Visions II: Moons of Saturn received an excellent review in Perihelion Science Fiction Online Magazine, published 12/12/15.
Please visit the magazine and read the review.
Sunday, December 27, 2015
Thursday, November 26, 2015
My Enemy, Myself...
In fiction, the protagonists are largely defined by their adversaries. So it is in reality. Our real-life enemies define us as a people. In how we react to their trespasses against us, and in how we compare ourselves to them.
In a bygone era, our identity as a nation was largely defined by the struggle between western democracy and communism. Today, our defining enemy is militant extremist Islamic fundamentalism. (Not as easy to say as communism, so we've come up with a few catch phrases over the years, like Islamofascism, but you get the idea.) In the devastating attacks of this foreign ideology upon western civilization and western values, we are forced, and perhaps welcome the opportunity to define ourselves in stark contrast to this current enemy. They are fundamentalist while we are pluralist. They are ruled by clerics while we are ruled by elected leaders. They do not value life. We do. (Up to a point. We've been killing thousands for over a decade now with predator drones, but we do our best to miss hospitals. Fortunes of war.) Above all, we are free and they are not.
Of course, how we define freedom is largely determined by our enemies, as well. Whether the government taps our phones or monitors or emails is something we decide based on the enemy clawing at our gates. Or, is it? When Al Quaeda hits us on 9/11 or when ISIS hits France, our leaders (in particular, our right-wing leaders) immediately consider cracking down harder on civil liberties, giving the national security agencies more authority to watch every move we make, compile our messages and perhaps even profile us based on our religion or ideologies. Republican national candidates start toying with the idea of registering American Muslims. (How far is that from internment camps, one wonders.) Not surprising, on the face of it. Someone attacks you, and it's instinctive, and only human to react accordingly.
But, strangely enough, such reactions appear rather selective. When Timothy McVeigh blew up a government office building in Oklahoma City, conservatives automatically assumed at the outset it was foreign Muslim elements who'd done the job. We were longing to strike back, to kill as many of them as we could; it was war. When we found out it was home-grown right-wing militia types who'd done the deed, then it was just a matter of criminal prosecution. A bit of national soul-searching over capital punishment, then the lethal injection, and life goes on. No one started profiling white racist good ol' boys with confederate flags on their pick-ups. No one started advocating all-out national internment or relocation for conservative white Christians critical of big government, race-mixing or over-taxation. When some white supremacist punk shoots up a church, everybody blames his parents for not being strict enough, but nobody sounds the war cry against white supremacism as the "true enemy." Goons can cry out "white power" or tell an Hispanic reporter to "get out of my country" at a political event, and no one seems to care. Least of all the candidate. And, random mass shootings may well become a monthly event, but no one seriously or passionately reacts by advocating tougher gun control laws. "Stuff happens," is the strongest reaction our conservative leaders can or will muster. (So much for our love of life.)
Senseless death is senseless death, yet our society is indeed very selective in its reactions to it, as in its choice of enemies. Yes, our enemies define us. We want them to. We want them to reinforce that which we value most in ourselves. We're a gun-toting nation, and we love it. If increasingly familiar tragic death and mayhem in schools and churches is the price we pay, so be it. We hate big government, though we're not opposed in the least to big government spying on our next-door neighbor if he looks or prays differently than the rest of us. When the attack comes from outside, from someone different, our knee-jerk reaction is war against all the attacker's kind. That's easy. When the attack comes from inside, from one of us, we don't consider it a wake-up call for self-improvement. That's too hard. Rather, it's just an excuse to gather outside a death house with placards, waiting for that hearse to roll out.
If we ever happen to run out of external enemies, I imagine we'll find a way to make more, or focus on convenient minorities within our borders. After all, without external enemies to occupy our attention, we might actually have to take a long hard look at ourselves. And, at the enemy inside our own skins.
Monday, October 26, 2015
Sloane Taylor's novel of intrigue, international danger, and steamy romance...
"French Twist"
By Sloane Taylor
By Sloane Taylor
As American as Apple Pie
Sloane’s
Down-home Fried Chicken
1 tbsp. salt
Tap water
6 chicken legs, or thighs or 4 breasts, skinless and boneless
1 cup flour
1tsp. thyme
½ tsp. marjoram
Freshly ground pepper to taste
1 large egg
1½ tbsp. milk
½ cup solid shortening or lard, plus more as needed
Dissolve salt in a small amount of water. Add chicken pieces then cover
with more water. Set this in the refrigerator for 4-6 hours.
Remove chicken from fridge 2 hours before you plan to cook. Drain and
pat dry.
Combine flour and seasonings in a paper or plastic bag. Shake gently to
combine ingredients. Mix egg and milk in a bowl. Set a clean plate or platter
on the counter to hold the breaded chicken.
Place one chicken piece at a time in the bag, shake gently to
thoroughly coat, then dip in egg mixture, then return the piece to the bag and
gently shake again. Set chicken on the plate. Repeat the process until all
pieces are coated. Set the uncovered plate in the fridge for at least 30
minutes.
Heat the shortening in a large frying pan over medium-high heat. Test
to be sure shortening is hot enough by adding a small piece of bread. It should
sizzle and toast quickly.
Carefully add the chicken pieces. Maintain the temperature, but adjust
it so chicken doesn’t burn and grease doesn’t splatter everywhere.
Turning frequently, brown the chicken on all sides. Cover and cook
20-25 minutes or until juices run clear when pierced with a sharp knife.
Lay pieces on a plate lined with paper towels to absorb any oil.
Transfer them to a clean platter and serve.
Here's a brief intro to Book Three of the Naughty Ladies of Nice series
with Don and Claudette.
Spies and lies bring a deadly twist to the City of
Lights.
Interpol agent Claudette D’Laquois is trapped in the hellhole of life
and unable to trust anyone. Desperate to regain control, she flees to the
safety of her uncle’s rundown chateau on the French Riviera. But Claudette soon
learns the countryside has its own dangers when she finds herself alone with a
sexy foreigner.
Uptight accountant Donald Hobbs ditches numbers for dirt to oversee his
friend’s orchard for three weeks. His well deserved vacation is perfect until a
seductive mademoiselle drags him into a dangerous world of intrigue and erotic
fantasy.
Illegal drugs and Russian mobsters take a back seat to a lethal night
of sinful pleasure for Claudette and Don.
EXCERPT
Nothing like an afternoon of hot sex to keep this guy
happy.
Don followed Claudette down the hallway. He scanned her shoulders and
down to her narrow waist and clenched his fists until the knuckles almost
popped. His gaze dropped to her shapely hips that flared over her long legs.
Legs that went on forever. He worked his way back up to her firm ass,
mesmerized by the little swing it did as she nonchalantly strolled ahead of
him. The rose dangled over her shoulder, luring him like a horse to the carrot,
and he was eager to chase after it.
Walking right then wasn’t the easiest thing, but he managed. Her
tapered legs in those sexy heels strapped around her slender ankles were the
added bonus to keep him moving.
She stopped at her open bedroom door and glanced over her shoulder. Her
long auburn hair shimmered with the movement.
Jesus, she was beautiful.
“Mon cher, do not be shy.” Her voice dropped a
couple of octaves. “I am not.”
Obviously, and he loved it.
He followed her to the bed while fumbling with the buttons on his
shirt. She bent and laid the rose on the nightstand, exposing her wet pussy.
His cock jackknifed. He swallowed hard and prayed he didn’t come before he
finally got to touch her.
“You look as if you need help.” Her soft voice came out low, like a
woman who’d been making love for hours.
She turned and reached for his belt. Her large breasts jiggled with the
movement and erased his control.
He stretched out a hand for her, but she eluded him and dropped to her
knees before he could touch her rosy nipples. An herbal aroma drifted up to him
as her hair flowed across her breasts. He scooped it out of the way. The need
to watch her every movement overwhelmed him.
His zipper rasped open. Don forced himself to breathe. His swollen cock
leapt out of his shorts, grazing her moist mouth.
“I like a man who is eager.”
Her warm breath tingled against his swollen head.
He closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer she followed through on
what he hoped she had in mind.
He held out his hand, wrapped it around hers, and pulled her into his
arms. She was warm and yielding and sexy as hell. He cupped her chin and raised
it toward his mouth...
BUY LINKS
Her
books are set in Europe where the men are all male and the North American women
they encounter are both feminine and strong. They also bring more than lust to
their men’s lives.
Taylor
was born and raised on the Southside of Chicago. Studly, her mate for life, and
Taylor
now
live in a small home in Indiana and enjoy the change from city life. She is an avid
cook and posts new recipes on her blog
every
Wednesday. The recipes are user friendly, meaning easy.
Taylor
currently has seven erotic romance books and one box set released by Toque
& Dagger Publishing. Excerpts from these books can be found on her website,
blog,
and all popular vendors.
Subscribe
to her short newsletter.
Connect with Taylor on Facebook,
Twitter,
and Google+.
Monday, September 14, 2015
The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Fans of the bizarre, the dark and the horrific...And, of the one and only Sherlock Holmes, attend:
Coming October 27,
2015!!!
“When you have
eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however
improbable, must be the truth.”
Sherlock Holmes is one
of the most recognizable characters in Western literature. Conan Doyle’s
inimitable detective has been the subject of literally thousands of books,
movies, television shows, plays and even songs. With the rise of the BBC
series and the release of all copyrights, the beloved character has found a new
life among modern audiences.
In An Improbable
Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 14 authors of
horror and mystery have come together to create a unique anthology that sets
Holmes on some of his most terrifying adventures. A pair of sisters willing
to sacrifice young girls to an ancient demon for a taste of success, a sinister
device that can manipulate time itself, and a madman that can raise corpses
from the dead are just a few among the grisly tales that can be found within
these pages.
Curl up with a warm
cuppa and leave all the lights on. This is not your grandfather’s
Sherlock Holmes.
The Fairy Pool by Lucy Blue
Sherlock Holmes and the Hungry Ghost by Katie Magnusson
The Diamond Carter Ghost by Matthew Wilson
The Haunted Branch Line by Tally Johnson
The Arendall Horror by Thomas Olbert
Worlds Collide by S. H. Roddey
Time is Running Out, Watson by Adrian Cross
A Voice in the Blood by Dan Shaurette
The Hunt of the Red Boar by Thomas Fortenberry
The Canaries of Clee Hills Mine by Robert Perret
The Chase by Melissa McArthur
The Adventure of the Missing Trophy by Mark W. Coulter
The Case of the Rising Dead by Trenton Mabey
The Adventure of the Slow Death by Harding McFadden
***
Excerpt:
"The Arendall Horror," by Tom Olbert
Sandborn
led us through the tunnel, into the caves.
As we all entered, torches lit, I sensed something cold and horribly
forbidding in the dank interior of those murky caverns. There was a slimy, rancid stench as if we
were walking into a slaughterhouse. “What
is that horrid smell?” I asked.
“Rats, I expect, sir,” Sandborn
answered. “I saw a few of them down here
that night, picking at other scraps of itself that thing had left behind. Then, I heard the poor vermin squealing in
the dark as they died.”
Then, I saw it. The torchlight fell on a
shadowed corner of the cave. Dripping milky-white
fibers formed a grotesque nest of sorts, containing three large, ovoid,
leathery objects. They resembled egg
pods in a spider’s web, though magnified to scale many thousands of times. I gasped as the horrid things began to split
open, bursting from the inside out.
Sickly, milky-white fluid coated the abominable things that emerged,
squealing as they clawed their way out. To
this day, I cannot accurately describe them.
The creatures had long, jointed limbs like that of a giant spider, yet
they were webbed, like the wings of a huge bat.
Their heads were
rodent-like and snarling with six-inch fangs dripping. Their eyes glowed green in the
torchlight. Scarcely out of their
ungodly crèche, they were shrieking and swarming at us with inconceivable speed,
slithering on multiple tentacles.
http://mochamemoirspress.com/
Monday, September 7, 2015
Visions II: Moons of Saturn
Ice mining in space, colonization of extraterrestrial moons,
war between interplanetary corporations, and time travelers bent on
destruction, with mighty Saturn as the backdrop.
The theme, Moons of
Saturn, provided inspiration for the creation of widely divergent tales
centered about the mysterious planet and its system.
NASA’s Cassini
Missions have captured stunning images of Saturn, its mesmerizing Rings of ice
and rock, and its 53 officially named moons. These twelve authors present their
visions of the Saturn System’s promise, as rich and diverse as the reality of
Saturn, its Rings, and moons.
The second book of
the Visions Series, this anthology features: Tom Tinney, W.A. Fix, Thaddeus
Howze, Ami Hart, Bonnie Milani, Jeremy Lichtman, S.M. Kraftchak, Timothy Paul,
Tom Olbert, Amos Parker, R. E. Jones, and Duane Brewster.
· In the depths
of an ice mine on Dione, embattled troopers combat alien amoeba in the frigid
tunnels.
· Wry humor
combines with eccentricity in a tale of time traveling disaster.
· Enemies team
up to complete a mission, in an intense tale of revenge.
· Security teams
from opposing corporations, battle for possession of lunar mining operations.
Excerpt:
"Reckoning at Enceladus" by Tom Olbert
The exploding glider lit the methane clouds over Titan in a
bloody red glow. Gene Grey Wolf gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath
in the gunner’s canopy, a torrent of half-frozen liquid methane slamming
against his suit, as he struggled to get a radar lock on the two remaining
gliders zeroing in on him. “Hold
her steady, dammit!” He yelled at his glider pilot, now turning into the heart
of a raging squall, the superstructure of the cloud glider rattling wildly. Gene
was reminded of the time he dove his space fighter into Saturn’s upper
atmosphere, two Combine laser ships on his tail.
“You wanna try it?” the other man’s voice came blaring in
over the radio link in Gene’s oxygen helmet, wild and scratchy.
One of the Combine gliders spread its elevator fins and
turned in, riding the storm current as the pilot tried for a flank shot. The
attacking glider’s radar silhouette looked like a monstrous dragon fly, its braking
fins spreading like great wings as it turned. “Pull up!” Gene yelled. Too late.
His pilot was too busy navigating the storm, his glide sails ready to collapse
under the pressure. The enemy pilot fired, a plasma volley cutting through the
superstructure of Gene’s glider, the braking fins splitting clean off as the
glider spun wildly into the storm. Gene fired wildly, trying to take out at
least one of the killers. He clipped the wingtip on one glider as the other
turned to navigate the storm. “Burn, you scum!”
He swore at the top of his lungs as his own pilot ejected. Blowing his
own separation charge, Gene groaned at the lurch of the gun module blasting
free from the disintegrating glider. He spun end over end, his head swirling as
he triggered his braking chute.
VISIONS II: Moons of Saturn
Paperback: 232 pages
Publisher: Lillicat Publishers (August 20, 2015)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0-9916426-2-7
Thursday, September 3, 2015
A hauning mystery from Rita Monette..
Behind every legend lies the truth…
Moving is nothing
new for ten-year-old Nikki Landry. Her father relocates their raggedy old
houseboat several times a year in search of better crabbing spots. However,
their latest move has brought her to a mysterious bayou where she feels
something is watching her from a nearby island.
Nikki learns of a
local legend about something sinister inhabiting those swamps, stealing the
souls of dogs...which would explain the strange howling sounds. Papa reassures
her there’s nothing on the island but gators and snakes. He should know. He’s
spent his whole life trapping and fishing those bayous and swamps…But maybe
there’s something Papa doesn’t know.
Nikki and her new
friends begin to uncover strange happenings from years ago that may have
started the old legend…and town folks aren’t talking.
Then her beloved
beagle goes missing.
Join Nikki as she
seeks to discover the real truth behind the legend of Ghost Dog Island…before
it’s too late.
************
Title: The Legend of Ghost Dog Island
Author Name: Rita Monette
Genre(s): Middle Grade, Adventure, Mystery
Tags: Adventure, mystery, middle grade, louisiana, bayou,
dogs
Length: Approx. 204 pages
E-book:
978-1-987976-00-7
Paperback:
978-0-9947490-9-3
Re-Release Date: September 1, 2015
Publisher: Mirror
World Publishing
********************
Excerpt:
“I’m going to hate Morgan City,” I complained to my dog
Snooper, “no matter what Papa says.”
My beagle laid his head on my lap and gazed up at me with
his watery eyes. He pretty much agreed with me on everything.
I sat on the deck of our old flat-bottomed houseboat as it
glided through the winding bayous. Papa’s fishing boat, filled with baskets of
line and crab crates, trailed behind on its rope. We were leaving Pierre
Part…Lydia…far behind. I rolled the legs of my overalls up and dangled my feet
over the edge.
“Nicole Landry, keep your feet out of that filthy water,”
Mama hollered from the doorway of the small living area of our floating home.
She wiped her hands on her stained apron, then fixed the comb that held her
long dark hair in a pile on top of her head. Mama was born and raised in New
Orleans, but left the big city for a life in the bayous with Papa. She never
looked back. At least that’s what she always told folks.
“They ain’t in the water, Mama.” I held my legs up so she
could see they were dry.
She opened the patched screened door and shooed a fly out,
before closing it and going back inside.
I twirled the end of my long black braid. Moving to a new
place always gave me a lump in my throat as big as a bullfrog. But I wasn’t
going to cry this time. I was ten years old after all.
I’d lived in that same house since the day I was born—as
Mama always tells it, "the coldest morn’ of 1946." But I couldn’t
rightly recall how many times it got tied up to a new dock. Mama liked to say
Papa never let the grass grow under his feet. But I could hardly think of a
time when his rubber boots ever touched grass.
Papa grew up in Morgan City, and he said folks there were
mighty friendly. But it seemed to me, most city dwellers weren’t too welcoming
to my kind, being from the wrong side of the levee and all. And the city was where
I’d have to go to school.
“And, as for making friends with any kids there, no way.” I
shook my finger in Snoop’s face. “Just to up and leave ’em behind anyway.”
He managed a tiny whimper, as if I was fussing at him.
I thought about Lydia standing on the Belle River Bridge
waving goodbye. My eyes burned, and I squeezed ’em shut. I felt in my pocket
for her note. I’d read it at least a hundred times since she’d handed it to me,
right before I went stomping down the ladder from her tree house. She’d
scribbled down her post office box address and "write me," then
signed her name with the little heart over the i like she always did.
“Hmph!” I told Snooper. “She’s crazy if she thinks I’m gonna
write her after what she did.”
Lydia Hebert was my best friend in the whole world…until
yesterday. It was a lot easier to leave while I was still mad at her. But now
it felt like an empty hole inside me.
**************
Amazon Link:
******************
About the Author:
Rita Monette was
born and raised in Southwest Louisiana. She loves to write stories set in the
beautiful, yet mysterious, bayous and swamps of her home state.
Her middle grade
series, The Nikki Landry Swamp Legends, is based on tales told by her father—who
made his living in those bayous—of reasons to stay out of the swamp.
She currently
lives with her husband, four lap dogs, and one lap cat, in the mountains of
Tennessee. Besides writing and illustrating, she loves watching the many birds
that make their habitat on the Cumberland Plateau, working in the garden, and
frequenting waterfalls.
*******
Follow the tour:
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Fantasy's border...
People generally know where fantasy ends and reality begins
in the realm of fiction. But, maybe the
dividing line isn’t so clear in real life.
Donald Trump the frontrunner in the Republican
primaries?? Are the voters kidding, or
just temporarily insane?
Probably neither.
They’re in rebellion. The kind of
rebellion that manifests in flight from reality. People (Republican people, at least) are fed
up with the perceived ineptitude and corruption of government. (They don’t understand much of it; they just
want someone to give them easy answers.)
They love Trump because he’s an outsider (that is, someone who knows
absolutely nothing about government) and more importantly, he’s the symbol and
embodiment of everything the modern Republican party holds dear. Money.
Greed. Materialism. Social Darwinism. Life as reality T.V. Winners and losers. Winners get rich. Losers, I guess, get deported. And, those who are different are not
welcome. The GOP constituents are living
in a kind of real-life science fiction dimension in which a giant wall is going
to magically appear along the Mexican border, and illegal immigrants are going
to magically disappear. (Their kids too,
BTW.) Jobs will magically appear too, of
course, and America “will be great again.”
No clue how. That’s the thing
about dreams; they aren’t limited to the boundaries of logic. Oh, and good news: Global warming doesn’t really exist; It’s
just propaganda launched by Red China so they can trick us into shutting down
our industry. (Wow, that’s a relief, to
discover those floods, storms and wildfires devastating the world are just
figments of Beijing’s imagination!)
Donald Trump is no right-wing ideologue. He is first and last a showman. Like a carnival magician, he deals in illusion. He tells the people what they want to hear,
aiming at the heart instead of the mind (tossing in a few doctored statistics
to make it sound reasonable) and, like any practiced con artist, he knows they’ll
buy it simply because they want to. He’ll
seize the oil fields in Iran and give the money to the families of our
veterans. He loves our veterans. He loves our military. Never served a day in his life, but he loves
them from afar. He lays on the sugar-coated
patriotic sentimentality thick, and lashes out with adolescent insolence and
obscenity when attacking his competitors.
And, unlike real candidates, he gets away with it. Yes, he’s the candidate for the
cyber-age. The public loves the Internet
because it frees us from the constraints of courtesy and empathy. We can indulge our petty, hateful,
judgmental, adolescent side with complete abandon.
At some point though, the public has to wake up and face
reality, right? Don’t bet on it. Remember the 1980’s? The public twice elected a cowboy movie star
who promised to make America great again, offering simple solutions to all of
life’s complicated problems. He ended up
selling guns to Iran to finance right-wing death squads in Central America, he
defended white supremacism in South Africa and he left this country with the
biggest national debt in history. Yes,
it really can happen. Fantasy and
reality can merge with horrifying effect.
The one essential ingredient is a convenient enemy. In Ronald Reagan’s case, it was the “evil
empire” of Soviet communism. In Trump’s
case, it’s illegal immigration.
Flash forward to President Donald Trump. Would he really
keep his hopelessly impractical promises, by whatever means necessary? Would millions of undocumented immigrants and
their children really disappear in the dead of night, only to turn up later in
mass graves along the border, or scattered across the desert as ashes
fluttering down from chimneys? Probably
not. Trump’s not the kind of guy who
cares about keeping promises after they’ve gotten him what he wants. Chances are, President Trump would
concentrate on lining his pockets by shipping more American jobs overseas and
making life safer for corporate tax shelters.
He’d wage open war on organized labor, of course. He’d become the standard bearer of the school
of thought that corporations are people, and people are disposable assets. And, forget the environment. It’s history.
Four years of getting ripped off again by utterly unbounded corporate cannibalism.
The dream becomes the nightmare. Why? We
trust the rich because they represent what we want to become, even as they
squeeze the middle class into extinction and make upward mobility a remote
memory that they will bloody-well keep to themselves. So much easier to trust the charismatic
leader…king, czar, fuehrer…and to blame all our problems on the outsider we can
scapegoat and persecute. Trump recently summarized
the reason for his popularity: “Politicians
try to make themselves look like one of the common people. But, the voters don’t want that. They want somebody who can beat Japan and
China.” He likely has no clue how to do
that. But, the masses don’t care. They just want some iconic, larger-than-life
figure they can look up to. It’s so much
easier than actually governing themselves.
The fantasy becomes reality.
And, then, God help us all.
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