, permits pulled, and the City and State had all signed off on the condominium termination and the replacement project. The city of Delray had been overzealous in accommodating this development – no doubt seeing all the extra dollars that increased assessment on the new building would bring to their coffers. The State was also unexpectedly helpful. They hadn’t relished the impending takeover of this dysfunctional Homeowners’ Association, as it would have been real work for some happily underworked Tallahassee civil servants. The owners were simply ecstatic to be rid of their real-estate headaches and were united in satisfaction that the beasts that were Bessie and Gabriel, if not slain, would soon become someone else’s problem.

The people who lived at The Beach House and called that place home were, of course, the real victims of this tragedy of events. Pete and Angel, not that they wanted to leave The Beach House, would be paid out for their property and could easily start afresh someplace else with the proceeds. Bessie and Gabriel would be made homeless, but the consensus was that “you reap what you sow,” and this entire mess was down to their crazy out-of-control antics. The remaining tenants were in another situation altogether. With their bad credit, cheap rent deals, police rap sheets, lack of references and short-term horizons, they would struggle to find local digs where certain questions by landlords weren’t asked. Tonight there was a residents’ meeting with the aim of attempting to halt the redevelopment; but at best this was seen as a feel-good Hail Mary with little chance of success and more likely just an excuse to have a party.

“Fuck me Jesus,” were the strong and unchristian words that came from Reverend Randy Showers’ mouth as he witnessed a fleet of police cars pulling up all around The Beach House. They’ve finally nailed me, he thought. Randy, from his high-ground vantage point, counted at least six vehicles, half marked, and the rest black SUVs with blue lights bolted onto the roof. He slugged back the remainder of his coffee knowing that, if he were lucky, he would be getting truck stop Joe once they had hauled him to jail. Randy knew there was always a chance that this day would come. Not only was there a likelihood that his past would catch up with him, but there was also a looming menace that his present would bite him firmly in the ass. At the very least, he was reassured that he was wearing a pair of clean underpants and his hair looked good. A man with a C-list celebrity resume and a local standing in the church community needed to look cool and classy in the obligatory police mug shot.

As a young, fresh-faced graduate with a liberal arts degree from a South Carolina university, Randy, like many in his position, had no idea what job he was equipped to do. After deep conversations with the careers department he could only come up with a slush pile of jobs he had no interest in. Needing to pay his way through life, he used his fallback good looks and his given name, and signed himself up with a stripper agency.

It was while working a bachelorette party, undressing as a character cop, that a fortunate encounter would take place. On occasion, upon demand, he would give a little “extra service” for a tip. It just so happened that the guest at this party who had paid to play with his baton and cuffs was a high-flying female television executive with local Charleston network WCIV. Upon getting up-close and personal with his good looks and learning that Randy Showers was his real name, the woman told him, “Do I have a job for you!” Randy was hired as an on-camera weatherman for the local evening news. It didn’t matter that he had no meteorological education or television experience. This job was all about looking good in front of a camera and reading a teleprompter. However, the name Randy Showers was the real clincher for this job, as it was the perfect catchy byline for a primetime local television weatherman.

For twenty-five years Randy was Mr. Weather in the Greater Charleston area. He loved getting out of the studio for big events, such as standing on a beach and being blown around in a hurricane, filing his report from a kayak floating on a submerged street during a flood, or going on air shirtless during a heat wave. For a man with zero formal training in this profession he was the consummate local weatherman’s weatherman and won numerous regional awards. However, a local weatherman is also expected to be a trusted pillar of the community, and this part of the gig Randy only half-embraced. He was good at turning on Christmas tree lights, opening new school libraries and being a member of that bright-teethed WCIV team that delivered “dependable news”, but he had one major off-screen flaw – he was a crazed womanizer with a chronic sex addiction. Randy was amazed at just how much of a pull being a local television weatherman was to the ladies. Interns, fellow anchors, women he encountered on promotional appearances and generally anything in a skirt he chased. For twenty-five years his employers somehow managed to pay no attention to the ethics clause in his contract, and like a modern-day Don Juan, Randy thought nothing could ever put a stop to his bed-hopping ways.

While Randy kept his looks as youthful as possible with tax-deductable investments in hair plugs, dental veneers and Botox, these weren’t enough to defy a changing environment. It was a slightly sleazy and embarrassing affair that had been brought to the attention of a new generation of station executives that would lead to his downfall.

During a Friday-night live weather report broadcast from a local High School football game, Randy managed to lure and subsequently corrupt two teenage cheerleaders. In his defense, they may have been sixteen but he swore they had the bodies of eighteen year olds and were experienced in the ways of pleasing a man like a woman of thirty. It was not the first time that Randy had descended on the slippery slope of jailbait, but it wasn’t so easy in the modern era to get away with it when the girls posted incriminating evidence on Facebook. Possibly it was all used as an excuse by management to bring in a cheaper, younger guy. Perhaps it really was a different era where feminist ethics were not only preached but also practiced. The parents came to a deal with the station. Randy was released from his contract, the cheerleaders were given hush money and the hope was that the authorities and the women’s rights attorney Gloria Allred would stay well away. However, there was a statue of limitations that had not expired, and in the eyes of the law it was rape, and a payoff would not save him if the girls ever chose to press charges.

Like many shamed criminals who had escaped hard time, Randy headed to Florida for a fresh start. He knew he would never be hired as a weatherman again, as he was too old and too many questions about his past would be asked. The only other career that he had not tried that fitted in with his catchy name was that of a porn star. Randy was realistic though, and his stamina and girth were just not up to par. Not wanting to put to waste the investments he had made in that artificial television smile and lush carpet of unnatural hair, he did the only thing he thought he was suited for… he started a church ministry.

Reverend Showers, a name he could legally use after the religious crash-course certification he found on the back pages of the National Enquirer, had a good ring to it. He chose a poor African-American area of inland Palm Beach County to start his church, as the black community was religious and would be enthralled by a minor white celebrity priest. However, more importantly, ebony-skinned women were not his thing, so he wouldn’t have to worry about letting his dick interfere with God’s work.

For premises he sublet an underused synagogue. Most of the Jews in that area had moved to better parts of the county and this temple currently sat empty. He had been running his Rainbow Church for just over two years and he would modestly say in public that it had been a great success. In private, though, he would admit that it was all a bit of a racket. Reverend Showers was little more than a smarmy middle-aged snake-oil salesman who, if he weren’t selling God to the gullible, would be selling those same people timeshares on the beach.

Randy had one unfulfilled ambition – he wanted to make it big on a national level. Back in his heyday he had applied for network weather jobs but was never successful. He blamed these fruitless attempts on not having a diverse look, never thinking it could have anything to do with a lack of scientific training. So Randy viewed his new ministry as a way of finally becoming a household celebrity. All he needed to take himself into the top division of men-of-the-cloth was to perform a miracle. The one he had in mind was walking on water, and not just any body of water but Florida’s own Lake Okeechobee. Randy was certain that if he could make it appear that he was gliding over Florida’s largest lake, the national attention would elevate him to the type of riches that even network weatherman could only dream of. Randy was now devoting all his time and money into making this illusion happen. He had reached out to David Copperfield for help and was studying expensive manuals by magicians, as he knew there had to be a way to make this miraculous feat occur.

It was Randy’s consuming devotion to performing this miracle that could have been another reason for his impending arrest, as he was guilty of theft and embezzlement from his church. The donations that his devoted parishioners put in his tray were diverted straight into his pocket. Admittedly, some of it was used to keep the lights on at the church, but the majority was for his living expenses and funding the continued exploration of performing his illusion.

As the police descended on The Beach House, Randy’s main thought was what lawyer he would use. The charge of statutory rape would be easy to defend, as he could find one of those mud-slinging vultures who would paint a picture of those two fresh-faced cheerleaders as the dirtiest harlots in the whole of Charleston. The church embezzlement charges would be a little trickier to evade. Randy hadn’t hidden the money trail very well, often paying for hair-restoration treatment directly from the ministry’s checking account. Then there were the escort girls who were on the church books. That would also be a problem. At the start of his “Finding the Lord” phase, Randy had worked out that the best way of staying out of trouble was to relieve any extra holy spirit via paid ladies.

In the light of day, Randy’s activities looked uglier than a bag of hairless cats and he might just have to plead guilty and strike a deal. Whatever happened, it would be hard to escape from this monster of a self-created mess. What then for him? A man who had fallen from grace for two heinous successive “lapses of judgment” would be somewhat challenged to find a new place in the world. It would certainly be hard to live off his connection with Jesus again, although he would have name recognition and good looks for a man of his age so he could always try his hand at politics. That seemed to be an eternally forgiving line of work. Randy was amazed just how much clarity he was having in what was likely to be his final thirty seconds of freedom.

About the Author

James Aylott was previously a Hollywood paparazzo photographer and staffer at an American supermarket tabloid. This is the author’s first work of fiction, although he was often creative in his career of entertainment newsgathering and hated letting the truth interfere with a good story. A prior resident of Delray Beach, Florida he is currently embedded in St. Louis, Missouri researching his follow up novel: Tales of Whiskey Tango from Misery Towers.

Contact Links

Website

Twitter

Purchase Links

Amazon 

Barnesand Noble

Available on the Apple Bookstore

In print at any good independent book retailer via Ingram Spark.

Paperback $15.99 (ISBN: 978-0-578-47956-9) pp. 320

eBook $3.99 (ISBN: 978-0-578-47957-6)

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The Well-Balanced Family

 photo The Well-Balanced Family_zpsdqwee06d.jpg

Parenting,
Families
Publisher:
BookBaby
Published:
April 2019
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It’s
no secret that we spend more time with our devices than with our loved ones.
And although it provides a solution for family members looking to reduce their
screen time, at its heart The Well-Balanced Family is about learning to take
the newly-available time and channel it toward strengthening family
connections, spending more quality time together and supporting each other in
developing healthy, productive, and enjoyable lifestyles.
The
Well-Balanced Family focuses on four areas: Connectedness, Open Communication,
Fitness, and Organization. Using an evidence-based approach, author Robert
Myers, PhD teaches parents how to encourage developmental play activities,
develop avid readers, instill cooperation and mutual respect, improve physical
fitness, build self-esteem and character, and reduce struggles over bedtime,
chores, and homework. It also provides tips for helping kids safely make the
most of their screen time.
If
your family is more interested in their phones and tablets than in each other,
The Well-Balanced Family will teach you everything you need to reclaim that
sense of familial connection and love.
About
the Author

 photo The Well-Balanced Family Author_zpsksugbpzq.jpg

Robert
Myers, Ph.D. is a child psychologist with over 35 years of clinical experience.
He earned his Ph.D. at the University of Southern California. He is Associate
Clinical Professor of Psychiatry and Human Behavior at the UC Irvine School of
Medicine.   Dr. Myers also provides
parent education through public speaking and media appearances. He is the
founder of a popular website for parents, Child Development Institute.
Dr.
Myers lives in Orange, CA with his wife, Pam. They were married in 1971 and
have two adult children. He likes to listen to music and go to concerts, travel
to new places, photography, and go hiking in the local mountains. Most of all
he likes to spend time with his family, especially playing board games and
having fun.
Contact
Links
Twitter   
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Links
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Chasing Quetzalcoatl to the American Dream

 

 

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War,
Fiction
Publisher:
Xlibris


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Set
in the Southwest, this is a story of soul evolution – the story of a soldier
who came back from Vietnam and knew he had to adapt to a rapidly changing
world.  The story chronicles his
transformation from a soldier to a man of God, but for him the process of
change was not always kind.  Making his
journey more difficult is the fact that he comes from a mixture of two
cultures, Native American (Navajo) and white.
He encounters people who are further along the path in their soul
evolution than he is, along with incredible obstacles to his education and
business endeavors.  But most
importantly, he must learn to reconcile his warrior nature with God’s plan for
him.
About
the Author

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Garret
Godwin received his BA in English from Indiana University of Pennsylvania and
his MA in English literature from Temple University in Philadelphia.  He was the Robert Sterling Clark scholar in
classics at St. John’s College in Sante Fe, New Mexico, and he holds an MBA
from the University of Pittsburgh.  He is
the author of True Philadelphia Stories (aa collection of short stories and
essays)< three novels – “Chasing Quetzalcoatl TO The American Dream:,
:Down and Out in Philadelphia and New York:, and “Through THe Dark Looking
Glass” and an anthology of poetry, “As You Sow”.  He lives in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania.
Contact
Link
Purchase
Links
Amazon  

 

 

The Last Van Gogh

 

 

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Mystery,
Thriller
Date
Published:
March 2019
Publisher:
Black Rose Writing


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“The
Last Van Gogh” received the 2019 Maxy Award for Best Mystery-Detective
Novel
A
brilliant and troubled artist. A lost masterpiece. The desperate search for the
truth.
An
unknown Van Gogh painting disappears from France at the outbreak of World War
Two. A notorious con man later claims he smuggled the immense painting to the
U.S. where it is never seen again. Ninety years later, his two sons, Adam and
Wesley Barrow, discover letters that supposedly confirm the painting’s
existence, now valued at $250 million if it exists.
Dogged
by a dysfunctional childhood and skeptical of his father’s tale, Adam at first
dismisses the old letters.
The
painting’s possible existence also attracts the attention of three unscrupulous
collectors, all  former associates of
his  father, one of whom engages a
professional killer to find the painting.
Doubtful
of its existence, Adam teams with Katya Veranova, a beautiful KGB defector and
ex-assassin, as they travel to Holland, Paris, California, and New York on a
desperate mission, forming an intimate but tenuous bond. Tracked by the unseen
contract killer and threatened at every turn, Adam and Kat face increasing
danger in their quest to find the last Van Gogh.
Excerpt
 
Chapter
Four
            The ambulance bearing Wes disappeared around
the corner onto Wells Street, siren moaning as traffic pulled to the curb to
let Chicago’s latest casualty pass. They’d removed Vasily’s body after a flurry
of police photographs, Chicago’s finest dispersing the gawkers. The storm
whipped gray curtains of rain off Lake Michigan, washing blood from the
sidewalk as I surveyed the damage.
            Red
and blue strobes atop the remaining police cars illuminated my gallery like a
roadside strip club. Inside the shattered window, a desecrated painting hung
askew on the nearest wall, its frame splintered, the canvas holed by bullets.
Beneath the destroyed Expressionist nude, crumbled wallboard fragments littered
my proud new carpet. None of it mattered so long as Wes was alive.
             I
raised my coat collar and retreated beneath the awning followed by a bored
Chicago police sergeant, glass crunching under our shoes. The cop was a street
veteran down to a scarred chin and wary expression, his belly encroaching on
his belt buckle. He removed his brimmed hat and brushed rainwater from the
clear plastic covering, wiping the checkered band with a thick thumb before he
tugged it back on with a street-weary sigh.
            “Looks like you and your brother
dodged a bullet,” he said with a caustic half-smile. Discomfited by my
expression, he said, “Well, he didn’t actually dodge it. The EMT’s said the
bullet nicked the back of his calf without finding bone. Some blood loss but no
permanent damage.”
            “I’ve got to call his wife,” I
said.
            “Sure, in a minute. First, you
wanna tell me what happened?”
            Across the rain-slicked street, the
space sat empty where the Lincoln had waited for us. “We walked out and someone
started shooting from a car parked across the street.”
            The cop contemplated my shattered
window. “I don’t figure the boys from the projects, but you never know about
those crazy bastards.” 
            I shook my head, recalling the
tinted window sliding down. Maybe a loan shark fed up with Wes’s late payments?
“The car was a black stretch Lincoln, the kind limo owners drive.”
            The cop took a cheap spiral
notebook from his yellow raincoat and made a note. “But it could be gang
bangers the projects. They like to cruise the streets at night,” he said. “Lot
of random shootings. The worst call themselves the Deuce’s Disciples.” He
kicked at the glass rubble around our feet. “I think tonight probably was a
screw-up. Mistaken identity or drug deal gone bad.”
            I
didn’t say so but the cop’s reasoning didn’t feel right, a bunch of brainless
bangers shooting up an art gallery from a limousine. Glad to be out of the
rain, the cop made another note and took on the jaded expression of
investigating endless mayhem. Another Saturday night shooting and one more
bewildered citizen he was supposed to protect.
           “The
dead guy,” he asked. “Customer?”      
           “One
of my artists.” I almost told him about Vasily’s uncle and decided against it.
The police would find out soon enough, and a whole new avenue of investigation
would begin, including my association with Viktor Krushenko. I didn’t want to
think about it.
            The sergeant closed the notebook.
“The detectives will want to talk with you tomorrow.” He frowned at the rain
blowing through my broken window. “Lousy fucking weather. Better get something
over that hole. We’ll keep a man here until you leave,”
            He ambled back to the circus parade
of flashing lights and I went inside, wondering where in hell I’d find someone
to board up a window on Saturday night. I’d lugged the exposed paintings to the
work area, too disheartened to touch the ruined painting. I thought about Viktor
and knew I should call him, but I put it off. Viktor would know about the
attack soon enough and I tried not to think about what might follow. Vasily was
dead and that would bring repercussions for someone. Possibly me.
            I called Barbara and got her calmed
down after a few minutes, explaining Wes was basically okay. She kept asking me
why Wes had been shot but I had no answer. I gave her the name of the hospital
where they’d taken him and said I’d meet her there. Hanging up, I stared at the
jagged hole where my front window once existed. I waved to the cop stationed at
the door and went to my office. Thumbing my iPhone for repair companies I
located one open 24/7. The answering service claimed they’d be on their way
within the hour and I almost believed the voice. Bundled in a raincoat I walked
outside and told the patrolman to go home, that I’d wait until the hole was
boarded up.
            I
pulled up a chair by the front door as the adrenaline ebbed, watching cars slow
to ogle the destruction. Gusts of rain gleefully destroyed my new carpet and I
tried not to calculate replacement cost, wondering if my insurance covered
gunfire. To my surprise a panel truck arrived half an hour later. Two workmen
hammered up plywood sheeting, the rough wooden patch blighting the front of my
beautiful gallery.
            Not
owning a car in a city where parking was a mixture of fate and voodoo, I called
Uber to take me to the hospital. During the ride, it occurred to me the
gunshots had been oddly muffled. I hadn’t told the cop, but the recollection
increased my uneasiness. Why would underage gangsters or a shyster bother with
a silencer?

***
            Wes had been discharged by the time
I reached the hospital. A young black intern assured me the injury wasn’t
serious enough to keep him overnight. In the midst of usual Saturday night
mayhem and need for beds, they’d bound the wound and released him with a supply
of pain killers.
            It was still raining as I called
Uber again and headed for Wes’s apartment. Barbara let me in and I found Wes
with a glass in his hand, leg propped on an ottoman, his smile vacant.
            “Hey, this Vicodin is great stuff,”
he said as if he’d discovered the solution to world peace.
Barbara
sat on the arm of his chair and shook her head at me with less than fawning
eyes. She inclined her head at the glass in his hand.
            “Water,” she informed me.
            Maybe the shooting would prove a
respite for him. Provide an enforced vacation from his favorite lounges and
liquor stores. Barbara sure as hell wasn’t going to let him mix painkillers
with booze. I pulled up a straight-backed chair from the dining room and tried
to smile.
            “You okay?” I asked.
            “Is Vasily dead?”
            I nodded.
            “Damn. He seemed like a great guy.”
“He
was.”
            Wes shifted his weight and winced.
I looked around. The apartment was sparser than I remembered, and Barbara
appeared five years older. She was a lean woman who never worried about her
weight, a great wife to Wes but not my biggest fan. She believed I enabled him
with loans and bail money, short term solutions to his deeper issues. But what
was I supposed to do? Leave him to the mercy of the drunk tank? She loved him
in her own patient way that allowed me to look beyond her faults, mainly her dislike
of me.
             She
hovered over Wes, curly auburn hair and blouse still damp from the rain, her
face wet with tears. “This is quite a night,” she snapped, her voice trembling
as she brushed away a limp strand of hair. “Our home gets broken into, then you
call to tell me Wes has been shot.”
            “You got robbed?” was all I could
think to say.
            “Never imagined the art business
was this violent,” Wes laughed, his eyes swimming with the Vicodin. “Russian
gangsters and artists murdered in the street.”
            “You sure you’re alright?”
            He held up the glass of water. “I’m
fine, but I never needed a drink more in my life. What the hell happened?”
            “The cops aren’t sure.”
            “Great location you picked, Adam”
Barbara said over her shoulder as she strode to the kitchen. “A trendy
neighborhood. You serve Sneaky Pete wine at your gala last night?”
            “C’mon, Barbara,” Wes croaked.
            I resented her criticism. I hadn’t
envisioned a shooting gallery when I selected the location. “You’re clear on
the other side of town and you got robbed,” I reminded her, although the sparse
apartment didn’t appear a likely target.
            “We need to talk about what
happened,” Wes said.
            “I’ll talk with detectives
tomorrow. The cop told me…”
            “Not about the shooting,” Wes said.
“The break-in.”
            “Wes,” Barbara called from the
kitchen, “don’t start again.”
            “He needs to know.”
            “Know what?” I asked.
            Barbara sat on Wes’s chair arm
again and lightly ran her fingers through his hair. “He’s not making a lot of
sense, what with the pills and all,” she said. “Something about a Van Gogh
painting your father claimed to have owned.”
            “He told me about that, but what am
I missing here?”
            “The letters are gone,” Wes said.
“We checked but they’re not here. Nothing else was taken.”
            “You sure the letters were here?”
            “I changed clothes before I came to
the gallery. They were in my jacket.” He looked on the verge of bursting into
tears. “Our one link to the painting.”
            “You’re sure they were stolen.”
            “I’m a recovering drunk, not a
moron,” Wes snapped, slumping back in the chair as the pills worked their
magic.
            Barbara shot me a warning look that
hovered between ‘help me’ and ‘get the hell out of here.’ It was obvious they’d
fought a war over a fictional masterpiece that would solve their problems.
            Wes bent forward and winced.
“Dammit, Barbara, it’s real.”
            She searched his haggard face, her
own reflecting defeat fostered by years of disappointment. She started to reply
but looked away.
            “Okay, I’ll agree our old man was
crazy,” Wes admitted, “but he had no reason to lie to us. No money in lying. If
he owned a forgery, why didn’t he pawn it off on somebody years ago? God knows
he always needed money.”
            “This is crazy,” Barbara said.
“What about us? You’re putting this fantasy before everything we’re trying to
do. You’re in no shape to traipse after some painting. In case you haven’t
noticed, we’re almost broke. Where do you think we’ll find money to search for
your Eldorado? You have a portfolio or bank account I don’t know about?”
            “Maybe we can find a backer.” Wes
insisted. I’d heard the same desperation when he discovered a liquor bottle was
empty. He looked up at me. “What about your gangster friend?”
            “Viktor Krushenko is not my
friend.”
            “He was Vasily’s uncle. He could
help us.”
            “Wes, do you have any idea who
these people are? Where their money comes from? It’s possible Viktor was trying
to get rid of me after our argument. The bastard’s crazy, you saw that. You
heard how unhappy he was about the split Vasily was getting. Maybe he meant the
shooting as an object lesson to me and he screwed up. Either way, he won’t be a
happy Boy Scout when he finds out Vasily’s dead.”
            “We need to find a way,” Wes said,
his optimism bolstered by the pain killers.
            Barbara turned away again and I was
out of arguments. Our dead father was ripping our lives apart yet again, his
sons lost in his dysfunctional shadow.
About
the Author

 photo The Last Van Gogh Author Will Ottinger_zpscedmoyas.jpg

Will
Ottinger spent his early life in Savannah, Georgia. A graduate of Emory
University with a BA in history, he is also a graduate of Northwestern Graduate
Trust School in Chicago.
His
first novel, A Season for Ravens, published in 2014, was named by Reader Views
as one of its top-three Historical Fiction works of 2014-2015.  The second novel, The Savannah Betrayals, was
published in March, 2018.  His third
novel, The Last Van Gogh, was released in March, 2019 by Black Rose Writing.
Windrow and Greene Publishers in Great Britain earlier published his
non-fiction work on the art of historical miniatures, an art form in which he
gained international recognition as a Grand Master painter.  He authored a magazine column for seven
years, trained and lectured extensively in the financial field, wrote articles
for trust and investment publications, and has spoken to large and small
audiences. He served as president of Scribbler’s Ink, a Houston writers’ group.
Former
founder and owner of a wealth management training/consulting firm, he and his
wife also owned an art gallery in downtown Chicago. Both are inveterate fly
fishermen and now live in Atlanta Georgia.
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