#BlogTour – Generation (Medical #Thriller) by @_William_Knight #Crime #Horror

What Gerard Debonfort loved most about a Mercedes was the odour of treated cow-hide and the cool solidity of the seats. He’d not driven anything else since he was 21, and although the right-hand-side driving of this particular rental dulled the experience, he still felt at home in this king of cars. The fluorescent instruments, the silent running, the clunk of the doors; like a beast perfectly adapted to its niche. It was red in tooth and claw and he sat in the driving seat at the top of the automobile food chain. He insisted on a Mercedes and he was never disappointed – they wouldn’t dare.

Turning into the driveway of the Manchester premises of Mendel Pharmaceuticals at 9:47 am, Debonfort slid the car past the noses of the protesters. They already seemed subdued and less vocal than when he’d arrived three days before. Most of them huddled around a brazier of burning cardboard, their banners and hoardings discarded hopelessly against the iron fence.

He grinned.

The arched iron gates swept closed behind the car, and he waited at the security post for the guard to check credentials. He’d been given this assignment because a few misguided activists had chained themselves outside Mendel’s premier research labs. Millions had gone into branding and customer relationships – a worldwide effort putting the benefits of Mendel patented genome treatments in front of GPs, hospitals and the public. To have it damaged by a few scaly hippies with cardboard placards was careless.

He parked the car and climbed the steps to reception. He paced through the sliding doors, crossed the white-tiled lobby and stood before the semi-circular desk waiting for the receptionist.

She looked up and recognised him immediately.

“Good morning Mr Debonfort. Your office is ready on the top floor. I’ll get someone to show you up,” she said.

“I’ll find my own way, if you could just buzz me through, please.”

He took the stairs through a security door to the left of the reception desk and enjoyed the click of his leather soles on the polished concrete steps. He loved Mendel’s 1930’s Art Deco building in Manchester. Light flooded the stairwells through clear-glass bricks, and each floor was circled by steel-framed windows that were opened by metal push-rods punched with holes. So different from the modern box of his Geneva office that had been killed by eco-planning, carpets and climate control.

generation

A man emerges from the sodden undergrowth, lost, lonely and starving he is mown down by a speeding car on the edge of a remote forest.

Rumours of ghostly apparitions haunt a rural Northumberland community.

A renowned forensic research establishment is troubled by impossible results and unprecedented interference from an influential drug company.
Hendrix ‘Aitch’ Harrison is a tech-phobic journalist who must link these events together.
Normally side-lined to investigate UFOs and big-beast myths, but thrust into world of cynical corporate motivations, Hendrix is aided by a determined and ambitious entomologist. Together they delve into a grisly world of clinical trials and a viral treatment beyond imagining.
In a chase of escalating dangers, Aitch must battle more than his fear of technology to expose the macabre fate of the drugged victims donated to scientific research.

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Genre – Crime, Thriller, Horror

Rating – R-16

More details about the author

Connect with William Knight on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.williamknight.info

#BlogTour – Holderby’s Landing #Historical #Fiction by J. D. Ferguson

The glower leaves his face, and with the help of the drink, Philby manages a lopsided sneer for a smile. She may have given in too easily, and that would normally leave him suspicious, but he does not want confrontation but acquisition; and that he has. So be it. “Good, dearest, very good, then. I will make all travel arrangements. Shall we say three days hence? Good, good. I hear that Doctor Bent has an interest with their church. Perhaps he intends to be there also? I shall send him a note to the fact that you are going and he may wish to accompany. Traveling alone is so fraught with danger for…”

At the mention of Doctor Regis Bent, Leah allows her husband’s contrived monologue to fade into the background and the smiling countenance of the good doctor to capture her thoughts. It is with no small amount of self control, that Leah allows such day-dreaming without any outward sign of her quickly arousing state showing in her calm demeanor. Just the idea of traveling with Regis Bent leaves her almost breathless and with a pleasant but inconvenient warmth growing in her lower abdomen and between her legs. Out of the corner of her eye she watches her husband draining his glass with a relish. The room is getting much too warm, and her position much too uncomfortable. She rises from the chair and moves to the door, “Well, husband, I know you are busy, and if I am to leave in the next several days, I have much to do also. I had best be about my business.” She acts as if to leave then turns back in afterthought, “You may ask Doctor Bent if he intends to travel to the fundraiser, but, I dare say, he is much too busy to be worried about accompanying me and my schedule. Leave the poor man to his work and I will take care of myself, thank you.” She stands at the door with calm indifference.

“My dear, Doctor Bent has no greater concern than the tasks I might request of him. If I ask, he had best find time. You leave him to me.”

With her thin smile in answer, Leah passes through the doorway, down the hallway to the back stairs, and ascends to her room on the second floor. She holds herself steady until the door is safely closed and locked behind her, before allowing herself an immodest shiver of delight. She quickly pulls her dress away and moves to the basin on the night stand. She daintily splashes water to her face with cupped hands. She wets a washcloth and sponges her hot body around her underclothes. It is then she notices the wetness between her legs, and with a shaky incredulity at her lust, reaches down with the wet cloth to wipe away her desire.

Holderbyslanding

When Justin Thorne, coddled student and heir apparent to Sylvan Springs Plantation, is forced to find his heritage, his manhood, and his destiny, in the space of one brief spring, all hell breaks loose on the banks of the Ohio River. His Virginia of 1836 is a time of transition and enormous growth. Northern industrial might and southern aristocracy, abolitionist movements and slave cultures, collide in turmoil and lay bare the raw needs and desires of those intrepid spirits confronting the frontiers of the antebellum South. Coming of age is an expected result of time and circumstance. It happens to all who live so long, but to each within the dictates of their own lives. The process is on-going and ever dynamic. Every person is a precious product resulting from the effects of nature and nurture. One’s ancestry, culture, and environment collude in myriad ways to make us; all as different as each life’s story, and as singular as snowflakes. This theme is played out over-and-over throughout the world and throughout history, in millions of places like Holderby’s Landing; as similar and as different as each human is to the other. Holderby’s Landing is a single glimpse in time at the coming of age of a land, a community, and a few determined souls thrown together in love, strife and chance. What they make of the time, the opportunities and themselves is the story told and the living breath of this book.

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Genre – Historical Fiction

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with J. D. Ferguson on Facebook

Website www.jdferguson.net

#BlogTour – Message of the Pendant #Historical #Mystery by Thomas Thorpe

Suddenly, a loud voice bellowed upstairs. “Bastard!”

Charles raced up to the third floor and found Arthur Hurst sitting at a desk, rummaging through drawers.  He clutched a piece of paper in one hand, shaking with rage as he looked up at Charles.

“Businessman, hah! This man, Black is a British agent! Here’s the proof of his duplicity. Where is he? It’s time to put an end to the vermin.”

Charles gasped in shock. The entire charade was unraveling! He tentatively leaned toward the desk and reached for the note. “What do you mean? What evidence?”

Hurst glanced down at one of the drawers. He reached inside and picked up a ledger. “Wait a moment. There’s something else.”

Charles’ eyes darted toward the window, knowing Black lay outside, unconscious and defenseless. Quelling an urge to run, he pretended to be curious and slowly edged around behind the man, as if to look over his shoulder. What could he do? Desperately his gaze searched for an answer until he spied a letter opener. In one motion, he grabbed the dagger and plunged it into Arthur’s back. The rotund body jerked upwards, dropping the notebook. He tried to turn around, but instead, slumped forward onto the desk.

For a moment, Charles stood shaking in disbelief at what he had just done to his sister’s husband.

messagependantnew

William Darmon and wife Elizabeth were powerful figures who in 1818 set society’s pace from expansive grounds known as Mayfair Hall. When a family member is murdered, a mysterious pendant is found containing a long lost request by Napoleon Bonaparte for an American mission to burn down Parliament buildings. The couple sets out on an action filled pursuit of the killer. While interviewing Henry Clay in post-war Maryland about the failed mission, they uncover evidence of a conspiracy to free the Emperor from exile. The Darmons infiltrate the cadre, but a shipwreck off the coast of Scotland, a firestorm at the Darmon’s Manor and a harrowing assault on the Island of St. Helena loom before the mystery can be unraveled.

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Genre – Mystery, Historical, Thriller

Rating – PG

More details about the author

Connect with Thomas Thorpe on Facebook

Website www.darmonmysteries.com

Flash Bang by @KellenBurden #BlogTour #Thriller #GoodReads

In the dream they’re shooting at me. Rounds screaming past my face and popping around my head and I need to return fire, but my rifle’s empty, and my hands won’t work. They keep doing that classic fucked-up dream thing where I can’t coordinate my fingers to wrap around the magazine to jam it into place to slam the breech, bring the round home and bring the hate to the fuckers on the ridge line. I scream for Mullens to call in air support, but Mullens is down. Why Mullens? They weren’t aiming at Mullens. The one who shot him wasn’t aiming at all. Then it’s just me and McDowell. I shoot him in the face. My hands work now. When I wake up, my phone is wiggling its way off the milk crate next to the bed. I’m sweaty and my jaw hurts, like I’ve been grinding my teeth and I roll over and answer the phone like this:

“Huh?”

On the other end of the line, Etch says, “Parks, you sound like shit.”

Say “Fucker.”

Says, “Classy.”

I squeeze my eyes hard to clear the smoke, say, “What the fuck?”

Etch gets tired of my razor-sharp wit, says “He bit. It’s go time.”

I’m upright now, a start. And I’m naked. Not unusual. I’m alone, too, not exactly surprising either. I say, “Which one, and how long?”

 

“Brock Mason. Two hours from now. City Park.”

 

I’m out of bed, wander into the kitchen to load the French press with the heavy shit, saying, “You called Harkin yet?”

 

Harkin says, “I’m here.” But not on the phone. It takes me about six seconds to realize that he’s sitting at my kitchen table. He’s in full battle rattle, too. Fancy, all-white BDUs, tactical vest, ski mask, Bushmaster ACR with an ACOG scope mounted to it, and a Starbucks coffee in his hand. I’m still naked.

I say, “Sup.”

And he says, “Homo.”

And I blow him a kiss, turn the burner on under the kettle and wander back into my room.

Into the phone, I say: “Never mind, we’re good. I’ll be ready in five.”

Etch: “Let’s hook ’em and book ’em.” And I hang up before one of us screams yeehaw.

It works like this: We catch bad guys. Then we bring them to good guys who don’t have the manpower or skills to find them on their own. In the good old days, bounty hunters did that by carefully cultivating contacts and listening to the word on the street, and then simply knocking on doors and doing good, old-fashioned leg work. Unfortunately, that method is inefficient, outdated, and a really good way to get your ass shot off. You raise your enemies’ awareness of you by asking their friends where they are for days on end. Then you confront them in a place in which they are familiar, and attempt to take them somewhere they really, really don’t want to go. Our method is better; safer, easier and, 9 out of 10 times, funnier.

Brittany Hart is 5’6”, 120 pounds. She has blond hair, blue eyes, a knock-out smile, and a body that would make a Barbie doll gag herself. She was born in Detroit, Michigan, but moved to Denver, Colorado in March of 1998 for school. She majored in “gettin’ loose” before hitting the bricks in ’99 and working full-time at a club downtown. She likes FarmVille, Hooked on Colfax, and Jersey Shore. She is:

Headed to the park to spark up with an old friend, 15 minutes ago.

First you find your fugitive, someone stupid who has a vice that you can exploit, like multiple drug charges or sex offenses. Then, you find their Facebook page. Almost anyone under 40 has one (yes, even wanted fugitives), and almost all the ones over 30 don’t have the Internet-savvy to set their accounts to private.

Brittany Hart went to John R. Madden High School with Brock Mason. That’s where he thinks he knows her from. It’s a big school, especially for Michigan: 2,000 students and Brock doesn’t remember a fraction of the classes he took, let alone all the people he sat through them with. But Brittany Hart is a fucking fox, and Mason would pretend to remember anything she wanted if it meant breaking off a piece of that.

Then, you find several pictures of the same sexy girl on the Internet. You make sure that this girl is very far away. Somewhere like Russia, or Yugoslavia. Once you have enough pictures to make this girl look like an average, sexy woman of an appropriate age for your target, you create a fake Facebook profile for her. Fill in all the information, tailoring her identity to interest him in some way. If he went to a big high school, she went to the same one. If he used to work at the Target on 15th Street, so did she. From there, it’s all about making contact.

Brock Mason, according to his Facebook profile, is a full time hustla, in Da Streets of Denver. He lives with his auntie and her two grandkids somewhere near Federal Boulevard. He likes Kanye West, Real Thugz, and (believe it or not) FarmVille. He has hundreds of pictures of himself flashing gang signs, holding money, and posing with his shirt off in front of mirrors, a gangly white guy with tattoos slithering across his pasty body like leeches. Nowhere on his profile does it explain that he spent seven years in a federal penitentiary for aggravated assault. Nor does it state that he is wanted in Wisconsin, Wyoming, Nebraska, and right here in Colorado, for everything from possession with intent to sell, to sexual assault. It doesn’t say that there is a $10,000 reward for information leading to his arrest, either, or that he almost never leaves his auntie’s apartment except to pick up more liquor or to pop out for the occasional booty call. A booty call like Brittany Hart. Brock Mason is:

Hyped for today, 56 minutes ago, and Rollin’ out, 20 minutes ago.

Then you send him a message. Something innocuous but provocative, like, “Hey, stranger, long time no see ;).” (Idiots love emoticons.) If he answers back, you’re golden.

Brock Mason is walking through six inches of freshly fallen snow in the middle of City Park right now, steam pouring from his face like dragon’s breath in the frigid winter air. Brock Mason is at least 30 pounds heavier than his Facebook page says he is, and judging by the way he’s walking, he’s carrying a weapon in the front of his pants.

I put my gloved hand to the Bluetooth in my ear and whisper:
“Etch, target is inbound from St. Paul Street, moving northbound through the park.”

“Copy that, I have eyes on.”

Snow falls softly on the hood of my jacket, pattering like tentative fingertips all around my head, landing in my eyelashes, settling on my cheeks. The balaclava around my face keeps the steam from escaping and giving away my position. Mason trots nearer, sticking to the trail, and from where I lie I can make out the prison tattoos on his neck. He’s wearing a red snow jacket, black pants that are roughly four sizes too big for him, and a pair of red Nikes. He’s fatter, paler, and duller than his mug shot photos. Mason is thirty feet away from me now, looking left and right but still moving, intent on getting to shelter from the snow. I am a ghost, dressed all in white, packed into a snow drift in the shadowy gloom of the tree line.

After you’ve flirted with him for about two weeks, lure him to a controlled environment where he is both isolated and disoriented.

City Park is the biggest park in Metro Denver. There’s a zoo, a museum, and a lake scattered throughout it. At the edge of the lake on the southern shore is a gazebo, 100 feet long and 40 feet wide, with iron gates on either side, effectively enclosing the inside of the structure. It was built 98 years ago by some rich industrialist to function as a band shell. Now it’s used for weddings and parties. When it’s not being partied in, all of the doors are locked except for one at the western end, which the park leaves open so that joggers can use the water fountain. That’s where Mason is headed. He’s headed there because Brittany Hart asked him to meet her there so that they could “smoke some weed, and see what happens ;).” I know that because I am Brittany Hart. Well, we are Brittany Hart.

When you’ve got him horny, disoriented, and all alone, you and your ex-military buddies swoop in like the Horsemen of the Apocalypse and wipe his ass out. Oh, yeah, join the military and make some friends. Simple as that.

“Subject entering the gazebo. Engage.”

I’m running now, up and running through the driving snow, with ice pluming off me in clouds. To my left I see Etch moving, too, diagonally through the trees, 12-gauge Benelli M1 Super on his shoulder, checking for hostiles. I see him only because I know where he is supposed to be, and even then it’s difficult to make him out. Harkin hangs back for support, further north, lined up with the building. As the edge of the tree line nears, I yank the FNP .45 from the holster on my hip and bring it to a ready position midway up my chest.

Harkin in my ear: “Subject has moved to the western end of the building. Be advised, subject is favoring a weapon, front waistband.”

Out of the trees, across the clearing, the building looms before us like a monolith. Etch and I converge on the eastern wall of the structure. There are no windows or doors on this side, so we’re covered for the moment. The wind howls, furious, and my legs are on fire from lying in the snow for so long, but I’m ready to do this, so I give Etch the signal and we split, Etch around one side, me on the other, around the corner sharply, and in the open gate. The wind outside the building is deafening, and Mason’s back is to me when I enter.

“Brock Mason.” My voice is steady, ice-cold mercury, and Mason’s shoulders rise infinitesimally in alarm. He does not reach for the weapon, so I don’t put a double tap in his spine. He turns to look over his shoulder. Brock Mason is:

Shitting his pants, 5 seconds ago.

I’m not a big guy, about 5’8” and lean, going on stocky; but I don’t know anybody who likes being on that side of a .45, especially when the person holding it is in full tactical with a ski mask on.

Mason says: “Fuck.”

“Mason: raise your hands out to either side and interlace your fingers behind your head. If you move for the piece I will light you the fuck up.” He considers his options for a millisecond, and then the arms go up.

“On your knees, Mason. Good. Now put your forehead on the ground. Flatten out.”

I move closer to him, watching him breathe heavily on the other side of my iron sights. Five feet away I say:

“Mason, I’m going to cuff you now. If you fight me, my friend will shoot you in the face with a 12-gauge shotgun.” On the other side of the iron bars, Etch appears like a ghoul and blows him a kiss over the breech of his weapon. Mason grinds his forehead into the floor. I holster my weapon, grab his right wrist and drop to a crouch, my knees on his neck and low back. Wrist, click, wrist, click and he’s done. I turn him over with my boot and yank a Taurus .25 from the front of his pants. Clear it, stow it.

“Harkin, subject in custody. Extracting to the tree line, move to cover.”

He says: “I’m at Taco Bell. Be there in like fifteen minutes.”

I tell him to fuck his own face.

We extract Mason from the park quickly and quietly. Harkin brings the van around, and the four of us are gone before anyone even knows we exist. It’s a short drive to our usual bail bondsman’s place of business. Etch phones ahead to tell Mark that the bust was good, and that we’re bringing Mason in. Mark says he’s just hanging around. Big fucking surprise. Mark’s an ex-Department of Corrections guy who got booted from his gig as a prison guard for smuggling dope into a correctional facility. After that, he decided to try his hand at putting shitheads in prison instead of keeping them there. Mark is a burly, lazy-looking S.O.B. A hulking white guy with a beer gut and a shaved head, teeth like a mammoth, forehead like a caveman. Like if Barney Fife had a baby with Chuck Liddell. We drop Mason off at the duplex Mark runs his gig out of, and he meets us at the door in jeans and a T-shirt. He says, “Cool.”

Mark gives us $5,000 under the table, three quarters of what Crime Stoppers is going to give him for the bust. We need Mark because:

a) The way we operate is pretty illegal.

b) The criminal justice system crawls as far as payment systems are concerned (six months to wait for five grand, and that’s if Mason gets convicted) and we are way too broke to wait that long.

Mark needs us because:

a) We bring him free bad guys.

b) He’s a piss-poor bounty hunter.

Two and a half hours later finds Etch, Harkin, and myself in the Goosetown Tavern. The snow is falling harder outside; flakes like cotton balls, falling heavily, lumbering on the breeze and settling on the sidewalks and in the gutters and streets. It’ll pile up by evening, freeze by night, melt in the morning and flood the gutters by tomorrow afternoon. Then it’ll freeze again. Fucking Denver. Beers hit the table with a splash, and the waiter stammers something about the pizza being on the way as he retreats from the table in reverse. No one’s surprised. We’re all wearing our tactical shit. The weapons are in the car, but you can’t blame the kid for being careful. Plus, Harkin and Etch look like comic book characters. The two huge fuckers with their shaved heads, John Harkin with his lumberjack beard, Eric “Etch” Echevaria with his goatee, 500 pounds of muscle, paunch, and sinew between the two of them.

The beer is cold and cheap, the way I like it, and I down it with fervor while the winter paces like a lion outside the windows.

Etch says, “So, what? About $1,700 each?”

About $1,660; but either way, it isn’t a terrible haul for a few hours’ worth of ninja shit and a few days on Facebook pretending to be a sexy blond. When Etch gets home he’ll wipe Britney’s profile and clean out his temporary Internet files so Mason can’t come looking for her, or us, when and if he gets to use a computer again. That’s the other reason we use pictures of girls in Russia; it’s not likely that one of these assholes is going to run into them at a bar anytime soon.

Etch wipes foam off his face with the sleeve of his coat, asks, “What’s the plan for your pieces?”

I’m spending mine on not starving or getting evicted from my apartment, say, “I’m going to buy a tiger with a saddle. Just for cruising around.”

Harkin says, “I’m going to buy a rocket ship, strap my girlfriend to it.” He makes a blast-off sound, trails a finger off into the cosmos. Getting rid of his girlfriend, Stacy, has been a running gag since their first date, and my theory that anyone crazy enough to go on a second date with Harkin is jacked in the brain still stands. Two weeks ago she got drunk and stuck Harkin with a fork because he “was asking for it.” He may very well have been, knowing Harkin; but still. Not a Nicholas Sparks novel in the making.

Harkin asks Etch what he’s got planned. He smiles, tips his mug at us and mumbles something like “soon,” and before anyone can ask what he’s talking about, the slices are on the table. Three of them, the size of kites, steam curling off like a naked flame, cheese running down onto the plate. The Tavern makes some of the best $3 pizza in the city, and I always order mine with pineapple and jalapeños because I’m a troll. It gets real quiet at the table. Etch and Harkin watch Man vs. Wild with the sound off on the flat screen above the bar, and I scoop the dismembered newspaper off the table behind us. Ads, ads, Big 5: box of 50 .40 caliber rounds for $15.99, Sports section, Opinion. Half a world away, people are charging checkpoints with dirty bombs strapped to their chests. No articles, no pictures, nothing. You can walk into any grocery store in America and find out what top J-Lo wore to the beach or who Ashton Kutcher is having sex with, but if you want to know who got their face shot off while brushing their teeth in a tent so that J-Lo or Ashton could keep rocking in the free world, good fucking luck. Your average teen can tell you the entire cast of the Jersey Shore, but has no idea where Afghanistan or Iraq is on a map. I swallow down the bitterness with my next bite. Buried beneath it all on the second page of the local section I find a two-paragraph article about some kid getting stabbed to death near The Stampede, a country-western bar in Aurora. Something about it bites me. Call it a premonition, call it gas. I read it twice, and can’t figure out what it is that feels wrong about it, turn the page, flip to the funnies. On the TV, Bear Grylls drinks his pee out of a snake.

FlashBang

Sebastian Parks is drowning in a flood of his own creation. Dishonorably discharged from the Army, he’s wracked with night terrors and an anger that he can’t abate. Unemployable and uninterested in anything resembling a normal job, Parks makes his living in fugitive apprehension, finding wanted felons on Facebook and thumping them into custody with his ex-military buddies John Harkin and Eric “Etch” Echevarria. When the body of a teenage Muslim boy is found in front of a downtown Denver nightclub Parks, Harkin and Etch are called on to do what they do best: Find bad men and make them pay. 

First-time author Kellen Burden serves up edgy humor, brutal action and characters you can’t get enough of. Flash Bang will keep you turning pages until the end.

Received “Honorable Mention at Los Angeles Book Festival 2014”

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Thriller, Mystery

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Kellen Burden on Facebook

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Man from the Sky #Excerpt by Danny Wynn (#AmReading #Literary)

“In a way,” Jaime said, “reading books and watching films are the blessing and curse of the modern age, when a fair number of people have escaped at least the complete tyranny of fundamental necessities. It might have been better when people didn’t have the luxury of looking for meaning in their lives.”

– from Man from the Sky

manFromTheSky

How far would you go to add excitement to a life you felt was boring and meaningless?

For seventy-three-year-old Jaime, the answer takes him by surprise. Accustomed to a lonely life high up in the mountains on the western coast of Mallorca, his dull routine is suddenly shattered when a man parachutes from a plane and lands nearby. The plane crashes; the man lives.

It’s a drug smuggling operation gone bad. But Stefan, the man from the sky, has escaped with eight kilos of cocaine in a gym bag. Jaime brings Stefan home and is soon entangled in Stefan’s attempts to sell the cocaine and start a new life.

As they dodge Parisian drug dealers and corrupt Mallorcan police, Jaime’s search for excitement and Stefan’s resolve to find stability lead them both down dangerous paths.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Literary Fiction, Adventure

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Danny Wynn on Facebook

Website http://www.dannywynn.net/

Godly Wisdom from Nina Elaine Borum’s Praying for Men of Power #Christian

When Solomon is mentioned in church circles two things come to mind: The ladies man and the wise man. How he could be both is still a mystery, but we cannot deny the portion of wisdom that God granted him. If we look at the story closely, it seems that Solomon displayed a measure of wisdom before God granted it to him. He was wise enough to follow the ways of the Lord and discerning enough to ask the right blessing from God. God was thrilled to say “Yes” to this request.

If we are seeking wisdom for a significant situation we must first look to see what small areas God has asked us to be wise in. In this passage, wisdom is described as understanding and discernment.

Would “wise” be an appropriate word to describe the men in your life? Not just the older men but the younger ones as well. Solomon was young when he prayed this prayer and it shows that young men are fully capable of showing wisdom.

praying

You didn’t learn these prayers in Sunday school. Put your armor on, and get ready to see God move!

Do you ever get sick of praying? It’s okay to admit. We all do. It is emotionally draining to beg God without ceasing. Christians often forget that under Christ’s authority, we have the power to command God’s promises to be released from heaven to earth and into our lives.

In Praying for Men of P.O.W.E.R., author Nina Elaine Borum challenges readers to stand confidently and command the promises of God for the men in your life. As someone who has struggled with prayer, Nina believes that God does not intend for his children to feel helpless in praying. His Word has instructed us in how to bring the kingdom of heaven to a world where Satan runs freely. We are all in the midst of a vicious spiritual battle, and Nina hopes this book will help you to fight on behalf of Christian men.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Tate Publishing

Genre – Christian non-fiction

Rating – G

More details about the author

Connect with Nina Elaine Borum on Facebook & Twitter

Maya & Filippo Play Chef at Sea (Vol. 2) by @Alinka Rutkowska #BookReview

Maya and Filippo are a pair of jet-setting kids who travel the world with their parents and their cat, Otello. They live on a massive ship, which you think would get boring, but not for Maya and Filippo! These kids know how to get their hands dirty, in the kitchen that is. They learn how to bake cakes, and all sorts of other treats.

One great thing about the Maya and Filippo books is that each story is fun, but there are some quickly slipped in lessons so that your own children are learning right along with the kids too. Kitchen safety, healthy snacking, washing your hands, and sharing are all very important lessons that can be taken from this book and applied to your own real life cooking with kids experience. Next time you try to bake, have the kids help out like Maya and Filippo.

I loved Maya and Filippo’s first adventure, so I was thrilled to find another book in the series and I snapped it up right away. The concept of having children travel the world is by no means unique, yet Alinka Rutkowska writes with such heart and joy that Maya and Filippo’s adventures make them stand out from the crowd and really excel at what counts, entertaining children. The cute pictures, paired with a fun and interesting story, is sure to delight kids and encourage traveling. What a way to get out of your own town and explore the world. A very fun book indeed.

Rating: 5.0 stars. Reviewed by Katelyn Hensel for Readers’ Favorite

maya_filippo

Alinka Rutkowska has created a tale that will appeal to children, which teaches about choices, and encourages communication and sharing. Rating: 5.0 stars from Readers’ Favorite Reviews.

Embark on a one-of-a-kind, unprecedented, breathtaking adventure with Maya and Filippo as they travel around the globe on board the “Fun Princess” — a cruise ship full of surprises. Discover their fascinating ports of call, find out what the local customs and traditions are, join the kids in activities at sea, and explore the remarkable world they create through the power of their positive outlook.

This time the kids spend a day on board the Fun Princess. They become junior chefs at sea and learn how to bake a cake. Maya and Filippo discover how trying out different recipes gets them closer to creating the perfect dessert. They also discover the power of sharing.

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Genre – Children’s Picture Book

Rating – G

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Bangkok Transit #Excerpt from Eva Fejos @FejosEva #Women #Contemporary

“Sir, book your excursions now!”

“Taxi? Sir?”

“Limousine, mister?”

“Cheap tours to the River Kwai!”

“Sir, explore Bangkok with us!”

“Change money, sir?”

Paul exchanged two hundred pounds, and from that moment on he felt dizzy from the commotion. The arrival terminal of the airport seemed to be full of representatives from every single travel agency and taxi enterprise in Thailand. He almost gave in to the coaxing of the first taxi company, but someone took hold of his arm. It was the gray-haired man from the plane, the man who had given him his business card back in Amsterdam.

“Don’t do it,” he growled. “Over there…” he nodded towards the exit.

Paul followed him mutely. As soon as they stepped out of the building, he was overcome with the muggy, incredibly hot – or rather, scorching – air. Paul had never felt anything like it before. A drop of perspiration slid down his forehead and soon other drops followed in close succession. Suddenly, the jeans and T-shirt he was wearing proved to be way too hot. He already had his sweater slung over his arm.

“Haggle until you get to three-hundred bahts!” the man ordered.

“But the driver doesn’t even know where I’m going!” Paul said, bewildered, clearing his throat.

That blasted hoarseness again. The gray-haired man smiled.

“It doesn’t matter, my friend. Three hundred bahts, remember. Unless you’re headed to the River Kwai. And come find me. I’ll show you what’s worth visiting, what’s not in the guide books. Call me beforehand,” he added, extending his hand.

He should have also told Paul how to haggle. Over the course of his forty years of life, Paul had never done it before. He was turned down by quite a few drivers before he got the hang of it; finally, he got the fare down to three-hundred for a trip into the city. He sat in an air-conditioned, red-and-blue, Bangkok taxi; excluding numbers, the driver seemingly understood not a single word of English. Paul sat on the back seat, his suitcase lying on the passenger seat beside the driver, secured with a seat belt.

Why did I come here, wondered Paul, as they inched their way forward through the insane traffic. Several traffic policemen wearing surgical masks blew their whistles constantly, but their efforts were completely futile. This was a paradise for the insolent: only those who pressed on with the required aggression could move forward or change lanes. There were many brand new cars on the road mingled among old, rumbling busses emitting foul-smelling smoke. The motorcyclists held Paul’s attention with their death-defying feats. The “buffet cars” inching along in the outer lane slowed the traffic, and to top it off, the motor-powered, three-wheeled taxis, the tuk-tuks, cut in front of every vehicle. In Paul’s ordered world. The chaos of Bangkok traffic tumbled like an avalanche onto Paul’s ordered world.’

BangkokTransit

Bangkok: a sizzling, all-embracing, exotic city where the past and the present intertwine. It’s a place where anything can happen… and anything really does happen. The paths of seven people cross in this metropolis. Seven seekers, for whom this city might be a final destination. Or perhaps it is only the start of a new journey? A successful businessman; a celebrated supermodel; a man who is forever the outsider; a young mother who suddenly loses everything; a talented surgeon, who could not give the woman he loved all that she desired; a brothel’s madam; and a charming young woman adopted at birth. Why these seven? Why did they come to Bangkok now, at the same time? Do chance encounters truly exist?

Bangkok Transit is a Central European best-seller. The author, Eva Fejos, a Hungarian writer and journalist, is a regular contributor to women’s magazines and is often herself a featured personality. Bangkok Transit was her first best-seller, which sold more than 100,000 copies and is still selling. Following the initial publication of this novel in 2008, she went on to write twelve other best-sellers, thus becoming a publishing phenomena in Hungary According to accounts given by her readers, the author’s books are “therapeutic journeys,” full of flesh and blood characters who never give up on their dreams. Many readers have been inspired to change the course of their own lives after reading her books. “Take your life into your own hands,” is one of the important messages the author wishes to convey.

Try it for yourself, and let Eva Fejos whisk you off on one of her whirlwind journeys… that might lead deep into your own heart.

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About Eva Fejos, the author of Bangkok Transit

– Eva Fejos is a Hungarian writer and journalist.

She:

– has had 13 best-selling novels published in Hungary so far.

– Bangkok Transit is her first best-seller, published in 2008.

– has won several awards as a journalist, and thanks to one of her articles, the legislation pertaining to human egg donation was modified, allowing couples in need to acquire donor eggs more easily.  

– spends her winters in Bangkok.

– likes novels that have several storylines running parallel.

– visited all the places she’s written about. 

– spent a few days at an elephant orphanage in Thailand; and has investigated the process of how Thai children are put up for adoption while visiting several orphanages. 

– founded her own publishing company in Hungary last year, where she not only publishes her own books, but foreign books too, hand-picked by her. 

– Her books published in Hungary thus far are:

Till Death Do Us Part (Holtodiglan) | Bangkok Transit | Hotel Bali | Chicks (Csajok) | Strawberries for Breakfast (Eper reggelire) | The Mexican (A mexikói) | Cuba Libre | Dalma | Hello, London | Christmas in New York (Karácsony New Yorkban) | Caribbean Summer (Karibi nyár) | Bangkok, I Love You (Szeretlek, Bangkok) | Starting Now – the new edition of Till Death Do Us Part (Most kezdődik) | Vacation in Naples – the English version will be published in summer, 2014 (Nápolyi vakáció)

To be published in spring of 2014: I Waited One Hundred Nights (Száz éjjel vártam)

Bangkok Transit (English version): http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HDIT4UY

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Genre – Women’s Fiction, Contemporary

Rating – PG-13

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Conspiracy of Silence by Gledé Browne Kabongo @gkabongo #Suspense

She would never be able to have children on her own. That was the bombshell diagnosis from Nina’s doctor. Apparently, both her fallopian tubes were blocked because of massive scarring. IVF seemed to be the most viable option. Marc wasn’t completely on board but Nina made the unilateral decision to move forward, and that led to a huge fight. They didn’t speak to each other for three days.

Once the smoke cleared and Nina had time to think things through calmly and rationally, she could see why Marc felt the way he did. They had been trying to get pregnant for almost a year, and that was stressing him out. He complained they never made love for fun anymore, everything was based on her ovulation cycle and she wouldn’t let him touch her unless it was that time of the month. The pressure was causing him to be resentful and he suggested they consider adoption at some point if she couldn’t get pregnant the old-fashioned way. That caused Nina to fly into a rage and she accused him of giving up without a fight. That led to an even longer, louder argument that ended with Marc moving to the guest bedroom.

This morning she was in a sour mood but the person knocking on the other side of the door was persistent.

“Come in,” Nina said wearily.

“Surprise!”

Nina was astonished to see her younger sister barge into her office. Cassie was in her late-twenties, slightly chubby, yet sickeningly pretty. If a piece of clothing was short, tight or showed her cleavage, Cassie owned it. The Boston College dropout had a platinum credit card permanently attached to one hand, and a puppet string controlled by their father attached to the other.

Nina gave her a bright smile and a hug. “You didn’t tell me you were coming over.”

“I was at Downtown Crossing and thought I should come by and see what you’re up to.”

“Found anything good in the stores?”

“No, but my friend Kate says new inventory will be coming in at Neiman Marcus and she’ll hold some items for us.”

“I don’t know, Cass. Marc is already complaining that I’ve taken up all the closet space. “If I buy any more clothes or shoes, I think he’s moving downstairs.”

“Oh, please. Marc’s not going anywhere.”

“Maybe you’re right. It’s an empty threat. Name the date and the time and I’ll be there.”

Cassie seemed pleased. Nina had a guilt complex regarding her younger sibling. She didn’t see her as much as she should. They were somewhat close, but Nina and the naïve and somewhat irresponsible Cassie were perpetually at different junctures in their lives. Cassie lacked direction and focus while Nina was single-minded in whatever she pursued. At the moment, it was motherhood. Cassie was the ultimate daddy’s girl and he had no problem letting her wander through life aimlessly on his dime until the day when she figured out what she wanted to do with her life.

“Great, I can’t wait. Dad says hello, by the way. He’s still mad at you for skipping his birthday party.”

“I always skip his birthday party, that’s nothing new.”

“He was hoping it might be different this year.”

“He knows better.”

“Come on, Nina,” Cassie said impatiently. “How long do you intend to keep this up? Can’t you give him another chance? This is getting ridiculous.”

“I would expect that coming from you. The way you hero-worship him, though — that’s what’s ridiculous.”

Cassie looked put out by the criticism. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s not who you think he is, Cassie. I’ve been trying to tell you this for a long time. Yet, you refuse to even consider my point of view.”

“You’re the one who’s hard of hearing. Our father is getting old. Every time he reaches out to you, you reject him. Why can’t you just be nice to him?” He’s not going to be around forever and then you’ll be sorry if you don’t make up with him.”

Nina was getting sick of Cassie’s constant nagging about their father. Still, she was almost sympathetic to her sister’s plight, since Nina had been the one who dashed her hopes of them ever being a happy family again. Nina recollected the story exactly as she had written it in her diary.

Conspiracy_Science

#1 Amazon Bestseller in the suspense and women’s psychological fiction categories.

Boston executive Nina Kasai has been living a lie since her days as a student at Stanford University. But she’s about to learn that some secrets are too big to stay buried.

Years ago, Nina fled from her life of wealth and privilege and vowed never to look back. The horrifying truth has been locked away in her hidden diary, and in the mind of a disturbed woman who will never tell, ever. However, the perfect life she’s since created is about to come crashing down when Phillip Copeland –a ghost from her past with political ambition and secrets of his own, makes Nina an offer she can’t refuse: her silence in exchange for his.

Soon, it all goes horribly wrong when a  shocking double-cross sends Nina reeling,  and devastating loss threatens to push her over the edge. To make matters worse, her diary, the only link to her secret past has been stolen.

To reclaim her life and bring this twisted game to its stunning conclusion, Nina must confront the past she’s been running from, and find the courage to make a life-altering decision that leaves multiple casualties in its wake.

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Genre – Psychological Suspense

Rating – R

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Website http://www.gledebrownekabongo.com

A Man Who Can Write – Ava Zavora @avazavora

———-

From: Eden E <eden@bookbohemian.com>

Date: Thu, Aug 2, at 9:20 AM
To: Adam <adamagelast@mail.com>

Would it bother you if I thought immediately of T.S. Eliot – The Wasteland?

I wish I could say this poem out loud (but I’m in an office with others so I can’t). But if I could, I suspect that saying the list would reinforce the brokenness in the first line.

When did you write this and why? Were you in the middle of busy city street all of sudden feeling lost and in despair?

———-

DearAdam
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Genre – Contemporary Romance
Rating – PG-13
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Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.