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by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | March 9, 2019 · 5:00 am

The Frights of Fiji – Blitz

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Alyssa McCarthy’s Magical Missions, Book 1

Middle-Grade Fantasy

Published: October 2018 Second Edition

Publisher: S.A. Prasad Publishing

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A Modern Magical World Awaits…

Life changes for twelve-year-old Alyssa McCarthy when she discovers magic—something nobody has ever believed in. Strange incidents occur, hinting that a sorcerer is out on the loose. That warlock kidnaps Alyssa from her uncle’s home and takes her to an enchanted Fiji Island called Yanowic.

The only way she can overthrow him is to fight perilous creatures as well as track the other wizards using magical technology. But unless she succeeds, Alyssa will remain trapped in the nation.

Originally published in 2013, the book has been updated to its full potential while keeping the same storyline.

Excerpt

Rain banged against the window. Alyssa looked up from washing her lunch dishes and stared at it. At least she could daydream while no one else noticed. After all, how else would she spend life without family fun—or even love? Her uncle enforced strict and unfair rules. Alyssa longed for the kind of life she’d lived before her parents had died in a car crash five years ago. She’d only been seven at that time, and now she couldn’t experience things like many children her age. Unless . . . she could find her godfather’s phone number and secretly call him. She hadn’t talked to him ever since she’d also lost her aunt three years ago. But she recalled his kind attitude. Her parents had even designated him as a legal guardian. But something seemed off with the raindrops. They turned grayish blue and darkened into black, looking as if ink fell from the sky. Alyssa leaned closer, squinting to determine the shapes it formed on the window. The rain formed—letters. No. That couldn’t happen. But a message formed as the rain plopped on other parts of the window. Nature couldn’t change its laws, right? Yet, the message finished putting itself together. Alyssa gasped at what it said.

Your life will never be the same again, Alyssa McCarthy, as magic will interfere.

What? Alyssa had never believed in magic. She’d been told at a young age that it hadn’t existed. Everyone on Orion Street was ordinary—at least, Alyssa had thought that ever since she’d moved here, right after her parents’ deaths. Turning around, she saw her babysitter, Mrs. Hutchinson, examine the kitchen floor. Alyssa’s eleven-year-old cousin, Hailey, watched the progress. Hailey had mopped the floor. Would she earn a break now? Ever since her uncle, Bruce, had hired Mrs. Hutchinson, Mrs. Hutchinson had admired the way Hailey had done her chores more than Alyssa. “Hailey, you can take a break until your next chore,” said Mrs. Hutchinson. “Alyssa, get back to work. You’ve been staring at the rain for too long.” “Okay.” Alyssa turned back—only to see the message gone and the rain back to its normal transparency. “What did I say?” asked Mrs. Hutchinson. Alyssa sighed. “Fine, I’ll finish washing the dishes.” She scrubbed her dish and glass with soap under warm running water. Her eyes focused on just those. No way would she want Mrs. Hutchinson to catch her looking out the window again. Mrs. Hutchinson was only in her sixties, but she’d sometimes seem to forget that was 2010 and not 1960 with her guidelines. Yet, it had taken Alyssa a while to realize that she wouldn’t even tolerate the mildest kind of nonsense, such as getting distracted by a windowpane when having to perform chores. Now that she finished washing her dishes, Alyssa put them to the side and grabbed some paper towels to dry them. “What do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. Hutchinson asked. Alyssa stopped. “I’m just—” “The last few times I was here, you left little bits of food on your dishes.” “But they were stuck.”

“Let me inspect them. Also, if something is rubbery, you have to wash it again.” “Why?” “Because clean dishes aren’t supposed to be rubbery. And boy, did you do such a sloppy job. Look at that stain on your sweater.” Alyssa looked down. “That looks like chocolate.” Alyssa blushed and arched her eyebrows. “Hey—it’s just water.” She covered the stain at the bottom of her sweater’s V-neck. But Mrs. Hutchinson waved her index finger. “Don’t you ‘hey’ me, Alyssa. That’s rude. In my days, kids respected their elders. We never would dare talk to them that way unless we didn’t mind them smacking our bottoms.” “Things change.” “Not when I’m here, they don’t. Now let me do my inspection.” Great—an inspection! How long would Mrs. Hutchinson take? She might spend a couple minutes or maybe twenty. Alyssa crossed her arms and tapped her foot. She wanted her break now. She wished to read, rest, do a small craft, like lanyards—anything but wait for Mrs. Hutchinson to finish her task. “Mrs. Hutchinson?” Alyssa asked. “Whatever you need to say, wait till I’m done,” she said. Alyssa sighed. She continued to watch Mrs. Hutchinson run her finger down the middle of the front of the dish. She then rubbed it back and forth. When she put it down and nodded, Alyssa figured out that the dish had nothing on it. Mrs. Hutchinson spent a few minutes of running her finger down the glass. She put it down and turned to Alyssa. “You’re good. Now what did you want to tell me?” “Um . . . if I tell you, can you not give me a hard time?” “Okay.” “There was writing on the window.” Mrs. Hutchinson pursed her lips and tilted her head. “Really?” “Yeah.” “Nonsense.” “No, really, it was there.” “There was nothing there when I came, and there’s nothing there right now. So don’t tell me stories.” “But it’s not a story.” “I don’t want to hear any more. Now it’s time for your next chore.” “Aw, but I wanted my break.” “Too bad. You have to go vacuum the living room.” Alyssa dragged her feet toward the living room and took the vacuum from the corner. She cleaned and thought about that writing as well as how Mrs. Hutchinson wouldn’t believe her. Would a nicer babysitter have believed her? Mrs. Hutchinson had watched her and Hailey for three years, and not once had she smiled or assisted with anything. After vacuuming the carpet for about five minutes, Alyssa decided that she had tidied the floor enough. So she stopped and put the vacuum away. “Hailey, you and Alyssa need to go get the mail now!” Mrs. Hutchinson called, facing the staircase. “Coming!” cried Hailey.

Another rule Uncle Bruce had placed on Alyssa and Hailey was they could only go outside together. He worried about people taking them or something, even though Alyssa would turn thirteen next month. But that rule had been placed because a few months ago, Uncle Bruce had heard about a seventeen-year-old boy who had been shot while skateboarding in his neighborhood. Violence could even happen here in Bursnell, New Jersey. Hailey and Alyssa headed to the closet and put their raincoats on until Mrs. Hutchinson said, “It stopped raining outside.” “Already?” asked Alyssa. “Yes.” Mrs. Hutchinson went to the bathroom. The girls walked outside toward the mailbox. Alyssa pulled the mail and headed back toward the door. But mud bubbled from the ground near the house. It piled up, looking like horse manure, and grew as more soil emerged. Alyssa dropped her jaw and stared at it. “Alyssa, what’s going on?” Hailey asked. “No idea,” said Alyssa. The dirt stopped piling up, but it continued to bubble, and the effects spread throughout the whole pile. The bubbles stopped popping up and down. Alyssa and Hailey gasped as they expanded. They kept their mouths open as the bubbles merged together, each one attached to another, forming a single bigger shape. Alyssa and Hailey stepped back as the now giant bubble swelled. And it . . . popped! Particles of exploding mud landed on the girls. They shrieked. The front door opened to reveal a glowering Mrs. Hutchinson. “What the heck have you two been doing?” “T-the mud . . . it e-exploded,” said Hailey. “Nonsense!” growled Mrs. Hutchinson. “Get inside!” The girls returned inside, pulling and wiping the mud out of their hair. Alyssa could spot the mud in her straight pale-blonde tresses, unlike Hailey, who likely needed more patience to search for globs in her elbow-length red locks. But Alyssa’s hair fell a few inches past her hips, so cleaning out the mud would take longer, even with the shorter layers in the front. “How could dirt explode?” Mrs. Hutchinson stomped. “I-I think it was magic!” exclaimed Alyssa. “There’s no such thing as magic!” screamed Mrs. Hutchinson. “Alyssa, you’re twelve years old. You’re too old to say things like that!” “But nothing else can make mud explode!” Alyssa said. “Mrs. Hutchinson, we swear it did!” whined Hailey. “Enough!” snapped Mrs. Hutchinson. “You and Hailey—go upstairs and take showers!” Alyssa followed Hailey up the stairs and heaved a sigh. How else would the mud have splattered all over them? Mrs. Hutchinson couldn’t have thought they’d play in the mud like small children. “Alyssa, can I shower first?” asked Hailey. “Sure,” said Alyssa. As Hailey strode into the bathroom, Alyssa walked into her room. She scratched more mud off her skinny jeans (the only jeans she’d worn ever since they’d come into style) and the back of her hand. She stood by her bed since she wanted to keep it clean. She considered the writing on the window and the exploding mud. Someone wanted magic to interfere with her life, but who, and how come?

Also, why hadn’t she ever seen wizardry before? Why would her parents and others tell her that it hadn’t existed? Did sorcery just start on earth? Had it hidden somewhere? There had to be some reason why no one had ever believed in it. Alyssa thought about the possibility that maybe magic might only interfere if she stayed here in her uncle’s house. Maybe if her godfather could arrange with his lawyer to let her move in with him, sorcery would hopefully leave her alone. However, unlike science, anything could occur with magic, which meant that it could follow her wherever she went. The sound produced by the bathroom’s running water ended, which let Alyssa know that Hailey had finished. Now she could have a turn. After about five minutes showering, Alyssa stepped out and headed back to her room. She put on leggings and a long shirt. But she gasped at something appearing out of nowhere on her bed. Now that had to have come from . . . magic. Approaching it, she saw that it was a folded piece of paper. She opened it and read it. Hello Alyssa McCarthy, You must be wondering about the writing on your window, the exploding mud, and the note that appeared here. Who was responsible for them? You’ll find out at some point. Anonymous

Anonymous? How dare someone create incidents and not say his or her name! Alyssa needed to know his or her identity in order to report him or her. She didn’t want strange, magical occurrences to keep happening. Regardless of that, now she had proof to Mrs. Hutchinson that the writing and exploding mud had occurred. Mrs. Hutchinson had seen her write before, and this looked nothing like hers. She handwrote in a half-print and half-script style. This, however, was pure print. Alyssa jogged down the stairs and carried the note. “Mrs. Hutchinson, I have something to show you.” “Not right now, Alyssa.” Mrs. Hutchinson left the kitchen. “You and Hailey have to go wash my car.” “But it’s quick.” “You can show me after you’re done with my car.” Mrs. Hutchinson turned to Hailey, who emptied the dishwasher and put dishes away. “Are you almost done?” “I think so,” said Hailey. “How many dishes do you have left?” asked Mrs. Hutchinson. “Uh . . .” Hailey looked at the top rack. “Four.” “Okay, hurry up.” Mrs. Hutchinson turned to Alyssa. “Why don’t you go put that piece of paper away?” “But this is what I need to show you.” “Do I have to repeat what I said before?” “But—” “Alyssa, do as you’re told.” Mrs. Hutchinson pointed to the staircase. Alyssa sighed. This note contained so much crucial information. Only that paper itself had evidence to show that those incidents had occurred.

After putting the note back in her room, Alyssa headed down the stairs and walked with Hailey toward the garage. The two grabbed sponges, buckets, and soap for washing cars. They filled the buckets with water and scrubbed Mrs. Hutchinson’s car. “I wish we had another babysitter,” muttered Alyssa. “What was on the piece of paper?” asked Hailey. Alyssa told her. “Who wrote it?” “There was no name on it. Just ‘anonymous.’” A girl whistling turned Alyssa’s attention away from the car. She leaned her head toward the sidewalk and saw her friend from grade school, Madison Jennings, riding her scooter. “Hi, Alyssa,” said Madison. The wind blew her long dark-brown waves across her face. She stopped at Alyssa’s driveway, and her hair went limp. Hailey and Alyssa ran up to greet her and ask how she’d been. “I just moved onto Draco Drive a few days ago,” Madison referred to a road off Orion Street. “So how do you like the middle school?” asked Alyssa. “Oh, I go to Catholic school now,” said Madison. “What about you?” “Hailey and I are homeschooled now,” said Alyssa. “I never got to tell you.” “That’s okay,” said Madison. “So you guys want to come over to my house on Saturday?” “What time?” asked Alyssa. “I’ll ask my mom and let you know,” said Madison. “Okay, bye, guys. Nice seeing you again.” She rode back in the direction she’d come from as Hailey and Alyssa waved goodbye to her. After washing the car for another ten minutes, Alyssa and Hailey cleaned up and walked back inside. A snore suggested to Alyssa that Mrs. Hutchinson slept. Huh? She never napped while babysitting. Alyssa strode toward the living room and saw Mrs. Hutchinson asleep on one of the couches. Hailey followed her. “Why is Mrs. Hutchinson sleeping?” “I don’t know,” said Alyssa. “Can you show me the note?” Alyssa nodded and led her up the stairs. She opened her door but gasped at what she saw. The note that she’d left on her bed was gone. “Where’s the note?” asked Hailey. “It was right there,” Alyssa pointed to the bed. But another piece of paper appeared onto the mattress. Alyssa picked it up and read it.

Hello again, Alyssa,

I have put your babysitter to sleep to reveal magic to you. You’ll find out why she is sleeping later. Anonymous

“Not again,” mumbled Alyssa. “Why won’t they say their name?” She showed the note to Hailey. “Let’s go call my dad before anything happens,” said Hailey.

How much worse could this get? Alyssa thought as she follows.

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About the Author

Sunayna Prasad has published a few books between her late teens and her mid-twenties. She has won a Pacific Book Review Award for her novel, Wizardry Goes Wild, which will return as a new edition, like From Frights to Flaws. Sunayna also has a blog on different creative and entertaining topics, including writing and fiction. It is called “Sunayna Prasad’s Blog”.

Aside from writing, Sunayna also likes to cook, do art, and watch videos online. She has graduated from college in May 2017 and is looking to continue more writing as well as hold a job soon. Sunayna lives on Long Island, NY.

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Tagged as Alyssa McCarthy's Magical Missions, blitz, Book 1, Middle Grade Fantasy, Sunayna Prasad, The Frights of Fiji

by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | March 7, 2019 · 5:00 am

In the Promised Land – Blitz

In the Promised Land

Women’s
fiction

Date
Published: June 29, 2018

This
third book in the Egypt trilogy wraps up the lives of the characters in a neat
and satisfying way, according to some readers. Like the rest of the series, the
story is set in the beautiful twin- island nation of Trinidad and Tobago. The
two main characters, Marva and June, have come out of an abusive childhood
(Egypt) and are now adults. Marva is a nun at a home for delinquent girls.
Marva is known for being strict and well disciplined, but when her adoptive
father is killed in a Muslim coup, the family relies on Marva’s levelheaded
calm to help them get through their crisis. But little do they know that Marva
has a crisis of her own, one that her discipline and her faith seem inadequate
to handle.

About
the Author

Angela
is the author of the Egypt series, three books written in the women’s fiction
genre, and Women For All Seasons, a
Christian non-fiction book. Angela’s work has also appeared in A Cup of Comfort
For Mothers and Chicken Soup For the Soul.

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Links

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by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | March 6, 2019 · 5:00 am

South Pointe – Blitz

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Mystery & Suspense

Date Published: February 6, 2018

Publisher: RedBird Books

Paige Carson never expected that both a handsome sheriff and a charismatic newcomer would be vying for her affections. The choice isn’t an easy one, as she’s now responsible for raising her orphaned goddaughter, Jess.

Sheriff Sam Wallace didn’t lose at love. He got kicked to the curb. Hopeful that courting the feisty Paige will end differently, he can’t help but feel suspicious about his romantic rival. Is Ben Hampshire the man he seems—or is Sam’s jealousy clouding his perspective?

Sam’s determined to win Paige’s and Jess’s love, but he also has to keep Providence Island safe. More than just Sam’s heart is at risk if he fails to find the killer who walks the streets of PI—a killer with more than one agenda.

Excerpt

Dana locked the door after Ben departed and set the Closed. Please call again sign in place.

She’d lied to Ben about the reason for her fainting. Yes, she’d skipped breakfast. Yes, it was hot, and yes, she’d become dizzy. But the truth was she’d panicked when Ben had passed by the front windows.

A shadow fell across the front windows, and she caught a glimpse of blonde hair. The front door opened, spilling sunlight into the lobby.

Maisie was right when she’d described the young man as “a charmer.” His kind humor and gracious manners had put Dana at ease, despite her embarrassment.

One thing was certain. She had to break this cycle of panic every time she came to the office. Her gaze shifted to the area where Kyle Lansing had stood.

She grabbed the cast-iron hummingbird from the side table and swung the metal statue in a sharp arc. The blow slammed against Lansing’s upraised arm. He howled, and the gun fell from his hand. She swung again, this time catching the detective in the chest. Lansing stumbled backward. She dropped the sculpture and snatched up the gun.

That’s when the shadow had swept past the windows. The glimpse of blonde hair had frightened her that it was Jamie returning to the building, and she wouldn’t be able to protect the both of them.

The entry wall blocked the newcomer from her sight. She stepped back. There wasn’t much room to retreat, but each inch might make a difference in saving her life.

Lansing cast a glance over one shoulder. “What are you doing here, Ham—”

The first two shots hit Lansing in the torso. A third shot struck his head. Blood sprayed as he dropped to the floor. She gripped the gun, waiting for the stranger to step forward. Sunlight spilled once more in the lobby entrance. A rush of air and sounds from outside drifted inward as the shadow of the shooter moved away. The door closed, cutting off the sunlight.

Dana gripped the edge of Jamie’s desk as Lansing’s final words echoed in her ears.

“What are you doing here, Ham—”

Hampshire.

A chill rushed through her body, and she closed her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. She dared a glance at the front door as if expecting a face to be staring back at her. “Was it you, Ben?”

And if the shooter had been Ben Hampshire, how long was he willing to keep her and her loved ones safe?

About the Author

Dianna Wilkes is an award-winning contemporary romance author, known for the Providence Island mystery series.

Reading has always been an important part of her life. “I learned to read when I was four years old,” she said. “Writing my own stories seemed a natural progression.”

Dianna holds a B.A. in Visual Communication and a M.Ed. in Instructional Technology. She worked as an Education Consultant for a medical technology company before leaving the corporate world to write full time. Despite all that nerdy stuff, she loves creating stories of romance and mystery with touches of humor.

When she isn’t writing, Dianna is deep in researching various twigs and branches on her family tree or fulfilling entries on her travel bucket list.

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by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | March 1, 2019 · 5:00 am

The Case of Billy’s Missing Gun – Blitz

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(Sherlock and Me series)

Cozy mystery

Date Published: March 2019

Super sleuth Lucy James is hired to find the Colt pistol that may have belonged to Billy the Kid. Hampered by dishonest weapon experts, a pawnshop murder and unusual architecture at a downtown casino, her investigation is rocky at best. A massive snowstorm has blanketed Reno leaving Lucy to slog her way to interviews with uncooperative witnesses. Her father’s abrupt firing from his job as the host of a local children’s television show and the impending marriage between her best friend Cindy Floyd and her detective fiancé Skip Callahan grab chunks of Lucy’s fleeting attention. But she is determined to find the missing gun before the next snowstorm even though she on and off relationship with handsome professor Eric Schultz is off again. With sheer tenacity and a pair of thick snow boots, Lucy muscles through to the mystery’s resolution. It isn’t easy but the mystery and murder never are.

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

My name is Lucy James. Life seems to revolve in cycles and I’ve been trying to decide if this is an up or down cycle at this moment in time.

On the up side, I earned my private investigator license in Nevada last year and got a decent chunk of cash a couple of cases ago. On the down side, I shot through most of it renting my new office in downtown Reno and blowing the rest on a horse. No, it wasn’t a racehorse and I wasn’t betting in one of the casinos around here. I’d helped out a little boy in his hour of need.

That’s me. Lucy the do-gooder or so my best friend Cindy always tells me. Anyway, the boy’s dad was so grateful that he’s paying me back in installments. Problem is sometimes his installments don’t meet all my expenses and since another case hasn’t darkened my office lately, I’m still plugging away at the old movie theater by the Truckee River that winds its way through the city. It’s been my go-to job all through college and it appears it’s going to see me through a bulk of my adulthood too.

It pays the rent.

Today I wandered down to a local television station, KNVP, to see my dad at work. Larry James has been the host of Uncle Ollie’s Playhouse, a hit local show for kids under ten since the beginning of my ill-fated college career. Not my cup of tea but he enjoys it. Dad’s tenacity to stick with the program is the one characteristic I’m pleased to have inherited from him. Jury’s out on the rest.

In through a back door, everyone nodded as I slipped by to stand at the edge of the playhouse set to see how Uncle Ollie was doing. Shelves with colorful toys, bouncy balls, a purple-leafed plant, a man in shining armor and bowls of fruit decorated the interior. Ollie was perched on a stool in the center of the activity singing a song about getting along with your neighbors. His singing partner was a puppet resembling some unidentified breed of dog. The droopy ears and bulbous nose should have been dead giveaways but weren’t. Not that it mattered. Several happy little kids hovered around the puppet clapping and singing along with a beaming Uncle Ollie.

I watched in wonder at the man in bright red slacks and striped sweater. With his feet encased in fuzzy slippers and a shaggy blondish wig, Uncle Ollie, aka my dad, was a cross between a stylish Mr. Rogers and a 1950s Captain Kangaroo. But if memory served me, Dad should have been singing with a bunny rabbit if his emphasis that day was Captain Kangaroo.

I never asked him what daytime children’s show his was patterned after because I knew what he’d say. With wide eyes and a forlorn look etched on a comic face, Larry James would exclaim, “Lucy! How can you think I would ever stoop so low as to mimic one of those people?” He would draw out the word ‘those’ to two syllables laced with enough irony to make me want to starch a shirt. Ugh. Then I would get his standard lecture about being an original and if you couldn’t be original, why bother?

But there weren’t as many children on the set as usual and the two cameramen stifled yawns. No director hovered creating the usual chaotic whirlwind and there was a slight chill in the atmosphere I’d never experienced before. Even Uncle Ollie’s typically bright eyes and smile seemed forced and I wondered what was up. I found out as soon as Ollie and his sidekick Pete the Dragon finished singing the theme song, signaling the end of the program and the children were herded off the set. Dad stormed after them heading right for the control booth on the second floor. Sensing trouble, I tagged along.

“Wait up, Dad. What’s the rush? Aren’t you going to take off your costume?”

He didn’t turn in his haste to acknowledge me as he ran up the stairs, but managed to spit out, “Not now, Lucy.”

Blowing through the door of the control room, he got right in the executive producer’s face. A large man with few strands of hair and fewer principles, Rance Morgan wasn’t more than forty but looked fifty, clogged the already stuffy air with cigar smoke and ordered his staff around like they were born to wait on him. He had only become executive producer this past year and he and Dad had clashed from day one. Today didn’t seem more promising than any other day.

“Morgan! What the hell is the idea?” Puffs of steam from Uncle Ollie’s ears seemed to wilt his shaggy wig.

Rance Morgan stood stiffly towering over Larry James with a look of defiance.

“What is it now, James? The lead arc light too bright again?”

“You know what I’m talking about, Morgan. Cut the crap!”

Morgan smirked, folded his arms across his broad chest. A button popped open when he inhaled.

“Yeah. Same old, same old. Pete got more camera than you did.” He shook his head so slowly that I nearly laughed out loud. The guy was as big a ham as my father.

“Pete did, the children did, the puppets all did. Even Leapin’ Lizard got great angles. Why I was barely in the program at all. Why don’t you make it ‘Uncle Ollie’s Playhouse Without Uncle Ollie’?”

Morgan’s smirk became a sneer. “Great idea, James. Pack up that crap costume you insist on wearing and don’t let the door hit you on the backside when you slink out!”

Dad’s jaw hit the floor. “What are you saying?”

“Just what you suggested: I’m firing you. Thanks for saying what I’ve been meaning to for the better part of this year.”

Dad raised himself to full height, put his fists on his hips and sneered right back. “How do you expect to have Uncle Ollie’s Playhouse without Uncle Ollie? That’s me, you idiot!”

“What?” He laughed. “Think I can’t get another guy to play your moronic character? In a heartbeat, pal.” Morgan stepped aside and headed toward me. “You and your stuck-up daughter can find your own way out.”

“Hey!” I protested. But he muscled by me tossing a shrug in my direction without giving either of us a second look. When I turned to my dad, a very indignant Uncle Ollie met my open-mouthed stare. His camera make-up looked about ready to drip off his tomato red face.

“Dad, you just got fired.”

About the Author

SJ SLAGLE started her writing career as a language arts teacher. Her initial interest was children’s stories, but she moved on to western romance, mysteries, and historical fiction. She has published 24 novels, both independent and contract. SJ contributes regularly to guest blogs and has her own blog called anauthorsworld.com in which she discusses the research involved in the books she writes. SJ has established Twitter and Facebook fan bases, a quarterly author newsletter and a website under her pseudonym: JEANNE HARRELL at jeanneharrell.com.

Her first historical fiction novel, LONDON SPIES, was awarded a B.R.A.G. Medallion in 2018 and Slagle was a finalist in the 2017 UK Independent Book Awards. She was given the Silver Award with the International Independent Film Awards for her screenplay called REDEMPTION. SJ conducts writing/publishing symposiums in her local area. OSLO SPIES, her second historical fiction novel will be published in September. She lives and works in Reno, Nevada.

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by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | February 23, 2019 · 5:00 am

Doug Liberty Presents Bandit the Raccoon – Blitz

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Humor

Published: November 2018

Publisher: Paragraph Line Books

Effete alcoholic Tris Edgar finds a talking raccoon digging through his trash one evening. Tris tells a story of heartbreak, loss and self-defeat, and of his life as an instant celebrity in the internet age. At turns dark and whimsical, Doug Liberty Presents Bandit the Dancing Raccoon is a uncanny fable for the 21st century.

Praise for Doug Liberty Presents Bandit the Dancing Raccoon:

“Sheppard is a hugely imaginative writer, deftly balancing humor, pathos and lyricism.” -Self-Publishing Review

Excerpt

When I went to work the next night, Delores wasn’t there. She was supposed to be there. She left behind a note on the back of an order pad that said she was returning to Zanesville, Ohio, and that I shouldn’t follow her because nothing good could come from my following her to Zanesville. She’d double-underlined and capitalized Zanesville in each instance of its use in the note. She helpfully wrote down the address for what she said was her parents’ place in Zanesville at the bottom of the note.

This is how people get in trouble, you know. Not following directions.

It was an adventure. I took the note, left the restaurant, locked the doors and shoved my key under the front mat. I could have tried to drive my car to Zanesville, but it wouldn’t have made it.

I didn’t have much money. I’m not very good with money. This is a problem of mine going way back. All the way back. And all the way forward, too, to the present day. Ask the raccoon, if you can find him. He didn’t appreciate my situation.

I walked down to the Trailways bus station with the intention of buying a ticket to Zanesville, or maybe Cincinnati or Cleveland. I was unsure concerning the geography part of the adventure. Ohio was north. I knew that much.

At the bus station, a dude wearing a white, bellbottomed jumpsuit with “FATTU” spelled out in golden sequins sparkling on his back and sequined flames sewn into the seams from his armpits to his white ankle boots, hired me to ride shotgun with him from Florida to Ohio. I found him pacing around the bus station near the coin-operated TV sets. I’d been on my way to the ticket counter. I expected him to speak in an Elvis-inspired drawl, but he didn’t. His voice was Midwestern flat. There was no musicality to it whatsoever. He spoke quickly, too. “You want to go to Ohio? Let’s do this. Here’s two hundred dollars.” He handed me $300 in twenties. I counted it in front of him and tried to give back the extra hundred. “You keep it! You keep it! Good job! You’re trustworthy. We have a circle of trust going.”

I was wearing my work uniform. We were quite a pair walking out of the bus station to his waiting car, a mid-1970’s Camaro painted gold, like the car in the Rockford Files, glowing under a streetlight. Or was it a Pontiac Firebird? The engine was running. I could see blue smoke rising out of the tailpipe and up into the humid air. It was the rainy season. Everything was wet—ground, trees, people, air. I flung my straw boater onto a palmetto bush growing at the edge of the lot.

Where did I leave my car? Should I have sold my car? It wasn’t worth the effort to think about the car, so I didn’t.

He produced an glass amber bottle of black beauties. The bottle had been around since the 1970’s, like his car. Maybe he’d found it under the bucket seat. I popped a tablet, he popped four. He told me he was going to dictate his novel to me, and I was going to type it all down. He handed me an Olivetti in a brown leatherette zipped case and a roll of paper from a paper towel dispenser. “This is going to be my masterpiece. Type it all down! I’m the new Kerouac!” The speed made me feel like there were invisible live wires under my skin. I kept shouting, “Woop! Woop!” I typed the guy’s masterpiece while he drove. He had an organist’s keyboard built into the dash, and he played it. Bach fugues, mostly, to accompany his dictated writing. There were pipes in the doors. Every note vibrated through them.

“Her lips were pillows for my psionic mind.” I remember that line. I don’t remember a lot of the rest of it. Most of it was like that, though.

All the roadsigns that I’d read from my annual trips north were still there somehow (Stuckey’s, See Rock City, etc.).

I typed, and the paper kept getting stuck. The ribbon was on its last legs. The paper tore, so I ripped it and tossed it in the seat behind me. I looked back at some point and there were all these curls of typed-upon paper back there.

“Is it done?” he asked me, riffing on the keyboard. “Is it done? Is it done?”

“Yes,” I told him. “It’s done.”

“Cool,” he said, and drove us off the side of a low bridge in Kentucky, bounding over rocks ten feet down before sloshing nose first into the river below.

“I should have asked for more money,” I muttered as the car splashed down.

“What’s that?!” he shouted.

“Never mind.”

We somehow survived. I rolled down the window, climbed out of the car, swam ashore and looked back. The car was gone. So was the author.

About the Author

John L. Sheppard, a graduate of the MFA@FLA creative writing program at the University of Florida, is a native of Cleveland, Ohio. He lives in Illinois. He wrote a series of books about the adventures of Audrey Novak.

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