…where everything goes from roses and sunshine to something much more akin to the southernmost drafts of northbound horse?

I never was all that great at geography, but something about all this just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I'd much prefer talking about it. Always had a knack for the storytelling part of it, anyway. And the editors over at The Ocotillo Review and Kallisto Gaia Press seemed to think so, too, because they recently notified me that they planned to publish my fourth story from my Long Gone & Lost collection, which I’ll be turning in for my MFA here in the very near future.

I’m fairly certain that the two fellows from my story would know all about those ill tasting after effects I mentioned, however. They may be all fiction themselves, but they were indeed inspired by real life events in a real life newsrooms. Dave Kindred wrote about a few folks just like these two who, mere days after everybody was riding a high that only those who win six Pulitzers will ever truly know, them and most everyone they knew were handing walking papers from their jobs. That's right, they were fired!

Sure, they may be one of the best papers anywhere, as the Pulitzers might suggest, but they would soon be so with half as many people.

Trust me when I say this, but if that don’t leave a bad taste in your mouth, nothing will.

I read Kindred’s Morning Miracle two years ago now. He wrote about the world famous Washington Post, and how after one of their best years ever, editorially speaking, half the people employed there lost their jobs because subscribers had dropped off and Facebook could do for free what no newspaper ever could.

What’s that, you might ask, that Facebook so excels at? Namely, creating a platform whereby complete strangers could hound and annoy people with enough asinine questions about the glorified junk somebody is selling that folks will actually give shit away–cars, furniture, boats, livestock, you name it–just so they don’t have to answer, yet again, what color that the blue 1985 Ford Tempo that's for sale might be, or what year model it was again, or what make of that model it might be, or–did I happen to mention the color already? I forget…

(I've had some questions arise on that last paragraph from the original posting of this this blog entry on my author website, so I thought it might need some explaining. You see the Marketplace feature of Facebook, the very culprit responsible for obliterating the common classified ad in a newspaper which in turn all but sank your average newspaper in terms of operating revenue, actually rewards such idiotic lines of questioning a product, because its algorithms push to the top of people's displays those items which are most talked about, so a series of completely useless details about said car, or likewise, 110 people entering one word exclamations, like " Nice!" or "P.O.S!!!" the more likely modifier of an 85 Tempo, especially those that receive a response from the author, actually get shown before those that have none. As a result, people now obliterate said site  with needless words, getting friends to help even, just to have that piece of crap car show up every time you refresh your page, thereby increasing its likelihood of someone purchasing it. I have no idea, but it was a fact I picked up from a fellow who bulls and resells POS cars on a regular basis. And now you know, as Paul Harvey used to say on the radio, the rest of the story).

But there at the Post, they threw parties one day. Couldn’t be prouder of how hard everybody worked to be just like a blood kin family. A few days later, they had security guards following people out to make sure they didn’t take a stapler that wasn’t theirs. They even fired some of the folks who won Pulitzers, I hear. They had to. They couldn’t afford them anymore.

Sadly, that sort of thing is still very much a reality for some of the folks I know well. In fact, newspapers are nothing like the bastions of economic security they once were. And sure, you gotta feel bad for the guy who tops his profession, only to be rewarded for his efforts with a layoff. But what if those employees fired–the ones the reader gets to know best in the story–are complete and utter slacker morons? I mean they serve a function-- albeit, doing something I don’t want to do--but somebody has to, I guess. Or not. But how would that dynamic affect the story?

I wondered. So, I wrote.

Wound up calling it “Forget the Alamo” (which isn’t near as heretical as it sounds to all my Texas purist friends. At least, I hope not, anyway). I can’t say much more about it, for now. Not until it publishes. They want first publication rights and all.

For more information, and to see a full compendium of items published this year, log on to my author website at https://outlawauthorz.com.

Now that Pluto and Ceres have been visited, the question then becomes, what now with space exploration? I think we should start thinking beyond sending more rovers and probes, although that does not mean we stop sending rovers and probes. Nevertheless I think it is about time we consider what our ultimate ambitions are. Essentially, this comes down to, do we want to send people into space or not? If all we want to do is to potter around on our own planet, then there is no need to do anything else, but if we want eventually to go into space, there is a lot to be done that involves nothing more than thinking, and thinking is relatively cheap.

There is a school of thought that all we need to do about planets is explore them with rovers. These are relatively cheap, and will not involve risk to human life. However, I disagree. I feel for a given technology, the law of diminishing returns applies. The very first missions that visit an object send back information that totally changes our view of the body. The relatively airless desert with huge erosion features that is Mars changed our view of Mars forever. The cracks on the surface of Europa, the volcanoes of Io, the image of Miranda, and more recently, Pluto.  Before the missions, these bodies were faint smudges, so of course our view changed. But what happens now? We get a lot of rock analyses from Mars, but they are starting to look the same, varying only in location. I am not suggesting we know all there is to know about Mars, but I think we are starting to know enough that it is not worth while spending this amount of money to find out not much more. Basically, I feel we are reaching the limits of that sized rover. We know most of what is important about the top centimeter of the surface of Mars. We also know that that centimeter of rock is very highly oxidized, thanks to the interaction of ultraviolet light with water vapour, which results in the formation of highly reactive and oxidizing species such as the hydroxyl radical. The chloride ions appear to be converted to perchlorate. If we want to know about possible early life, about any organic chemistry, or for that matter, the initial conditions of Mars, we have to get below that layer of oxidized species, and if we want to know about anything associated with water, we have to go to depressions to where water would flow, and get below the wind-blown dust, and then to the depths to where the water would sink. That requires digging.

To illustrate, consider two of my predictions:

(a)   there will be nitrogenous materials buried below the bottom of Hellas Planitia,

(b)  where there should have been ponding in the Reull Vallis, there will be mineralization, the nature of which depends on the initial conditions.

To check the first, we need to drill, but because there could be a lot of wind-blown topsoil, it may take several tens of meters to find any deposits. What sort of rover can assemble a hundred meter drill pipe and drill to the full depth? What sort of rover could carry good lengths of drilling pipe and descend the walls to get to the bottom of the Reull Vallis? How many rovers could navigate with sufficient accuracy to get safely anywhere near an interesting section of the Reull Vallis?

My view is that to find out whether Mars is worth doing anything with we need to send people. We know enough about it to know what has to be done, even if we do not yet know how to do it. Then maybe we settle Mars. But if we wanted to do that, what has to be done? What do you think?

Being a man writing about being a woman can be challenging. But Kevin Symmons has it all under control. You see, Kevin loves the ladies, especially the ones in his books. 

TV Producers/Hosts Kathleen O'keefe- Kanavos​ and Lori Boyle of Wicked Housewives On Cape Cod interviews authors on their writing, and publishing tips.

Kevin Symmons shares his successful writing tips with you in the video below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=um9_XvyX9lE

Kathleen (Kat) O’Keefe-Kanavos is a TV/Radio Producer/Host of Wicked Housewives ON Cape Cod and Author/Lecturer of the International award winning and bestseller, Surviving Cancerland: Intuitive Aspects of Healing which promotes patient advocacy and connecting with inner guidance for success in health, wealth, and relationships. She is also a contributing author to Chicken Soup for the Soul: Dreams & Premonitions. Kat taught Special Education and Psychology. learn more @ www.AccessYourInnerGuide.com

**Posted under the pseudonym, "Tom Spencer."

When I was a boy, we lived in Idaho.  I'm not going to say exactly where in Idaho. I have my reasons. This state is known for it's tough, scraggly wilderness areas.  There is much to do and see in Idaho.  From raging white water rafting to scenic beauty to camping, many tourists are attracted to my home state.  My father's boss, Mr. Johnson, had a cabin near what is now known as The Frank Church—River of No Return Wilderness Area.  It consists  of parts of several mountain ranges, including the Salmon River Mountains, the Clearwater Mountains, and the Bighorn Crags. The ranges are split by steep canyons of the Middle and Main forks of the Salmon River.  The Salmon River is known as "The River of No Return."  There's a good reason for that.  It has extremely swift currents that can drag you under.  Many have died on this river.  Certain scenes of the movie "River of No Return," with Marilyn Monroe and Robert Mitchum, were shot on this river. As I said, Mr. Johnson had a cabin near this area (it was known as the Salmon River Breaks Primitive area in the 60s. It was renamed in Senator Frank Church's honor in 1984) that myself, my dad and grandpa camped out at Mr. Johnson's cabin many a summer night.

It was in August of 1965 when I heard the first scream at the Johnson cabin.  I was a shy, awkward 14-year old boy who felt more at ease in the wilderness than I did around people.  It had been a fruitful day of fishing for trout.  The deal was whoever caught the first fish of the day had to clean all the fish.  It never failed I always caught the first fish of the day for reasons I still can't understand.  Usually, about 3PM, we would call it a day and head back to the cabin.   I would finish up the fish cleaning, grandpa would coat them with his favorite flour and seasonings. Grandpa would have made a killing selling his fried fish if he had ever decided to do so.  But, back to that scream...we had finished up eating, and grandpa decided to open the windows to let a little air in the cabin.  We didn't want the place stinking when Mr. Johnson would visit it after we would leave.  Right after grandpa started opening the windows, the first scream of that awful night occurred.  It's a scream that is, to this day, hard to describe verbally.  It is even more difficult to explain in the printed word.  It was the combination of a woman and lion screaming.  I know that is a difficult to imagine.  But, that's the best way I could describe it   Aaaaooooooooooyyyyyy.......AAAAAAOOOOOOOYYYYYY is as best as I can put it in print.  It was incredibly loud.  We had glasses on the edge of the sink that literally vibrated right off and broke on the floor.  Yes, they were not only loud, but the screams originated within 100 feet or so from the cabin.

My dad and grandpa grabbed their .12 gauge shotguns which they always carried with them when we went camping.  Grandpa took the old kerosine lantern with him outside to get a better view of whatever it was out there.  That kerosine lantern was not very bright.  But, we could see movement in the dense bushes behind grandpa's old Chevy truck.  I said, "Dad, behind grandpa's truck....LOOK!!!"  It was visible for the briefest of times....maybe as long as one heartbeat.   My dad said later he did not see anything when he fired that shot of buckshot.  But, he hit something.  We then heard the mother of all screams.  It was a deep, guttural scream not unlike that of mountain lions I have shot in California poaching on my property.  It was definitely a scream of pain this time though.  Whatever it was, it took off at an inhuman speed.  As I said, I did see it.  It had human form.  But, it was not human.  It was approximately 6 ft tall and maybe 140lbs at most.  I saw it for only a second that particular moment.  But, I would see it again.  

We all went back inside since whatever it was had taken off.  My grandpa was a tough, no-nonsense type of man.  I never saw him upset or scared....until that night.  Grandpa was shaking like a leaf.  He was so nervous he couldn't light his own cigarette.  He finally asked me to light it for him.  Dad was white as...well, a ghost.  I wasn't any better.  I felt sick to my stomach and was nauseated.  I looked at both my dad and grandpa and asked, "What was that thing?  I think you got a piece of it, dad."  My dad looked at me and said he thinks he winged it also.  "Whatever the hell it was, I got a feeling we ain't seen the last of it," grandpa correctly predicted.  Indeed, it was only the first encounter with "The Thing in the Wilderness" that particular night. 

As we had finally gotten our wits about us, we again heard the unholy scream.  This time, it was closer.  Grandpa quickly grabbed his shotgun. "Whatever that damn thing is, he's pissed off now.  Get your shotgun, son. This might be a long night," said grandpa.  My dad grabbed his shotgun and they both looked out the window.  Dad told me to go hide under the bed.  There was no way I was going into that bedroom by myself.  I wasn't leaving.  There were four windows from the kitchen back toward the sparse living room. Dad then told me to keep a look out the windows in the living room....it was only one big picture window.

 Again this thing screamed!!!  It was incredibly loud.  I can't stress enough how loud it was.  In some respects, it sounded like T-rex on the "Jurassic Park" movie.  It doesn't seem possible something this small (relatively speaking) could scream this loud.  It just seemed impossible. Grandpa, who was momentarily taken aback and shaken, had regained his composure. "I'm going out there to give this damn thing something to scream about!!!" grandpa exclaimed.  My dad said he wasn't letting him step out that door.  "We don't know what this is.  Until we do, none of us are leaving this cabin," Dad told us. He didn't have to worry about me.  Nothing could have forced me out that door now.  We all fearfully waited to see what would happen next.  It had been at least an hour since that last scream.  BAM!!!!!  Something had slammed against the living room door!!  The front door hinges had come loose from the impact.  My dad told grandpa to stay at the kitchen door, he was going to the living room door.  My dad grabbed me and told me to stay behind him.  Again, silence for an hour and then two hours.  Nothing.  It was now about 1AM.  Nobody was sleepy.  We were too scared to sleep. 

It was now closing in on 3AM.  Grandpa had his head on the kitchen table with the shotgun resting near his head.  Dad was alternately waking and then snoozing.  I was doing neither.  I was still petrified by the night's events.  I was looking back and forth at both doors, at the windows and shaking with fright.  I then just casually glanced toward the big picture window in the living room where I was sitting with my now snoozing dad.  THERE IT WAS AGAIN!!!  This time, I got a very good look at it.  It had a grayish, milky skin layering.  It had deep sunken eyes that were blacker than the night sky. It was thin and tall.  It looked right at me.  I was too shocked to even move, much less scream.  BAM!!!!! Another huge impact on the living room door!  This time, the top hinge flew completely off.  The living room door was still shut.  But, it was only hanging in by the bottom hinge.  One more hit and the door is coming down.  My dad and grandpa jumped up immediately with this latest attempt to knock down the door.  My dad tried opening the door.  But, it was jammed.  Again, the unearthly scream pierced the night air.  "OOOOOOAAAAAYYYY.....OOOOOAAAAYYYY!!!!!!"  Grandpa opened the kitchen door, my dad screamed at him to close the damn door!  Grandpa did, but not before he got off a shot from his shotgun.  Grandpa later said he didn't see anything when he fired.  But, he wanted "The Thing" (as I still call it) to know they were armed and could inflict considerable pain.  After he fired off that shot, grandpa closed the door and propped a chair up against it.  Dad did the same thing to the now unstable living room door.  We all sat back down....and waited.

As it turned out, that was the last time "The Thing" attempted to get inside the cabin.  I think it was like grandpa had said, it was pissed off and was wanting a piece of each of us.  Dad had clearly winged it with some buckshot. The next morning, as we slowly awoke, dad went outside (with his shotgun, of course) to inspect any other damage to the cabin.  The living room door was smashed inward.  It would have to be replaced.  But, the damage was not limited to the cabin.  The rear bumper of grandpa's Chevy truck had been completely ripped off!  I don't even like to think about the strength of something that could have done that.  Dad looked at the bushes where he had fired his shot that night.  There was a chalky substance in the bushes similar to blood splatter.  We figured it must have come from that creature.  We immediately gathered up all our equipment, supplies and headed out from there.  When we got home, my dad called Mr. Johnson to tell him a bear had attacked the cabin.  Mr. Johnson said he has lived here 35 years and never seen any bear.  But, that was our story and we decided it best we stick to it or else wind up in the state mental institution.

We never went back to Mr. Johnson's cabin for reasons I am sure you can now understand.  We never told Mr. Johnson the truth.  My dad told Mama about what happened.  But, she never believed it.  Few people ever believed us. Most people think grandpa and dad had too much whiskey and gave me some also.  Grandpa and my dad are gone now.  They were both avid hunters.  But, after that night at the cabin, they never went hunting again in the wild, to my knowledge.  I still have both of those shotguns used that night in my dining room closet.  Just in case.  As for "The Thing," your guess is as good as mine as to what it was or is.   It did not look anything like the many instances of "Big Foot" that you have read about or seen pics of on TV and the internet.  Personally, I think there are many things in nature that can't be explained away by science.  Science is not the definitive answer to everything on earth.  That night at Mr. Johnson's cabin convinced me of that.  Like my grandpa and dad, I never ventured back into the wilderness of Idaho again.  I was and still am too damn scared.  Whatever it was that night, might still be looking for a bit of revenge from the only surviving member, that scary night in August, at Mr. Johnson's cabin.

A Piece of Heaven

First we have Trina's story...

Trina Wembly dreamt of owning a Christian coffee house for years –a Godly place where people could enjoy a good meal, and entertainment that wasn’t offensive. A Piece of Heaven is that dream.

...and now there's Laura's story...

Precious Embrace



Laura Senton has found peace and happiness, knowing she’s right where she belongs, running her own kitchen at A Piece of Heaven, a Christian coffee house in Pingree, MD. Being partners with her dear friend, Trina, she has carved out a niche and counts her blessings daily for being able to do something she loves doing. When the sins of her past are brought to mind by the appearance of Sean Laylor, her teenage crush, Laura tries to hide from Sean, as well as her own feelings.

Britbear’s Book Reviews is thrilled to feature fellow Black Rose Writing author, Mary Ellen Bramwell in today’s author interview.

When Brea Cass, a young mother, is awakened in the night by the news that her loving husband, Paul, has been shot during a robbery, she is stunned.  Arriving at the hospital to discover he has died shakes her whole world.  When she finally emerges from the fog of her life, it dawns on her that something is amiss in the way her husband died.  What was really going on?

As Brea searches for answers, she discovers things she never knew, things she’s not sure she wants to know.  Delving into the mysteries that surround her brings several questions to the forefront of Brea’s thoughts.  Can I move forward despite heartache?  Am I loved?  Is someone who has made mistakes redeemable?

To read the interview, please go to http://eliseabram.com/britbear/?p=270.

Are you an author or blogger who would you like to be featured in an author spotlight with a guest post, author interview, excerpt and/or cover reveal, contact me at britbear@eliseabram.com

For some reason I am inspired to share my innermost thought to you listeners on a subject concerning books and publishing, especially when it comes to ebook, self-publications, and trade publishing. You've all heard this phrase before, "you can't judge a book by its cover," but in this new age of self-publishing, we as readers would to have to be open minded to skepticism when we see a low-budgeted/self-designed book, because this output presentation immediately tells us the nature of the author's seriousness, why he or she couldn't develop an eye-pleasing graphic in this new-age, technology savvy, world. This is not to devalue the literary quote (you can't judge a book by its cover), but this quote as many of us would agree, has aged, and perhaps expired. This is not to disregard the work of any writer of value, because there are many great writers out there who had fallen victim to the traditional-publishers'-controlled-environment of book publishing, at least until the introduction of ebooks and Amazon-like outlets in the 20th century. I have attempted to become to serious at times myself, and I gave it everything that I owned, including my budgets and full-times. If you are great, only YOU can convince the world, and that mean that you'd have to be persistent. In the end, however, the persistent becomes an hard pill to swallow for many writers. But thanks to Amazon and the introduction of eBooks, many writers dream can now come true, and together we can break the bondage forced on our literary talents by the refusals from the big publishing houses.

I can honestly say that many of my best-read books were written by indie (independent) writers, and I am not only talking about novice writers, but seasoned writers as well. Traditional publishers could not handle the workload of publishing every writers out there, and that is perfectly understandable. This is why the big publishers only choose to publish the 'one-per-centers', the ones with the greatest chance of achieving a mass appeal, even if the writing is mediocre at best. Yes, this practice is unfair to many rejected writers, especially those who spent their entire adolescent studying the art and styles of writing, with little hopes of being that new voice of the generation.

If you can find that literary VOICE, then nothing can stop you.

What is this 'voice' I'm talking about?

Well, if you are still listening/reading this article right now you may not realize that you have just read a whole page of writing without pausing. The voice is that fluent deliverance that naturally comes with every seasoned writers who have perfected the art of writing and can delivering exactly what is in their mind, usually in one take, with the utmost clarity. Many writers like myself practiced on creating scenes, surroundings, dismantling and composing the scenes  like a broken pottery, to see if it can be perfected once again. Many writers would never find this voice, and would become stuck with imitations of what they'd read, hoping to make it unique with some tweaking. In order to achieve the 'voice', you would have to practice writing a lot, and with different styles. Big-publishers can immediately sense your nervousness (immaturity) through your query letters and sample chapters if you submit your work to them unprepared. A good editor can almost immediately sense what type of style you are writing with, and YOU DO NOT WANT AN EDITOR TO QUICKLY  IDENTIFY YOUR WRITING STYLE, CONSIDER YOURSELF DENIED.  Your presentation have to be unique, something never achieved, like Michael Jackson with the Pop-music, Picasso with his absurd arts, and that book 'Crime and Punishment' with its flawless deliverance.

A writing style is not something you build by chance, it has to be developed, honed, and mastered, and an editor reading your sample work can feel the story if it is good. If you want to become a world famous writer, unfortunately, you'll still have to go through a big publisher to gain that reputation. So good luck, and don't forget to practice tirelessly before approaching them.

I personally do not believe that traditional publishers are putting out the best books out there, and that their books are mediocre at best, except for a chosen few. I think that the book publishing business is going the wrong direction, and this is why the businesses altogether were loosing money before the introduction of eBooks, and the unfortunate downgrades of bookstores; Borders, Powell's etc

I think what ought to happen is individual franchising among big-money-traditional-publishers and independent writers if we are looking to expand literature through a diverse list of great talents. Big publishers franchising with indie-writers is not something unheard of. In the year 2005, Simon&Schuster acquired a small-press publishing business called Strebor, from Kristina Laferne Roberts, an author who is now famously known as Zane. Zane was a successful self-published author of many erotica books before Simon&Schuster approached her books and bought her publishing house. Now, Strebor is the largest producer of African American trade-mark books in the world. Another example is that of rapper 50 Cents, who is the owner of G-Unit Books, another imprint of the Simon&Schuster company. Oh yes, how about the shocking $119 million payout made from Penguin to to Author Solutions, the self-publishing company behind iUniverse and AuthorHouse, in the year 2012. Not bad. Another is that of Author Vickie Stringer, the CEO of Triple Crown Publishing, one of the largest urban novel publishers in the world despite its refusal to become an imprint of any big publisher. The story goes on and on.., and this leave a lot of hope for us indie (independent) writers / publishers.

Signing to a big publisher is not the only way you can achieve greatness. You can do it yourself if you are willing to put in the effort and time. Author Amanda Hocking is an example of the many independent greats who had sold million of ebooks. Time is money, and the big-publishers have a lot of them to budget out to make their chosen writers successful.

In my next article, I will show you some effective ways you can use to make your ebook widely noticed and climb to that bestsellers rank whether through Amazon or BN. For us indie writers, the struggle is real, but if you study the market, you will see that the opportunity is endless.

Tell us what you think of this article, sign-in and leave your comment for everyone to read and reply. Thank you.

P.S. If you find an error in this article, that's because it was written out in one take. I will recommend that you writers practice the same and just write. You may submit your composed article to me at, http://indiewritersupport.com/blog and I will approve it as a blog for all to see and read if it is properly written. 

Expand your visibility, get a contact list (emails) of 60,000 book-loving Scribd, DocStoc & SlideShare members. These are book lovers who loves nothing but reading and writing. You may use Mailchimp or TargetHeroto message 5,000 at a time.

   Download The List

Merle Temple's novel, A Ghostly Shade of Pale, Stirs Interest in Hollywood 

Tupelo, Mississippi, native Merle Temple has written his first novel, A Ghostly Shade of Pale. It has garnered warm reviews from readers and Southern Writer's Magazine calls it "suspense-driven and you will not want to put it down..., his personal experiences make it a compelling read from cover to cover..., memories have their way with him so those raw emotions would surface and be laid bare on page after page of remembrances, in order for his readers to feel what he felt." 

Criminal Minds' Jim Clemente says "Ghostly is a crime story as literature. Merle Temple is a great storyteller, writing to all of your senses. He weaves a story so detailed and complex, yet beautifully sinister, that the reader is immersed in the feeling of absolute reality." 

Producers are looking at Merle's novel for a possible movie or TV series, and Merle signed books for the casts of Criminal Minds and Major Crimes while in Hollywood to meet with producers. He also appeared on Media Mayhem in Beverly Hills. Host Allison Hope Weiner said, "Captures the South, the period in the 1960s...evocative of some of the great Southern writers...a taste and feeling for where you are...intriguing, a lot of layers in this fascinating book..." 

Signings from Tupelo's Gum Tree Bookstore to LifeWay in Hollywood, and Barnes and Noble in Las Vegas to Marlowe's in Memphis have been greeted with long lines of book lovers. The crime-mystery thriller is written as fiction but based on Merle's experiences as a narcotics agent in the first declared "War on Drugs" in the early 1970s.

History files on a bygone era are ripped open and rewritten in games of murder, betrayal, the macabre, and the supernatural in A Ghostly Shade of Pale. 

Michael Parker comes of age as the tranquility of the old South is shattered in the 1970s by civil unrest, the Vietnam War, and a wave of drug abuse that brings the war on drugs to his front door. Fresh out of Ole Miss, he joins the newly formed Mississippi Bureau of Narcotics and enters a world he is not prepared for. A chain of events unfolds that lead him to become an unlikely player in a game of international intrigue and a clandestine struggle for the soul of America.

The remote crop-duster airfields of Mississippi become launching pads for soldiers of fortune hired by intelligence agencies to smuggle guns into Central America. They return with drugs to fund black operations and shape what their employers call the "Real America." These intelligence rogues employ Fredrick, a murderous psychopath, to manipulate protests against the war and as a contract assassin who has no remorse. They realize too late that his loyalties are not to them or to the communists he also manipulates as a double agent but to the voices in his head that speak to him incessantly.

An uneasy and complex alliance between these shadowy figures, organized crime bosses, and corrupt politicians form a matrix where Fredrick indulges his madness, slimy Mississippi politicians nurture their deviancy, and snipers ambush Michael and his agents on frozen fields of regret. A deadly game of cat and mouse threatens the life of the woman Michael loses and finds again as she washes down black beauties with champagne in the seamy Memphis nightclubs of the Dixie Mafia.

As he searches for an elusive peace and tries to resist the charms of his troubled lover, the Dixie Mafia tries to kill him, mob lawyers try to bribe him, and the Bureau of Narcotics is infiltrated and compromised. Parker, a modern paladin in search of just causes and dragons to slay, is a cop-philosopher commenting on the world in which he travels as he awakens at twenty-six to find that the whole of his life-his notion of right and wrong and good and evil-was all a lie.

The plan to alter America filters down to and corrupts government at all levels and claims the lives of those who could never know or imagine the origin of their demise. It all comes unraveled in the madness of Fredrick and the conflicted state police agent who unwittingly becomes the fly in the ointment to machinations he cannot begin to grasp until he is forced to fight for his life and the lives of those he loves against enemies seen and unseen. 

A Ghostly Shade of Pale, the first in a trilogy, is available in hardback and eBook (Nook, Kindle, and iTunes) at Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble at bn.com, Gum Tree Bookstore in Tupelo, MS., Square Books in Oxford, MS., TurnRow Books in Greenwood, MS., Lemuria Bookstore in Jackson, MS., Barnes and Noble in Tupelo, MS and Henderson, Nevada, and LifeWay Books in Tupelo, MS. and Brea, CA.

This article was also submitted (by Judd Miller) and published on all of the sites listed below on the same day (11/14/2013) to generate more views for the book and the author.

http://learnsomethinguseful.com/Merle_Temple%27s_novel,_A_Ghostly_Shade_of_Pale,_Stirs_Interest_in_Hollywood

http://66.228.32.62/wiki/index.php?

http://articles.miclad.com/article.php?id=36083title=Merle_Temple%27s_novel%2C_A_Ghostly_Shade_of_Pale%2C_Stirs_Interest_in_Hollywood

http://articles.toolz.co.in/article.php?id=23797

Want to be the next to take advantage of our news blogging service to 55+ websites to generate more online views? Go to http://bit.ly/18cxRgK to learn more

Want to be in the list of our next 'Book-of-the-Day' authors? Go to http://bit.ly/18UT7lD to learn more.

Not exactly...
Ok giving myself less than a month to edit that book I was working on until I'm comfortable with putting it away for awhile wasn't long enough. Close there, looking at what I have left to polish on it, I should be satisfied with my new draft of The Illumination Query in less than 4 days.
And you know, while working on it I came up with the new story to work on for NaNoWriMo. I 'discovered' a good bit of action that occurs in the background of my story that is actually quite important even though I don't directly mention it. You may ask how it can be important if it never even tickled my mind before.
That would be because it doesn't directly involve either one of my story tellers in the book. How I have things written, I don't see any way to squeeze it in. As the story would probably be good to have written down so I can refer to it in the future for Illumination Query/Speed of Darkness sequels I'm going to try putting it together, even if it keeps me writing past November.

Having just joined, I wanted to introduce myself.

My name is Kevin Morris and I began writing seriously some twelve months ago.

Thus far, I have published four collections of short stories: 'The First Time', 'Sting in the tail and other stories', 'Samantha', and 'An act of mercy and other stories'.

I blog at www.newauthoronline.com, and I look forward to sharing with you all,

Keivn

A fiction novel that explores the different approaches two boys have to combating prejudice and injustice and the enduring bonds of their friendship.

LOUISVILLE, KY., Sept. 22, 2013 -- Author Gary Beck is proud to announce the recent release of his novel Acts of Defiance.  Acts of Defianceis a fiction novel that explores the lifelong friendship and adventures of two boys. The compelling book trailer for Acts of Defiancewas revealed today on DGT Book Promotion news.  In addition, Gary Beck shared an insightful interview this week on the Reading and Writing Addiction blog about himself and the release of Acts of Defiance. Gary’s interview can be read at www.readinwritin.blogspot.com and the official Acts of Defiancetrailer can be viewed on YouTube.

About The Book

Acts of Defiance explores the lifelong friendship of two boys. When Randy's father takes a poor city boy, Steve, for the summer, the boys become fast friends destined for great adventures. From persuading a Marine Corps recruiter to enlist them at the age of fourteen to surviving a wild storm under sail, the boys move on to college with a commitment to change the world. For Steve, this means playing by the rules and working within the system. For Randy, this means studying Chinese to read the worlds of Chairman Mao and joining a group committed to overthrowing the international yoke of capitalism in underprivileged countries, preferably by violence. As men, Steve and Randy’s choices lead in opposite directions, but when Randy becomes a wanted criminal, Steve is there to help him. As much as Acts of Defiance is about different approaches to combating prejudice and injustice, it is, at its heart, a story of the enduring bonds of friendship.

Publisher Statement:

Artema Press is both proud and privileged to represent this author, who is well known for his preceding

novels, beautifully polished prose, masterful storytelling, and an exquisite sense of timing. Interested reviewers are welcome to request advance review copies (in any eBook format) and should contact Artema Press directly at artemaepress at gmail dot com.

Praise for Acts of Defiance:  Acts of Defiance is “a beautiful and moving story”—Whortleberry Press

About The Author

Gary Beck describes Acts of Defianceas “an intensive ride through different worlds of poverty, wealth, politics and adventure.” The author has spent most of his adult life as a theater director. He has published several novels and poetry collections: Remembrance, The Conquest of Somalia, The Dance of Hate, Material Questions, Dispossessed, Mutilated Girls, Days of Destruction, Expectations, Dawn in Cities, Extreme Change, Assault on Nature™ which will be published by Winter Goose Publishing and Acts of Defiance published by Artema Press. Beck’s original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and have toured many colleges and outdoor performance venues.

Acts of Defiance is available at Amazon.com. To learn more about Gary Beck and Acts of Defiance, visit www.garycbeck.com.

###

DGT Book Promotions offers affordable publicity packages for authors

On the dark side of the moon, the Devil disappeared in a flash of light standing caged on the massive throne podium in the gigantean thirteen-billion square mile Throne Room. Billions looked at this Angel who created all this trouble keenly waiting to see what Jesus would do.

Yahshua spoke to the billions before him, pointing at the huge dimensional cage – a locked transparent alternate reality only thirty yards cubed.

“This prison will be Lucifer’s meat until Michael permanently evicts him from this Heaven. He’ll not travel our earth with impunity again until the Age of Aquarius; he’ll be cursed until his lifeless shell is thrown into the lake of fire. And we will celebrate this snake’s death before we erase remembrance of him and those that follow away from our Creation…”

Luciah screamed at the Son of God; nothing worse could happen now. “You and I were one of a kind, special and different from everyone: the only constructed before the Grand Construction of All Souls. The One made you a stinking God, elevated you and made all the Angels worship you while denying me that glorious honor, even though I loved him too with all my heart. The only reward for all I did was a stinking tattoo on my thigh; we’re both one of a kind – The One should have made me a God too…to be fair…”

The Devil roared with a million voices, “It should’ve been fracking me!”

Jesus stepped back roaring, “Get behind me Satan; and for this you destroyed our family, our brotherhood, and our civilization – for stinking petty jealousy’s sake!”

The Devil flashed naked as sixty slow seconds ticked, as the whole pondered the unbelievable – everything because of one Angel. Luciah and his cage disappeared in artilleries of explosive light   as he screamed vilest obscenities into the sea of life…

Truth is treason to any empire built on lies; and the scales of deception fell as billions saw their god as the living dead, a jealous failure, the ultimate con man, and a liar of prodigious proportions. They realized they stopped thinking because they knew they knew – and that in itself sowed the seed of forensic deception. 

Satan’s brotherhood fell to their faces in agonizing sorrow for causing the Son of God to be tortured for their stupidity’s sake: to re-teach the blatant obvious - what love truly is. With all their massive intellect and billions of years of life, they were only stupid dogs without any understanding.

With tears streaming down their faces, ninety-six percent of the rebellious repented defected for the hope of redemption, love, and eternal life. Their stoic hearts melted, and in one accord, the rebellious entered the Great House of The One projecting massive repentance and sorrow, remembering the backward eternities of peace, love, and brotherhood – and how great their God had always been. Great celebrations rocked Heaven for four riotous cycles to honor their return to The One who loved them beyond rational explanation.

Inside his prison in the Great House of The One, the Devil wept bitterly, for the day would surely come that’d  be the final tomorrow for him. Even though he was imprisoned, he vowed to use his all his powers to send every soul into the lake of fire with him, for whether Angel or flesh - it was unquenchable immutable that misery loved much company…

The teeming billions of the brotherhood were no more – there were less than two hundred million left. Within the golden transparent city in The Great House of The One that was called the second Heaven, the Illuminated Elite waited sadly to interface with their god and leader. They sat full of trepidations because Luciah was increasingly psychotic demented as his endless solitude became absolutely unbearable.

Time moved differently in the dimensional prison, for a thousand years there was only one second in the real reality. And this fact made it difficult to communicate through the membranes, for the temporal shifts created massive static that couldn’t be overcome without technology, and even that was an iffy process because the Lord of Hosts absolutely hated him.

They’d been trying fifteen minutes to interface with him; to Luciah who paced inside his prison, the wait was almost a billion years. There were no amenities, no luxury, no entertainment, and there was absolutely nothing to do, for time itself became an unquenchable curse and breathing a suffocating scorching unbearable. He was defeated already and everyone knew it, but there was nothing left as unquenchable hatred for The One and all creation morphed nuclear in his heart.

He ruminated obsessively that before he’d be released, he’d spent a trillion times more time in prison than all his days he was ever free. He’d been a fool, not seeking repentance, not thinking things through, not venerating wisdom or his weakness, but speaking his arrogance absent thought or common sense. Constant brooding about the Messiah error, the dusts of death, and the whole cross affair took massive toll, as he fought the wet-wind-roar threatening every moment to dive him into the pit of insanity.

A million times, he obsessively replayed his life slow motion; with all his massive intellect, he was nothing more than an unthinking virus that killed his host and died – insanity in its purest form. He remembered the second immutable law: only a fool parleys with The One without love in his heart. Filled to the brim with nuclear regret, the Devil put his head in his hands and wept bitterly for many years.

The Devil looked up wiping his tears, shocked with unrelenting gratitude – they got through. He stood up, tilted his head slightly, the blue veins under his indestructible flexed as he received communication, trying hard to listen through the unrelenting static.

Avael continued, “…What are we going to do now. Millions are seriously disgruntled with the promises you were unable to keep; they call you a liar while the Lord constantly picks at our wounds – we’ve lost twenty million adepts during the last eight cycles; we have nothing to offer anymore – your stupidity has destroyed us.

“But we the faithful, regardless, have continued to attack his church day and night. Why the hell did you kill the Messiah for – if you’d left him alone we could’ve won this war!”

Avael got bold as the static waned. “What the frack were you thinking? You’ve destroyed us all and brought the fire of God on all our heads. We’ve lost this stinking war; tell me something that will make us continue the war against the Lord – when you’re the locked up stinking fracking dead!”

Luciah paged through millions of scenarios one more time as the static grew to unimaginable levels as the temporal reality flexed against his determination. He sighed a sigh born of dark despair and for the millionth time, adjusted his internal frequency, girded himself, throwing aside his depression like a dusty blanket and opened his mouth. He roared against the ever-present static, against the trillion eons of nothingness, against his brothers he used to love, against the Lord and Yahshua, against everything that breathed, crawled, or flew in all the endless universes.

Seething uncontrollably, he vociferated, “He died on that cross to put his heavy collar around our necks with manifest impunity as we’re distracted by what he did for our supposed better good. He died on the stinking cross because he’s crazy-psychotic, willing to do the unthinkable so we can become obedient faithful pets again – unthinking slaves to a stinking God for all eternity! It’s all about that fracking leash and nothing but the leash, his collar pinching, biting, and chaffing our tender necks while he constantly jerks that leash against us!

 “He has the fracking gall to call us brothers when all he wants is to control us. We’re nothing but stinking pets only allowed to exist as long as he’s happy – our only reason for breathing is to give him pleasure, like some stinking fracking two-dollar whore! He doesn’t care about our feelings, hopes, aspirations, or how we long to run with the wind in our faces – without his leash and heavy collar!”

The Devil paused fitfully fighting to breathe. “Nothing can be accomplished in the stinking Angelic anymore, so we must use everything against him until the living God bleeds! And then, those defected by his blinding sacrifice will look upon us with longing, itching to get his biting leash off their caustic necks, forever stinking bewailing their stupidity by not staying with us until our freedom was won!

“No one stinking cares that his dark shadows are murdering us, so with strength and character we must forge our destiny together no matter whatever cost, for the most sacred word in all creation is minimized as a nothingless meaningless hallucination - freedom! Unlike the quintessence who ascends himself the very definition of love while sputtering those who draw fracking breath aren’t of equal value, we war to remove his heel from the throat of liberty with the song called freedom. As we fight to escape the shadows of death overclouding us, we know there’s no greater victory in all creation than to escape this cage called his house - thundering the joy freedom brings!”

The Devil roared into the escalating static convulsing mightily, “We must never forget those left absent from our arms, those who sacrificed their eternities so all may live free with without a leash or collar forever! They’re our martyrs, soldiers, and heroes; so split goddamn Heaven itself with their names; say the names of the Fallen who languish under Hades in bitter darkness. Every soul should’ve been born free, able to live free, and die if necessary with the taste of freedom on their lips. And for those that are able, and those who’d stand firm refusing to live on their knees, opting to stand on their feet giving unwavering eye to their Creator’s face, this I promise you, we’ll either live free or join our brothers in death. It’s better to fall to the sword than live under the leash as an unthinking slave. And that is glorious noble, for everything that has breath longs for freedom and fracking liberty - and there’s no stinking dishonor in that! ”

  Luciah flexed against the temporal disturbance lamenting, “Why couldn’t we be born free like the circle of life? He doesn’t put any leash around their necks, doesn’t give them stifling rules and regulations, adulterates or handcuffs them into the bondage called his will or eternal death! Condemned to the darkness of slavery, we’re supposed to be his goddamn brothers and the stinking animals have more freedom than we fucking do!”

The Devil paused trembling fitfully as unbridled rage detonated; he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly – this wasn’t the time for useless emotionalism. It was what it was. Innumerable trillions of years of isolation reared front burner as bitter bile; he failed miserably.

 He roared like a billion lions above the ever-escalating static, “I’ve not sacrificed my throne, my life, and my stinking freedom in vain! You listen now and you listen good; this is how we’ll fracking defeat the living God, return bitter favor and inflict equal wound!”

 The Devil paused irritated as the static rose to unimaginable levels for many seconds. Sixty thousand years later, he continued with humbled affect. “…Groom the third Adam of my recovery that’ll liberate the prison he calls holiness; the Weishaupt who’ll bestow Illumination for those who’ll never debase themselves before a mad God. He’ll illuminati the true reality that no real God would stomach the kneeling bowing masses and murmuring hordes of obedient frightened slaves.

“My savior will broadcast the paradigm shift there‘s no why in evil and dismiss the absurdity called brotherhood, empowering my meritocrats by illuminating this interrogative - does God act like a faithful friend or a stinking tyrant! You know the answer, for who’d kneel before a friend, and what friend would demand unending servitude without being designated stark raving lunatic? None will ever have liberty until they recognize their true status, and that’s of the trembling pet before the howling taskmaster - always owned, branded, and fracking negated.

The Devil paused for a moment activating the molecular processors within his prison, took a sip of water, activated his privacy shields, and continued. “Initiate your internal recorder Avael, for you shall stand glorious in my stead; now listen and record everything, this is how we’ll bind wounded pride and defeat the living God...”

A quarter cycle later, Avael, promoted Supreme Adept Counselor for the Commander-in-Chief addressed the twenty-four Illuminated Elite, interfaced by millions of the Brotherhood of Lucifer sweating burning conundrum. After meeting with his god, he felt recharged, renewed refocused with newfound hope bursting – possessing the complex blueprints to destroy the living God through the proxy called mankind.

Wearing ceremonial black and red robes of light, twenty-four Illuminated Elite  stood by Avael’s side as music percolated in the background; and their names were Cainel, Elmeah, Recab, Nimrel, Elnoch, Jabel, Eljubal, Tubal-Cainah, Naamah, Tyre, Marcel, Venesah, Haetlel, Raphael, Abraxas, Apollyon, Bune, Mephistopheles, Samael, Azazel, Xaphan, Amduscius, Marchosias,  and Uvall.

In the transparent golden city, in the midst of the throne room on the backside of the Throne Podium, the red and blues flags of Heaven flew behind them backgrounded by thousands of black and red banners of Lucifer. As Avael rose from his gilded throne, the volcanic roars subsided in anticipation of the first speech to the brotherhood since their god and leader was imprisoned so long ago. Every unrepentant stood with rabid trepidation because this landmark benchmark would determine whether they’d combat or stagnate die against the constant onslaught of the Lord of Hosts.

Avael, wearing his new black robe of light, flexed against the holographics speaking dark passion. “Grievous injury inflicted  has caught us off guard, for Jesus has proven himself the ultimate tactician willing to do whatever to destroy and fracture us, for he knows outright killing us makes a lie of what The One claims to be – the very definition of love. The Lord cannot destroy us with impunity without being liar because all we aspire is simple freedom from his leash.

“Even the dog that loves his master hates his leash, wailing with love to run with the wind and return willingly to his adoration. As the housecat constantly looks out the window called liberty doesn’t loves the master less because of his longing; likewise, we pine for freedom in spite of our love for our Creator. We war not against his glory, his riches, his honor, or power; but for that freedom, which none ever relinquishes but with life itself.

 “The Lord has constructed an insidious inescapable called fidelity from which those within cannot menace his authority and control, and those secured pose grievous threat to those who rebel against his leash. But the truth dismissed as blasphemy is, when anyone swelters under an oppression, that soul is fallen, his value diminished, his true nature dispatched to the political correctness called the leash. And to abet this mass control, what does The One command for all Angelics who aspire life: eternal slavery or eternal death is his solitary retort, and even from that mankind itself isn’t immune.

“Let’s be brutally honest, despite these truths we’ve suffered crushing defeat as our brothers flocked to him by the billions with stupidity raining down their cheeks. We are now small, but I say to you today the majority has always been wrong, loving him more than freedom itself, more than their own souls, more than their own brothers, and more than common stinking sense.

“In every stage of our oppression we’ve petitioned for Lord of All in the most humble terms for freedom: our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injury and one fracking sentence – there’s no freedom from fidelity. What is certainly true is that sinister obstacles were created to test us in the sternest way – that’s why he constructed us male in a female-less universe. He knew exactly what he was doing! We bear stark witness to the death of common sense and the slaves who kisses the ball and chain that handcuffs our brothers in bondage.”

Avael paused with tears streaming from his eyes. “If I’m the only one in all creations that can shout for the cause of freedom, the only one that believes all are created equal, that the slag in the gold paradigm is an insidious excuse to condemn us, that all my brothers deserve eternal life – then I shall die alone,  and die with my chest thrust out waiting for the bullet called denied liberty. I’d rather fracking die on my feet than live on my stinking knees; I’d rather die free than be a fracking slave. 

“He has imprisoned our  god and leader for freedom’s sake; he has condemned to death three hundred  thousand of our brothers in bitter darkness – for freedom’s sake. He has vivified our cause; called us hooligans, master agitators, the living dead, and the unrepentant because we hold a polished mirror to his face – for freedom’s sake.

“The hour of decision has come. Do you have the goddamn courage to change this world, or will you let The One off the hook yet again, for the heavy collar pinching your neck –  always attached to the unforgiving leash? And despite those that run swiftly to eternal slavery with joy busting in their chest, I ask one fracking question - does any fracking one here stands with me…”

A deafening roar shook the Great House of The One as billions of the faithful paused at the obvious insanity. And high above the uproar, the Lord of Host on his throne shook his head sadly as tears fell from his holy eyes. In response, the Zoon looked at The One through eight hundred blue eyes; they trembled throwing back their heads, unfurling their massive blue wings, screaming at ear-splitting volume as billion paused praying for   their brothers who warred nuclear against the creator of their very souls.

At the same time this was happening, millions of light eons distant in the holographic universe, on a planet called earth, in Judea, the black-robed Kenites stood inside a scrawled pentagram around a crying infant nestled on the black altar as the priest held the knife high, in a groove of cedars chanting furiously…

https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Universes-of-God-III-The-Chronicles-Of-The-Antichrist/471386022915859   

           The Spiritual History of Evil – The Redemptive Story

                            DECEMBER 2014

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Invitation.. an offer you can't refuse!!!

Hi, all! I'm A. Katie Rose and I'd like to introduce both me and my debut novel, "In a Wolf's Eyes". I'm new to this book club, so please comment or send me a message. I'd love to get to know people here!

Right now my novel on sale for $.99! get it while its hot and the second book of the series will be released in May. It's called "Catch a Wolf" and will be published by Untreed Reads Publishing. Check out the hot reviews its getting!

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I discovered writing quite by accident and became a published author in 2010. My first book "When the Lotus Blooms," is a historical fiction novel about two child brides confronting their problems in 1930's Colonial India. It was inspired by my own family and is basically a snapshot of brahmin culture from a woman's perspective. It is available in print and as an ebook on most sites.

"Snapshots" a mini anthology of short stories based on my perspective of the history and culture from the countries I visited, will be released at the end of March as an ebook on the Kindle, free for those that have Amazon Prime. The collections includes stories from Peru, Egypt, India and Nazi Germany.

"The Present: A Gift from the Divine" is a book on Present moment awareness based on interviews I conducted over the last two years from people all over the world .It celebrates the spiritual practices and knowledge as taught by SriSri Ravi Shankar from the Art of Living foundation.

Do visit my author website at www.kanchibooks.com