SPOTLIGHT ON A BOOK AND AUTHOR

My spotlight in this blog post is on poet/novelist Stephen Alexander North, who writes sci-fi, horror, thrillers, fantasy, and poetry, and his newest release, Dead Tide. This is the first book in the Dead Tide series. 

THE WORLD IS ENDING, BUT THERE ARE SURVIVORS!

Nick Talaski is a hard-bitten angry cop. Graham is a newly divorced cab driver. Bronte is a Gulf War veteran hunting his brother’s killer. Janicea is a woman consumed by unflinching hate. Trish is a gentlemen’s club dancer. Morgan is a morgue janitor.

THERE ARE NO CONTINGENCY PLANS FOR THIS!

The dead have risen, and the citizens of St. Petersburg and Pinellas Park are trapped. The survivors are scattered, and options are few. And not all monsters are created with a bite.

Some still have a mind of their own

Blake

The smell of death and decay would always be with him. No amount of scrubbing or sterilizing dulled it. However, he was so familiar with it he barely perceived it, and now he only noticed the smell when he opened a door. He pushed his mop and bucket along a gleaming white-tiled corridor, trying to ignore the squealing of the wheels.

There was a double door just ahead. A sign to the left of the doors read: Decedent Storage and Investigations. He held one door open with his body and pulled the bucket through. His boss, one of the technicians, stood just a few feet away inside.

“Ah, there you are, Blank. Table six has a spill… bastard had a colostomy bag, and I didn’t know it. The thing burst all over. Hop to it! Dr. Bastrov will be in soon.”

“It’s Blake,” he corrected, hoping none of his irritation showed, keeping his eyes cast downward. He was a small man after all, and his boss a hulking behemoth, grossly fat—probably three or four hundred pounds—but still strong. Blake knew he would only be in trouble if his boss could catch him.

The man grinned broadly and smacked his own forehead in mock reproof. “That’s right, how could I forget, Blank—-Blake?” The grin faded. “Better get your ass in there and clean up, or…”

Blake saw a slick of blood, feces, and probably urine forming a coagulating stain around a gleaming autopsy table. The corpse was still there, but none of the coroner’s staff was present, just his boss and buddy, good ‘ole Joss “The Hoss” Hawkins. He resumed pushing his bucket toward the table.

He’s not my buddy. The bastard hates me.

“I’m going for a cigarette, boy, so when you’re finished here I want you to start on the men’s room on the first floor. Got me?”

The urge to snap a salute was strong, but he forced it down. “Sure thing, boss,” he said and dipped the mop into the hot soapy water. Hawkins brushed past him and through the door. Blake couldn’t help but stand there by the puddle for a moment, trying to collect himself. He pushed the mop into the putrid mess, smearing it over the tiled floor.

There was a violent thud, and he whirled, thinking Hawkins was up to something.

No one was there. He looked at the three tiered rows of storage drawers for decedents, each one a polished metal sliding tray and most of them containing a piece of dead meat. He was certain he had heard a noise, though, and wondered if Hawkins was playing a joke on him.

Three or four additional thuds came from several drawers. The pounding came quicker, and then there was a metallic clatter from behind him. He spun back around, tensing; the mop held before him defensively.

He let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “Good Lord, you gave me a fright, Doctor.”

The doctor looked at him, and Blake realized he’d never seen this sort of expression on her face before: a mix of fear and puzzlement. One elegant eyebrow arched as she tilted her head toward the noise. Even now, he found himself captivated by her. Her long, lustrous chestnut hair was up in a ponytail, but the bangs had come free and framed the pale oval of her face.

“What’s going on?” she asked. When Blake shrugged, she said, “Call Tech Hawkins right now. This better not be some kind of joke.”

“Right away, ma’am,” he replied. “I’ll page him.”

Stephen Alexander North is a Florida native, a closet lounge singer, and the Obscure Floridian Writer of sci-fi, horror, thrillers, fantasy and poetry. He has a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature from the University of South Florida. He served in the Army Reserve as a military policeman from 12/84 to 12/90 (reaching the rank of sergeant). At fifteen, his first job was taking care of over 200 parakeets, and 100 lovebirds in a neighbor’s garage. At sixteen, his first ‘real’ job was making camera bellows (the black accordion part on old style cameras) Some of the bellows were for NASA—Probably not any made by him though. From there, he worked in the fast-food industry (a grill god at McDonald’s), a bookstore (or Heaven, as described by the author), then three major retailers (Maas Brothers, Home Depot, then Walmart). He’s also worked, briefly, in a print shop (that ended abruptly when he nearly fell into one of the presses, which might, at the very least, have cost him an arm).

His favorite hobbies are listening to music, reading books, walking the dogs, Sancho and Oreo, and riding his bike with Kerri (his girlfriend).

He has a daughter that he’s very proud of.

You have a lot of titles out there, some poetry books and some horror genre fiction. You like to write about zombies. What has drawn you to that genre?

I will say seeing the original Dawn of the Dead movie when I was sixteen or seventeen really grabbed me in a how would I survive type sense. It wasn’t just that though, especially as time went on, and I worked in retail. There’s social commentary going on here, and the topic of consumerism and people going to the mall… Anyway, I found out, somewhere around 2005 or 2006, that a publisher was looking for these types of novels. I’d written and self-published my first book (an alien invasion/sci-fi thriller) at that point, and writing a zompocalypse novel seemed like a great challenge. Could I do it? And at that point, I’d been in retail over twenty years—I’d had plenty of experience with people from all walks of life. What if I wrote an epic zombie survival novel with a huge cast of characters! I went for it, although I had no idea how dark this book would get.

Tell us about your latest release.

I had two books release on the same day! One of them was my fifth poetry book, A View From The Edge, and the other was the re-release of my first zombie novel entitled Dead Tide. It has been with two different publishers, and this is actually the fourth edition! Currently there are four books in the series, and a possible fifth is under consideration/contemplation. The series is about a group of people, actually more than one group, trying to survive in St. Petersburg, Florida. It’s written from a moment to moment perspective, with alternating viewpoint characters by chapter. 

What is the hardest part of writing these books?

I had no idea how dark they would get. Never know what’s around a corner.

Give us an insight into one of your main characters.

There’s a police officer named James Dodd. You might not get the idea that’s something’s off about him right away, but other police officers play pranks on him, and you do find out later that he lives with his mother, but doesn’t go to check up on her when everything goes to pieces.

Is anything in your fiction books based on real life experiences or purely all imagination?

The real world, and my life experiences make it into my books, along with imagination. The question might become, where is the dividing point. Many of my stories are set in my hometown of St. Petersburg, or nearby: Pinellas Park, Tampa, or somewhere else in Florida.

What have you learned from writing your books?

Writing and reading are escape portals to somewhere else. You don’t really need to go anywhere to have the adventure of a lifetime.

Is there a message in them you want readers to grasp?

While I do address certain issues or mindsets in my stories on occasion, the primary intent is escapism or entertainment. Here’s someone in a moment so you can put aside whatever you’re struggling with in real life for now.

When did you first consider yourself a writer, or do you recall how your interest in writing originated?

Going through the wardrobe to Narnia, and finding the ring with Bilbo were probably the true catalysts! Although my first short story had its roots in the tales of Horatio Hornblower, an English sea captain in the late 1700s. It’s funny, but many things I’ve written were for a purpose, not just something I’ve dreamed about per se. I was in sixth grade (reading the Hornblower series), when my Spanish teacher asked us to write a story for class. Senor Bailes was his name (a wonderful, amazing guy). So, I wrote a story of an English sea captain trying to capture the Manila Galleon (a Spanish treasure ship). I haven’t written any stories since then in that vein, but there is one poem!

What techniques and tools do you use to keep yourself organized?

I save my works-in-progress (with a date attached) often. My work desk is usually a wreck strewn with papers, pens, headphones, books and notebooks. I think I just listed a lot of things I don’t do to be organized. lol    

What is the easiest thing about writing?

Using a computer! I started off with pencil (preferably pen) and paper, then a typewriter, word processor and finally a computer. Seeing your story on paper or on a computer screen really gives this it feels like a book vibe for me. Other than that, actually coming up with an idea of what to write about is easy most of the time.

How long on average does it take you to write a book?

When I was working full-time, usually a year. Since I’ve retired it’s different, but not what I expected necessarily. I haven’t adjusted to retirement, and I’m still focused on re-acquiring my health. Aside from that, I think I wrote three poetry books last year. It’s been a long time since I actually finished writing a novel. Short stories usually a week or two, although I haven’t written many of those lately either. There’s one in an upcoming anthology (hopefully this year)!

Are there any occupational hazards to being a novelist?

Haha, I remember getting hit on by swingers at a convention in Pittsburgh (a book signing convention)! On a more serious note, yes there are. There are judgmental people out there who will decry your work without reading it. Many of them are fearful of what they don’t understand. Family members aren’t always supportive or understanding. This can be a spouse who wants you to watch tv, or ‘someone’ who thinks you’re a weirdo for writing about zombies. This can be people who won’t come to what is probably one of the biggest moments in your life (a book signing at a bookstore or landmark in your hometown). I guess the bottom line is people who don’t get your passion. This could apply to anything really, not just being a novelist. So, I get it. That’s where the friends, family and fans who do appreciate what you’re doing, really make a difference.

Writing about sex – easy or difficult?

Depends on the context? In one of my short stories, and several of my poems, I had anxiety about it. The short story was easier to ‘let go’ in that people know (I think) that it’s just a story—a seedy, gritty story, but just that. Somehow the poems were more intense in that it feels personal, whether it is or not. It’s better to let go. People will like you or like your books, or they won’t. I will say that one poem that gave me the greatest anxiety was one that people mentioned to me as being a favorite. That was cool. Writing under a pen name saves some of that grief.

What has been the toughest criticism given to you as an author?

Too many characters. Chapters are too short. This is a dance of hopelessness. Those three comments were originally complaints on Dead Tide, but many people liked the work for the same reasons. More to the point, criticism from fellow writers and editors, was the toughest, but most helpful. I’ll take tough, constructive criticism any day and consider it, but “I’m giving this book one star because it’s too expensive!” is completely unfair. I’ve had that comment a few times on books of mine sold by a publisher. 

What has been the best compliment?

The love and support for my books from my friends, family and fans.

Was there a person in your career who has impacted you the most or who has really made a difference? 

The sci-fi author Keith Laumer once spent a couple hours on the phone talking with me, about books, my writing, and invited me to visit him, but more so is my girlfriend, Kerri. She’s made a huge difference in my life, and has been a tremendous help with my books.

Which writers inspire you or are your favorites, and what really strikes you about their work?

There are so many! The first two that come to mind are Keith Laumer and Robert B. Parker. They both frequently wrote from a first-person perspective, and I greatly admired their writing styles. Both injected humor, but in grim settings or situations. There was often a noirish feel to their works. Most of Laumer’s works were sci-fi, and Parker’s were detective-type mystery/thrillers or westerns. Something about their narrative voices really spoke to me.

What are the most important attributes to remaining sane as a writer?

I chuckled reading that question. Not that it isn’t a good one, but I may not be sane. My answer, though, is manage your expectations. I have known people that have great success with their writing. Six figure success. Most of us are nowhere close to that. Taking a walk, or going on a bike ride helps too.

Do you admire your own writing?

Yes! I’ve come a long way. Sometimes I’m shocked by what I’ve written. It’s a good feeling.

Have you ever hated something you wrote? 

When I first started out, I’d always end up hating it. With time, and critiques, I moved past that. 

Who would play you in a film of your life?

Rutger Hauer? Lol John Candy more likely! I haven’t always been heavy, but I am a big guy. Despite the sorrow, there’s been a lot of laughs too. I try not to take things too seriously, but sometimes I do.

What are your thoughts on good/bad reviews?

As long as it’s fair, I think I handle them well. Fair or not, it’s part of putting my work out there for sale. As to ones I’ve written, I’ve never given less than three stars. If it deserves less than that, I didn’t write one. Just me. I have told people in private or in a group what I thought was wrong, or what I didn’t like. 

Which social network works best for you?

Currently, I’m present on more than I ever have been before. Facebook is best for me so far as far as interest in my books. I’ve been tweeting for each book release, and I’m on Instagram and Threads, but on the latter two, I haven’t really experimented much. I’m not on TikTok. I do have my own channel on YouTube with fourteen subscribers and around a hundred views. I plan to record myself reading poems more often (but probably not anymore where I’m singing).

Any tips on what to do and what not to do?

I think writing for anthologies is a good idea. Give it a shot anyway. Most of them for me have been for charity. That is wonderful in itself, but when you write for an anthology, there’s usually a theme they’re looking for. This can lead you to writing something you never would have! Plus, it’s a publishing credit! I was in one charity book that included one of my favorite authors! I was in an unpaid anthology that had an introduction by another of my heroes. And I’ve been in a bunch that included friends. That matters to me. I write what makes me happy, and what challenges me. I’ve really enjoyed going to book conventions too. If you go to one as an author, sign up for the interview panels, do the book readings!

How do you relax?

I listen to music, or take walks in a park. Either of these things often lead to writing. I love to read. I haven’t done yoga in a long time, but enjoyed that too.

Who are your heroes?

My parents, David and Joyce, my brother, Ron, a teacher, Bill White, another teacher, Mike Prosynchek, two drill sergeants, SSgt Hope and SSgt Goss, a squad leader, Kurt Kobel, my best friend, David Wawrzynski, another teacher, Jane Buck Addis, a friend, Tina Kurcz, and my girlfriend, Kerri Gregory.  

What is your greatest fear?

Heights.

Your proudest achievement?

Being a father

If your friends or family members were asked to pick three character traits that describe you, what would they say?

Honest, integrity, noble

What are three positive character traits you don’t have?

Not sure how to answer that one.  

If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be? 

Right here at home.

What is your favorite book and why?

I loved Tolkien’s The Silmarillion. It was a world I would love to live in and explore.

What’s the best movie you’ve seen in the last year?

Death on the Nile was decent. I’ve missed a lot of movies lately.

What would you do if you won the lottery? 

Buy an SUV, a better house with a huge library (and all the books still on my TBR list), enjoy some traveling, get a personal trainer to help me get into better shape sooner, and help out some people that I care about. I’m sure I’m forgetting major things. 

What is your favorite memory from childhood? 

All the special times my family had together. It’s hard to pick one.

What is your favorite motivational phrase?

I’m beautiful inside and out.

What advice would you give to your younger self?

I’d be more apt to say something to someone I love to save their life. If I convinced my younger self to change a behavior, I wouldn’t be me now.

Do you laugh at your own jokes?

I’m often self-amused.

What makes you cry?

Onions and pictures.

What makes you laugh?

Many things, my friend.

What’s the loveliest thing you have ever seen?

My daughter’s entrance into the world.

What advice would you give to aspiring writers?

Join a writer’s group to get used to criticism. Read Damon Knight’s Creating Short Fiction. Read! Challenge yourself with different types of writing, or genres, or points of view.

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BOOK REVIEW: Five Signs: A Burning Light to Guide Free-Spirited Women, Witches and Empaths Through the Darkness

Step into the captivating world of Alison Nappi, a writer whose words have touched the hearts of millions, around the globe. With her powerful voice resonating with women, witches, neurodivergent artists and empaths Alison has become a beacon of inspiration in the realm of literature.

As both a blogger and the author of the enchanting ‘Wildness Deck Oracle’ and ‘Five Signs; A Burning Light to Guide Free-Spirited Women, Witches and Empaths Through the Darkness,’ Alison crafts stories that delve into realms while guiding readers towards self-discovery. Her unique perspective as a neurodivergent woman adds depth and authenticity to her writing inviting readers into a realm where understanding and connection thrive.

In addition to her own writing endeavors, Alison actively supports fellow neurodivergent and spiritual writers as a dedicated creative consultant. With her expertise and guidance, she empowers other writers to find their voices and unlock their potential within an inclusive community.

Five Signs: A Burning Light to Guide Free-Spirited Women, Witches and Empaths Through the Darkness

All women possess rich, deep truths they secretly experience…Now it’s time to let the secret out.

Five Signs is a collection of five life-changing works of wisdom. Each article addresses critical issues that impact those women in society that may be considered the “black sheep.” Those of us who don’t fit into the stereotypical norms society wants us to… and some of us who may have magic deep within our souls.

The Hero’s Journey: An empowering essay that inspires, motivates and provides a life focus.

Declarations of Independence: An indictment against the insanity of society and a celebration of those who struggle with ostracism, mental illness or exile.

Your Soulmate is a Villain: A powerful guide on identifying and navigating narcissistic abuse.

Let Your Record Stand: How to follow your art, create and head towards happiness.

Lies You Were Told About Grief: A compassionate acknowledgement of the anguish of grief and how we have been misled about what the process of grieving may look like.

Five Signs will inspire you to discover your true self, take you down a road of understanding life and will motivate you to express yourself wrapped in your creativity.

Grab Five Signs now and allow your soul to see the truth clearly for the first time.

I discovered the writings of Alison Nappi while subscribing to an online magazine called Rebelle Society. Rebelle Society always shared the work of their contributors on Facebook. Alison Nappi’s blogs, in particular, moved me beyond words. She writes gorgeous and brilliant prose. You can experience that in Five Signs, an eye-opening, inspiring, encouraging, and beautifully written book. Throughout the sixty-page read, I kept saying aloud, “Wow. Oh, wow. Oh, my God.” I recognize the ‘villains’ she talks about and so much more. This relatable work was so validating; it had me in tears. It validated me and at least one other person I know, as I’m sure it will so many others. Honestly, I think the author is an incredible spirit and a genius. And in short, Five Signs is a work of art, just lovely. I truly loved it.

KINDLE VERSION AVAILABLE NOW ON AMAZON.COM

Driven by her passion for nurturing talent, Alison offers writing classes tailored for neurodivergent individuals. These classes unlock their potential as storytellers while providing guidance to guide creatives to their truest voices, highest governing truths and most soulful messages. For those seeking individual attention, she also provides coaching sessions that guide aspiring authors through the intricate process of writing and publishing.

Exciting things lie ahead for Alison as she prepares to release a series of captivating books that will undoubtedly leave readers spellbound.

To keep yourself informed and be, among the first to embark on these captivating adventures ensure that you subscribe to Alison Nappi’s Amazon profile, Substack and social media channels. Get ready to be captivated and inspired by the way Alison Nappi’s words transform and inspire through her distinctive method of assisting individuals with neurodivergence in crafting their own works of art.

An Open Letter to Your Inner Child
by Alison Nappi

To the child who couldn’t understand
why nobody could understand.
To the one whose hand was never taken,
whose eyes were never gazed into by
an adult who said,
“I love you.
You are a miracle.
You are holy,
right now and
forever.”
To the one who grew up in the realm of “can’t.”
To you who lived “never enough.”
To the one who came home to no one there, and
there but not home.
To the one who could never understand why
she was being hit
by hands, words, ignorance.
To the one whose innocence was unceremoniously stolen.
To the one who fought back.
To the one who shattered.
To the never not broken one.
To the child who survived.
To the one who was told she was
sinful, bad, ugly.
To the one who didn’t fit.
To she who bucked authority
and challenged the status quo.
To the one who called out
the big people for
lying, hiding and cruelty.
To the one who never stopped loving anyway.
To the child that was forbidden to need.
To the ones whose dreams were crushed
by adults whose dreams were crushed.
To the one whose only friend
was the bursting, budding forest.
To the ones who prayed to the moon,
who sang to the stars
in the secrecy of the night
to keep the darkness at bay.
To the child who saw God
in the bursting sunshine of
dandelion heads
and the whispering
clover leaf.
To the child of light who cannot die,
even when she’s choking
in seven seas of darkness.
To the one love
I am and you are.
You are holy.
I love you.
You are a miracle.
Your life,
your feelings,
your hopes and dreams–
they matter.
Somebody failed you but you will not fail.
Somebody looked in your eyes and saw the sun — blazing — and got scared.
Somebody broke your heart but your love remains perfect.
Somebody lost their dreams and thought you should too,
but you mustn’t.
Somebody told you
that you weren’t
enough
or too much,
but you are
without question
the most perfect
and holy creation of
God’s
own
hands.

BOOK REVIEW: DOWN THE TREACLE WELL

While visiting a museum in England, Ben and Kyle experience the extraordinary. Gazing at the Alfred Jewel, an ancient Anglo-Saxon artifact, they watch as it spins, contorts, and evaporates from its case, taking them with it. Whisked back to Victorian England, the brothers are shocked to find themselves sprawled on the floor before Mr. Charles Dodgson, also known as Lewis Carroll, the author of Alice in Wonderland. They soon learn that the famous author’s muse, Alice, is missing. Alice has used the Alfred Jewel to enter Wonderland and, by so doing, has upset the time continuum. The only way for the boys to return home is to locate Alice and return her safely. But Wonderland is a strange and dangerous place…

Ben and Kyle are two kids from Florida visiting England with their mother and anticipating their father’s arrival from his business dealings in Johannesburg. While their mother is attending a conference, the boys are whisked away from present-day Oxford to Oxford in 1864 and ultimately to “Wonderland,” where the literary hero Alice’s adventures once took place. Like Alice, the boys encounter the White Rabbit and the Cheshire Cat, among others. They confront the bizarre Mad Hatter and the cruel Queen of Hearts. They even discover the famous Looking Glass!

People are going to love this reimagining of the classic tale. In her unique way, author Ellis Nelson recaptures the magic. Her remarkable talent and vivid imagination bring it to life again with a new pair of adventurers and a new series of obstacles.

Down the Treacle Well is well-written, flows nicely, and is easy to read. It is also brilliantly clever—fun, funny, warmhearted, and wonderfully descriptive. As a fan of Victorian-era literature, I loved the nostalgic vibe. I think it would make a great film, too—animated or live! Wonderful job by the author.

Available now for pre-order on Amazon.com

Writer of Young Adult and Children’s Fiction:

Ellis Nelson has served as an Air Force officer, government contractor, and teacher. She writes for children and young adults largely under the newly emerging category of visionary fiction. Having returned from living abroad in Europe, she now calls Colorado home. Visit her website to learn more about her and what she’s working on (www.ellisnelson.com).

HE SHOT MY SWEET, LOVELY FRIEND

COMING SOON!

EXCERPT:

“Kristina went dancing at a club in the Bronx with a friend. Upon their return, they talked in the car for a while. Of course, it was pitch-dark by then and eerily quiet when, quite suddenly, a man crept out of the shadows, aiming a .44 revolver at point-blank range. He didn’t know them, but they were his target.
One of several shots he fired hit Kristina in the head. In an instant, she slumped over and collapsed onto the pavement. She had no time to scream, and I doubt she ever noticed him. But, just like that, she was dead.
 A friend called me at work to break the news. Before I could put the phone down, all eyes were on me—the eyes of shocked and curious coworkers gauging my reaction. Speculation ensued within earshot.
‘Maybe it was a mob hit. Her family’s Italian.’
‘What was she doing out at two o’clock in the morning?’
It infuriated me that Kristina’s integrity was in question because she was the victim. I was stunned into silence. I had chills. But despite the crushing pain, I didn’t cry until later, when the distress made me wonder again about the divine protection we so naïvely expected. Why Kristina? I had to ask. Why anyone? But why Kristina?”

Grateful to Be Alive

My Road to Recovery from Addiction

by D.K. Sanz

Do unsettling truths bring harsh judgment? They do, but the price of denial is steep.

D.K. Sanz’s story begins in the drug-infested New York City streets of Woodside, Queens, during the tumultuous HIV/AIDS pandemic of the 80s and 90s. It offers a glimpse into how a now often-overlooked pandemic impacted Sanz’s nuclear family. 

From her earliest days, D.K. was the easily forgotten stranger, always a little out of sync with the rest of the world—a tough but naïve kid and aspiring writer. Her triumph over illness and addiction includes amusing anecdotes and nostalgic, heartwarming memories.

Grateful to be Alive delves deep into Sanz’s confessional self-sabotage, self-destruction, and the harrowing downward spiral she almost didn’t survive. Her never-before-told story ranges from recklessness and impudence to empathy, forgiveness, and love.

D.K. has since published several books, primarily poetry but also a novel, and she continues to work on sequels and an all-new fantasy series. You’ll find some of her poetry at the end of this book.

Whether struggling or not, you will find Grateful to Be Alive is a story of hope, defying insurmountable odds, finding joy, and a gradual transition toward authenticity and becoming the person D.K. always wanted to be.

“When you begin this book, you will not put it down. You will immediately be drawn into Sanz’s bold narrative of a woman, throughout her life, passing through “every forbidden door,” as she says of herself. It is a book of continual growth through experience, defeat, and triumph. The prose is swift, concise, full of irony, truth, and poise. You will not find a more startling, revealing memoir. Highly, highly recommended.” ~ Jason T. Masters

If you are interested in obtaining an ARC copy, please e-mail me at dksanz@yahoo.com.

Feature image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay 

YAY! MY NEW BOOK IS HERE! 😊

Hi everyone!

I’m putting the word out that my new poetry book, Awake with the Songbirds, is available NOW on Amazon.com in paperback and Kindle versions!

I also have free review copies in both formats, so please send me a message or comment if you’d like to review the book.

Lastly, if you would like a chance to win a free copy, follow this blog for upcoming details.

THE TRUTH CAN BE DEVASTATING, FRIGHTENING, AND DEADLY!

shattering_truths_front_for_amazon_bn_kobo

Young/New Adult-Dark Suspense-Literary Fiction

She was left fighting her demons alone . . .

For sixteen-year-old Danielle DeCorso, the old house in Glastonbury was an eerie place to grow up. Coping with mental health challenges exacerbated by a traumatic family dynamic, Danielle watches from the window for two men in a dusty black sedan who keep circling the house and harassing her with phone calls. The two predators drugged her and her cousin, Angie, and then lured them from Pleasure Beach in Bridgeport to a secluded cottage on Long Beach West. She remembers feeling dizzy, the room spinning. She recalls screaming, crying, fighting, and then slipping in and out of consciousness. Angie, however, has no recollection of the incident.

When Danielle attempts to jog Angie’s memory and convince their best friend, Farran, that the two strangers had victimized them, no one seems to believe her. Alone in her pain, Danielle remains guarded, obsessed, and withdrawn. Soon she is sinking deeper into a tumultuous world of adolescent isolation and change. Grief, guilt, and anger send her spiraling into an even darker place.

Tormented by terrifying nightmares, she fears she will lose her sanity, or possibly her soul. Is she having post-traumatic stress hallucinations, as one of her friends suggest, or are her recurring nightmares as real as they seem? Trapped in an unyielding emotional bondage, Danielle continues the fight to reclaim her power. Startling revelations awaken her newfound spirit, inspiring a once naïve girl to grow into a woman of defiance and courage.

“A dark, alluring and fascinating book about a girl trying to crawl out of the darkness and despair and grow in strength and spirit.” –Books Are Love

“A gripping and emotional story about trauma and abuse…” – Elizabeth Greschner

“…an emotional roller coaster…” –Love Books

“…a startingly intense look into the lives of the young teens in present day America!” –Deepak Menon

“This book will catch you right in from the start.” –Peggy

“…a powerful story right from the start.” –Joanne Dore

“I can’t wait for her next book because now I’m hooked!” –Lori Stanley

“I’m looking forward to reading more from this author.” –Denise Buttino Terrell

Available on:

Amazon
(If you buy the paperback on Amazon, you can get the $2.99 Kindle edition for $.99.)

Barnes & Noble
(for paperback & Nook versions)

iTunes
(for iBooks on your Mac or iOS device)

Free review copies are also available. If you’d like to review this book, please contact me for your complimentary copy.

Here is a preview of the first chapter:

CHAPTER ONE
Connecticut, Summer of 1987

There was no blood. I was dead inside, but not bleeding. Zipping my shorts in a daze, I focused on the brown and gold hues of the wall tiles. I washed my hands over the sink, avoiding my reflection. The hexagon-shaped mirror was antique and gilded. I now felt debased in its presence as well as in these familiar surroundings. After turning off the faucet, I stood there for a moment, and then hastened to my room.
The brass bed, dressed in white eyelet sheets and frilly pink bedding, was an update of my choosing. The nativity scene plaque on the wall above it had been there throughout my childhood—Mother Mary in a protective stance over Baby Jesus. I suppose the intention was to comfort and protect me. Still, I lined the bed with stuffed teddy bears and kept a sixteen-inch porcelain doll with golden hair and dark blue eyes on my white dresser. She wore a pink Victorian dress with lace trim and glimmering beads and a hat to match. I picked her up now and held her tightly to my chest. A tear fell as I snuggled her to me for as long as I could. After setting her down, I approached the window.
I could see far from these foothills. A woodlot of mixed forest surrounded our home. In one direction, I saw the Hartford skyline—in another, steep, rolling hills in their divine and blissful glory. My room faced the direction of Old Buckingham, not half a mile away. The ancient cemetery was set back from the road, just beyond a fortress of trees. We heard stories of weeping spirits, distant cries of agony, and diaphanous circles of white light floating above and between the tombstones. I never knew whether people convinced themselves of these things or merely embellished the truth. One thing I knew did happen: Fierce hurricane winds had nearly destroyed the little church on its grounds.
Much as I loved this house, it was an eerie place to grow up. That had little to do with ghost stories. I would lie awake in my bed at night, listening to the sounds of darkness—imagining that the hoarse caw of the crows warned of impending doom. I got this sense of urgency from yapping dogs, yelping coyotes, and the ear-piercing whistles of the woodchucks. Some nights, even the benign chirping of crickets grew louder and more intense with each moment.
I prayed, always.
Watching from the window now, I felt like some reclusive old person who got all the neighbors whispering. I watched for a dusty black Cutlass Supreme, needing to make certain it was nowhere in sight.
The phone rang, and I panicked. My father had mounted it to the wall between my room and the master bedroom, so I had to leave the room to answer it.
“Hello, Danielle,” the voice cooed.
Sickened to my core, I hung up.
It rang again, the innocuous ivory phone that seemed suddenly possessed. I wanted to rip it off the wall.
I lifted the receiver.
“Don’t hang up.” It was the other guy.
“Stop calling here!” I ended the call with a slam.
They had the gall to utter my name! They sounded so casual, so elated—as if the atrocity I had endured earlier that day had been mutually rewarding. Granted, it could have been worse, and yet a part of me had died. More unsettling still, they knew where to find me.

***

Shattering Truths, was originally published in January of 2016 under the title Provenance of Bondage. The re-release has a lot of new material but is a bit shorter than the original, since I decided to cut some of it as well. I’m very happy with the new version, and I think readers will be, too!

***

© Copyright January 30, 2017 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.

Shattering Truths Cover by KH Koehler Design

SO EXCITED ABOUT REVEALING THIS SPECTACULAR NEW COVER!

This beautiful cover is by KH Koehler Design. I highly recommend both her editing and book design services. KH is uniquely talented, honest, knowledgeable, and reliable. Her rates are affordable. Her work is excellent. She is considerate, professional, supportive, and kind. I can’t say enough in singing her praises, and I could not have been more pleased.

This book, Shattering Truths, was originally published in January of 2016 under the title Provenance of Bondage. The re-release has a lot of new material but is a bit shorter than the original, since I decided to cut some of it as well. I’m very happy with the new version, and I think readers will be, too!

So why the title change you ask? The original title alluded to emotional or psychological bondage, but many, despite the book’s description, took it to suggest BDSM like Fifty Shades of Grey.

Here is the book’s updated description:

She was left fighting her demons alone . . .

For sixteen-year-old Danielle DeCorso, the old house in Glastonbury was an eerie place to grow up. Coping with mental health challenges exacerbated by a traumatic family dynamic, Danielle watches from the window for two men in a dusty black sedan who keep circling the house and harassing her with phone calls. The two predators drugged her and her cousin, Angie, and then lured them from Pleasure Beach in Bridgeport to a secluded cottage on Long Beach West. She remembers feeling dizzy, the room spinning. She recalls screaming, crying, fighting, and then slipping in and out of consciousness. Angie, however, has no recollection of the incident.

When Danielle attempts to jog Angie’s memory and convince their best friend, Farran, that the two strangers had victimized them, no one seems to believe her. Alone in her pain, Danielle remains guarded, obsessed, and withdrawn. Soon she is sinking deeper into a tumultuous world of adolescent isolation and change. Grief, guilt, and anger send her spiraling into an even darker place.

Tormented by terrifying nightmares, she fears she will lose her sanity, or possibly her soul. Is she having post-traumatic stress hallucinations, as one of her friends suggest, or are her recurring nightmares as real as they seem? Trapped in an unyielding emotional bondage, Danielle continues the fight to reclaim her power. Startling revelations awaken her newfound spirit, inspiring a once naïve girl to grow into a woman of defiance and courage.

***

The new version should be available soon, and I’ll have free copies for people who’d like to read and review the book. Please let me know if you want a free copy for that purpose. I will also have the links available for anyone wishing to purchase the book.

Here are just a few lines from the previous edition’s reviews:

“A dark, alluring and fascinating book about a girl trying to crawl out of the darkness and despair and grow in strength and spirit.” –Books Are Love

“A gripping and emotional story about trauma and abuse…” – Elizabeth Greschner

“…an emotional roller coaster…” –Love Books

“…a startlingly intense look into the lives of the young teens in present day America!” –Deepak Menon

“This book will catch you right in from the start.” –Peggy

“…a powerful story right from the start.” –Joanne Dore

“I can’t wait for her next book because now I’m hooked!” –Lori Stanley

“I’m looking forward to reading more from this author.” –Denise Buttino Terrell

And if you care to read on, here is the first chapter:

CHAPTER ONE
Connecticut, Summer of 1987

There was no blood. I was dead inside, but not bleeding. Zipping my shorts in a daze, I focused on the brown and gold hues of the wall tiles. I washed my hands over the sink, avoiding my reflection. The hexagon-shaped mirror was antique and gilded. I now felt debased in its presence as well as in these familiar surroundings. After turning off the faucet, I stood there for a moment, and then hastened to my room.
The brass bed, dressed in white eyelet sheets and frilly pink bedding, was an update of my choosing. The nativity scene plaque on the wall above it had been there throughout my childhood—Mother Mary in a protective stance over Baby Jesus. I suppose the intention was to comfort and protect me. Still, I lined the bed with stuffed teddy bears and kept a sixteen-inch porcelain doll with golden hair and dark blue eyes on my white dresser. She wore a pink Victorian dress with lace trim and glimmering beads and a hat to match. I picked her up now and held her tightly to my chest. A tear fell as I snuggled her to me for as long as I could. After setting her down, I approached the window.
I could see far from these foothills. A woodlot of mixed forest surrounded our home. In one direction, I saw the Hartford skyline—in another, steep, rolling hills in their divine and blissful glory. My room faced the direction of Old Buckingham, not half a mile away. The ancient cemetery was set back from the road, just beyond a fortress of trees. We heard stories of weeping spirits, distant cries of agony, and diaphanous circles of white light floating above and between the tombstones. I never knew whether people convinced themselves of these things or merely embellished the truth. One thing I knew did happen: Fierce hurricane winds had nearly destroyed the little church on its grounds.
Much as I loved this house, it was an eerie place to grow up. That had little to do with ghost stories. I would lie awake in my bed at night, listening to the sounds of darkness—imagining that the hoarse caw of the crows warned of impending doom. I got this sense of urgency from yapping dogs, yelping coyotes, and the ear-piercing whistles of the woodchucks. Some nights, even the benign chirping of crickets grew louder and more intense with each moment.
I prayed, always.
Watching from the window now, I felt like some reclusive old person who got all the neighbors whispering. I watched for a dusty black Cutlass Supreme, needing to make certain it was nowhere in sight.
The phone rang, and I panicked. My father had mounted it to the wall between my room and the master bedroom, so I had to leave the room to answer it.
“Hello, Danielle,” the voice cooed.
Sickened to my core, I hung up.
It rang again, the innocuous ivory phone that seemed suddenly possessed. I wanted to rip it off the wall.
I lifted the receiver.
“Don’t hang up.” It was the other guy.
“Stop calling here!” I ended the call with a slam.
They had the gall to utter my name! They sounded so casual, so elated—as if the atrocity I had endured earlier that day had been mutually rewarding. Granted, it could have been worse, and yet a part of me had died. More unsettling still, they knew where to find me.

I hope you enjoyed this blog, and I thank you for reading!

© Copyright January 24, 2016 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.

ON SALE NOW! DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE PROVENANCE OF BONDAGE

 

EXCERPTS

An impulsive glance at the sky halted me in my tracks, or had I sensed it? The omnipotent gold of the sun rose against a backdrop an artist might have painted—ominous charcoal gray, flames of orange, nuances of blue, and an invigorating, most passionate purple. In that exquisite hour when hope reigned with the promise of a new day, I saw her— as if a divine force had illuminated her. She was on the roof in that virginal white gown, her dark hair blowing behind her, like a child lost. My heart pounded. I made a dash for the stairs with Robbie close behind me.

We raced up three flights to the gloomy old attic door with its dark rustic stain and antiquated handle. It was slightly ajar, and I could feel the draft now. The first streak of sunlight in that murky chamber came from the small window and the open roof hatch. We hurried along the creaking floors, beneath the angled ceiling, through the room dusty with cobwebs. A scissor stairway led to the horizontally placed roof hatch.

She had her back to us, but she heard us and turned. I thought she could hear the beating of my heart that thumped so violently.   

***

I knew something was wrong. Her skin was pale. When I reached for her hand, it was trembling. I could tell she was reluctant to walk away.My father took her arm.

“Please, Mommy, Daddy, no!” I screamed, tears clouding my vision. “Don’t leave me here. Please don’t leave me!”

My mother turned, and I saw she also had tears.  My father steered her onward. I cannot imagine the agony they endured, as they continued to disappear from my view. They turned back only one time to wave goodbye to me. 

***

What had those vile creatures unleashed in me? What beast had they awakened? I think I vowed to kill the beast and bury it so deep in the abyss it would never again rear its ugly head. Part of me did make this promise. The other part embraced an unfolding of life’s inextinguishable flames and the mind’s unspoken bondage.

As far as reinforcing the strength of my mind’s resolve, I supposed my body was a useless entity. Rather, it was this fancy thing I lived in—a mausoleum that beckoned the living, promising gratification, refuge, solace, peace, even immortality. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t mine. I realized then, it had never belonged to me. I could control what happened to it only if people were merciful. Watching Valentin was not merciful. It was a torturous joy.

***

He pulled into the parking lot of Manchester Memorial, took the key from the ignition, and spoke with his eyes on the wheel. “I am the one who is sorry, okay? You have nothing to be sorry about.” I never heard him speak in such a shaky, fractured voice.

“I love you, Daddy,” I assured him.

An awkward silence ensued.

“I feel like you don’t love me anymore.”      

“Danielle, it has nothing to do with whether I love you or don’t love you. You’re my daughter, okay? What happened should never have happened. You didn’t deserve that.”

***  

It was an unsettling time of strange and constant shifting between the uncorrupted purity of youth and the reckless foray into a demoralizing coming of age. A choice seemed to continually surface, bittersweet reality or sweet imagination, child or grownup, right or wrong. I kept searching for the in-between, but I couldn’t find it. I felt a rebellious joy as well as a distant sadness.

***

The crushing of one’s will didn’t cease with the conquest. Poison oozed from the wound like some fairy tale curse that corrupted your spirit, making it so vile that you couldn’t know or understand your desires.

BOOK DESCRIPTION

Sixteen-year-old Danielle DeCorso watches in fear for two men in a dusty black sedan who keep circling the house and harassing her with phone calls.

The old house in Glastonbury was an eerie place to grow up. Danielle would lie in her bed at night, listening to the sounds of darkness. But those predators in the black sedan—they had drugged her, along with her cousin, Angie, and held them captive in their home for hours.

Angie will not share her truth of that horrendous day, and Danielle’s credibility is in question. Danielle remains guarded, obsessed, and withdrawn in her now tumultuous world. She finds herself in a position of needing to sort out her confusion while dealing with her troubled family. She craves normalcy in an ongoing fight for her sanity. Grief and guilt spiral her to an even darker place until startling revelations awaken her newfound spirit, inspiring a once naive girl to grow into a woman of defiance and courage.

READ THE BOOK’S PREFACE

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Cover design by Jah Kaine via jerboa design studio.com

© Copyright January 1, 2016 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.