All that popular Chick-Lit author Mercury Lauren wants is to have one of her books reviewed by the New York Times Book Review – just one – and she’ll do almost anything to get it. In this contemporary romantic comedy, with a nod toward Pride and Prejudice she crosses swords and hearts with the Editor-in-Chief of the NYTBR in a madcap adventure that takes her from her home in Westport to a yoga retreat to a golf course in Florida. Will she get what she wants and will she finally be happy if she does? Only one thing’s for certain: nothing will stop her from Pursuing the Times.

Excerpt

It is a publishing truth, universally acknowledged, that anyone professionally involved in the pursuit of “Lit-e-ra-ture,” must, by definition, despise Chick-Lit. 

I first met Frank D’Arcangelo, Editor-in-Chief of the New York Times Book Review, at the annual National Book Awards ceremony and while it was definitely not the best of times for me, it was a close runner-up for the worst.

Of course, being the kind of person I am and writing the kinds of books I do, I didn’t actually receive anything so mundane as a printed invitation to the ceremony. Rather, my agent, perennially dateless, said I could be her guest.

Plus, I begged her.

“Please take me! Please take me! Please take me!” I all but groveled at her feet. I mean, if we weren’t talking on the phone and therefore not in the same room, I definitely would have thrown myself at her ankles and groveled.

“Ohhh…allllllllll right,” Angel graciously conceded.

Angel is short for Angelica, as in Angelica White, as in The Angelica

White Literary Agency. Yes, the t is capitalized. And, yes, the word ‘literary’ is a legitimate part of the title.

Angel had taken me on as a client five years previously, not so much because she was overwhelmed by my talent, I don’t think, but because she felt guilty. We’d both attended the same high school in Monroe and while she had gone on to be a wildly successful and respected professional, her agency primarily representing authors who were published by Knopf and Farrar, Straus and Giroux, the kind of authors who were annually nominated for and almost always won National Book Awards, I was still languishing in an underachieving sort of way as a clerk in an increasingly less successful bookstore. When I ran into her at a class reunion, and awkwardly mentioned that I had a manuscript at home I wanted her to look at, she’d reluctantly agreed out of what I could only think of as survivor’s guilt: she’d made it out of Monroe, while I’d been left behind. Not that there was anything generally wrong with Monroe, any more than there is with any other place, except for perhaps places that boast a huge hairy spider population, but there was definitely something wrong with it when you were such an underachiever that you’d managed to graduate from a decent college and you were still working retail.

Seemingly surprised that I could string eighty thousand words together without tripping over my feet, Angel had taken me on.

“I don’t usually represent this sort of thing,” she’d said.

So elated at the time with the prospect of representation by her, who also represented the likes of the latest Knopf wunderkind, John Nicklaus – “Nick” to his friends – I hadn’t the presence of mind in that blissful moment to see into the future and how that pejorative phrase, “this sort of thing,” would come to haunt me.

Following on the heels of “I don’t usually represent this sort of thing,” once the book was published, I repeatedly heard “I don’t usually read this sort of thing,” eventually graduating to “I don’t usually like this sort of thing.”

Hey, I tried to laugh, at least I kept graduating.

Angel ultimately sold that first book, a dark satire, to Pink Pet Press, a then recently launched publisher.

I had been hesitant to sign.

“What’s holding you up?” Angel had asked. “It can’t be the money. That’s not bad money for a first novel by an unknown. Maybe not great money, but certainly not bad.”

“It’s that…icon,” I finally said.

“The icon?”

“Yeah, that little pink eraser on the spines of all their books. Who has an office-supply product as an icon?”

“An office-supply company?” she countered, shrugged.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m sure. But what respected publisher does?”

“Oh, so now you not only want a publisher, you want a respected publisher too?”

“If it’s not too much to ask…”

But she must have realized what she was saying, how she was sounding.

“It’ll be fine,” she placated.

“It’s just that that eraser gives me the willies,” I said. “It makes me feel like I might be sooo…erasable.”

“It’ll be fine,” she re-placated.

“I guess,” I said, not feeling totally fine at all as I signed my creativity away. “But why couldn’t we have gone with Red Dress Ink instead?” I half-whined. “At lease they have that cute little red dress as an icon, not a pink eraser. That red dress always makes it look like they must be having fun over there.”

“Maybe next time,” Angel had said, snatching up her copy of the contract – we were in her Manhattan office at the moment – so that I wouldn’t have time to do something foolish like rethink my decision and tear up the contract before she could send a copy back to Pink Pet.

But there never was a next time, or not the next time Angel had promised, because next time, meaning the next time I wrote a novel, Pink Pet offered double the amount on the first contract. And the next time they offered double that. In fact, with my fifth book about to be published, I’d been doubled four times and was now receiving healthy advances, not to mention healthy royalty checks.

Of course, by now I’d been branded as an author of Chick-Lit – well, actually, the first book had served to do that – even though I thought of what I wrote as satire. Surely, if a man wrote the same things, they wouldn’t call it Dick Lit…would they? And he’d probably get some respect, right?

Why did people always insist on calling my books Chick-Lit? I often wondered. After all, the only time any of my characters ever went shopping was if they needed a disguise.

Sometimes, as may already be apparent, being labeled Chick-Lit instead of satire bothered me, but mostly I just laughed my way to the bank. Or at least I tried to. I mean, what would you rather cash, a $2,000 check for being a brilliant satirist or a $100,000 royalty check for writing Chick-Lit?

My writing had been compared to Austen, Swift and shit, depending on who was doing the talking, but that was all on Amazon. There was just no way, at this stage in my career, that the New York Times, which had never paid any attention to me before, was going to pay attention to me now. I’d published four books, each increasingly more successful than the last, but I’d never been reviewed by the New York Times. Damn Times. Whatever sugarplum dreams I’d had of respectability, whatever Knopf-in-the-sky pretensions of something grander I’d entertained had all been dashed on the shoals of reality.

The die had been cast.

I was who I was.

Nothing was ever going to change that.     

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The bachelor battles the deadly Mexican cartel to protect his amor and family encountering romance, tantalizing ecstasy, and danger.

Jose Enrique De La Cruz, CEO of the De La Cruz, Inc. needs a fiancée in time for the company’s 25th anniversary celebration. La familia is anxious to meet his fiancée, but he doesn’t have one!

His hermana (sister) Patricia agreed to obtain una novia for him. Paty enticed her amiga (friend) to pretend to be his loving fiancée. Jessica Maria Cortez agreed to be his fiancée for two reasons: one, she has always loved him and prays she can make him love her and two, this is a great opportunity to achieve her dream of working as an interior decorator design manager.

In no time at all, Jose Enrique and Jessica find themselves budding up into a relationship with tantalizing ecstasy. With everything falling into place for the De La Cruz’s, it looks like the entire family is about to plunge into an ocean of nightmare and chaos before they can say “Cheers!” for the De La Cruz, Inc.             

Excerpt

Paty y Jessy are laughing as they enter the conference room.

Jessy steps into the cuarto first. Oh dios mio, Jose Enrique is waiting. He looks hotter than ever before. Mi corazon will not stop pounding. Mi chest, it’s going to explode. I’m going to die. I’m going to stop breathing.

Take a deep breath, stay calm. I need to be professional, sophisticated, y sexy. Yeah, right! Geez! Smile and greet him. I need to put mi portfolio on the desk and be ready for his greetings, thought Jessy. Take control. Don’t tremble y definitely do not sweat. Okay, I can do this. Smile.

Jose Enrique observes his novia enter the cuarto first. Dios mio, Wow! Gracias dios mio. It’s the bella chica that I saw at the club on Friday. I do owe Paty big, big time. Smiling, Jose Enrique approaches his novia reaching out to enfold her in a tight hug.

“Hola, novia mia,” Jose Enrique said proceeding to give her a beso.

What is he doing? He is kissing me! Relax.

Available now!   http://tiny.cc/5x8ykw

For more on P.T., visit https://www.facebook.com/pages/PT-Macias/319871778087970 and www.ptmacias.com

Newlyweds Kyle and Chelsea Davis return from their honeymoon—their marriage consummated and their lives rejuvenated—ready to take the world by the tail. They have both made career sacrifices to be together and to live in Kyle’s father’s cabin in the North Carolina mountains. Stuart Davis’ ominous presence makes itself known immediately, haunting Kyle, making him question his own life choices. How much of his father is truly in him, and how much can he fight the commonalities? Meanwhile, Chelsea learns quickly that her life is not falling into place as easily as she’d predicted, driving doubts and fears into everything she believes, even her connection with Kyle. Life in the adult world is challenging enough without the unexpected surprises they both encounter as a couple. As they walk the tightrope between dreams and reality, will the true love they think they deserve be possible for them?

Three Gifts is a story of growing together, finding strength and ultimately faith in the character-building experiences Kyle and Chelsea endure together in this tale that returns the readers to the mountains and to Kyle’s “thin place” with the woman he loves. Told alternately from each of the couple’s perspectives, readers will experience both sides of their story. As the third installment of the trilogy beginning with The One, Three Gifts brings back the original cast of characters, grown up now, and facing life head-on in this enigmatic love story.

About the Author

A native of North Carolina, award-winning author Mary Flinn long ago fell in love with her state’s mountains and its coast, creating the backdrops for her trilogy of novels, The One, Second Time’s a Charm, and Three Gifts. With degrees from both the University of North Carolina at Greensboro and East Carolina University, Flinn has continued her first career as a speech pathologist in the NC public schools since 1981. Writing a novel had always been a dream for Flinn, who began crafting the pages of The One, when her younger daughter left for college at Appalachian State University in 2009. The characters in this book have continued to call to her, wanting more of their story told, which bred the next two books in the series. Their tale is not yet done, as Forever Man is currently in the works as a sequel to Three Gifts.

Flinn has recently been the recipient of the Reviewers’ Choice First Place Award for Romance Novel in the Reader Views 2011 Literary Book Awards, as well as the Pacific Book Review Best Romance Novel of 2011 for Three Gifts. Second Time’s a Charm, also released in 2011, won an Honorable Mention in the Reader Views Reviewers’ Choice Awards.

Mary Flinn lives in Summerfield, North Carolina with her husband, and near her two adult daughters.

For more on Mary, go to www.TheOneNovel.com

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“A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Club” portrays a little known side of stand-up comedy. Road Dogs are comics who run the road doing their thing, driving from one end of the country to the other. Take a ride on the comedy bus with comedian Brian T. Shirley and see what happens off stage during the hours, days & sometimes weeks on a Road Dog tour.

Excerpt

My Perfect Hell Gig

Charlie Daniels sang about the Devil going down to Georgia. If the Prince of darkness visited the Peach State, I’m willing to bet he built a summer home in Forsyth. I did a show in Forsyth,Ga. several years ago and I still shudder when I drive by the area just off I-75.

The “Comedy Club” was located in a hotel bar. There was a decent stage with a good size dance floor in front of it and the dance floor was not for seating the audience. That meant that the closest people in the crowd were about fifty feet away. A long way for the lauhg to travel, but there would be none of that anyway. The club seated 70 or so and there were about 35 people in the place. Some of the folks were scattered around, but most of them were at two long tables near the dance floor. One table was full of drunk, off duty cops and the other table was full of tipsy 911 phone operators. This was not a good combination for comedians or crime victims in the area.

I was the opening act and the emcee was the bartender/waiter. He must have been real busy at the bar because when he went to start the show and introduce me he did not go on stage. He stood on the dance floor out of the stage lights and said ” Hi, are you ready for comedy, here’s your first guy Brian T Shipley”. I did not bother to correct his mistake with my name because I don’t even think the “audience” noticed that the ‘show” had started. They just talked right through the intro and were oblivious to me getting on the stage.

My first few minutes on stage weren’t that bad. I couldn’t see anyone because of the stage lights so I was talking to the dance floor, which was paying more attention than the crowd. I should have kept trying to make the dance floor laugh for 30 mintues, but NO, stupid me I tried to interact with the people. This only caused them to talk louder as I was interupting their drunken conversations. Then they started in on me with insults. There were so many of them yelling things like ” you suck” and “say something funny” that I could not respond quick enough. I asked them how they would know if I sucked when they weren’t even paying attention? My stating this fact only made things worse, so I pointed out a place on the edge of the dance floor for them to come and stand one at a time to heckle me. These fools actually did just that. They formed a line on the spot I had pointed out and one at a time would say their piece. Then I would slam them and they would stumble back to their seat. I finally told them I was leaving which got the best response I had all night. I ended my lecture by informing them that they may not have liked me, but if they don’t give the next guy a chance the whole show would be a suckfest. They actually gave the headliner a chance and he had a decent show. He thanked me after the show for getting them to pay attention.

When I got back to my hotel room I was highly upset which caused me to have a MAJOR panic attack. I still have them fom time to time, but this one was bad. My throat felt as if was closing up on me and I was having trouble breathing. I almost called 911, but then I remebered the last time I had done that. It had cost me $2000 to find out I was just having an anxiety attack and the 911 operators were in no shape to answer the phone anyway. It was about 12:30 am, but I decided to call my dad. Maybe he could calm me down, I had thought.

I told him about the show and he knows about my anxiety problem. He told me not to call the hospital, but instead to call the front desk. I asked him why and at the same time started to relax a little.

” Ask the front desk clerk what time the sun comes up tomorrow.” Dad said.

” What for?” I asked.

” Tell them you want a wake up call before the sun rises because you don’t want to see another damn redneck before you leave town!” he responded.

I laughed and relaxed even more.

Thanks Dad for saving me $2000.

Johnny rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard….

About the Author

Comedian/Philosopher Brian T Shirley has been in the Business for nearly 20 years. His act is derived from growing up poor, coming from a broken home, his military experience, partying, women, pets, infomercial’s, sports, and much,much,more. He started doing stand-up at The Comedy Zone in Charleston,S.C. at a comedy workshop where he learned the art of performing and writing comedy. He has performed all over the U.S., Canada and The Bahamas. Brian can format his show to be G,PG or R rated depending on the audience and the needs of the club owner/booker. He also works Country Clubs all over the U.S. with a select group of Comedians who specialize in corporate shows. He has done special events such as opening for Huey Lewis and The News, the Laughter for Love benefit for Va. Tech, The Second Annual Charleston Comedy festival and a Country music festival for Dodge trucks just to name a few. Brian has performed at The Jokers Wild Comedy Club located inside the Atlantis Resort and Casino on Paradise Island in The Bahamas. He has spread his comedy across the ocean performing for Carnival Cruise Lines.

Brian is also a philosopher. No, he doesn’t have a degree, but he has written two books of wisdom and wise sayings called “Make Love Not Warts”, and ” Four Score and Seven Beers Ago…” which are available now on Amazon.com,barnesandnoble.com, booksamillion.com, Trafford.com(The publisher’s website) or for a signed copy and a free personalized 8×10 headshot you can order from this website . These books are also available for ebook downloads. Brian is one of the featured interviews in the new book “Author Interviews with Author Ethen Carrell”. Brian is one of over 60 authors featured in the book “The Write Balance” by D.Jean Quarles and he has sveral short stories featured in the new ebook by Angie Merriam called “Intertwine”. Check out Brian’s calendar for a show near you!

Brian is also Co-Hosting the new internet radio program “The Triangle Variety Comedy Show” with veteran radio personality Patrick Walters. The Show airs 9pm-11pm EST on Wednesday’s.This show features interviews with 3 to 5 comedians per show doing call ins, original segments from Patrick and Brian,Amock (an online comedy site out of the U.K.), Radio Free Rocky D and more. There will also be clips of comedy from comics all over the country.

To access this great new show go to http://www.blogtalkradio.com/trianglevariety or the site link http://www.trianglevarietyradio.com/  Call-in 949-272-9578

To reach Brian on Facebook, go to https://www.facebook.com/groups/172180372915962/#!/groups/167913359986129/

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Exiled is a fantasy novel written for young adults about a boy (15) who is wrongfully accused of murdering his mentor and banished to The Never, a place from which there is no chance of escape. James must first learn to survive in this inhospitable environment before finding a way to return home, where he believes he must be the one to save his kind from destroying themselves.

Full of sorcery, treachery, tragedy, adventure and excitement, Exiled is book one of The Never Chronicles, which in full, completes the story of James, The Never and the feared Epoch Terminus – the rapidly approaching date marking the end of his world.

Every other chapter follows James in The Never, while, in “Lost”-like fashion, the alternating chapters provide back-story. The story lines eventually come crashing together in dramatic fashion, tying sub-plots together and providing the reader a “wow” moment.

Excerpt

After a moment of standing in silence, a sound resonated in the chamber. Despite Ammoncourt’s instruction not to react, James turned his head toward the origin of the sound. He thought he heard a consternating grunt from Ammoncourt. He had violated his master’s instructions before the hearing had even begun.

The sound echoed through the chamber again. The second time, James did not react. He knew what it was. The guards surrounding the chamber were each armed with long-handled steel axes. The blades were tall and slender, unlike standard fighting axes. They were rumored to slice through oak as easily as a man’s throat. The never-dulling blades were one of many weapons carried by the guards.

Again the handles fell to the floor. James could feel the impact in his chest. The tempo increased. Boom, boom, boom. Flames erupted around the archway. The pounding stopped abruptly. Three men walked briskly beneath the flames toward the lectern. The first, smaller than the others, wore white robes with crimson embroidery that distinguished him from the guards. The pair behind wore blood-red robes, their faces shad- owed by hoods.

As the man in white reached the lectern, the guards surrounding the chamber gave one final concussion that echoed for minutes. Boom. The man in white raised his right hand as if quieting an applauding crowd.

“We hear the testimony of James Lochlan Stuart IV in defense against charges brought forth by the council. Are all present whom we require?”

Glowing orbs illuminated, revealing a previously blackened area of seating surrounding the chamber above the guards. They dimmed as the man in white nodded his head.

Again James calmed himself. Exhaling slowly. Focusing on fact. Knowing the council had nothing to convict him.

“Let us begin,” said the man in white. He peered over his spectacles at James, searching for signs of weakness, attempting to intimidate James with his cold grey eyes. James remained stone-faced. The man turned his gaze to Ammoncourt, who smiled back. His smile feigned friendliness, but his eyes sent another message. The man was unable to hold eye contact for more than an instant. He looked down at the lectern, clearly vexed. He turned his body slightly toward James as if to block the sight of Ammoncourt entirely.

“The charges: acting against a council mandate, spearheading a conspiracy, and murder.”

“Murder?” James shouted. Taken aback, his heart immediately began pounding in his ears. Ammoncourt’s eyes glanced quickly at James, but he made no other movement.

“Calm yourself,” Master Elder said with enjoyment in knowing he had broken James’s emotional shield with a single word. The red-robed figures each took a step toward James. Master Elder raised his hand, stopping the guards. James silently cursed himself for reacting.

“The council mandate . . .”

“In order to afford a proper defense, the accused has a right to the victim’s name, Master Elder,” Ammoncourt interrupted.

Master Elder looked up with a grin. Ammoncourt’s interruption provided him the opportunity for retribution from his previous embarrassment.

“Of course, Master Ammoncourt. The victim is Akil Karanis.”

Several gasps could be heard from the seating area above. Ammoncourt’s face turned dour as he took a step forward.

“Preposterous. Simply because the council is too incompetent to locate the man does not imply he’s been killed. No proof has ever surfaced of this so-called murder; no evidence of a body has ever been found. It is clear that the council is grasping at anything in order to besmirch Mr. Stuart. If this, the most serious of charges, is so riddled with holes, how is any among the council supposed to give merit to the remaining arguments? I call for a vote on the immediate dismissal of all charges. Let us stop wasting the council’s time by allowing Alvaro’s influence to win over absurdity.”

“Blasphemous! How dare you speak of Grand Master Elder Alvaro in such a manner. Such admonishment will not be tolerated,” said Master Elder.

“I speak the truth. Nothing more,” replied Ammoncourt calmly.

“This is not an open forum in which to further your political agenda, Master Ammoncourt. We are here today because crimes have been committed. Laws have been broken. A man has been killed. Now be silent and allow this hearing to proceed, or I will have you removed.”

“Your puppets do not frighten me. Nor do your threats. I stand on the side of truth. Which, above all else, will prevail.”

“Master Elder,” a voice said from the seating area above the chamber. “I suggest you move quickly to show us your evidence. I imagine it is irrefutable, proving this boy is the murderer of Akil Karanis, or you wouldn’t have summoned us here.”

“Of course, High Elder Grimm,” Master Elder replied hastily. “With respect to the murder of Akil Karanis I present the following damning evidence—a witness to the crime.”

Gasps fell from the seats above. Master Elder outstretched his arms, palms facing each other. An orb of blue light no larger than a pinpoint grew in the space between his hands.

“As always, witness accounts are classified incontrovertible.” He turned toward James, grinning.

Without another word, Master Elder gently tossed the orb into the air. As it reached its apex, it expanded, enveloping the entire chamber in a new scene.

In a forest of giant trees, James sat on a large stone by a fire. He looked younger, less burdened. He leaned toward the flames to warm his hands. A flash of light drew his attention. He stood quickly and turned toward the source. Akil Karanis appeared. James relaxed. He walked toward Akil, then stopped several feet away, and, encircling his right fist in his left hand, he bowed deeply. Akil returned the greeting.

“I didn’t think you’d return,” James said.
“Nor I, until I was summoned.”
“By whom?”
“By you, of course,” Akil replied, slightly perplexed by James’s response.
“I did not summon you, Master,” James replied, a concerned look quickly replacing the relief.
“We must leave quickly. Gather your things,” said Akil. James stepped toward the fire and lifted a leather bag lying next to the stone upon which he had been seated. Another flash of light drew both men’s attention. A third person, veiled by the shadow of the tree, appeared.

“What are you doing here?” James called out. 
“You know this person, James?” Akil asked. 
James looked into Akil’s eyes for a brief moment, then quickly muttered a word. A large rock lifted from the ground, and as if James controlled it with invisible strings, he heaved it at Akil. The stone hit an invisible barrier and fell harmlessly to the ground.

“James. Why?” asked Akil.

A purple flame grew between James’s outstretched hands. Without a word, he pushed it toward Akil. Looking neither afraid nor even concerned, the flame struck Akil. He stiffened and began to shake where he stood. Beams of red light bore outward from beneath his skin. He let out a wail of pain as the light exploded from his body, leaving only a small purple orb floating in the air where he had stood. Akil Karanis was dead. James’s hands were still outstretched, his face still wrought with concentration after casting such a massive incantation. The scene dissolved like mist, revealing the chamber once again.

Ammoncourt looked at James in disbelief. Pandemonium gripped James’s emotions.

“This cannot be,” Ammoncourt muttered.

“Incontrovertible,” Master Elder said with a wry smile, “as are our laws. I move to immediate sentencing if it pleases the council.”

“ This is clearly a fabrication. The third law would have had to have been broken, as the alleged spell caster still stands before us,” said Ammoncourt.

“Never in the history of our kind has someone tampered with a memory as you now allege,” replied Master Elder.

“What is more reasonable? That this boy has managed to circumvent one of the unbreakable laws, or that someone, a person with real power, has finally found a way to tamper with a memory, which is not among the unbreakable eight?”

Ammoncourt stepped toward the center of the chamber, his arms outstretched in a pleading posture.

 “Ladies and gentlemen. I implore you to listen to reason. The council fears this boy because of what he is. Have no doubt, he is the Anointed One. Do not be swayed by political motivation. Use common sense. Is it truly reasonable to assume that not only did this boy find a way to break an unbreakable law but that he was also able to overpower the greatest sorcerer of our time? Or perhaps there is another explanation?”

“Touching, however irrelevant at this point, I’m afraid,” Master Elder said with the slightest of smirks. “It’s over, Ammoncourt,” he whispered. “You should have never returned.”

“The only thing left to discuss is the sentence,” Master Elder said, raising his voice.

“No!” James shouted, finally coming out of his shock-induced stupor.

“I didn’t murder Akil. None of that happened. He’s like a father to me. Someone tampered with the memory!”

James’s body began to shake. The vein on his forehead pulsed as the ground started to tremble. Gasps and cries could be heard from the witnesses hidden in the shadowed seating above.

Master Elder nodded at the red-robed guards, and their body language quickly changed from aggressive to apprehensive. Neither moved as James continued to shake. A faint red glow surrounded him as he clenched his fists in an attempt to control himself.

“Now, you fools!” Master Elder screamed, jolting the guards into action. They stepped forward and took James by his arms. Both guards immediately fell to the ground motionless. As if expecting it, Master Elder waved his arms, signaling the axe- wielding guards to converge. James’s vision began to spin as he listened to the sentence read by Master Elder. He could hear Ammoncourt arguing, but his voice was distant, muted. “Rarely among our own people is such a heinous crime committed. The victim must be taken into consideration, being a servant to our council and community for a time greater than even Grand Master Elder Alvaro. It is because of the severity of this crime and the loss our world has incurred as a result, that I recommend to the council that James Lochlan Stuart IV be immediately exiled to The Never.”

“You cannot do this,” cried Ammoncourt, no longer stooped over his cane. “He is the Anointed One!”

Shouts, screams, and cries erupted from the witnesses. The last thing James heard was “Banish him!” All sound fell into a void as he was engulfed in a spiral of purple smoke and pulled from the only world he had ever known.

About the Author

J. R. Wagner was born in West Chester, Pennsylvania during a blizzard. The snow made travel by car impossible, so his father called an ambulance when his mother went into labor. The ambulance became stuck at the bottom of their home’s driveway, prompting the dispatch of a fire truck, which towed the ambulance to the hospital where he was born.

Maybe it was this experience that destined J.R. to love adventure. A competitive cyclist, triathlete, mountain biker and adventure racer, he once received a medal for saving a woman’s life during the kayaking section of an adventure race. And the adventure is hard to miss in his debut novel Exiled (Live Oak Book Group, June 5, 2012), the first book in J.R.’s young adult fantasy series The Never Chronicles. He’s got a day job to keep him “grounded”; J.R. helps run his late father’s Downingtown, Pennsylvania floor-covering business.

J.R. first started writing at 10 years old with his sequel to “Return of The Jedi” – the self-proclaimed “Star Wars geek” had lofty aspirations of working with George Lucas on filming the project. In 1990 he began filming his version of “The Lord of The Rings” in his parent’s basement, but the plug was pulled after he nearly burned down the house. Since then the storyteller has also written a full-length science fiction screenplay, a thriller novel and a second screenplay.

After graduating in Kinesiology from Arizona State University, J.R. returned to Downingtown, where his creative fires were re-stoked by his two beautiful daughters.

J.R. also endearingly considers his wife Lisa his muse. It was during their trip to Maine he began writing Exiled.

For more on The Never Chronicles, go to TheNeverChronicles.com

For more on J.R., visit whatisthenever.blogspot.com

Follow J.R. on Twitter @JRWagner2 

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Joe wakes up in a barley field with no clothes, no memories, and no idea how he got there. Before he knows it, he’s off on the last great journey of his life. With his soul guide Baker and a charge to have courage from a mysterious, alluring, and somehow familiar Stranger, Joe sets off through a fantastical changing landscape to confront his past. The quest is not without challenges. Joe’s past is not always an easy thing to relive, but if he wants to find peace-and reunite with the Stranger he is so strongly drawn to-he must continue on until the end, no matter how tempted he is to stop along the way.

Excerpt

The creek had gone from shallow stream to shallow river and flowed swiftly into the woods. Tied to a large tree was a small boat, barely big enough for more than a couple of people. A bright red sail flapped with the breeze. On it was written two letters, 3P, in scratchy black scrawl like that of a young child who paid no heed the badgering blue lines of notebook paper. The vessel bobbed with the current of the river. The water sang brightly, a winking ta-dah!

“This is our ride, chief,” Baker said as he approached the small craft. He grabbed the thick rope tied to the tree and jumped into the boat with ease, the guitar sounding a hollow thump on his back. Joe positioned himself in the vessel more carefully, still uncertain of the new place he had suddenly found himself in. There were no seats in the tiny boat. Joe and Baker were to remain standing. This assumed Joe’s balance was functioning properly.

Baker untied the boat from the tree and the current pushed them onward.

“Looky here,” Baker said in dry excitement as he looked over the edge of the boat. “We got critters. Bet you never seen ‘em like this before.”

Joe cautiously peered into the water, careful not to tip the boat. Bright colors were shooting past, swimming with them. Rainbow fish. They leaped into the air through the circled mouths of the singing river spirits, which choked and coughed in displeasure. Joe couldn’t help but laugh and swore he saw smiles on the playful little fish as they lingered momentarily in mid-flight.

There were much larger things as well. Otters and beavers and turtles and platypuses. Were they to break out in song Joe would have thought it none the stranger. After all, the riverdid sing. At one point, a beaver placed its tiny hands on the aft of the boat, as if to aid their speed, using its slight might to push. It stayed there for a while, inquisitive eyes twinkling, then slid back beneath the waters once more with its beaver kin. Joe and Baker were being shown the way, it seemed. Small swimmers of all kinds guided their voyage down the river through the increasingly dense forest.

The trees appeared restless as the boat passed them. They creaked with loud snaps and groans, the sound of bark and wood stretching and twisting. But there was nothing ordinary about these trees. They too had faces. Knobby, grumpy-looking faces (of course they were grumpy-looking) that eyed the boat with discernable interest. Their eyes were wide, hollow holes, but they were not frightful. Only curiosity could be recognized from their wooded expressions and inquiring moans.

“Baker, look!” Joe whispered loudly, caught off guard by the rustic audience.

“Yeah, the trees,” Baker said, already past any wonder. “Strange place to call Heaven, huh?” Baker winked. “And these ain’t no special effects. This ain’t Oz or Middle-Earth.”

The roaring sound of falling water caught Joe’s attention. There was a drop-off ahead, a cliff. They had already traveled deep into the forest and the trees were many.

“Guess we better tie up here,” Baker said.

The boat, seeming to obey his wishes, drifted over to a bank, ignoring the strong current effortlessly. The myriad of critters that had accompanied them dispersed in random bursts and splashes. Baker took one long stride off the craft and then turned to help Joe.

“This is your first stop,” Baker said. The roar from the falls muffled the other sounds of the forest around them.

“A waterfall?” Joe questioned. “This is our stop? What could be here?”

Before Baker could respond, however, as Joe was stepping from boat to land, something jarred the craft, knocking it from side to side with a grinding wrench. Joe was rendered unbalanced and fell backward into the stream, losing his grip on Baker’s hand. The water took him under with a cold and powerful embrace. Submerged in the glassy liquid, he opened his eyes and saw something emerge from the wildest depths, a face-like form glaring at him hungrily in the current. It seemed a transparent visage for the most part, but for eyes made of silver fish that circled in rapid waltzes, and a mouth of some golden worm that wriggled around a tongue of writhing three-headed eels. The water that made up the creature was a shade of urine yellow. Somehow it was more polluted than the rest of the river. Remaining fixed as if admiring a meal before devouring it eagerly, the eyes regarded Joe. Then, suddenly, the creature raced for him.

Joe emerged from the depth with a pronounced gasp, struggling to get over to the bank as quickly as he could. Baker was on his knees, holding out a branch into the water for Joe to grasp. “Take hold here,” he yelled above the sound of the furious flow.

Joe swam as best he could against the current, away from the watery monster, but was continuously pushed farther down stream and closer to the falls. All thoughts of this place being Heaven had disappeared from his mind altogether.

He felt a tug below him and he froze in sheer terror. “It’s got me, Baker!” he cried. “Something’s got me!”

“Keep swimmin’, Joe,” Baker hollered. “This a-way!”

But all the swimming got him nowhere. Out of the guts of the river rose a figure so large that even the trees seemed dwarfed. A dragon, a demonic water-spout growing high into the forested air. It was of the water; one with it. As if the entire length of the river was its long, sleek body. Joe saw various fish and smaller amphibians swimming around the rank body cavity of the beast in cyclonic twists upward. The liquid features of its face could now be discerned more clearly. The silver fish eyes, the worm lips and eeled tongue, a long snout that dripped river sludge, and small ripples and waves all over its waterscape that echoed the likes of horns and spikes and scales. There were no arms or legs. This was a creature that had no need for those appendages, looming fierce and deadly as a cobra. Its hiss was like that of shooting water into the haul of a sinking ship, only magnified a hundred times.

Joe looked at the river beast in absolute fear as it stood to its full height over the forest and peered down at him in victory. Baker still called from the bank, trying to distract the creature. He threw fallen sticks and large stones which did nothing but disappear into the stinking serpent-like form and sink to the river bed.

Without warning, the monster charged down at Joe from its lofty height, head first. Its eeled tongue reached out for him, squirming in greedy anticipation, and Joe screamed in horror. He knew he could not escape this thing, whatever it was. The river held him in its grip. He closed his eyes to the approaching demon and waited his fate.

But, of course, his fate was not sealed. Not in this life. The story goes on.

From somewhere behind the river monster, Joe heard a challenging yell. More of a squeal, really. A small voice making a mockery of the beast’s epic actions.

Joe opened his eyes to see the fiend’s attention averted elsewhere; distracted in a moment of greatness by a small figure standing on a boulder on the bank near Baker. The creature juggled its options briefly, and then left Joe for the time being to focus on the other completely. It charged at the boulder as it had done Joe. The water around its extended torso splayed up around it in rage. But its intent to cause harm was coolly blunted. As it came within mere feet of the rock, the figure atop it held out a defiant arm and the transparent lizard fell apart into a million droplets of current with a screeching cry. Its tiny marine prisoners rained back into the place from where they had come with a chorus of splashes. The water calmed then, and soon continued on its natural flow over the cliff as if nothing had happened at all, as if the dragon were but a hiccup in an ordinary day, hardly noticed.

Joe, still shaking and frightened, swam to the shore. It was much easier now that the waters were not agitated. The current even seemed to aid him in this, all but stopping in the swim path. Baker gave him a hand and helped him to the safety of solid ground.

“What was that?” Joe trembled.

“Don’t really know, chief,” Baker said, once again steady and unnerved. “I ain’t never been to this area of the forest before. You’re all right, though.” He helped dry Joe with his own clothes and body. “Where’s a giant sponge when you need one, huh?” he joked.

“Whose forest is this?” Joe asked.

But then he heard the voice from the boulder. A tiny thing. Shrill and familiar, yet Joe was unable to place from exactly where he knew it.

“Hi!” said the voice in a loud burst. Joe could see the figure clearly now. It was a little boy with wet, messy blonde hair and a toothy grin minus a couple of teeth. He was standing proudly on the boulder, all barefoot and soaked swimming shorts, with two spindly arms resting on his hips. “How d’ya do?” he shouted, though he was no more than a few feet from them. “Thorry about the monthter. I try to keep them under control betht I can.” (He spoke with an undeniable, completely likeable, perfectly natural lisp.)

“My name ith Peter! Peter Patrick Pithburgh,” he said. The words shot from his mouth, each one, like a cannonball of spittle and determination. “But people call me 3P.”

Joe stood up from the ground, shaking off his last experience. “You can control that thing?” he asked. “What was it?”

“Jutht a water worm. Ain’t nuffin’ really. You jutht gotta shthow it who hath control. Can’t hurt you if you don’t let it. I’ve been fightin’ with that one from the firth day I got here.”

Joe looked at Baker in confusion. “Don’t ask me, kid.”

“It took y’all a while, didn’t it,” 3P shouted.

“You were expecting us?” Joe asked. He pushed back the wet hair from his forehead.

“Well, yeth. I knew you’d get here thooner or later,” 3P hollered. Baker couldn’t hide an affectionate smile.

“He’s a trip, huh?” Baker said to Joe.

“Come for a thwim?” 3P asked as he jumped down from the rock and hopped up to Joe’s side. “A thwim will calm you. The water worm ith thleeping now. I put him in hith playth.”

“A swim?” Joe responded incredulously, peering out over the rushing waters of the falls. “I don’t think….”

“Yep. Nothin’ like a good thwim,” 3P said as he grabbed Joe’s hand in his own tiny palm and pulled him toward the swift current.

“Wait! We’ll be swept over the edge,” Joe protested. Though, at the moment, he was more concerned about the sleeping habits of the river beast.

“Of courth,” 3P said knowingly. “Thath the fun part! C’mon!”

“What?” Joe cried as 3P let go of his hand and rushed at the frenzied stream. “Stop!” Joe screamed. “Baker, stop him!”

“This is his world, Joe. I cain’t do a thing. He makes the rules here. He’ll be fine.”

Baker settled himself against the trunk of a disproportionate climbing tree, unconcerned with the youngster’s seemingly dangerous activity.

Seeing that Baker wasn’t going to do anything, Joe took off running after the little boy, but it was too late. 3P jumped with a heroic holler into the crystal water. An echoing scream issued forth down the length of the falls. Yet it was not a scream of terror, but a cry of undiluted joy. Strange thing, that.

Joe tried to peer over the cliff but could see nothing. The child must have been buried deep beneath the uncaring, pummeling current. Joe’s heart was ready to break for him. But to his surprise he saw the water open like a blooming flower with white petals of foam, and out leaped 3P as if he were a springing trout or salmon. He flew through the air like a puppet on strings and landed safely, almost too carefully, on another large boulder that rested conveniently near the flowing river below. He waited there, looking up at Joe, drenched and smiling with crooked teeth and bright eyes, arms wrapped tightly around his knees as he sat on the boulder. He was calm and steady, not breathless at all. Joe was yet again in a state of disbelief, a state that was becoming more and more common here.

“C’mon down!” 3P shouted, his voice galloping up the falling water with snappy volatility.

“No way!” Joe yelled in return, still unsure as to exactly how 3P came out of the current so unscathed.

“Go on! Have some fun. What are you afraid of?” Baker said from his resting place at the tree. He didn’t bother to glance up from his guitar. “Dyin’?” Joe could have sworn there was a trace of a smile with that last word. A little jibe.

Yet, Baker was right. If this was an afterlife, if this was a bodyless existence and everything he saw was only his mind’s illusion, then leaping from a mountain top was as safe as tripping through a field of daisies. Still, the water was ferocious. It dared the nervous first-timer to swim along with it. The current had stopped singing a ways back. Peculiarly, Joe thought he heard a low chant coming from the river now:Jump! Jump! Jump!

“C’mon!” 3P yelled again. He was now standing on the boulder, his arms down at his sides, helping to push out every ounce of vocal encouragement.

“Great courage,” a voice said from somewhere near Joe. “Great courage.” Baker again, being his helpful self, Joe thought.

Joe took the words to heart, though. He picked up what audacity he could from the surrounding air, closed his eyes, and jumped with a high-pitched yelp back into the rushing stream. The waters crowded over and around him once again, carrying him like a victor to the prize, or a victim to the banquet. The river cheered in approval. Head above water, he opened his eyes to see the great drop of the falls in front of him and felt his bravery ebb.

A mistake! A mistake!

A long tree branch hung low over the waters ahead. Joe grabbed for it, but he was unable to reach it fully. His fingertips barely grazed it. The stream saw to that.

“Great courage!” He heard a voice say again. But it couldn’t have been Baker. The voice seemed too near, as if it were coming from someone right beside him.

Before he could think of another means of escape, the waters pulled him down the falls. Weightlessness combined with a terrifying, deafening roar. A sense of sublime elation overtook him and the noise and rumble were silenced as if a glass curtain had closed in around him. He heard only the inner whispers of his excited mind. Rushed whispers whizzing through his head like phantom fireflies. These whispers stirred in Joe a new thing. They were an awakening, the emergence of new memory. In those weightless seconds of unspecified time, he saw faces and matched these faces to names. Suddenly, he remembered places and events of his childhood, of a former self, like he was waking to the reality of the world after a night’s restful sleep. It was like the night in the field of barley, only more pronounced and meaningful.

Memories as echoes in visual form:

His mother’s gentle face beamed at him from sharp jolts of recall; friends he had known shouted at him through screen doors to come out and play; embarrassing accidents in school plays made him cringe; and the leather from hot car seats stuck to his legs on long rides to his grandmother’s house on summer vacation. He was reliving these things. He was able to see every Christmas gift, every birthday party, and every youthful mishap from his childhood in more than a simple snapshot or one reel film. And it all seemed new, and yet done and over with.

And then it stopped. Or at least, the focus shifted to one particular memory….

About the Author

Eric Arvin resides in the same sleepy Indiana river town where he grew up. He graduated from Hanover College with a Bachelors in History. He has lived, for brief periods, in Italy and Australia. He has survived brain surgery and his own loud-mouthed personal demons. Eric is the author of THE REST IS ILLUSION, SUBSURDITY, SUBURBILICIOUS, SIMPLE MEN, and various other sundry and not-so-sundry writings. He intends to live the rest of his days with tongue in cheek and eyes set to roam.

For more on Eric, visit http://ericarvin.blogspot.com/ and http://www.amazon.com/Eric-Arvin/e/B002BML3XS/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1347641674&sr=8-2 

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While being chased, Amy Watson meets Mark Dallas at the beach. He has bodyguards from his business—a gaming software company—and seems to know all the big shots in town. When a dead body is found in Amy’s apartment, it’s time that Mark sets the record straight, leading them on a scavenger hunt around the nation to find out why Amy’s being targeted.

Excerpt

I had to get away from the man in black, chasing me down the sidewalk in downtown Devon, Florida.  Something like this always happened in the movies—but not in my life.  The mild-mannered bank teller decides to take a break at the beach nearby and wham!—she’s attacked by a huge man who’s always dressed in black—usually at night.  It would be cool to see it on the big screen, but this was different.  This was reality, it was lunchtime, and I was the victim.

Running into the middle of a busy street, I knew the man in black with the big dark eyes wouldn’t be stupid enough to follow.  While I waited on the yellow lines, cars blasted their horns as they passed.  This wasn’t exactly one of my brightest ideas, but being chased by a muscle-clad man isn’t an everyday occurrence either.  As I glanced back at him still standing on the sidewalk from where I’d started, he glared at me, then watched the traffic pass by.

When the traffic light changed, I finally got a break, so I dodged waiting cars and ran to the other side.  Some Asian men on the sidewalk watched me approach, but I ignored them, checking for the big man in black running after me. 

Taking off down the sidewalk, I ran south, dodging pedestrians.  The small town was crowded for a Friday morning in May, a small break in time between Spring Break and summer vacation.  Located on Florida’s west coast, Devon was a small often-forgotten town between Fort Myers and Naples.

At the next intersection, I turned west on another sidewalk, finally able to see the Gulf of Mexico in front of me.  I could feel the man in black lessening the distance between us and glanced back to verify my thoughts.  For some reason, the Asian men were behind him by about a hundred yards, making me wonder if they were going to the beach, too.  But why would they run?  The ocean wasn’t going anywhere.  Maybe they were just tourists, excited to be here.

Once I hit sand at the end of the brick building, I turned a corner and ran smack-dab into a beautiful specimen of a man with blue eyes and short brown hair.

He stopped me with both hands on my shoulders before I bowled him over.  “Slow down.” 

“Sorry,” I said, then gasped, moving to run past him. 

He grabbed my arm and held me back.  “Are you out jogging?”

“Not exactly.”  I looked behind me.  The man in black wasn’t there but I was sure he was hiding somewhere.

“Why are you running, then?”

“Someone’s chasing me.”  I extracted myself from his grasp and took off down the beach.  Running for all I was worth, I knew I could outrun the man in black.  I’d practiced running distances for some time, in case something just like this would happen.  I knew it was just a matter of time, but never thought my chaser would be so large and evil looking.

The adorable man caught up then ran in front of me right just as I reached the water line.  He was a fast runner, because I’d been in training for a while.

“Stop!” he yelled, trying to breathe.

I pushed past him.  “I can’t.  I’ll be killed.”

He took hold of my hand and pulled me toward him, gasped for air, and searched my face with his eyes.  “Why?”

I wished I’d had my purse with me for defense, just in case.  He was stronger than I was, because I couldn’t pull myself from his hand.  I leaned down to catch my breath for a moment, then stood up.  “Are you a serial killer?”

Mr. Adorable began to laugh.  “No.  What’s going on?”

I sucked in some air and faced him.  “There’s a huge man in black chasing me.  He looks like a murderer.”

The man searched the area behind me, letting go of my hand.  “There’s no one there.”

I spun around.  The beach was empty, except for a few families with kids, about a hundred yards away from us.  “Where did he go?”

He looked at me as if I were nuts as I faced him again.  “I have no idea.  I’m friends with the local cops if you need help.”

“I don’t know what I’d tell them.  How can I prove someone’s after me if they’ve disappeared?”

“You’re right.  If you said anything, it would look like you’re crazy.  Have you eaten lunch yet?”

The man in black was chasing me and this guy was thinking about lunch?  How odd.  I should’ve said ‘no’ and gone back to work, but for some reason, I felt safe with this man.  I doubted the man in black would return when this guy was near me.  “No, I wasn’t going to eat lunch.  I was just out to walk on the beach, but someone else had other ideas.”  Reaching down, I took off my flat shoes and poured out the sand.  Running in a skirt wasn’t fun, but at least I wasn’t wearing heels.

As soon as I replaced my shoes on my feet, the man grinned, grabbed my hand, and shook it.  “The name’s Mark Dallas, and I’d like to take you to lunch.”  He watched me for a minute.  “That is, if you’d like to come with me.”

“Oh, I can’t impose—”

“No imposition whatsoever and I promise.”  He checked my left hand.  “No husband coming to hunt me down, so you’re free, right?”

“No, no one…anymore.  I’m free.”

“Anymore?”

“It’s a long story, but definite history.”  The guy’s smile was endearing, and I couldn’t refuse those eyes anything they wanted.  I had to remind myself to be wary.  “I’m Amy Watson, by the way.”

He rested my hand in the crook of his elbow and walked with me up the beach toward a small hotdog shop.  “I guess I’m just lucky to be here over lunch today.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to save you from whoever was chasing you.”

“I guess so.”

He glanced my way.  “Why were they chasing you?”

I could only imagine, but this guy didn’t need my baggage or any of my secrets.  If someone was willing to chase me for it, he certainly didn’t need to be involved.  “I have no idea.  I’m a nobody.  It’s not as if I have money hanging off me or anything.”  I turned toward him.  “You’re not friends with the man who was chasing me, are you?”

He pointed toward himself.  “Me?  Do I look like someone who’d be friends with a chaser?”

“Not really.  I just have to make sure you’re not a serial killer or something.”

“That’s the second time you mentioned that.  But, think about it.  If I’m friends with the police, could I possibly be a serial killer?  I highly doubt they’d consider the police their friends.”

“How do I know you’re friends with the—”

A cop walked out of a shop right near us, as if right on cue.  “Mr. Dallas!  How are you doing today?”  He shook Mark’s hand and smiled.

“Oh, I’m fine, Craig.  Hope the kids are doing better.”

“Yes, they’re fine now.  It was just the flu.  Take care.”  The policeman walked back the way I’d come from around the corner.

“I stand corrected,” I murmured.  “How do you know him?”

“Oh, the whole police station comes over to work to make sure we’re safe.  We feed them donuts to guarantee they’ll come back.”  He leaned closer to me.  “They’re suckers for donuts, especially the filled ones.”

About the Author

Andie Alexander (a mystery/adventure pen name) makes her home with her husband and three teenagers in Wisconsin. She’s been writing for many years, and writes as other pen names, all listed at www.sweettalebooks.com. See www.andiealexander.com for more of her titles.

To order Saved by the Glass Slipper, go to http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0040ZNRR4

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