Tag Archives: Literary

The Quarryman’s Girl Virtual Book Tour

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Fiction (General, Literary, Women’s, Historical)

Date Published: 07-21-2022

Publisher: Mountain Lake Press

 

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Life is winding down for French Canadian immigrant Rose Dowd. She
isn’t fighting the flow until Fate forces her to gear up for yet
another chapter. Much like her adopted country, as it stakes out a new
international role in World War II, Rose must reinvent herself. Quickly.
Before she can move forward, however, she needs to absorb lessons from her
past, by channeling her former persona as the spunky Quarryman’s girl,
by reexamining her culture shock and parental abandonment, and by mending a
long-standing rift with her sister Isabelle.

Integral to Rose’s journey are her sharp-tongued sister Izzy; her
perpetually worried son Vince, a resourceful shipyard worker; her long dead
Métis mentor Mère Agathe; her bright and bubbly, but sickly
granddaughter Netty; and Nate, “The Ragman’s Grandson,” a
club-footed, pre-law student dreading his future. Follow these unforgettable
characters from the 1880s to the 1940s, Travel from the hard-scrabble pig
farms of Quebec to the granite quarries of Quincy (Massachusetts); from the
frozen St. Lawrence River to the deep-channel Fore River, launching pad for
some of World War II’s most famous warships.

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EXCERPT

In her dream she was back in Quebec. Not at the farm, but in a forest clearing, in mid-winter. Although the snow was hip deep, Rose recognized the clearing. Mère Agathe had taken her there many times, in spring, summer, and fall, to gather herbs to heal and mushrooms and roots to eat. It was a magical place.

Turning full circle at the center of the clearing, Rose could see nothing but hemlock, tamarack, and jack pine. If she lay on her back, the tops of all those giant conifers would converge in one perfect point. Staring at the dark green wall encircling her, she felt so small. Not because she was a child. Because she was a mere human. A mere human, all alone in the northern wilderness. Her sense of awe gradually faded, to be replaced by washes of panic. Her heart began skipping beats. A pulse throbbed inside her upper abdomen. Nausea restricted her throat. Her breathing became shallow…

Her peripheral vision picked up a quiver in the drooping, snow-encrusted hemlock branches to her right. The quiver grew to a tremble, then a convulsion, as a figure emerged from the green wall. 

Jésus, Marie, Joseph!” Rose exclaimed. She relaxed a little—but only a little—when she recognized Mère Agathe, swathed in a woolen blanket whiter than the snow.

A bony index finger emerged from the blanket and wagged at Rose. “Hard times coming, little one. And you not ready, eh? High time you get ready, no?”

 

 

About the Author

Melanie Forde

Melanie Forde grew up hearing fanciful tales about her voyageur forefathers
swaggering through 17th century Quebec, while her Métis foremothers
parsed the mysteries of the natural world. It was only a matter of time
before she mined those memories for a novel. It was high time that she set
her characters in the gritty hometown that started her own journey: Quincy,
Massachusetts. She’d like to think she inherited some of the earlier
generations’ resilience, joie de vivre and attunement with Mother
Nature. She credits both her French Canadian and Irish ancestors with the
storytelling gene that inspired four previous, character-driven novels.
Although she now lives in the Virginia mountains, far from both Quebec and
Quincy, she sometimes hears ghostly sled dogs howling softly amid the
moonshadows that dapple the snow.

 

Also by Melanie Forde:

• Hillwilla

• On the Hillwilla Road

• Reinventing Hillwilla

• Decanted Truths

 

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The Shade Under the Mango Tree Blitz

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Literary, Contemporary Fiction, Multicultural

 

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Gold Medal, Contemporary Fiction, 2021 Global Book Awards (formerly New
York City Book Awards)

Finalist, 2021 SPR (Self Publishing Review) Book Awards

Finalist, Multicultural Fiction, 2021 International Book Awards

 

After two heartbreaking losses, Luna wants adventure. Something and
somewhere very different from the affluent, sheltered home where she grew
up. An adventure in which she can make some difference.

Lucien, a worldly, well-traveled young architect, finds a stranger’s
journal at a café. He has qualms and pangs of guilt about reading it.
But they don’t stop him. His decision to go on reading changes his
life.

Meeting later at a bookstore, Luna is fascinated by Lucien’s stories and
adventurous spirit. She goes to a rice-growing village in a country steeped
in an ancient culture and a deadly history. What she finds there defies
anything she could have imagined. Will she leave this world unscathed?

An epistolary tale of courage, resilience, and the bonds that bring diverse
people together.

 

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Excerpt

Prologue

Luna: February, 2016

 

Ov’s thin upper body is slumped over his crossed legs, his forehead
resting on the platform. His brown, wiry arms lie limp, the right one
extended forward, hand dangling over the edge of the platform. Dried blood
is splattered on his head, and on the collar, right shoulder, and back of
his old short-sleeved white shirt.

It seems fitting that he died where he used to spend most of his time when
he wasn’t on the rice fields—sitting on a corner of the bamboo
platform in the ceiling-high open space under the house. It’s where
you get refreshing breezes most afternoons, after a long day of work.

The policeman looks down at Ov’s body as if he’s unsure what to
do next. He lays down his camera and the gun in a plastic bag at one end of
the platform untainted by splatters of gelled blood.

He steps closer to the body, anchors himself with one knee on top of the
platform, and bends over the body. Hooking his arms underneath Ov’s
shoulders and upper arms, he pulls the body up, and carefully lays it on its
back. He straightens the legs.

He steps off the platform. Stands still for a few seconds to catch his
breath. He turns to us and says, “It’s clear what has happened.
I have all the pictures I need.”

 He points to his camera, maybe to make sure we understand. We have
watched him in silence, three zombies still in shock. Me, standing across
the bamboo platform from him. Mae and Jorani sitting, tense and quiet, on
the hammock to my left.

Is that it? Done already? I want to ask him: Will he have the body taken
away for an autopsy? I suppose that’s what is routinely done
everywhere in cases like this. But I don’t know enough Khmer.

As if he sensed my unspoken question, he glances at me. A quick glance that
comes with a frown. He seems perplexed and chooses to ignore me.

He addresses the three of us, like a captain addressing his troop.
“You can clean up.”

The lingering frown on his brow softens into sympathy. He’s gazing at
Jorani, whose mournful eyes remain downcast. He looks away and turns toward
Mae. Pressing his hands together, he bows to her. A deeper one than the
first he gave her when she and Jorani arrived.

He utters Khmer words too many and too fast for me to understand. From the
furrowed brow and the look in his eyes, I assume they are words of sympathy.
He bows a third time, and turns to go back to where he placed the gun and
camera. He picks them up and walks away.

For a moment or two, I stare at the figure of the policeman walking away.
Then I turn to Jorani. Call him back. Don’t we have questions? I can
ask and you can translate, if you prefer.
But seeing her and Mae sitting as
still and silent as rocks, hands on their laps, and eyes glazed as if to
block out what’s in front of them, the words get trapped in my brain.
Their bodies, rigid just moments before, have gone slack, as if to say: What
else can anyone do? What’s done cannot be undone. All that’s
left is to clean up, as the policeman said. Get on with our lives.

My gaze wanders again toward the receding figure of the policeman on the
dirt road, the plastic bag with the gun dangling in his right hand. Does it
really matter how Cambodian police handles Ov’s suicide? I witnessed
it. I know the facts. And didn’t I read a while back how Buddhism
frowns upon violations on the human body? The family might object against
cutting up Ov—the way I’ve seen on TV crime shows—just to
declare with certainty what caused his death.

I take in a long breath. I have done all I can and must defer to Cambodian
beliefs and customs.

But I can’t let it go yet. Ov chose to end his life in a violent way
and I’m curious: Do the agonies of his last moments show on his face?
I steal another look.

All I could gather, from where I stand, is life has definitely gone out of
every part of him. His eyes are closed and immobile. The tic on his
inanimate cheeks hasn’t left a trace. The tic that many times was the
only way I could tell he had feelings. Feelings he tried to control or hide.
Now, his face is just an expressionless brown mask. Maybe everyone really
has a spirit, a soul that rises out of the body when one dies, leaving a
mansize mass of clay.

I stare at Ov’s body, lying in a darkened, dried pool of his own
blood, bits of his skull and brain scattered next to his feet where his head
had been. At that moment, it hits me that this would be the image of Ov I
will always remember. I shudder.

My legs begin to buckle underneath me and I turn around, regretting that
last look. With outstretched hands, I take a step toward the hammock. Jorani
rises to grab my hands, and she helps me sit down next to Mae.

Could I ever forget? Could Mae and Jorani? Would the image of Ov in a pool
of blood linger in their memories like it would in mine?

I know I could never tell my parents what happened here this afternoon. But
could I tell Lucien? The terrible shock of watching someone, in whose home I
found a family, fire a gun to his head? And the almost as horrifying
realization—looking back—that I knew what he was going to do,
but I hesitated for a few seconds to stop him.

 

About the Author

Evy Journey

Evy Journey writes. Stories. Blogs (three sites). Cross-genre novels.
She’s also a wannabe artist, and a flâneuse (an ambler).

Evy studied psychology ( Ph.D. University of Illinois) initially to help
her understand herself and Dostoevsky. Now, she spins tales about
multicultural characters dealing with the problems and issues of
contemporary life. She believes in love and its many faces.

Just as she has crossed genres in writing fiction, she has also crossed
cultures, having lived and traveled in various cities in different
countries. Find her thoughts on travel, art, and food at Artsy Rambler
(https://eveonalimb2.com).

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Innerspace Virtual Book Tour

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Literary, Psychedelic, New Adult, Friendship

Date Published: 08-02-2021

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Four close friends, a beach, a fire, a trip to remember

 

“We’re ready to take flight on our next big adventure, supplies
packed, minds clear…The air is charged with sherbet-zing
anticipation. We’re in formation. Ecstatic motion. Screaming down the
hill towards the beach.”

Everyone has secrets. Some are darker than others. Ethel, Isaac, Moana, and
Henry are about to embark on their last psychedelic adventure together
before Moana leaves for Australia

Each of the four has something soul-scarring to hide, something
they’ve vowed to take to their graves. But when the psilocybin kicks
in, psychological doors spring open and all past and present lives are laid
bare.

Will the experience bring them closer to each other and closer to
understanding themselves, or will it devastate them?

 

Content warning: contains strong language, use of psilocybin mushrooms and
other substances, trauma themes.

 

 

Innerspace tablet

EXCERPT

First chapter

 

Ethel

The library is busy for a Friday. The steady flow is punctuated by the tension-induced banter of tired week-day staff who just want the weekend to come. Celeste bustles over to me – I always think of her movements in this way, probably because of the high heels and tight skirts that inhibit her movement. I’m shelving romances. She brushes lint from my shoulder. I try to hold back the instinct to recoil. My smile is a grimace.

“What are you up to this weekend?” 

Usually I say something like “reading” or “cleaning the house” because that’s a usual weekend thing, and Celeste responds with “aw” or “sad” or “lame” and looks pityingly at me. Her idea of fun is going into town, barely clad, and drinking until she falls over. This time I try a different approach, just to see how she reacts: “I’m getting wasted with my friends at the beach.” 

“Wow, Ethel.” Celeste puts the back of her palm up to my forehead, a playful-mocking gesture. “You feeling okay? I’ve never heard you say such a thing!”  She heads towards a customer at the counter, but pauses, looks back and squints, “I thought you didn’t drink.”

I don’t. Hopefully she won’t start inviting me out clubbing under the impression that I do. Drinking and I don’t mix well. Alcohol makes me nauseous if I have any more than a drink or two. I continue returning the heavily thumbed romances to their shelves. These ones are getting old. They’ll be out on the $1 rack soon and we’ll replace them with newer pulp. Their yellowing pages and the smell of cardboard and vanilla give them away. These books with their formulaic plots and two-dimensional characters don’t mean anything to me, but I hold them up and inhale anyway. 

Real books have smells that eBooks can never replace. The process of the paper breaking down, slowly, releases a compound similar in structure to vanillin. So that is what I’m inhaling: the smell of books dying.

I push my empty trolley back towards the counter. A familiar foreboding figure awaits, her back straight as a ruler, grey hair pulled into a tight knot. Agatha Millen. I contemplate going into the back room where we catalogue books, just to escape her, but I see Celeste has gotten there before me. Agatha turns her head and I instinctively want to duck behind the biographies. It’s too late. She’s seen me. 

“Excuse me.” Her tone is overbearing, even when her words are polite. She beckons with her bony fingers.

“How may I help you?” I try to smile.

“Oh, it’s you, the clumsy one. Well, don’t dither about. I need to track down the first edition of my father’s History of Paraguay. Of course, the family has several copies, but I know there’s one in the library system and I want to ensure it is returned to us before you toss it out like those poor sods outside.”

This is a fairly common Agatha request. She comes in every week asking for obscure volumes written by her family and acquaintances. Her unpleasantness forms a kind of parody of herself, reminding me of the judgemental elderly neighbours in my childhood who asked invasive questions about my broken shoes, my messy hair, my mother. I flinch but try not to show it. I can’t find the book on the system, anyway. It must have been tossed already. “I’ll look into it for you.”

Agatha fixes me with one of her piercing stares, emitting a kind of psychic toxin from behind her spectacles. I feel my soul withering. Thank God it’s almost the weekend.

 

About the Author

JR Bryant

JR Bryant has spent many years researching psychedelic experiences and has
written multiple novels under different pen names. They live in New
Zealand

 

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Gavin Goode – Tour

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Contemporary/Literary
Date Published: 6.27.19
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
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“I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but I think I died today.” So begins the complex and mysterious journey of Gavin Goode and his family. What happened to Gavin and why? What secrets will emerge along the way? Frankie, his wife and a dress store owner, feels guilty, but why? His son, Ryan, who owns an ice cream parlor, and daughter-in-law, Jenna, who is a bank manager, are expecting their first baby. How will this trauma affect them? And what of Rosemary, Frankie’s best friend? Or Ben Hillman and eleven-year-old, Christopher? How are they implicated in the events that unfold around Gavin’s misfortune? This is a story of despair and hope, dreams and reality, uncertainty and faith, humor, secrecy, forgiveness and beginnings.

Excerpt 

Chapter 1  Gavin Goode Gavin awakens to an unexpected development.

“I don’t know why and I don’t know how, but I think I died today.” Gavin is a perceptive guy. He looks at this problem from every angle. Where is his body, for instance? Why doesn’t he see anything or feel anything? Hear? Smell? Where has the world gone? He doesn’t have a clue what happened. He doesn’t remember anything. Surely there would have been a warning sign, something that cried out, “Mayday, mayday! Brace yourself!” But there was nothing… He traces his final hours as best he can… He thinks back a little further, searching for clues. Last Tuesday he saw Dr. Nguyen for his annual. Blood test, prostate exam (not a fan), ticker check, everything was normal. “You are in good shape for your age, Mr. Goode,” said the doctor. “What does that mean?” thought Gavin. “Someone my age? I’m fifty-two, which isn’t young, I’ll grant you that, but it’s not old, not these days. Maybe in my old man’s time, but not today. Fifty has to be ‘the new’…something younger…”

He’d been afraid of death for as long as he could remember. Every lump or bump was cancer. And every odd looking crap was also cancer. He always assumed the Big C was sneaking around his insides, like ISIS metastasizing, calling up reinforcements, slinking around in his cracks and crevices, waiting for the right time to attack. It happens. Let’s say you feel great but you’re due for your flu shot, so you go to the doctor’s and just as you are leaving, you say, “By the way, doc, before I go, could you take a look at this thing on my leg?” And your doctor’s eyes narrow as she studies the tiny black bruise. She excuses herself and returns with a senior colleague who takes his glasses off the top of his head so he can get a better look, only to remove them again and shake his head. Your doctor shakes her head, too, and says, “Should have come in months ago.” You know the rest…

Gavin has issues. It all started with his grandfather, his Papa, who lived with them when he was a boy. He was close to Papa, who played catch with him, explored the woods near their house with him, read books with him, made bird houses with him, did just about everything with the young Gavin. As Gavin grew up and Papa got older, things changed. They didn’t hang together as much. Papa stayed home watching TV most of the time. 

One day Gavin comes home from school and Papa is sitting in his recliner, Days of Our Lives blaring on the TV. Gavin calls to him, “Hey Papa, how’s it going?” When he doesn’t answer, Gavin figures he can’t hear, so he cranks it up, “PAPA, HOW’S IT GOING?” Nothing. So he walks over to Papa’s chair and taps him on the shoulder, at which point, Papa slumps over to one side. Totally scares the shit out of young Gavin. He thinks of doing CPR, but he can’t bring himself to get that involved with his grandfather’s mouth. The creepiness factor is too high. Anyway, as far as Gavin can tell Papa is long gone. 

So he calls his mother who totally freaks at the news. She drops the phone and dashes home as fast as she can. But no matter what she does, it still takes at least twenty minutes for her to get there. Twenty minutes alone with dead Papa. What to do, right? Watch the show with him? Talk to him? Close his mouth? Prop him up and comb his hair so he looks more like himself when Gavin’s mother gets home? In the end, Gavin can’t touch his grandfather. 

It had been a long day at school. Gavin missed lunch because of a meeting with his school counselor and he’s starving. So he goes to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. He thinks of going back into the living room, but it seems disrespectful to eat in front of Papa, considering the condition he’s in, so Gavin stays in the kitchen. 

That’s where he is when his mother gets home. Let’s just say she isn’t pleased and she doesn’t understand Gavin’s reasoning. “He’s your last grandparent! At least sit with him! God knows he sat with you often enough!” Gavin wants to say, “Hey, I’m, like, I came home and there’s Papa sitting in front of the TV, all dead, and no one’s around and it totally scared the crap out of me. At least I stayed in the house. I didn’t run out into the street screaming like a crazy person, which is what I wanted to do. Shouldn’t I get points for that? It may not have been ‘A’ work on my part, but it wasn’t an ‘F’ either; it was at least a ‘C’ or ‘C-’.” But in a moment of rare wisdom he doesn’t say anything. He realizes that basically she is right, though he still feels that eating a peanut butter and sweet pickle sandwich in front of his dead grandfather would not have been in good taste.

About the Author

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David B. Seaburn’s first novel, Darkness is as Light, was published in 2005. He followed with Pumpkin Hill (2007), Charlie No Face (2011), a Finalist for the National Indie Excellence Award in General Fiction, Chimney Bluffs (2012), More More Time (2015), and Parrot Talk (2017), which placed second in the TAZ Awards for Fiction (2017) and was short listed for the Somerset Award (2018). Seaburn’s upcoming novel, Gavin Goode, will be released in June 2019.
Seaburn is a retired marriage and family therapist, psychologist and Presbyterian minister who lives in Spencerport, NY with his wife, Bonnie. They have two daughters who are married and three wonderful grandchildren. After serving a rural parish for six years, Seaburn entered the mental health field. He was an Assistant Professor of Psychiatry and Family Medicine at the University of Rochester Medical Center for nearly twenty years. There he was Director of the Family Therapy Training Program (Psychiatry) and Coordinator of the Psychosocial Medicine Rotation (Family Medicine). He also taught, practiced and conducted research. He published over sixty academic articles and two books. In 2005, Seaburn left the Medical Center to become Director of the Family Support Center in the Spencerport Central School District, a free counseling center for students and their families. Seaburn is currently a writing instructor at Writers and Books in Rochester, NY.
Visit his website at www.davidbseaburn.com.
Read his Psychology Today magazine blog at https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/going-out-not-knowing.
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Well Below Heaven – Reveal

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Literary / YA (older teen)
Publisher: Cur Dog Press
Published Date: February 7, 2019
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Seventeen year old Kelly is in a spartan boarding school in northern Idaho, sent away for drugs—as planned. Her little brother Sammy is left home in Missouri, getting ready for high school. He is twitchy, quick, writes dark poetry and longs to play football. He’s also got a nose for trouble, and Kelly has left a sordid truckload. Her sadistic ex is involved, so is one twisted teacher, and so is the object of Sammy’s crush. He’s in deep, and Kelly’s warnings fall flat, and the consequences will be dire.

 

About the Author
After an adolescence survived in the Midwest and a few obligatory years at the university, Idyllwild Eliot embarked on a journey of internal and external exploration. With stints in Houston, Louisiana, and even Thailand, where she studied yoga, Ms. Eliot has become a semi-professional vagabond. Most recently (at the time of publication) she has been experiencing the North American west. If not sipping a cocktail on a deck in the northern Rockies, she might be found bodysurfing in Southern California, watching Bald Eagles in Montana, or in some other picturesque town hiking, meditating, or sitting with her laptop open and, at its side, a stout mug of black coffee. Well Below Heaven is her debut.
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