Monday, July 21, 2025

10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer with Christine Amsden #UrbanFantasy #Friendship #Buddies


1. Read!

We learn by watching others and mimicking what they do. It’s especially important to read books in the genre you’re writing, but reading widely can help you bring fresh insights and perspectives.

2. Play!

You thought I was going to say “Write!” next, didn’t you? It’s an understandable mistake; it’s what I’ve been told my entire life. Writers write, you see. In fact, it’s usually #1 on these lists. But I say hogwash, especially if you’re in this for the long-haul. You need to read, you need to play, and only then do you need to …

3. Write!

Some say write every day. I say play around with patterns of writing that work with your schedule until you find a schedule that’s right for you. Maybe first thing in the morning or late at night, or every Saturday morning, or thirty minutes at lunchtime, or every other week when you’re not on call. Whatever it is, make that time sacred and erect walls around it to keep it safe. (People will try to break them down.)

4. Be kind to yourself.

The words don’t come every day, just because you’re sitting down waiting for them. Maybe something distracting is happening in your life, or maybe you’re just stuck. Whatever it is, don’t beat yourself up.

5. Join a community of writers.

I’ve been a member of the Codex Writer’s Group for over twenty years, and it’s played a big role in my success and in helping me maintain sanity. Writers groups can be about more than critique exchange … they’re about professional networking, staying on top of publishing trends, discovering opportunities you might otherwise have missed, learning new skills, emotional support, and so much more.

6. Get your work critiqued.

Joining a community is about more than critique, but that critique part is important enough to warrant its own headline. Remember that fundamentally, writing is a communication skill, so at some point, others need to get involved.

7. Avoid comparing yourself to other authors.

You’re you. You’re not me. Maybe you write much slower or much faster or you sell more books or fewer books. It’s tempting, even natural, to compare yourself to others and come up wanting. I’m guilty of doing this myself, and it is the worst mistake I make every single time. I’ve got an editing client who can write 8+ books each year, and I can barely manage one no matter how many writing sprints I do. Quality is more important to me than quantity, which is good because even when I’ve experimented with lowering my standards, I can’t manage to write faster!

8. When you get stuck, try something new.

Creative work needs surprises every now and again, or you’ll get stuck in a rut. Maybe read a new craft of writing book (I do about once a year). Maybe switch to a short story or poetry for a palate cleanse, or draw or paint or play the guitar or take a hike or snap some photos. Different art forms complement and support one another, especially when at least one of those forms is not something you’re trying to do professionally.

Me? I knit!

9. Submit, submit, submit!

You can’t get rejected if you don’t put yourself out there, and you can’t get accepted if you don’t get rejected. A lot. (Yes, yes, we all know that one author who landed a ten-book publishing deal on their first try. Can we all just agree to hate that guy and come back to reality?)

10. Put success in perspective.

We can all name a scant handful of authors who’ve made millions on their work: Brandon Sanderson, Stephen King, JK Rowling … these people are not the norm. In fact, it’s not normal to be able to make a reasonable middle-class living as an author. It’s not even normal for a self-published author to sell more than 100 copies of a book. What is normal, what you can count on, is the pride you feel in accomplishing an incredible feat and the warmth that comes when someone – a friend, a fellow author, or a reviewer – tells you how much the book meant to them. This is writing, this is life … making small, personal, meaningful connections.

I hope you enjoy Knot of Souls, and if you do, I really hope you’ll leave a review. 


Knot of Souls
Christine Amsden

Genre: Urban Fantasy
Publisher: Christine Amsden
Date of Publication: May 20, 2025
ISBN: 979-8283019284
ASIN: B0F7Y8YST6
Number of pages: 384
Word Count: 102,000
Cover Artist: BZN Studio Designs

Book Description:

Two souls, one body … 

When Joy wakes up in an alley, she knows three things: she was brutally murdered, she has somehow come back to life ... and she is not alone. She’s been possessed by an inhuman presence, a being that has taken over her dying body. That being is powerful, in pain, and on the run from entities more dangerous than he is.

Shade, a Fae prince on the run, didn’t mean to share the body he jumped into. Desperate and afraid, accused of a murder he didn’t commit, he only sought a place to hide—but if he leaves Joy now, he faces discovery and a fate worse than death.

Forced to work together to solve multiple murders, including her own, Joy and Shade discover hidden strengths and an unlikely friendship. Yet as their souls become increasingly intertwined, they realize their true danger might come from each other … and if they don't find a way to untangle the knot their souls have become, then even the truth won't set them free.

Knot of Souls is a stand-alone buddy love fantasy that forces two very different beings to work together … and come out stronger on the other side.

Free Through Kindle Unlimited

Amazon

Excerpt Chapter 1

Joy


The first thing I realized, after I died, was that my body could walk and talk and no longer needed my help for any of it. I was in there, able to look through my eyes and hear through my ears, but even the simple task of aiming my gaze had slipped outside my control. I was a passenger inside my own mind, an observer along for the ride.

Kristen had been right, I thought numbly as I struggled to make sense of my new reality. Had it only been lunchtime today when she’d told me I’d never get ahead if I didn’t learn to assert myself? “Take control of your life,” she’d said, “or others will take it for you.”

She couldn’t have been thinking of anything quite so literal. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn’t because I’d failed to advocate for a promotion at work or refused to ask out a coworker.

Right?

My body reached my car and slid behind the wheel. A rattled thought—not my own—cursed as it tried to understand how the contraption worked. How much can cars have changed in only a century? Visions accompanied the thoughts, memories—again not my own—of a classic car, gleaming black and elegant, its top down, my bobbed hair whipping around my face as I laughed with glee, a white-faced young man at my side gripping the door, begging me to slow down. I did not.

Which brings me to the second thing I realized, after I died: I was no longer alone inside my own mind.

Whoever was in there didn’t seem to have noticed me yet. Fine. I slid into the smallest corner of my brain I could find, ignoring the intruder as they struggled to figure out how to work an automatic transmission. Maybe they’d get frustrated and give up and go find someone else’s body to possess.

Holy shit! I’ve been possessed by the ghost of someone who died in like 1930.

But why?

I tried to remember what had happened, but the images danced just out of reach. I recalled that the night had been unseasonably cold for October, the chill biting through my inadequate jacket as I hurried to my car, parked in a garage two blocks away from the shelter where I’d been volunteering. Hugging my arms around my torso for warmth, I took a shortcut through an alley and …

There was a noise. I’d startled, my heart pounding in my throat, already on edge because of the argument.

Wait. Back up. There’d been an argument. That seemed significant, but my scattered thoughts couldn’t piece it together as yet, not when a bodily intruder fumbled at the gearshift of my two-month-old Hyundai Accent with only fifty-eight “low monthly payments” left to go.

Low is such a relative word.

My beautiful new, inexpensive (also relative) car jerked suddenly backwards out of its parking spot as the voice in my head grew angrier and more frustrated and … afraid. I saw flashes, images I didn’t understand of multi-colored ghosts who seemed to be singing. The more they sang, the more desperate I felt as fear, my own and somehow not my own, made it hard to breathe.

We streaked across the nearly empty parking lot in reverse, almost colliding with the only other vehicle in the place—a red SUV with scratched paint and a dented front bumper suggesting it regularly attracted unwanted attention from other cars. I tried to scream, but didn’t have control of my voice. I tried to hit the brakes, but instead the possessing spirit shifted from reverse to drive without stopping. The grinding of gears made me want to weep, but we came to a stop, breathing heavily, muscles tensed as if in expectation of attack.

They destroyed her. They tore her apart.

I had no time to wonder what any of that meant before the thing possessing my body channeled its anger and grief into a force I’d never experienced or even known existed. One second, the battered red SUV was parked inches from my back bumper, the next, it flew through the air, smashing against a far wall, its frame crumpling like an accordion.

I tried to make myself even smaller, a nearly impossible feat, but I couldn’t let it know I was in here. If it could do that to an SUV, I didn’t want to think about what it might be able to do to me.

Now what?

For one, panic-filled moment, I thought I’d asked the question. Then I realized I wasn’t the only one trying to figure things out.

My car rolled forward again, its speed uneven, first too fast and then—I slammed on the brakes. Well, maybe I didn’t do it, maybe the thing inside me had the same idea as me, but the car skidded to a halt so it just kissed a large concrete pillar. At least it’s just the paint, I tried to tell myself, but rage welled up within me and my fist slammed into the center of the steering wheel, eliciting an angry honk.

An ominous crack formed in the concrete pillar, more evidence, in case I needed it, that the thing invading my body had powers beyond belief. Then came more rattled thoughts that were definitely not my own:

Who thought it was a good idea to build obstacle courses in the sky? Is there not enough room on the ground? Too damn many humans …

Once again, I drew away from the voice in my head. If I hadn’t lost all connection to my body, I’d be trembling, but even so, I felt the sort of cold that seeps through to the soul.

The third thing I realized, after I died, was that the thing possessing me wasn’t a ghost. Or at least, not the ghost of a human.

My car backed away from the concrete column and maneuvered around it to continue the winding path down … down … down to the exit.

Where was my body going and why? More importantly, what would happen if I made myself known and asked?

I reeled at the thought, mentally slinking all the way back to the homeless shelter where I’d been volunteering in the hours before my death. I’d had a crappy day and needed to channel that into a sharp reminder that plenty of people had it much, much worse. Their circumstances, their personalities, their trials and tribulations didn’t fit neatly in the lock box some tried to label and forget, but all of them struggled in some way. They needed help, and sometimes I needed to be needed; it helped me feel less alone.

Tonight, though … tonight there’d been a problem. I remembered having a nice chat with one of the regulars, Roger, big-hearted and with a certain excited energy about him. He’d found a job and was working hard to get back on his feet, but he still couldn’t find a place to rent after being evicted from his old apartment. Now, he lived in his car except when the nights grew too cold, and he was always there to lend a helping hand or just to listen. He had a way of getting people to open up, even me.

He’s the one who jumped in when Thomas started getting belligerent, ranting and raving about false witnesses and evil spirits. The whole thing was so sudden and confusing, I’m not even sure how it happened. One second I’m chatting with Roger about the crappy end to a crappy day—accidentally seeing porn on a coworker’s computer—the next Thomas is in my face, grabbing a fistful of my shirt as he accused me of being a liar, of being in league with the demon spirits, demanding I admit that I could see them too. I was off balance;, I don’t know what I said, I only know what I felt. There was a moment when I looked into his eyes and saw fear and desperation reflected back at me. Then he was being dragged away, thrown out of the shelter …

But he hadn’t been the one to sneak up behind me and kill me. I thought he was, at first. When I heard the noise in the alley, I jumped and looked around, sure it would be Thomas. But it was someone else.

No, not someone else, something else. The thing possessing me wasn’t the first nonhuman I’d encountered tonight. That honor belonged to a blur, a shadow, a … the only way I could think to describe it was as if a small child had found a gray crayon and colored over an otherwise human shape.

I knew I’d died. The bright light I’d only heard about—never believed in—had beckoned and I’d known it was over. Dead in a cold alley; would anyone notice before morning? Who would even mourn me? I had few friends and fewer attachments. No husband or kids, not even a boyfriend. My cat would probably find someone else to feed her. Some might say that was a blessing, not to leave anyone behind, but all I saw was lost potential. If only … the words that would follow me into my lonely grave.

Where had the light gone? I’d seen it, I’d hesitated, I’d wondered if there really was a god after all, and then …

… my body was walking and talking and thinking and acting and I was along for the ride.

My beautiful blue car, none the worse for wear, exited the garage without running into anything else and turned onto the empty city street. Fewer cars might mean lower odds of getting into another accident, although it was clear the thing in my body had little experience driving. It swerved left and right, unable to center itself in the lane, and braked suddenly at a flashing yellow stoplight, which bent backwards in reaction.

That’s when I reached the final—and belated—realization of the most bizarre night of my life. (Afterlife?) If I didn’t take over the driving of this vehicle, I’d die. Again. 


About the Author:

Christine Amsden is the author of nine award-winning fantasy and science fiction novels, including the Cassie Scot Series.

Speculative fiction is fun, magical, and imaginative but Christine believes great speculative fiction is about real people defining themselves through extraordinary situations. She writes primarily about people, and it is in this way that she strives to make science fiction and fantasy meaningful for everyone.

In addition to writing, Christine is a freelance editor and political activist. Disability advocacy is of particular interest to her; she has a rare genetic eye condition called Stargardt Macular Degeneration and has been legally blind since the age of eighteen. In her free time, she enjoys role playing, board games, and a good cup of tea. She lives in the Kansas City area with her husband and two kids.







Friday, July 11, 2025

Electric Titan by C.R. Reardon



Electric Titan
C.R. Reardon

Genre: Science Fiction, Young Adult, Disability
Publisher: C.R.  Reardon
Date of Publication: 6/13/1986
ISBN: 979-8-9920346-0-8
ASIN: B0F44JVWL9
Number of pages: 225
Word Count: 64,117 
Cover Artist: Sofia Sanz

Tagline: 17-year-old Rosa Viviani grapples with her newfound disability, a meteor emerges from the depths of space, hurtling toward Titan with the potential to destroy everything.

Book Description:

Rosa Viviani, a seventeen-year-old girl living in the utopian colony of Civigem on Saturn’s moon Titan, faces a series of life-altering events. In a society where disability has been eradicated through genetic engineering, Rosa becomes one of the few individuals who must navigate life with a hoverchair. As she grapples with her newfound disability, a meteor emerges from the depths of space, hurtling toward Titan with the potential to destroy everything.

Amidst the chaos, Rosa's connection to an ancient Earth religion awakens within her a mystical power that could save Civigem from the impending catastrophe. Guided by the wisdom of goddesses and unwavering support from her parents and girlfriend, Rosa embarks on a journey of self-discovery, confronting her fears and insecurities while learning to harness her newfound abilities. As the meteor's impact looms closer, Rosa must confront the limitations of her powers, the fragility of life, and the complexities of love in a society that has long forgotten the meaning of community.

In a race against time, Rosa's journey becomes a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, the power of love, and the importance of embracing life's uncertainties. As she confronts the impending apocalypse, Rosa's story challenges the utopian ideals of Civigem, exposing the deep-seated prejudices and the hidden costs of a society that has long suppressed the natural diversity of human existence.

Amazon      BN     Kobo     Apple     GooglePlay

Excerpt: Day 1

When I first used my hoverchair, nobody told me about the unexpectedness. I didn’t know I’d be the only young woman on Titan using one. When I’d run my last Convalor, climb my last staircase to a house. Traverse a ravine’s rocks. I wish I could have readied myself for things like my last walk with my dad along the lakeshore, but life doesn’t always give us time to prepare.

Dark brown clouds slit the dusky morning sky. I lay in bed reading Village Sisters on my tabicus, trying to learn what life would be like for me in a hoverchair. The Village Sisters was written on Earth about the bond between an African-Japanese beauty queen and her best friend, who broke her spine in a tsunami.

An empty frame hung in front of my bed next to the window. I didn’t want to see me standing with my friends at Lucky’s Tavern. The obligatory smiles and people I barely knew now felt like a past life. The picture was only a year old, but still.

I always kept sunflowers on the table beside my bed to brighten my mood. Next to the sunflowers, my elegant ballerina motivated me to strive for grace and good posture. The best thing I ever got from the Keller Aviary was a fluffy, stuffed butterfly that I named Ms. Monarch and rested on my bed. Like many times since the incident, I embraced her and squeezed tight.

Then, just before the announcement, a tingling shot down my right arm. Was I numb from squeezing Ms. Monarch too hard? Was it a side effect of the surgery? It felt like hot wax on my skin–but somehow empowering?

My body jerked upright. My arm swung like a directional arrow. I had no control of it.

My hand and arm lined up with a Faberge egg on my dresser. It was a family heirloom passed down to my dad’s disabled relative. This, in part, is why I believe our lives are echoes of our ancestors. We’re the same stars, just moving through different galaxies.

The heirloom navigated our solar system aboard the U.S.S. Freedom. The maroon and gold Faberge egg rattled out of its four pure white supports, fell to the floor, and shattered.

I thought someone might’ve bumped into my dresser the night before. Maybe they nudged it off its axis, and that’s why it toppled over this morning.

The pneumonia rains started, and I was content watching them splatter the bubble and cascade down, but we all know what happens now.

The Urgent News banner appeared on my tabicus. I turned the volume up. Remember that image? The mayor drooped like a geranium.

“Fellow citizens, I come to you today with the heaviest of hearts. I sincerely hope that every individual heed this news with the understanding that the best course of action for every life was attempted.” Her shoulders rose and fell like the Magic Islands. “Several weeks ago, a volcano on Jupiter’s moon Io dispelled lava that somehow escaped its gravitational pull and froze, hurtling it into space. This is the meteor I’m sure many of you have heard about on the news. The meteor is one point-six kilometers in diameter and travels at a speed of thirty-six kilometers per second. I regret to inform you that it is headed directly for Titan, and it’s too late to stop it.

“The meteor will make an impact with Titan in six days and destroy everything, including our beloved–” I felt so bad for her when her voice cracked, and she began to tear up. “Civigem.”

 

About the Author:

A brain tumor survivor since the age of 8, and handicapped since the age of 10, C.R. Reardon is now 39 years old. He fell in love with creative writing after writing a poem about these hardships in the 7th grade. Since then, he has self-published four books of poetry: Disablé  (2025), Born on Friday the 13th (2018), Torghatten (2016), and Hard Polish (2013). After 2 years at The University of Arizona, C.R. graduated from Stonehill College in 2009 and earned his Master's degree in English from Salem State University in 2011.

His screenplay Lagom (the Swedish word for 'just the right amount') was a finalist for best screenplay at the 2017 Massachusetts Independent Film Festival, as well as the 2015 Catalina Film Festival.  In 2016 my screenplay Spawning Neon was a semi-finalist at the 16th annual Awareness Film Festival.









Monday, June 23, 2025

Combustible by Hunter Shea #Horror



Combustible
Hunter Shea 

Genre: Horror/Post Apocalyptic/Dark Humor
Publisher: Dark Wolf Books
Date of Publication: 6/17/2025
ISBN: 979-8895678923
ASIN: B0F7Z8X3C5
Number of pages: 374
Word Count: 94,000

Tagline: POST-APOCALYPTIC HORROR MEETS THRILLER IN A DYSTOPIAN NIGHTMARE OF FIRE AND ASH.

Book Description:

The world didn't end with a bang or a whimper...it ended with people bursting into flames.

Across the globe, spontaneous human combustion (SHC) is turning ordinary citizens into living infernos. Governments collapse, cities fall silent, and the air itself tastes like ash. Society burns while the lucky few are left to wonder: When will it be me?

Sam and Aja were already falling apart before the fires came. Now, trapped in a crumbling apartment and suffocating under the weight of isolation, their love feels just as doomed as the rest of humanity. But when whispers spread of a small Canadian town called Consumption, untouched by the inferno, hope flickers.

Stealing an RV and refusing to leave Aja behind, Sam sets out on a desperate, ash-streaked journey through a burned-out North America. With his best friend in tow and a growing crew of strange, unforgettable survivors, they chase rumors through a landscape warped by horror, madness, and the heat of human combustion.

Perfect for fans of The Gone-Away World by Nick Harkaway and Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion, Combustible is a harrowing, darkly tender exploration of what survives when everything else burns. Will love endure in a world destined to ignite?

Excerpt:

There were shouts within and then banging, followed by the distinctive sound of splintering wood. I watched a man rush into the room and douse the flames with a handheld fire extinguisher. I got to walking before the smoke settled. I had a pretty good idea of what I’d see and my day was already shit enough.

I hurried around the corner and almost whooped out a hallelujah when I saw the gate to Singa’s was up.

My enthusiasm was tempered when I looked through the window. The place had been ransacked.

Singa, at least that’s what I assumed his name was since he was always there, sat behind the counter reading an old newspaper.

“What happened in here?” I said.

The shelves had all been knocked down, glass to the cold cases reduced to pebbles, boxes, bottles and cans strewn about as if the entire store had been invaded by a mosh pit.

Singa, who had been old to begin with, looked like he’d aged twenty years. The bags under his eyes were dark and had an almost crispy texture. Those umber eyes held back tears that threatened to fall any second. He looked around the remains of his store in a daze.

“Humanity happened,” he said, his voice, like his gaze, far, far away.

I put a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. “You mind if I see if there’s anything worth saving?

“Keep your money.” He either avoided my gaze or thought he was talking to a ghost. “Money burns. We all burn.”

I snatched a reusable bag from the floor and got on my hands and knees, looking for anything that had been left whole. I came up with a box of elbow macaroni, a can each of beets, sliced potatoes and artichoke hearts, three bottles of off-brand water, and a box of stuffing mix. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

I slung the bag over my shoulder. “Is…is there anything I can do for you?”

His eyes slowly found mine. “Yes.” He opened his palm. In the center, I saw a tiny pile of black specks. “Run.”

Singa dipped his head and inhaled the powder like a cokehead fresh from rehab.

The sneeze came instantly.

The flames seemed to burst from every pore of his body.

I jumped back and slipped on a pile of debris, sure that the heat had singed my eyebrows.

Poor Singa slumped into his chair and burned without a sound.

It took a few attempts to get to my feet and run out of the store. In my mad dash back home, my heavy breathing popped the tampons loose. I didn’t stop to look for them.

I noticed fires in other windows.

The one that had been put out earlier was back, blazing again. SHC was like that sometimes. Someone on the radio had called it ‘almost sentient.’ It didn’t like it when people put it out. So, it came back with a vengeance. This time, no one tried to extinguish it.

In fact, there were tendrils of smoke everywhere as far as I could see. And nowhere could you hear the sound of a single fire engine. What was the point?

Oddly, what disturbed me most was when one of the feral cats hiding under a car gave a loud sneeze. It burst into flame immediately. The fleeing blur of burning hair and flesh went headfirst into a wall, made a sharp turn and disappeared down an alley, leaving grayish smoke in its wake.

 

About the Author:

Often called THE KING OF THE CRYPTIDS, Hunter Shea is a lifelong horror hound and NY Times bestselling author of over forty books of monstrous mayhem, ghostly frights, and newfound terrors. Some of his bestselling books include the critically acclaimed Creature, They Rise, and The Montauk Monster, the nostalgic Money Back Guaranteed and One Size Eats All series, and Jessica Backman’s Death in the Afterlife paranormal trilogy. His books have been found in the International Cryptozoology Museum and his face on the Discovery Channel where he talks about, well, monsters.

He can be heard and seen on his two long-running podcasts, Final Guys and Monster Men, both informed and humorous explorations of horror’s best – and worst – movies, books, and video games, as well as interviews with some of the hottest writers, directors and producers in the genre. You’ll also find exciting first-hand accounts of true-life hauntings, UFOs, cryptid encounters and more.

Website – www.huntershea.com








Tuesday, June 3, 2025

Fate of the Storm by Valerie Storm #YAFantasy


Fate of the Storm
Demon Storm 
Book Eight
Valerie Storm

Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Publisher: Shadow Spark Publishing
Date of Publication: 5/13/2025
ISBN: 9781956883343 
ASIN: B0F4BD7X8Y
Number of pages: 374
Word Count:  97,896
Cover Artist: @Ginkahederling

Book Description:

The shadows have retreated with Raven's downfall, but darkness still curls at the edges of the world. For a moment, though, Kari and Ari have a moment of peace. There is a glimmer of light that threatens to wash away the darkness as they finally bind their fates together in a formal ceremony.

But Raven hasn't given up, and there's an older, crueler foe who hasn't forgotten Kari - the Lord of Demons, the very one who crafted the Catalyst which Raven sought to control, still trapped in an ancient Tree.

Kari's moment of joy comes to a halt as the world shakes and Taris is ripped apart.

Velthas has risen.

Excerpt:

The ground gave a sudden, violent shake. Kari and Essie stumbled, but managed to stay standing. All around people and demons staggered, fell, or bumped into each other. South of where they stood came a hoarse scream. Dust clouded quick and fast, obscuring the view of the southern gate and guard towers. The buildings around them quivered, shaking from left to right.

Kari held onto Essie as the ground continued to vibrate. Her teeth clattered. “What in the Yutemi is that?!”

Guine had his hand on Rathik’s shoulder to steady both of them. “Feels like a quake,” he said solemnly. “Have you had one on Taris before?”

“Not in my time!” Ari answered.

“We have to get everyone away from the buildings,” Guine said. “If one collapses—”

Rathik knocked Guine’s hand off and spun to the south gate. “NO!”

As he broke into a run, Kari, Guine, Essie, and Ari whirled. The dust cloud quickly thinned, revealing a messy shamble of splintered wood that had been Freehaven’s southern gate. And the guard tower, set beside it—

“The tower!” a demoness yelled. “It’s falling!”

Essie sprinted after Rathik.

“Essie, wait!” Kari shouted, then cursed. “Tell the council!” she ordered of the nearest townspeople before she, Ari, and Guine raced after Essie and Rathik.

The vibrations made it difficult to run; Ari grabbed Kari’s hand when she stumbled. The southern gate wasn’t far, but every shiver of the ground forced them to slow and regain their balance before they could go on. Kari’s mind roared as they ran. What was happening that could make the very ground move like this?

When they reached the south gate, they stopped and stood in silence. Essie and Rathik stood at the bottom of the guard tower, or what was left of it. The ground had cracked and lifted, and the tower had toppled, crushing part of the gate. Through a miasma of dust, splintered wood and slabs of stone made an incomprehensible pile of rubble.

“Killia!” Rathik dove for the rubble and hefted shattered planks of wood and cracked stone. Even as he coughed and waved away the dirt clouding around him, he dug for the young guard. Essie joined him, shoving slabs of rock out of the way as fast as she could.

Kari stood frozen, mind a whirl and blank all at once. Ari joined Rathik. Together they shoved aside a thick beam of wood that had snapped in half.

What is this? Why is this happening?

“They’re probably dead already,” Guine said. “That much weight...there’s no way.”

Something dark and heavy sank deep into Kari’s stomach. “Help them.”

With a short sigh, Guine stepped forward. He knelt and touched the rubble—at his fingertips, wood and stone crumbled, adding to the dust already fogging the air. Essie glanced up at him, then she and Ari pulled Rathik away. Rathik visibly trembled from head to foot before he dropped to his knees.

The new dust was grittier; Kari sputtered a short cough and waved a hand in front of her face. Maybe Killia would be okay.

 

 

About the Author:

Valerie Storm was raised in Tucson, Arizona. Growing up, she fell in love with everything fantasy. When she wasn’t playing video games, she was writing. By age ten, she began to write her own stories as a way to escape reality. When these stories became a full-length series, she considered the path to sharing with other children and children-at/heart looking for a place to call home.











Tuesday, May 13, 2025

Release Day Blitz Same Place, Same Stars by Katey Taylor #ReleaseDayBlitz #PsychologicalMystery


Same Place, Same Stars
Katey Taylor

Genre: Psychological Mystery/Drama, 
Coming-of-Age, Adult Fiction 
Publisher: Katey Taylor
Date of Publication: 5/13/25
ISBN: 9781732750456
ASIN: B0DYK959FJ
Number of pages: 317
Word Count: 93,000

Book Description:

Twenty-one-year-old Natalia battles a rare parasomnia sleep disorder that propels her to act violently, experience night terrors, and put herself in dangerous situations—all while she’s unconscious.

After waking up covered in unexplained bruises, she lands herself back in a mental facility. Making friends has never been easy, but at Awana, she quickly bonds with her fun-loving roommate Lindsay and falls for Gabriel, a handsome yet severely depressed resident she secretly meets at night.

As Natalia wrestles with the harsh side effects of her medication, her reality unravels, exposing disturbing truths about those she trusts most. Though romantic relationships are strictly forbidden at Awana, Gabriel becomes her lifeline amidst the chaos. To be with him, Natalia must risk everything—including her sanity, and she learns some choices carry devastating consequences.

Filled with shocking twists, Same Place, Same Stars, is a psychological drama that unpacks the many layers of what happens when dark secrets refuse to be ignored.

Amazon     Kobo     BN

Book Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QGIl0E7DhC4

 

Excerpt: CHAPTER 1

 

No sharp objects. Pack light.

My instinct is to run, but I don’t know how far my sore limbs will carry me.

Apathy is my last line of defense.

I reach for a baggy sweatshirt and leggings. This has become my uniform when I go away, not for any fashion statement but its functionality—it can be easily taken off before my body is searched by a nurse’s gloved hands. The pressure from the fabric causes me to hiss in pain. I carefully step each leg in to cover the tender scrapes and deep purple bruises along my pale white shins and thighs. The bruises are a reminder that I’ve messed up again.  

I drag my worn leather suitcase that’s on its last leg away from our cottage and into the trunk of Olga’s station wagon. She doesn’t say a word as we head out of our driveway and onto the tree-dense highway. The branches are grayer than normal, though it could be my mood filtering the world in a cloud of indifference.

Olga rolls every window down even though it’s a brisk fifty-two degrees. Long drives make her sweat. I think she would never leave our small town if it were up to her, but I remain her forcing agent.

My eyes wander from the pastures filled with cows and horses to Olga and her wild blowing hair that is unusually more silver than black for someone in their thirties.

“So, what’s this ward like?” I ask, trying to break the tense silence.

“Don’t call it that. That’s not what it’s called. This is a treatment center.”

She turns up her classical piano playlist, the one she plays to calm her nerves, then hands me a folded piece of stock paper filled with smiling faces of young adults—those who, like me, are not teenagers anymore but not quite what I would consider adults either. Much like our mental state, we’re something in between.

The brochure states this center isn’t government funded. By the looks of it, it seems far out of the budget of Olga’s ballet studio salary and my unemployed status, but it claims as part of their philosophy that they take on special cases free of charge. Just my luck, they happened to have room for a last-minute drop-in.

After the stunt I pulled last night, I’m sure Olga would be willing to pay any price.


About the Author:

Katey Taylor is a San Francisco Bay Area-based author and published poet, with work featured in online magazines such as DarkWinter Lit, SWAAY, and Fauxmoir. She’s recognized for her ability to address complex topics with sensitivity and depth.









Poseidon’s Daughters: Reckoning by Reign Reeves Pearson #SciFi #Thriller


“So I Almost Died, and Then I Wrote a Book”

Every story has a beginning. Mine started in a hospital room, buzzing fluorescent lights overhead, machines softly beeping to my left, and this sort of quiet that shuts in on you when everything you know has been stripped away from you. I was surrounded by uncertainty, fear, and the question that slowly surfaced in the aftermath: What now? That question didn’t just echo in the quiet moments, it consumed them. I was alone, struggling, and full of questions, but that was the one I kept circling back to.

I was being thrust headlong into an existential crisis, the depth of which I couldn’t fully comprehend at the time. My body had betrayed me, or at least that’s how it felt. Everything I thought I knew about my life, my health, my plans, my identity, was suddenly up for negotiation. There was grief. There was fear. But there was also this strange, quiet sense that something was waiting for me on the other side of it all…I just didn’t know what. That moment, as terrifying and disorienting as it was, became the seed of something I never expected: a story. A vision. And eventually, a book.

In 2019, I made a difficult but necessary decision—I finally conceded to have a hysterectomy. It had been a long time coming, a choice I'd wrestled with for years. When I finally agreed to the surgery, I was told it would be “the best decision I’d ever make.” My surgeon said those exact words. I clung to them, hopeful, desperate for relief, for normalcy.

But less than two weeks later, just eleven days after being discharged, I was back in the hospital. This time, it was a crisis that threatened my life: bilateral pulmonary embolisms and a pulmonary infarction. Blood clots had traveled to both lungs, and part of my lung tissue had died. What was initially a step down the path of healing proved to be one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.

I still remember the moment I left the house to go to the emergency room. I couldn’t bring myself to look back. I was terrified—not just of the pain, not just of what was happening to my body, but of the possibility that I might not return. I didn’t want to see my home for the last time under those circumstances. That fear is hard to describe unless you’ve lived it: the sense that your body has turned on you, that every breath is a gamble, and that the future you planned for might not be waiting on the other side of the next test result.

Physically, I was shattered. Emotionally, I was unraveling. Spiritually…I was raw. Confronted with my own mortality in a way I had never been before. Everything I thought I understood about my life, my identity, even my purpose, it all fractured under the weight of that crisis.

The vision that inspired Poseidon’s Daughters didn’t come with thunder or fanfare. It came quietly, like a whisper in the back of my mind, while I was still lying in that hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, lungs fighting to work, body recovering from the trauma it had just endured. I didn’t realize it was a vision at first. It felt more like an image. A flicker of something that wasn’t fear. Something that felt… important.

In those long hours where the world outside my hospital room seemed impossibly far away, I found myself drifting—not into sleep, but into scenes, characters, a world I didn’t recognize but somehow knew. I started to see them more clearly: their faces, their struggles, the way their pain mirrored mine in ways I couldn’t explain. I didn’t fully understand it yet, but I felt it. A story was forming, and it was reaching for me just as much as I was reaching for it.

In the days and weeks that followed, after I was discharged to begin the long process of healing, that vision deepened. It grew more vivid, more insistent. It became my anchor—something solid to hold onto while everything else in my life seemed to be sliding away from me. The story took root in the dark, in the chaos, in the questioning. And instead of just being a distraction or a daydream, it began to feel like a map. A guide. A message from somewhere deep inside me that hadn’t given up, even when the rest of me wanted to.

It wasn’t just a story—it was survival. At first, I didn’t know what to do with it. I was still healing—physically weak, emotionally unsteady, spiritually raw. But the vision wouldn’t let me go. The characters kept showing up. The world they lived in grew more detailed by the day. It was like they had chosen me, not the other way around. And slowly, I realized: this wasn’t just something to keep me distracted during recovery. This was the beginning of something bigger.
Writing wasn’t easy. I was exhausted. Some days, all I could manage was a few scribbled lines in a notebook, or a quiet moment spent replaying scenes in my mind while I lay on the couch trying to breathe. But every sentence I wrote was an act of taking back my voice, my agency, and my life.

Bit by bit, the fragments of that vision came together in a story. One with themes that mirrored my own journey: loss, survival, transformation, the painful and messy work of becoming something new after your old self has been burned to the ground. There was no grand plan. I didn’t sit down with an outline or a polished pitch. I followed the thread because I had to. Because it was the only thing that made sense when nothing else did. Because in writing it, I was also writing myself back into existence.

It became more than healing. It became purpose. This story matters because it was born out of the worst moment of my life—and it helped me survive it. It came to me when I had nothing left but questions, when my body felt broken and my future uncertain. It reminded me that even in the darkest, most disorienting times, something meaningful can take root. Something beautiful. Something worth following. It matters because it’s more than fiction. It’s a reflection of the raw, painful, and miraculous process of becoming—of choosing to stay, to hope, to create. My characters carry pieces of my grief and my strength. Their journey is not mine exactly, but it’s shaped by everything I felt and everything I feared in those weeks after the hospital. 

And it matters because I know I’m not the only one who’s ever asked What now? Because someone out there might be lying in their own hospital bed, or sitting with their own fear, and they deserve to know that even then, especially then, stories can save us.

This book isn’t just a product of imagination. It’s a monument to survival. A love letter to the part of me that didn't disappear when everything else fell apart. Writing it helped me reclaim my self, rebuild my soul, and rediscover my purpose again, not just as a writer, but as a human being in general. Every word on the page is a step closer, a breath regained, a truth spoken aloud after too long in silence.

So, sure, every story has a beginning. And mine? It began in a hospital bed—around a question, a vision, and the silent, stubborn determination to keep going.


Poseidon’s Daughters: Reckoning
Poseidon’s Daughters
Book 1
Reign Reeves Pearson

Genre: Sci-Fi, Thriller
Date of Publication: March 21, 2025
ISBN: B0DZNZ6QPC
ASIN: B0DZCKJBGX
Number of pages: 262
Word Count: 62,400
Cover Artist: Reign Reeves Pearson

Tagline: They wanted a ghost, she’ll give them a reckoning

Book Description: 

They trained her to be a weapon. Now, she’s turning the blade on them.

Eirianwen was Poseidon’s crowning achievement—until she walked away from everything. She’s evaded them for years, carving out a life in the shadows, leaving behind the bloodstained world they forced her into. Now, the past she’s been running from has finally caught up. A storm-wracked night. A breach in her sanctuary. Someone is watching. Someone is waiting. And this time, they don’t just want her dead—they want her to doubt herself. They want the world to believe she’s lost her mind.

They’ve been watching her. Manipulating her. Preparing for her downfall.

Now, the elite organization that built her is coming to collect. Not to kill—to control. They don’t need to break her. They just need to make sure no one believes her when she starts screaming.They want her to understand that her escape, her freedom, was all an illusion.

Erased. Discredited. Untouchable.

But Eirianwen has spent her whole life surviving. And when the walls start closing in, she doesn’t run. She hunts.

Poseidon wants her desperate. Unraveling. Helpless.

They’re about to learn just how dangerous she can be.

Amazon

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/hpJsOfvRKxI

Excerpt 

Eirianwen ripped out the earpiece and slammed it onto the desk. Panic swirled at the edges of her mind, but she forced it down. Now wasn’t the time. She grabbed a larger bag from under the desk, slung it over her shoulder, and stormed out. In the closet, she set the bag aside, pressing a hidden panel on the side of her bed. A drawer slid open, revealing her arsenal. Her hands shook as she armed herself, snapping a knife into its sheath and loading a handgun with quick, practiced movements. Now, to find them. Moving swiftly, she ran through the house, slipping out the back door and straight into the storm-charged air. Sullivan’s workshop. If she was going to do this right, she’d need a shovel. She yanked open the heavy wooden door, eyes darting over the mess inside.Where the fuck is it? Why is this place always such a goddamn disaster?

A glint of metal under the workbench caught her eye. She crouched, snatched up a spade, and bolted back outside. The rain had started in earnest, cold drops slicing through the thick humidity. She sprinted to where the trackers last pinged, her boots sinking slightly into the softening earth, almost tripping thanks to a low spot. Looking back at the spot, it was all wrong. She knew something was buried there.

Gripping the shovel tightly, she drove it into the ground. The soil gave easily...far too easily. The clay should have been a nightmare to dig through. Someone had already done the work for her. Within moments, her blade hit something solid, and dread curled in her stomach. She dropped to her knees, clawing at the loose earth with bare hands until the objects were free. Her breath hitched. Six trackers. All of them. Cold, useless, and buried like a mockery of her own paranoia. Eirianwen sat back on her heels, mud caking her fingers as she stared at the pile in her hands. Someone knew.

Her cheeks burned hot, but the rest of her body felt frozen. Tears welled, spilling silently down her face as the questions flooded in. Why? Why would Sullivan do this? Had he done this? He wouldn’t put the kids in danger—would he? Where were they? How long had he planned this? Her stomach twisted. Then, her phone buzzed—a single notification. Hands trembling,  she wiped her palms on her pants and yanked it from her pocket. Wi-Fi restored—a new alert. Someone had just crossed the perimeter.

“It better be Sullivan and the kids.”

Eirianwen exhaled sharply, swiping at the sweat and tears streaking her face. Standing, she brushed the dirt from her clothes as best she could, shoving the useless trackers deep into her pocket. She locked her phone and steadied herself. If the kids were with Sullivan, she needed to stay calm. Normal. They couldn’t see the weapons strapped under her clothing. At least the incoming storm gave her an excuse to rush them inside. She’d get them safe first—then she’d deal with Sullivan. She turned toward the tree line, heart pounding in her throat. The property was massive, and she had built the house at its farthest edge. Finally, headlights cut through the gloom. A vehicle emerged. Not Sullivan’s truck. A cold, electric jolt shot down her spine. Every instinct screamed at her.

No one came out here. No one. She had made sure of it. For years, she had meticulously crafted the illusion of a perfectly ordinary life. She knew everyone in town—just enough to avoid suspicion, but never enough to invite curiosity. A delicate balance of friendly but distant. She never gave anyone a reason to visit. She didn't even use their real address! She picked up all of their mail and deliveries in town. So who the hell thought they had the right to pull up to her house? The SUV slowed to a stop, tires crunching against the gravel. The doors swung open in near unison, and two men stepped out. Sheriff Ford. Deputy Pines. Ford adjusted his jacket, his gaze steady, unreadable. Pines lingered a step behind, eyes sharp, scanning. Ford closed the gap between them, and gave Eirianwen a curt nod.

 

About the Author:

Reign Reeves Pearson is a writer, storyteller, and chaos enthusiast based in Houston, where she lives with her husband, four kids, and three cats who may or may not be plotting world domination. She thrives on Kopiko, rainy days, and an endless love for Final Fantasy VII and Dungeons & Dragons.

 

She’s been writing for as long as she can remember. But in 2019, a health scare forced her to take a hard look at her life, and the answer was clear: writing wasn’t just something she did. It was what she was meant to do.

 

Her debut novel and series, Poseidon’s Daughters: Reckoning, is her first and only planned adventure into sci-fi. Going forward, expect Southern Gothic chills, cosmic nightmares, and nostalgic ‘90s horror—all infused with her signature mix of heart, humor, and a touch of the macabre.

 

When she’s not writing, she’s probably dreaming up elaborate D&D campaigns, getting emotionally wrecked by Final Fantasy VII (again), or staring dramatically out a window while it rains.

 

Follow her chaotic creative journey at:

 

https://reignvox.com/

 

https://x.com/notorious_rrp

 

https://www.twitch.tv/ReignVox

 

https://www.youtube.com/@notorious_rrp

 

https://www.instagram.com/notorious_rrp/

 

https://www.instagram.com/reignreevespearson/

 

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/48135392.Reign_Reeves_Pearson

 

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Reign-Reeves-Pearson/author/B0DZDDF88T