by | May 6, 2019 · 5:00 am

Bollywood Invasion – Blitz

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Fantasy
Published:
May 2018
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A
fantasy novel about a modern-day American boy who wakes up in 1958 India as the
reincarnation of John Lennon.
Bollywood
Invasion opens when the protagonist, a sixteen-year-old boy from Brooklyn,
finds himself with riches and power beyond his wildest fantasies in India,
thirty-five years before he was born.
Brooklyn
is readily forgotten. Life becomes a constant stream of debauchery, coming to a
stand-still only when he meets “the one.” However, love doesn’t come easy. He
must become a better man, a pursuit ignited by his memories of Beatles songs on
his iPod.
Will
these legendary songs change his life?
Can
he escape Lennon’s eventual tragic fate?
Will
he ever find his way back to Brooklyn?
His
fate will unfold in Bollywood Invasion.
Bollywood
Invasion blends Indian cultural experience, time-travel blend perfectly with
the legendary songs from the Beatles.
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Praise
for Bollywood Invasion:
“An
imaginative…rock ‘n’ roll fantasy.” Kirkus Reviews
“An
engrossing saga that excels in unexpected turns of plot.” Midwest Book Review
 
 
Excerpt
 
Intro
Imagine
you’re sixteen, and living in Brooklyn, being bullied by every kid who’s bigger
than you. Then, BAM! You wake up as a young prince in 1958 India. Suddenly, you
find yourself with riches and power beyond your wildest fantasies. This is how
your journey starts in Bollywood Invasion, which uniquely blends Indian
cultural experience, time-travel and the legendary songs from the Beatles.
Brooklyn
is readily forgotten. Life becomes a constant stream of debauchery, coming to a
stand-still only when you meet “the one.” However, love doesn’t come easy. You
must become a better man and you decide to sing your way into her heart with
the songs based on your memory of vintage Beatles music. One night, you come to
the lawn outside her dormitory building to ask her out, for the last time…
Hey
Raj
“Ankita!
Ankita!”
At
eleven in the night, Ankita woke up to a familiar voice calling her name
outside her dorm. “Not again!” she groaned as she crawled from under the
covers.
“Why
don’t you write a song for me too? I am not that bad!”
Ankita
could hear the banter outside. She walked to the door but could not open it.
Priyanka must be in the building, she thought.
“Ankita!”
Raj
stood on the lawn exactly where he had the last time he was there.
“I
wrote another song, especially for you!”
Ankita
opened the door and saw Raj standing next to Arun with his acoustic guitar.
“Raj, please leave,” she begged.
“Not
until you’ve heard this!” Arun started playing a tune on his guitar and the
entire dorm fell quiet.
“Hey
Raj, don’t make it bad …” https://youtu.be/vxv_6YDOqvs
He
never took his eyes off her the entire time that he sang Hey You, his parody of
Hey Jude. Had she always been this beautiful?
“Hey
Raj, don’t be afraid …”
“Who
the hell is singing at this ungodly hour!” the matron shouted from somewhere.
Raj continued to sing, not flinching at all. Arun, on the other hand, was not
feeling as confident as Raj.
“Raj,
we should go!”
“I
am going to break every single one of your bones, you rascal!”
“Raj,
run! She will catch you!” yelled Ankita.
Raj
smiled. She cared about him.
He
continued to sing.
 “It’s you again!” The matron was on the lawn
now, brandishing a large broom in her hand ominously.
“Raj,
we should go!”
“Keep
playing! Na nanananana!”
He
started running, the matron after him.
“I
am done here,” said Arun and ran away into the darkness.
“Na
nanananana!” Raj continued to sing while running around in circles in the lawn,
the matron closing in. Some of the girls watching the moment unfold started
singing with him. “Na nanananana!”
“Raj,
what are you doing?” yelled Ankita. “Go back!”
“Na
nanananana!” The entire dorm building sang.
“I…love…you…Ankita!”
he shouted as he ran, his breath running out. “Give…me…a…chance!”
“I
am going to break your legs, YOU RASCAL!” The matron flung the broom at Raj.
“Na
nanananana!”
“For
god’s sake, run! I will go out with you! Just once! Go now!”
The
entire dorm building erupted.
“I
love you, Ankita!” said Raj as he broke into a run. “Na nanananana!” he
continued to sing as he disappeared into the darkness.
About
the Author

photo Bollywood Invasion Author Ricardo Alexanders_zpsyqc3drns.jpg

Ricardo
Alexanders, an indirect descendant of the Great Yyu, was born in China. After
obtaining a doctorate in science, he became a passionate writer with keen
interest in in time-travel fictions that blend fantasy, science, and real
history together.    
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Links
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by | · 5:00 am

DIRTY POOL – Blitz

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DIRTY POOL

by Bethany-Kris
Publication Date: May 6, 2019
Genres: Adult, Romantic Suspense, Organized Crime. Erotic Romance, Standalone

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AVAILABLE NOW!

Amazon: https://geni.us/DirtyPoolAMZ
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DIRTY POOL teaser 1

SYNOPSIS

To get what he wants, he’ll have to play a game of dirty pool.

Michel Marcello never wanted to be a mafioso like every other man in his family—he wanted to be more. That doesn’t mean he’s unfamiliar with the life, or that he can’t hold his own against other made men.

They forgot where he came from …

His chance encounter with the fiery and beautiful daughter of Detroit’s most notorious Irish mob boss stokes flames beyond the ones that ignite between Michel and Gabbie Casey. Rivals shouldn’t mix, but these opposites have never been more attracted, either.

The lines between family loyalty, their duties, and responsibility begin to blur.

Love ruins all.

But these two aren’t the only ones playing this game, and it just became far more dangerous to get out alive.

*

Dirty Pool is a standalone romantic suspense.

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EXCLUSIVE RELEASE EXCERPT

“Here, duckies!”

Michel’s dark chuckles came close to her ear as his nose grazed the back of her neck. Gabbie had all she could do not to shiver from the feeling of his lips pressing to her skin with featherlight kisses.

“I don’t think they recognize being called duckies,” he murmured.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying they don’t speak human, Gabbie.”

She didn’t mind his teasing.

Much.

“Says the man who had a small bag of birdseed in his car because bread is bad for the ducks.”

His hands landed on her waist, and she loved the way his fingers dug into her sides. He squeezed, a silent warning for her to stop the teasing. She heard it loud and clear, not that it made much of a difference. If he could dish it, then the man would learn to take it.

That was Gabbie’s way.

“I told you, I jog here.”

“Yes, with birdseed for the duckies, apparently.”

“Because they quack at me when I pass, and I feel bad for them.”

“Mmhmm. Of course, you do.”

Michel let out a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

Gabbie winked at him over her shoulder as she pulled out a handful of birdseed. Michel wasn’t wrong—bread was terrible for ducks. It got stuck to the roof of their mouths, and if it did get in their bellies, it would swell up to make them think they were full when they weren’t. It was harder for them to digest, too.

She adored he had birdseed in his car to toss to the ducks when he jogged at the park. He wasn’t all bad, despite what people in her family liked to say about the Italians. How could someone be bad if they remembered to feed the ducks when they went jogging?

It was sweet, really.

“You must be getting hungry,” he said.

“A little.”

“You want to go—”

“Not yet.”

She was enjoying this.

The park, peaceful at almost midnight, was dark and quiet. There wasn’t a soul around, and the small pond was rarely ever this empty when she came to see it in the daytime.

“I like that you chose here for a date,” she said.

Michel rested his chin on her shoulder, and wrapped an arm tightly around her middle. “Oh, why is that?”

“Most guys would pick a club, or something. Dinner, and a show. The usual. I like this better. It’s just us, and we can talk.”

“I would have taken you for all that other shit, too, but it’s late.”

It was.

Most restaurants were closed, although she was sure they could find a hole-in-the-wall diner to eat at, if they really wanted to. Not that any of the food would be the kind of stuff she was supposed to eat. Michel probably knew that, too, and took it into consideration without telling her he was doing it.

She appreciated it.

Gabbie grinned. “All of that for a date, too?”

“Yeah, probably not. I wanted to be alone with you … can’t exactly do that when there’s other people around, can I?”

DIRTY POOL teaser 3

ABOUT BETHANY-KRIS

Bethany-Kris is a Canadian author, lover of much, and mother to four young sons, one cat, and two dogs. A small town in Eastern Canada where she was born and raised is where she has always called home. With her boys under her feet, snuggling cat, barking dogs, and a hubby calling over his shoulder, she is nearly always writing something … when she can find the time.

To keep up-to-date with new releases from Bethany-Kris, sign up to her New Release Newsletter here: https://eepurl.com/bf9lzD

Website • Blog • Twitter • Facebook • Goodreads • Pinterest • Instagram • Mailing List • Bookbub • Amazon Author Page

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by | May 4, 2019 · 5:00 am

Shrink Unwrapped – Blitz

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Humor
Fiction
Publisher: IP Books
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To
treat patients using psychoanalysis, psychiatrists must first undergo their own
analysis. And Dr. Jacob Fink plans to coast through his own stint on the
shrink’s couch as quickly as possible. 
Can
a three‑year‑old who was unable to sit
still on his carpet square in nursery school and constantly joked his way
through his schooling ever be successful in life?
Can
listening to a weather forecast be dangerous to your health?
Can
a boy get a venereal disease just by thinking about girls?
How
can you get fresh semen stains out of white linen pants and beat a traffic
ticket?
Jacob
is on his way to a breakthrough when something unthinkable happens and he now
has to dig deep to unwrap the last of his inner struggles and finally grow into
the therapist he knows he can be.
Excerpt
Chapter
1
So
You Want To Be an Analyst
My
life was programmed for me.
As
far back as I can remember, my parents repeatedly said
“I
don’t care what you do when you grow up as long as you go to college,
then
medical school, and become a doctor.”
For
my birthday, my father gave me a stethoscope. My mother
gave
me a white coat and a ticket to a medical insurance seminar in Las
Vegas.
The package included airfare, two days, three nights at the
glamorous
Golden Unicorn Hotel, breakfast every morning, one buffet
dinner,
and tickets to the Folies Bergères Revue I was thankful, but
didn’t
know what to do with it. I was only three.
It
should be no surprise that I followed the path that had been set
out
for me.
Often,
people asked me why, after graduating medical school, I
chose
the specialty of psychiatry. I jokingly said, “I’m uncoordinated,
afraid
of the sight of blood, and generally dislike human touch. What
other
specialty would fit those limitations?”
My
friends, always looking for an edge, misunderstood my choice
and
thought I was a psychic. “Tell me what I’m thinking right now!”
“How
much change do I have in my pocket?” or “What’s in store for
me
in the future?”
The
response from my family to my choice of specialty was one of
embarrassment,
not support:
My
grandmother, loving but outspoken, said “I’ll tell everyone my
grandson
is a doctor! I’ll leave out the embarrassing psychiatrist part.”
My
dermatologist father, always questioning, asked, “Do psychiatrists
ever
get their patients better?” I replied, somewhat annoyed,
“Do
dermatologists ever get their patients better?” End of discussion.
My
mother, always the realist, probably had the best response. “Why
in
the world would my hyperactive son pick a specialty where he had to
sit
still in one place for 45 minutes? How are you going to do that?”
I
looked at her knowingly, “With difficulty,” I replied.
I
have always been hyperactive. I was born three weeks early.
My
mother, ever-ready to comment, insisted it was because I couldn’t
wait
to get moving. I never walked. I ran, jumped, rocked, twirled,
rolled,
and twisted my way through childhood. “Harnessing his boundless
energy
was impossible. It was exhausting,” freely admitted my
mother.
“I just couldn’t keep up with him.”
In
an effort to preserve what was left of her physical strength and
emotional
sanity, I was enrolled in the “Little Friends” nursery school
at
age two. That lasted only three months. I was expelled because I
couldn’t
sit still on my assigned carpet square, which was a requirement
for
continued enrollment. The headmaster never did explain to my parents
how
sitting on a piece of carpet was supposed to prepare me for the
future.
One could speculate, however, that sitting still in a confined
space
for an extended period of time might groom someone to become
one
of the statues people see in Times Square in New York City. But
that
was not what my parents had in mind for my future, so my departure
was
not considered a major setback.
Despite
a disheartening streak of failed nursery school interviews,
my
mom never gave up. But, after my fifth rejection, she decided
she
needed some help. Before the next interview, at the suggestion
of
her doctor husband, she doped me up with a tiny dose of
a
minor tranquilizer. Since I was not driving or operating any heavy
machinery,
this tranquilizer would hopefully just slow me down
enough.
However, when I kept nodding off during the interview, she
gave
the headmaster some cock-and-bull story that I hadn’t slept
well
the night before because I was so excited about coming to the
school.
Half awake, and successfully slowed down, I was admitted
to
the Oak Ridge Day Nursery . . . where I spent the next 3.5 years.
During
that time, I was personally responsible for driving seven
early
childhood specialists into other fields, none of which had to
do
with children.
Since
I started out as the youngest child ever in the school by far, it
was
difficult for me to understand why many of the kids left to go on to
kindergarten
at the end of the year, yet I remained in the school. Each
year,
as May approached with the impending departure of my friends, I
would
become sullen, brooding, bad-tempered, and ill-humored. My
teachers
tried to tell me that in a few years (then in a couple of years, and
finally
next year), I would go to kindergarten, but that didn’t help. Time
for
a child is a nebulous concept; for a hyperactive child, it is the equivalent
of
forever.
In
a last-ditch attempt to bolster my spirits, I was given the roll of
Tiny
Tim in the school’s Christmas play. I had one line “God bless us,
every
one!” Excited about my role in the play, I practiced my line continuously
day
and night. “God bless us, every one!” “God bless us,
every
one!” While my gloomy mood had dissolved, the school had
inadvertently
created a monster. My “God bless us, every one!” was
like
the unstoppable brooms in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice scene in
Fantasia,
an Oscar winning animated film from Disney Studios. The
school,
my parents and even God counted down the days until the play.
“God
bless us, every one!”
Thirty
people attended the Christmas play that year. Of the 30, 16
were
there for me: My mom, my grandparents, two uncles, two aunts,
and
four neighbors and their wives.
You
should have been there. The atmosphere was electric. The
crowd
was hushed in anticipation when it was time for me to deliver my
lines.
My theatrical debut was upon us. There was silence. Then more
silence.
You could hear his teacher off stage whispering “God bless us,
every
one!” “God bless us, every one!”
The
silence was deafening. And then I began “God bless us, every
one!
God bless my mom and my father in Texas, my grandparents,
Uncle
Marshall and Aunt Elaine, Uncle George and Aunt Barbara, the
Fishers,
the Kantros, the Rondos, and all the other people that came to
see
me whose names I didn’t know. God bless us, every one! God bless
us,
every one!”
I
bowed to the audience and then to the people backstage, and
skipped
off the stage. A star or a reasonable facsimile thereof was born.
Fast
forward to today! Somehow—and there are several speculations
how—I
was able to transform and harness my hyperactivity into
productivity
as I zoomed through high school, college, medical school,
and
psychiatric training. The speculations were lost somewhere along
the
way. I had a successful private practice, did some teaching of medical
students,
and supervised psychiatric residents.
All
of this was somewhat fulfilling, but something was missing.
I
wanted to be more than just a simple pill-pushing professional. I
wanted
to go where no ordinary psychiatrist dared to go. I wanted to
talk
to my patients, to probe the depths of their minds, to uncover
insights
that trapped emotions and prevented meaningful relationships.
When
a patient presented a dream where a hot dog was chasing a
doughnut
wearing a garter belt and fishnet stockings through a tunnel
filled
with yellow daisies, I wanted to be able to uncover its hidden
meaning.
I wanted to be a Freudian analyst. That was my dream.
However,
to be an analyst, two things had to happen. First, you
had
to choose an analyst from a small group of specially trained analysts
called,
not-so-surprisingly, training analysts. Second, you have
to
undergo a personal analysis with one of them, a fairly long process.
Initially,
the training analyst would perform a “psycho-colonoscopy”
to
discover your inner problems, followed by a long slow “mental
enema”
to purge you of the emotional shit inside that would interfere
with
your treating others.
To
begin the process, I had compiled the resumes of 10 training
analysts.
Who should I go to see first? I needed expert guidance. This
was
a very important decision and I knew exactly the one to turn to. It
was
Anna, my six-year-old female Jack Russell Terrier (named after
Sigmund
Freud’s daughter), who had guided me successfully in the
past.
Anna had picked five consecutive Super Bowl winners. Anna had
found
my car keys in the bottom of my closet when they accidentally
dropped
out of my pants pocket as I hung them up. Most recently, Anna
had
helped me pick out the perfect fragrance for my wife for our
anniversary.
I
placed the 10 résumés side by side on the floor of the family
room.
“Anna,” I yelled, “Come!” The rhythmic clinking of her dog tags
announced
her arrival from the kitchen where she had just finished getting
a
drink of water. “Anna,” said I. “I need your help making an
important
decision. Look over these resumes and pick the training analyst
I
should interview . . . ”
Anna
scratched her left ear with her left hind paw before walking
over
to the papers on the floor. She stared at the first résumé and slowly
sniffed
herself laterally to look over each one. She looked carefully
at
the training analysts’ ages, their experience, their gender, and what
books
they liked to read. When she got to the next to the last résumé
she
lifted her leg and peed on it. Turns out this analyst lost his license
10
years later because of sleeping with one, maybe two of his patients.
How
did Anna know?
Nine
to go. With her nose, she pushed off to the side the résumés
of
the analysts who were older than 65 years, who had been divorced,
and
who had no interests outside of psychiatry, as well as those who
followed
the Chicago Cubs. She made a separate pile for those who
had
pets and further eliminated some who weren’t named for famous
analysts.
When all the sniffing and pawing was done the analyst left
standing
was Dr. Herman Hermann, a 60-year-old, who had been a
training
analyst for 22 years and married to the same woman for 40. He
was
an avid golfer with a 10 handicap. The thing that sealed the deal
for
Anna was that he had a German Shepherd named Sigmund and she
loved
German Shepherds, especially if they were named for her father.
I
immediately picked up the phone and scheduled an appointment
with
Dr. Hermann for next week.
I
patted Anna on the head and thanked her for her help. I imagined
Anna
thinking “I can’t believe he thinks I have special telepathic powers
when
in reality I picked that particular resume because the paper
smelled
like a dog I met in the park last week.” I often had crazy
thoughts
like this. It made life interesting.
About
the Author

photo Shrink Unwrapped author Joel L. Schwartz_zps3q2gldf4.jpg

Dr.
Joel Schwartz is the published author of 7 middle grade novels, including
Upchuck Summer (Yearling, 1983), which sold over 150,000 copies, He is the
Emeritus Chair of Psychiatry at Abington Memorial Hospital, and a board
certified adult and child psychiatrist/psychoanalyst. He is also a professional
speaker, and works with organizations to improve workplace dynamics. In
addition, he is an amateur stand‑up comic and wishful golfer.
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by | May 3, 2019 · 5:00 am

Surf and Sand – Blitz

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The
Girl In The Seaside Hotel
Literary
Fiction, Mystery
Published:
February 2019
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Surf
And Sand: The Girl In The Seaside Hotel is the story of a young girl and her
family living in Hermosa Beach during the late 1950s, the so-called
“Gidget Era” of surfing.  A
formerly grand old hotel becomes the setting for the girl’s growing obsession with
solving the mysterious disappearance of another girl 21 years earlier in the
hotel’s basement swimming pool.  After a
friend goes missing too, the detective from the original case, now nearing
retirement, is called in to help solve the two cases, which may or may not be
connected.
 
Excerpt
…There
had been a large crowd in the ballroom that Saturday night, as a well-known
jazz orchestra had been playing.  As many
as 300 people.  None of the girl’s
friends reported any suspicious incidents or encounters before the girl went
missing.  Irene Young did not have a
steady boyfriend or local family, and lived with another young woman in
Hollywood, a woman who hadn’t been at the hotel or ballroom that evening.
Irene’s
friends had tried to report her missing much earlier that morning, just after
2AM, with a mildly frantic phone call, but the police had just assumed she’d
just probably gone home in a taxi-cab or with a friend or someone else she’d
met there at the hotel.  And besides she
hadn’t been missing the required 72 hours for a formal report.  Still, a police officer was eventually sent
over just after daybreak, really just to placate her friends. It was all more
or less routine until the shoes and necklace were found.  Then detectives had arrived to ask questions.
There
were no obvious signs that any physical violence had occurred down in the pool
area, but it couldn’t be ruled out either.
Eventually every room in the hotel had been searched for any sign of
violence or evidence that Irene Young had been there.  Nothing was found to indicate she had.  She had simply vanished.
But
one of the newspaper stories that Nell found had included a few of the
witness’s first names and last name initial.
These were the names of Irene’s companions that had been interviewed by
the police. There was a Joey F, a Clark S., and a Lois J.  And one of those names was a Virginia W.  That’s just like mother’s maiden name, she
thought.  Worsham!  Nell had never heard of a Joey F., but there
was Uncle Clark and Aunt Lois.  How could
this be?   It couldn’t be coincidence,
could it?  Sherlock Homes didn’t believe
in coincidence.  Nell didn’t know what to
think.  Or what to do.
About
the Author

photo Surf And Sand Author W.B. Edwards_zpsywnvhd7d.jpg

W.B.
Edwards is a retired telephone employee, who took two years of college as an
English major at Rio Hondo in Whittier, California, from 1966 to 1968.  Edwards is a Vietnam era Navy veteran, a
motorcycle enthusiast, surfer, taiji practitioner, and dreamer.  He is an Indie author with two novels
completed, and working on a third.
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by | · 5:00 am

Sworld – Blitz

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Science
Fiction
Date
Published: May 3rd, 2019
Publisher: Chandra Press
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If
you like the epic world building of Frank Herbert with the amazing adventure of
Neal Asher, you will love Sworld: The Chronicles of Malick.
Malick,
the genetically modified captain of The Pioneer, and his crew are on a
scientific expedition to the far reaches of the solar system when they received
a highly unusual distress call. What’s more alarming is that no other ship has
ever been out this far. Compelled to investigate, Malick and his team discover
an alien vessel with a mysterious cargo that ultimately leaves them hopelessly
marooned on the unexplored planet Sworld.
Resigned
to their new lives, they begin a journey of discovery into a rich and vibrant
world with new life forms and intelligent species, but also dark mysteries and
perilous danger. An ancient race has turned to violence and aggression and will
stop at nothing until they achieve total domination. Plunged into a quest for
answers and an end to the bloodshed, Malick and the crew must solve the enigmas
of Sworld or perish.
Sworld:
The Chronicles of Malick is a thrilling science fiction adventure with
excellent character development, planet-spanning exploration, epic discovery,
and perilous danger.
Support
independent science fiction presses and pick up your copy today. You’ll be glad
you did!
This
is a must read for any sci-fi fan out there. If you enjoy science fiction in
all its glory, this is the novel for you. – Anthony Avila, blogger and author
of Nightmare Academy
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About
the Author

photo William_Harris_zpszzgrmzkd.jpg

The
author spent his childhood in Colorado skiing and riding dirt bikes.  After spending way too much time in college,
he took his engineering degree to the deserts of southern California.   After retiring to the mountains of northwest
to play golf, his wife dared him to write a book.  The rest, as they say, is history.
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