#SaturdaySpotlight is on Icy Snow Blackstone & Runaway Brother

Hello December!

Not sure if I'm ready or not but this year is winding down fast. One thing I AM happy about is that Medicare AEP ends in 1 week and boy am I ready! It's been a good season but I'm ready for the madness to stop LOL!

Today's guest, brought by Class Act Books, is new to me so please welcome Icy Snow Blackstone as she enters the spotlight for today - Welcome Icy!

Icy Snow Blackstone was born in 1802, in northern Georgia where her father, the Reverend John Blackstone, was prominent in local politics.  She married a minister, raised seven children, and lived there all her life.

Two hundred and five years later, her great-great-great-great-granddaughter began using her name as a pseudonym for her romance novels. The present Icy Snow Blackstone lives far from her Southern roots in Lancaster County, Nebraska, where she continues to write romances. 

As of 2017, Icy Snow has eleven novels published by Class Act Books. Her contemporary romance, Tuesday’s Child, was given the Paranormal Romance Guild’s Reviewers Choice award for Best Contemporary Novel of 2014. A SciFi romance, Earthman’s Bride and Vietnam-era romance Jericho Road, have also received awards.

At the age of twenty-two, newly-graduated Nicolo Liguori is forced by his three brothers to become care-giver for his father, who suffered multiple strokes.  For the next ten years, Nick gives up his own ambitions , working during the day in the family jewelry business in Vanderhoek, New York, and returning to the Liguori mansion every night, to be at his father’s beck-and-call. Then Papa dies and Nick is free…or is he?  Carlo, Marco, and Pietro expect him to continue life as usual, but Nick has other ideas.  Secretly buying a motorcycle, he starts to work one day and… disappears.

Nick gets as far as the southern coast of Georgia before an accident disables his bike.  Stranded, with no idea of the South except what he’s seen on TV, Nick isn’t certain what kind of reception he’s going to get.  Then, a pretty Southern miss and a white tank disguised as a temperamental horse named Shazam change his life as they and the citizens of Oceano teach a runaway Yankee about life and love in a small Georgia town.

EXCERPT: 

The track was getting narrower, barely two ruts now with a width of slender, wiry grass separating them.  He slowed the bike.  Don’t want to get that stuff caught in the spokes and stall the engine.

Nick raised his head, looking around, then gave a loud sigh of exasperation.  Okay!  So I’m lost!  He’d just follow the road to wherever it went, probably to some farmer’s front yard.  When he got there, he’d apologize, turn around and get himself back to the main drag.  If he could find it.

A broken branch loomed ahead, and he turned his attention to it, guiding the bike around it.  

            A second branch and several twigs littered the roadway.  Nick was so concerned with maneuvering around them he didn’t see the horse sail over the fence, wasn’t even aware it was there until he looked up and found the white shape almost directly in front of him.

            He jerked the wheel to the right, forgetting to apply the rear brakes first.  The bike skidded, its back wheel rising off the ground as the front one stopped rolling.  He had a brief vision of the animal leaping forward, its rider clinging to its back, wide, frightened blue eyes, flying blonde hair...

            The motorcycle went off the road, sliding into the ditch and running up the other side, the front fender striking one of the fence posts.  It bounced and rebounded, and Nick went flying over the handlebars, flipping in mid-air and hitting the same post with his back. The bike wavered a moment, then toppled onto its side.  Nick slid down the post, landing upside down in the ditch, his shoulders crushing coffeeweed into an aromatic mass.

            The pounding hooves stopped.  He heard running footsteps, opened his eyes and saw someone running toward him.  He closed them again.

            “Are you hurt?”

            This time when he opened his eyes, he was staring at the upside-down face of a very pretty girl, at least she’d have been pretty if her face wasn’t screwed up into such a dismayed scowl.

            “Am I hurt?”  He managed a growl as he slid further into the weeds and rolled over.  “I just hit a fence and got tossed into a ditch!  What do you think?”  Clambering to his knees, while she plucked ineffectually at one arm, he jerked out of her grasp.  “I can get up by my—  Ow!” 

            He’d gotten upright, took a step, and his leg buckled, turning at the ankle   “Here.”  She slid into the ditch, offering a hand.  Reluctantly he took it, being careful not to put too much weight behind it as he let her pull him to his feet.  He could see she was worried and he really wasn’t hurt all that bad, but he was angry because she’d been so reckless.

            “What the Hell’s the matter with you?  Jumping in front of me like that!  If I’d hit that horse—”

            “What are you doing riding this road?  This is private property.”

            She was too pretty for him to pretend to stay angry at, so he toned it down, answering her question. “I got lost.  I only wanted to find the end of the road and turn around.”

            “You have a way to go.  The house is about a quarter of a mile that way.”  She nodded toward a group of pines thrust into the road, hiding the rest of it from sight. Nick looked in that direction, then back at her.  She, in turn, looked at the motorcycle, still on its side in the weeds.  “You seem okay.  Is that hurt?”

            Nick got down on one knee, feeling under the bike.  His hand came away wet.  He sniffed at his fingers. 

Gasoline. He pulled off one glove, exploring gingerly.  Something had punched a hole in the gas tank and gasoline was pouring into the grass.  He had no idea how, but it didn’t matter.  What did was that he wasn’t going anywhere as long as that hole was there.

            “Well?”  She appeared to be awaiting his diagnosis.

            He wiped his fingers on the seat of his jeans.  “Gas tank’s got a hole in it, clutch cable’s severed. Is there a motorcycle shop around here anywhere?”

            “No, but Marshall’s in town can probably repair it.  He does everything from lawn mowers to farm machinery.”

            Oh Lord, deliver me from small town handymen!  He was about to tell her he didn’t want Marshall touching his bike when he realized, What else am I going to do?  Do you have a better idea, Mr. Runaway?

            “So which way is town?”  He straightened, looked around as if expecting to see the city limits a few feet away.

            “Too far for you to push that thing,” she answered, gesturing at the front wheel.  “Not with it twisted like that.”

            “What do I do then, Miss Not-So-Helpful?  Since this is your fault—”

            “My fault?”  Hands went to her hips.  And deliciously slim ones they were, too.  Nick had a moment to think she looked anything but angry, though it was apparent she thought she did.  Cute, maybe.  Hell, he might even say adorable with those blonde wisps floating around her face, but angry?  Nope!  “Who’s the trespasser?  Who had his head down, studying the ground when he should’ve been looking straight ahead?”

            “You weren’t ahead of me,” he countered.  “You and that white tank of yours jumped a fence and came in from the side.”

            “Never mind.  Just let me get the bike upright and point me in the right direction, and—” 

“I’ll do no such thing.”  That made him stare at her, wondering if she was going to walk away, mount her white steed, and leave him stranded knee-deep in Kudzu or whatever-the-Hell these weeds were.  “I’ll ride back to the house and get my grandpa’s truck.  We”ll put the motorcycle in it.”

            She clambered up the bank, running toward the horse now was grazing on the other side of the road.  Catching the reins and a handful of mane, she swung into the horse’s back—very gracefully, he noted—then turned the animal’s head and trotted it back to him.

            “You stay right there,” she told him.  “I’ll be back in a jif!”  She kicked the horse in the ribs and sent it galloping down the road.

            Nick turned his attention back to the V-Rod.  It hadn’t moved.  Did he expect it to get up and limp over to him like a dog with a hurt paw, whimpering for sympathy?  Shaking his head, he leaned against the edge of the ditch, back against a fencepost.

            Welcome South, Brother!       

Runaway Brother can be purchased from the Publisher and Amazon.

Hope you enjoyed our guest today friends and that you'll check back regularly for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight!

Until next time good luck and God's blessings.
PamT

#SaturdaySpotlight is on Toni Sweeney & Regeneration

Good Morning!

I hope your Thanksgiving day and weekend was and continues to be BLESSED.

Today's spotlight guest is not new. Toni has shared treasures and the spotlight before but today she returns with her latest book, Regeneration!

Regeneration

Book 8,  the final entry of The kan Ingan Archives

Part 2 of The Arcanian Chronicles

BLURB:

After the loss of his wife, home, and family, a position as Chief Researcher on the TerraFormation colony on Élysée seems a good way for Miles Sheffield to regain a normal life.

Aric kan Ingan sees becoming Head of Security on Élysée as an attempt at closure after the deaths of his wife and two eldest sons.

Neither counted on being the only men in a colony of fifty-three women.

Two men seeking redemption…a jungle sending eerie messages…a whispered word, the scent of a dead woman’s perfume…intrude into their psyches, offering metaphysical rebirth and a final chance for happiness.

…if a threat from Earth doesn’t destroy everything they’re regaining.

EXCERPT:

It got darker as the sun set but he didn’t turn on the lights. The robot maid hadn’t reset the kelvin beams before she left, so the wall was still open, letting in sounds from the jungle…a soft chirping like that of crickets…here and there a faint cheep as if birds were calling to each other, and the occasional harsh croak of a bullfrog. He wondered how much water was nearby. Was there a river or lake where frogs lived among lily pads while cranes waded in its current hunting for fish and other birds flew overhead?

Am I getting fanciful or what?

Aric never considered himself to be one for flights of imagination. Being a margrave usually drove out creativity except in ways to wage war or conduct intrigues, but looking out at that green darkness…

He could see the shapes of trees, vines draped and swaying in a slight breeze. There was the rustle of branches brushing together. The wind brought a faint scent into the suite, lily-like and clean, like…freesia. Wasn’t that the name of the flower Susan had liked so? The fragrance changed, becoming the silvery bittersweet of parsilflowers,

Pallas’ perfume.

Aric breathed in the fragrance, feeling his body react as it always had when he smelled it…with longing. Could flowers native to Terra or Arcanis also be found on this planet?

Abruptly he was very weary, wanted to do nothing more than immerse himself in the clear water in the pool, just float for a little while and sip his wine, then go to bed. He had no idea how late it was but six o’clock would come soon enough and he wanted to be alert and on his toes for his first day in his new life.

It would probably be a bit of a madhouse, getting the children ready for school, fighting off eager females... Would he be expected to go with the children or would Net take care of that? He should’ve asked but he didn’t want to reactivate the droid now.

Let her recharge. She’ll need every bit of energy she can absorb for tomorrow. Another thought struck. I hope to the gods Michael behaves himself.

His eldest son was beginning to worry him. So far RD wasn’t a problem except when he tried to emulate his older brother.

I suppose I should be grateful neither was old enough to tag along with Riven and Auric. Otherwise I might’ve lost a third son, too.

Setting the goblet on the edge of the pool, Aric went to the cabinet Net had indicated.

For once, I’m not going to worry, he decided. I’m not going to have a plan set up and mapped out. I’m going to adopt some of that lackadaisical Milky philosophy…let it come as it comes and if tomorrow’s disorganized, so be it. Work can be as regimented as possible. My private life can be chaos. I welcome it.

He hoped he knew what he was talking about.

The cabinet reminded him of his shirt chest at Lindenscraig, having six shelves behind its double doors. Instead of shirts, however, it held stacks of neatly folded towels fashioned of sheet-sized fluffy-napped white bamboo-based fabric. He took one out, opening it. It was big enough to wrap around his body. He dropped it over the back of a nearby chair and standing on one foot and then the other, pulled off his boots, then began to undress, placing his clothing in the chair.

At the end of the pool there were tile steps leading into it. Picking up his goblet, Aric slid naked into the water. He wondered again why the pool was built inside the house. As he waded to the far edge, the answer came to him in the form of a memory, a fresco he’d seen in the newly-opened Museum of Alien Studies in Aljansur City. There was a depiction of something called a Roman bath and it looked very similar to the way the pool in his own living room was set up.

This isn’t simply a swimming pool. It’s a social medium…a place where one invited guests. The exhibit said several territories on Terra used such places, where people gathered together, enjoying each other’s company, even talking business, while floating in sun-warmed water. That’s why the pool was divided by the wall. Inside was for socializing, outside was only for swimming.

Of course.

He doubted if he’d be doing much socializing of any kind, however. He certainly wasn’t going to be getting into the water if all his guests were female. Aric’s Arcanian heritage forbade men and women swimming at the same time. He wondered if he’d be able to overcome that prejudice if there were more men inhabiting the colony, especially if they were Terran men who thought nothing of swimming with members of the opposite sex.

Of course, if it did happen, he’d have to invest in what the Milkies called swimsuits.

Right now, however, for him inside was going to be for thought and reflection. The water was warm enough to make him drowsy. There was a gentle current as it was pulled by the drains through a filtration system and recycled out again. It gurgled loud enough to make a monotonously soothing sound.

One arm along the pool’s edge, Aric leaned back and allowed himself to be lulled.

Here I am…just Miles and myself, two men in a colony of fifty-three women. Whenever I use the word he from now on, I’ll be referring to Miles and no one else. Our sons don’t count. Can we really make this work?

Remembering how women pursued him when he was an Exile, he had no doubt it’d happen again. Even with all the other men on Pyras, they’d singled him out because he was untouchable. And here? No matter what rules were laid down, he was certain he and Miles were going to be viewed as prizes in a contest between all the females, whether they were encouraged or not. As Delia said, they were all in the race.

He hoped there’d be no problem between him and Miles.

Please gods, don’t let any woman cause dissention between us.

They’d never had any on Pyras. For part of the time there, Aric had been under the vows of celibacy enforced by his Exile, while Miles’ post-adolescent hormones sent him running rampant among the younger women in the colony. Then Miles found Becky and Aric admitted he loved Susan.

Now, we’re both older, though perhaps not wiser. Let’s say more cautious…

Anyway, what did it matter? As long as the women managed to keep a professional demeanor during working hours…

…who the Hell cares what happens once the office doors close?

BUY LINKS:

Paperback exclusively from the publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/cat-romance/regeneration-9212018-09-13-19-44-56-detail

Amazon for Kindle and e-books: https://www.amazon.com/Regeneration-Part-Arcanian-Chronicles-Book-ebook/dp/B07HD6CQ5H/

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Toni V. Sweeney has lived 30 years in the South, a score in the Middle West, and a decade on the Pacific Coast and now she’s trying for her second 30 on the Great Plains.

Since the publication of her first novel in 1989, Toni divides her time between writing SF/Fantasy under her own name and romances under her pseudonym Icy Snow Blackstone.   In March, 2013, she became publicity manager for Class Act Books (US) . She is also on the review staff of the New York Journal of Books and the paranormal Romance Guild. In 2016, she was named a Professional Reader by netgalley.com.

Find out more about Toni:

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/tvsweeney

Amazon Author’s Page: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BLQBB8

MySpace: https://myspace.com/tvsweeney

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard

Twitter:  @ToniVSweeney

Hope you enjoyed today's spotlight and that you'll check back often for more Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlights.

Until next time take care and God bless.

PamT

#SaturdaySpotlight is on Michael D Smith and Comm Wealth

Good Morning!

Today's guest is new to our blog so please welcome Michael D Smith with a peek into his book, Comm Wealth.

The CommWealth system, has created a society in which there is no legal claim to any kind of private property. Any object from your house to the clothes you’re wearing can be demanded by anyone, to be enjoyed for thirty days before someone else can request it. As actors in the Forensic Squad theatrical troupe attempt to adapt to this chaos, their breaking of the Four Rules sustaining the system, as several members navigate betrayals, double agents, and murder to find themselves leading a suicidal revolution.

Excerpt: 

Rule One - You are free to enjoy the chosen object for thirty days. During this period no other person may request it.

Rule Two - The requestor is untouchable for thirty days by the person asked. Attempts at retaliation, such as demanding unusually large quantities from the original requestor after the thirty-day period, carry stiff penalties.

Rule Three - Once you ask somebody for something, you can never ask him or her for anything else again.

Rule Four - You can never ask for the same thing back from the person who got it from you, not even after his or her thirty days of enjoyment.

“You know... everything’s free...” Allan blurted.

“Well, of course everything’s free, Allan,” Jill said. “You really don’t have to give me anything for the refill, you know.”

“Well, if everything’s free, why don’t people go after what they want?”

“Well... they do,” Richard said. “Like, people were a little shy through about October, but after that... hell, you know how everyone’s getting whatever they want. I mean, it’ll be
a miracle if Steve gets back here with both the Volvo and the lumber.”

“Well, he’ll have the lumber,” Lisa said, “because he has thirty days to enjoy that. But he might be dragging it back on foot, that’s for sure.”

“No, he’s resourceful. He’ll get that truck!” Jill laughed, hand going to her magnificent breast.

“No, you know that’s not what I’m talking about,” Allan said. “I’m talking about what people really, deep down, want.”

“Well... I guess...” Jill said. “I mean, of course, at that level it’s not material things... that you want...”

“That’s... right...” Richard said, probing for her eyes.

They finally clicked on his for half a second.

“Right! Obviously!” Allan said. “So why don’t we have the guts to go after what we really do want?”

“Well... sometimes I guess we do... screw up the courage...” Jill whispered.

“Lisa, what do you think?” Allan demanded.

Lisa looked at the floor. “Well... sometimes... there are good reasons... for not... for not...”

“See... deep down,” Allan gulped, “I want Lisa!”

Everyone looked at the floor. Lisa turned to the front windows, chin high, as if she hadn’t heard a word.

“If everything’s free, why not Lisa?”

“What?” Lisa gasped.

“Why don’t I go after what I really want? It’s all so simple! And, look, I have two witnesses, Richard and Jill!”

“What?” Richard and Jill cried together.

“It’s simple! Lisa, I hereby ask—for you!” Allan grinned. “It’s really so simple! She has to be mine!”

Lisa whirled off her stool. “I can’t believe this! Allan, you’re crazy!”

“No, you have to give yourself to me! Isn’t that right, Jill? Richard?”

“Well... well, no, Allan... you’re joking!” Richard said.

“I’m not joking! Lisa, you’re mine, that’s all there is to it!”

Lisa’s eyes were wide with fear and disgust.

“Lisa, he’s—just joking,” Jill said.

“I’m leaving. Goodbye,” Lisa said. Allan stood and caught her wrist.

“Dammit, Allan, this is stupid!” Richard said, coming off his own stool.

“Look, I don’t care what anyone thinks!” Allan said. “I’ve made up my mind! It’s Lisa I want! And she’s mine! She’s mine!”

“Let me go!” Lisa moaned, jerking free.

hhmmm...definitely sounds different and intriguing. Thanks for sharing Michael!

Michael D. Smith was raised in the Northeast and the Chicago area, before moving to Texas to attend Rice University, where he began developing as a writer and visual artist.  In addition to exhibiting and selling paintings and drawings, he’s completed fifteen novels. 

Smith’s writing in both mainstream and science fiction genres uses humor to investigate psychological themes.  On his blog, he explores art and writing processes, and his website contains further examples of his writing and art. He is currently Technology Librarian for McKinney Public Library in McKinney, Texas.

CommWealth is his first novel published by Class Act Books.

Find out more about Michael at:

Website: , www.sortmind.com

Blog: www. http://blog.sortmind.com/wordpress/

CommWealth is available at:

Publisher’s website

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

SmashWords

AND 

Amazon.uk

Hope you enjoyed the spotlight and that you'll check back regularly for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.

Until next time good luck and God's blessings!

PamT

#SaturdaySpotlight is on Linda Nightingale and Four by Moonlight

Good Morning Friends,

Linda Nightingale is no stranger to our blog. She has shared treasures, thoughts and our spotlight before so please welcome her back!

 Four by Moonlight is a collection of four stories, each with an element of the paranormal.  Only one of my books is ‘normal’ (without an otherworldly hero).

Gypsy Ribbons, the ghost story, was inspired by Alfred Noyes’ “The Highwayman”. This wonderful poem tells the love story of a highwayman and the innkeeper’s beautiful daughter. I read this piece as a young girl, and it has stuck with me since. It has been recorded in song more than once.  My favorite is Loreena McKennitt’s version.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qI_PMcFnZZw

The vampire story, The Gatekeeper’s Cottage, was inspired by a movie called “Angels and Insects” which in turn was inspired by a novella (the name escapes me at the moment).  If I tell you what “Angels and Insects” is about, it’s a plot spoiler for the story.

Star Angel has the most personal inspiration. At the time it was written, I was going through a divorce, and I suppose I was dreaming of my perfect man on paper.

Night Before Doomsday was inspired by the tale of the Grigori, those angels who descended to Earth to teach Man how to thrive. Of the host who descended, nine-tenths fell from Grace because they fell in love with and married human women. Their story is contained in the “Book of Enoch”, a part of the Apocrypha, very interesting reading. However, I first encountered their story in “Angels” by Malcolm Godwin.

Buy Links:

Publisher's website at http://www.classactbooks.com  
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M3Q9J8B/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1

Linda Nightingale is a native-born South Carolinian who has lived in England and Canada, and now resides in Texas.  Before turning to writing, she bred, trained and showed Andalusian horses for thirteen years.

Four by Moonlight is her first novel for Class Act Books. Its cover, created by son, Simon, was voted one of the Top Ten best covers of 2016 by Preditors & Editors Readers Poll.

Find out more about Linda at:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/linda.nightingale.52?hc_ref=SEARCH&fref=nf
Website: http://www.lindanightingale.com
Blog: https://lindanightingale.wordpress.com/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4839311.Linda_Nightingale
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/lbnightingale1/?etslf=10520&eq=LInda%20Nightingale
Twitter: @LNightingale

Hope you enjoyed today's post and that you'll check back often for more Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlights.

Until next time take care and God bless.
PamT

#SaturdaySpotlight is on Rick McQuiston & When Only the Nightmare Remains!

Good Morning!

It's been quite sometime since Rick visited us. He was in our spotlight last year with another of his books so please welcome him back with his latest, When Only the Nightmare Remains.

When Only the Nightmare Remains
Ghosts, demons, monsters, and of course, everyone's favorite: zombies. I decided to let them all run amok in my novel, When Only the Nightmare remains, a book that was spawned from the title itself (which I like very much, thank you).

Blurb: A town sheriff and three young boys manage to overcome an evil entity threatening their town.

Excerpt:
Emily nudged closer and closer to the spider-webbed pane of glass. The window offered little in the way of a view—being octagonal and no larger than a dinner plate— but what it did reveal was adequate to say the least. It allowed anyone gazing through it to see the lush rolling landscape surrounding the house…and all it contained.

Feeling her already weak heart pound heavily in her chest, Emily scanned the grounds intently, watching for any signs of movement, for any hint of life. For any signs of William. She held the Book tightly in her small hands, refusing to relinquish it to anything or anyone. She had only scratched the surface of its contents, but that was still enough to impart its importance to her.

Her eyes moistened with tears as  she thought of earlier, happier times in her life and her marriage to William.  She should have been thinking about raising a family and planting flowers around the front porch of her home. She should have been thinking about what to cook for dinner when her husband returned home from a hard day’s work. All these simple notions, ones so many young people took for granted, were well beyond her grasp. In their place were terrifying visions of a dim future. Or worse—no future at all.

Movement caught her eye, sending a fresh batch of fear down her already frail spine. She rubbed her eyes to clear them and stared at the spot where she thought she had seen something. It took only a few seconds before her fears were confirmed. Something had moved. She was sure of it, but it was not easily noticeable. Whatever was lurking in the dense foliage was crafty and using stealth to its advantage.

Despite expecting it, Emily found herself cringing from the implications. She knew what it was, slithering around the fields, worming its way closer and closer with each passing minute. She also knew that eventually, inevitably, it would reach her house. Her house. It was her house and hers alone since her beloved husband died earlier that year. Nearly eight cold, empty months had passed since that fateful day when a bullet found its way into his forehead, killing him instantly. Some said that it was a suicide. Perhaps it was, but Emily was not so sure. William had no reason to kill himself.
The pain of that day pushed its way into Emily’s heart, so slowly at first as to be almost unnoticeable, but gradually increasing in its intensity. William had been a good man and a good husband, at least he was before he had changed into a cold, cruel person wholly incapable of compassion or love.

Emily stepped back from the window and slumped into a small, worn leather-back chair. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and the alluring thought of sleep entered her mind more than once. She ignored it. She had too many problems, too many things to think about to be able to enjoy a good rest. Not that she didn’t deserve it.

Outside the house, nestled snugly within the green vegetation of the fields, something waited for its chance to move, to advance toward the house and reach a solitary figure huddled in the attic of the building, and end her life.

Oh my goodness...sounds like a perfect Halloween read - if you dare! Think I'll pass though, Rick but I do wish you the best of luck and God's blessings with your books.

Rick McQuiston is a forty-six year old father of two who loves anything horror related.  By day, he works for a family-owned construction and management company. By night, he churns out horror fiction.

Rick has well over 300 publications so far. He’s written seven anthologies, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors. He’s also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School, and is currently working on his fifth novel, a Cthulhu-based anthology. Rick currently has two novels with Class Act Books:  Fear the Sky and When Only the Nightmare Remains, which was voted #2 in Horror for 2015 by the Paranormal Romance GuIld’s Reviewer’s Choice.

Find out more about Rick at:
Publisher's website: www.classactbooks.com
Author's website: www.many-midnights.com

Buy links for When Only the Nightmare Remains:
Publisher's website: www.classactbooks.com

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/When-Only-Nightmare-Remains-McQuiston-ebook/dp/B00NKX4TAG

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/when-only-the-nightmare-remains-rick-mcquiston/1120364310?ean=2940046171884

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/476484

Hope you enjoyed today's spotlight and that you'll check back each week for another one as well as Tuesday Treasures and Thursday Thoughts (when they're available).

Until next time take care and God bless.
PamT

#SaturdaySpotlight is on Paul McDermott!

Good Morning Friends!

Paul McDermott returns with another peek into his novel.

Born in the Year of the Tiger, Paul’s natural curiosity combined with the deep-seated feline need to roam has meant that over the years he’s never been able to call any one place home. His wanderlust has led him from one town to another, and even from one country to another.

“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t write - my father claims to possess a story I wrote when I was six, which filled 4 standard school exercise books! What I do remember from that time was being told off for doing the Liverpool Echo crossword before he got home from work!”

While Paul was living in Denmark, he allowed himself to be persuaded to write for a purpose instead of purely for his own amusement. Perhaps it was the catalyst of breathing the same air as Hans Christian Andersen.

Paul’s IT guru (aka his talented daughter) has recently constructed a website for him:
www.paulmcdermottbooks.webs.com
Paul frequently lurks at:  www.thewriterschatroom.com  (Sundays & Wednesdays)

So very nice to meet you, Paul....now let's here more about your novel, Spear of Destiny......

In 1945, U-boat Kapitän Herbert Nollau must deliver a weapon which will turn the war in Germany’s favour. His orders are delivered verbally. There will be no written records... and no witnesses.

Alone, far from home, hunted by the Danish Resistance and the might of the Allied Forces, he must obey either his final Orders…or the inner voice of his conscience.

Excerpt:

Überlojtnant Herbert Nollau stood with his Zeiss nightglasses glued to his eyes, impervious to the rain whipped across his cheeks by half a gale. This howled almost exactly at ninety degrees to the tide, which had just reached the full but had not yet begun its retreat. His command craft, U-534, sat uneasily at anchor, dipping at bow and stern in the current, yawing appreciably as frequent Force Ten gusts buffeted her broad flanks. Low, heavy rainclouds hunkered closer, seeming to settle on the upper branches of the natural pine forest which spread untamed, unculled, across the low hills of Schleswig-Holstein.

An identical pair of black Opel staff cars bracketed a canvas bodied Mercedes half-track transport wagon, all three vehicles picking their way carefully along an unmarked country road. The headlights were taped down to the size and shape of a feral cat's vertical slits, acknowledging the strict rules governing all traffic during the hours of darkness. The road to the harbour just outside Lübeck was neither tarmac’ed nor enhanced with any form of lighting. The drivers were obliged to steer cautiously around every twist, using the gears and brakes more frequently than the accelerator.

"Amateurs!" he thought to himself, as the three sets of headlights crawled slowly closer.

He blanked the thought as soon as it intruded on his consciousness, forcing himself back into State-approved Wehrmacht thinking, based on purely practical matters directly related to carrying out current instructions, with maximum efficiency, without question. He pulled the collar of his oilskins closer around his throat in a futile attempt to prevent the rain from seeping through, soaking his uniform. Raising his night glasses once more, he cursed the weather, the Wehrmacht and the world in general, feeling more exposed and vulnerable with every minute that passed as he waited for the convoy of lights to crawl closer, carrying the equipment which he had been ordered to collect. It bothered him that he was expected to set sail immediately, and await orders concerning his destination by radio once he had cleared the bay and entered Store Bælt: technically, that section of the North Sea was neutral Danish waters, and if he were to remain on the surface for any length of time in order to receive orders …

As the lights snaked around another pair of curves and began their final descent to the shoreline and the jetty where U534 was waiting, Herbert Nollau realized that he had on board a much more powerful sender/receiver than any other U-boat: in fact, not just one but two radios equipped with the Enigma cryptographic programme had been installed, ostensibly for testing. With a sudden jolt, the deceptively young-looking Überlojtnant realized that this technology was far more sophisticated than that which had previously been regarded as the best in the world: apart from being guaranteed unbreakable as a code, it could also send and receive radio signals without his craft needing to surface.

He shook his head to clear the worst of the pools which had formed in the upturned brim of his sou’wester and made his way down the ladder bolted to the side of the conning tower, aiming to be waiting on the quay before the three vehicles wheezed to a halt. His mechanic’s ear analysed and diagnosed a list of faults he could clearly identify from the laboured chugging of each engine. Furious at this indication of inefficiency, a corner of his mind decided that he would have had the senior officer responsible for each vehicle court-martialled, if the decision had been up to him. In spite of the horrors he had witnessed in three years of naval warfare, he shuddered. His orders, distasteful though they might be, were crystal clear …

Two gaunt, silent shadows slid with simultaneous choreography from the rear seat of each of the Opels: their sleek black trenchcoats almost touched the planks of the jetty, glistening in the starlight as if the officers wearing them had been marching for hours in the rain rather than just stepping out of a warm, dry car. Nollau fired off his most formal salute: the four SS-officers responded with a world-weary, bent-elbow half-salute and pointedly refrained from returning Nollau’s “Heil, Hitler!” One detached himself for a moment and gave a hand-signal to the driver of the canvas-sided truck.  The driver immediately hammered his fist twice on the bulkhead behind his seat. Four soldiers appeared over the tailgate of the wagon and began to manoeuvre something long and heavy out of the cargo space.

Turning to face his command meant that Herbert Nollau had to turn his back on the four staff officers. Somehow he managed to do this with an insolence which stated quite clearly that, as far as he was concerned, they were barely worthy of his contempt.

He placed a small, shrill whistle to his lips and blew, one long (but not overloud) blast. Within ten seconds, the deck was populated by about twenty matelots, standing at ease, who somehow contrived to arrive from nowhere and in total silence. Close to the bows, and just for’ard of ’midships , cables were deployed from two small jib cranes. Within seconds, the submariner crew were on the jetty, taking the unidentified cargo from the shoulders of the four soldiers and hoisting it with ease onto the foredeck, thence by some lightningfast legerdemain out of sight below decks. The crew had followed, leaving Überlojtnant Nollau as the only member of the Senior Service still on the jetty. At a silent gesture from one of the anonymous black trenchcoats the four soldiers climbed back over the tailgate, into the truck. After about four attempts, the driver managed to coax the engine into life and began to back and fill, facing back the way he had come.

As he completed the manoeuvre and gunned the engine to set off up the hill, the four SS officers opened their trenchcoats to reveal the muzzles of rapid fire MP40 machine pistols. With one accord they raised their weapons and sent round after deadly round of ammunition into both the cab and the rear of the vehicle, holding the triggers steady. Before the hail of bullets ceased, the fuel tanks of the wagon exploded, sending flames soaring high into the night sky, setting small fires in the tree tops as they lost their intensity and curled back towards the ground.

Suddenly, Herbert Nollau’s orders seemed fractionally less dishonourable.

Having emptied their weapons, the four executioners appeared to have rediscovered some of their habitual swagger and pride. Crashing the butts of the now-empty weapons against the rough wooden planking of the jetty they raised their right arms to the fullest, and screamed: “Heil, Hitler!” as their heels crashed together in perfect unison.

Sick to his stomach at the pleasure his countrymen took from the callous murder of fellow Germans, it was all Herbert Nollau could do to raise his arm, bent-elbowed, in the less formal salute he would never under normal circumstances have accepted from others nor used himself.


Spear of Destiny is available from the publisher’s website, www.classactbooks.com, as well as on amazon.com.

Hope you enjoyed today's guest and that you'll check back often for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.

Until next time, take care and God Bless.
PamT

#SaturdaySpotlight is on James Austin McCormick & Prisoner Valathia!

Good Morning and Welcome to another edition of Saturday Spotlight!

Today I'm pleased to bring to your attention another new-to-me author brought to us by Class Act Books.

James Austin McCormick is a college lecturer from Manchester, England and in his free time enjoys writing speculative fiction, mostly science fiction, horror and a little sword and sorcery fantasy. He is also a particular fan of classic Gothic and Victorian horror tales and is currently in the process of writing updated versions of these with a science fiction spin.
 His novels include the trilogy Dragon (Dragon, Dragon: Smuggler Tales, Dragon: The Tower of Tamerlane), The Last Synn, a sword-and-sorcery story, a SciFi novel, Sunfall, and a horror novel, Balec. All are available from Class Act Books.

Find out more about James Austin McCormick at:
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJamesAustinMcCormick/
Twitter https://twitter.com/jimbomcc69
Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9860555.James_Austin_McCormick
Amazon https://www.amazon.com/James-McCormick/e/B00F3F9SGY
Class Act Books http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/our-authors/manufacturers/james-austin-mccormick

Very nice to meet you, James! Please share with us your newest release....

The Prisoner of Valathia is a continuation of James Austin McCormick’s DRAGON space opera series and the fourth entry in the continuing story of Sillow Low, the elf-like Sylvan, con man, and Agency spy.

The Prisoner of Valathia takes place after Sillow’s escape from Yamerlane, a hi-tech prison, where Darius Drake's apocalyptic plans for the humanoid home-worlds are defeated. Now, Sillow has a new partner…Titanya the Pirate Queen.

The brash pirate queen, and the cowardly, chain-smoking elf take on their first official mission together: investigate the hijack of a prototype military stealth craft and its connection to the mysterious owner of a small mining operation.

What begins as a simple undercover mission soon becomes something far more sinister as they find themselves faceing one man’s obsession with ancient forces powerful enough to destroy them all.

The Prisoner of Valathia explores Sillow’s personal demons, self-questioning, and existential angst. Love, duty and an obsessive desire for belonging pull Sillow in different directions and it is up to him alone to navigate his way along this tortuous maturational path.

EXCERPT:

Tall, raven haired, with her femininely muscular frame squeezed into a red cocktail dress, Titanya turned every male head as she made her way through the swarm of elite guests. Many tried to think of ways they might meet this amazon and find out just who she was. Even the artificial ruby eye and the silver strip across the cheek just below merely added to her allure. These admirers, however, would have been more than a little surprised to learn the object of their interest was once a “pirate queen,” and the scourge of big corporation haulers everywhere. They would have been equally shocked to discover she was also a fearsome hand-to-hand fighter and one of the long gloves she wore covered a cybernetic arm powerful enough to punch through solid steel.

Few noticed her companion. Like most of the Sylvan race, Sillow was of smallish stature with elfin features making him appear somewhat childlike compared to other humanoid races. In contrast to Titanya’s easy grace, he looked awkward and faintly ridiculous wearing a tuxedo a couple of sizes too big for him.

There was a scowl on his light green features.

“This was really the best you could do?” he complained, rolling his jacket cuffs up as he hurried to keep up with the woman’s swaying strides.

Titanya smiled. “It was the smallest they had.”

Sillow’s emerald eyes swept the area. “This place makes me nervous.”

“Lots of things make you nervous,” the woman told him.

The Sylvan snatched up a couple of champagne glasses from a passing waiter and drank each one down before replacing them.

“Listen,” he protested, “these events are packed with high price assassins. It’s the perfect chance for the elite psychopaths who come to these events to settle scores with each other.”

“So, why do you care?” the woman asked.

“Why? Because sometimes things get out of hand and all hell breaks loose.”

Titanya stopped, hands on her shapely hips. “Really, that could happen, could it? High class parties can just end up as shooting galleries?”

Sillow nodded. “Yep.”

“Give me one example, date, and place.”

Sillow pulled at one of his pointed ears.

“You can’t, can you?” Titanya challenged.

“I heard stories.”

The woman gave a derisive snort. “Yeah, in a low-life bar or casino.”

“Well, actually, it was in the pleasure quarters on Salem Tae when—”

“I don’t want to know,” his companion stopped him. “Why are you even an agent anyway? I never met anyone as easily spooked as you.”

The Sylvan threw her an irritated look. “Hey, I don’t ask for these missions.”

“So why do they send you?”

“Because I’m the best pilot in known space, and I do sneaky well.” He gave a shrug. “What can I say? It’s a gift.” He snatched up another couple of drinks from a tray. This time he held one out to his companion. “Here, it helps the nerves.”

Titanya took the glass. “My nerves are fine, pipsqueak, but I do like champagne.”

Wow...sounds intriguing! Where can we find Prisoner Valatia?

DRAGON: The Prisoner of Valathia is available at amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/Dragon-Prisoner-James-Austin-McCormick-ebook/dp/B0721RR55Q/

Paperback edition available exclusively from www.classactbooks.com

Thanks so much James for sharing your book with us. We certainly wish you the best of luck and God's blessings with it and your series.

I hope you enjoyed today's guest, friends and that you'll check back regularly for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and more Saturday Spotlights.

Until next time, take care and God bless.

PamT

#SaturdaySpotlight is on Robb T White

Good Morning!

Well I returned from my Alaska vacation and am trying to get caught up and back in business. Today's guest is new to me and our blog and brought to us from Class Act Books so please give Mr. Robb T White a huge welcome!

Under the names Terry White, Robert White, and Robb T. White, Robert White has published dozens of crime, noir, and hardboiled short stories, and three hardboiled private-eye novels.  A lifelong reader of crime fiction, he published his first story in Gary Lovisi's Hardboiled magazine. Since then, he has published several dozen crime stories, and a collection of mainstream stories in 2013. An ebook crime novel, "Special Collections," won the New Rivers Electronic Book Competition in 2014. 

White was born, raised, and continues to live in Ashtabula, Ohio.

Weaker sex?  Not hardly!

The female is definitely deadlier than the mail.  Short stories about ladies who can hold their own.

Excerpt:

Be careful what you wish for, Regina.

Her mother’s words. Sometimes she could hear her mother’s voice in the house.

The Vindicator piece on Bodycomb’s death was two paragraphs.

He was found floating in Lake Milton, a popular summer resort area for fisherman seventeen miles east of Austintown just off the Interstate 80 overpass. Shot by a small-caliber weapon in the back of the head. The important information was in the second paragraph: Bodycomb, it noted, was running a dog-fighting network among three states: Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia for a loose-knit West Virginia crime family connected to the Pittsburgh LaRizzo family.

Damn you, Leo.

She was blowing through caution lights, ignoring the honking of cars, as she beelined for the office on Market.

Like a script from a cheap thriller, he was there, wearing the same clothes and unshaven, big jowls dark with stubble, pong of body odor in the overheated single room.

“You promised me full disclosure, total honesty,” she said.

She threw the paper across his desk.

“Here it is in case you missed it.”

Be calm, Regina, she told herself. She wasn’t going to lose her temper and a new job in that order.

“I did and I meant it, Baby,” Leo said.

He glanced at the paper sideways and pushed it back to her. He’d obviously read it.

“You asked me—no, you demanded I call somebody. I did,” he said.

He disgusted her with those wagging jowls and big stomach. She noticed his belt was undone and a patch of curly belly hair exposed.

Probably jerking off in here, the freak.

“I suppose you’ll tell me when the mood strikes.”

“I meant the second case—your next case,” Leo said. “Full disclosure, just like you want.”

Her indignation petered out at the prospect. “So tell me about it,” she said.

Bodycomb was moving in on Donnie Bracca’s territory with his dog-fighting, Leo said.

“He can kill all the dogs he wants in West Virginia,” Leo said. “But Donnie B. controls gambling around here.”

“Donnie Bracca was your real client all the time,” Baby said.

“It’s like this, kid. They don’t blow each other up in cars no more. Gentlemen’s agreements, all nice and polite. But rules have to be followed. Bodycomb went rogue.”

She bit back a retort: You mean, like your own father?

Leo went on, waxing large, a hopeless Mafioso lover, although a real mafia man, a made man, could see Leo couldn’t be trusted. But even the Aryan Brotherhood used outside associates to get things done. Leo could be useful if you couldn’t buy a cop or scare off an investigative reporter snooping in shady politics or business deals.

She didn’t feel bad about Bodycomb’s death. After all, she'd wanted to kill the guy herself.

“Damn it, Leo,” she said. “You should have told me this in the beginning.”Baby moved in the direction Bodycomb’s vehicle had taken. After A couple of hundred yards through meadow grass up to her knees, she stopped and listened. Moving on, she dodged stunted bushes that popped up out of nowhere to snag her clothing. The foliage grew less dense. She found the parallel ruts of the Road Runner’s tracks and kept moving, straining her eyes to see light ahead. If Bodycomb was hiding assets from his soon-to-be ex-wife, he was taking a lot of trouble over it.

After five minutes of faster walking in the grooves, she heard barking coming from the right. She saw the first glimmer of light in the distance. The terrain was sparse but small slopes refracted the light source so it appeared and disappeared with every rise of the ground. A single dog barking became two, then three and finally a pack. Beneath their howls, men’s voices.

When she got close enough to make out words, she lay flat on her belly and put the binoculars on a cluster of men beside a ramshackle barn surrounded by cages of dogs in the beds of trucks beside a squared string of light bulbs a dozen feet from the ground. It looked like a crude boxing ring for backyard brawlers.

Its purpose became clear in the next few minutes. It was a dog-fighting pit.

Dangerous Women is available for Kindle and in Paperback!

Hope you enjoyed today's post and that you'll check back often for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.

Until next time, take care and God bless.

PamT