About the Book:

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If you had special abilities to travel out of body, where would you go? How far could you go? What would secret organisations do with these abilities?

Tahra had a troubled childhood being different, but she always knew she was destined for something special. Her abilities manifested at a young age but when Max Richardson brings her to London to undertake psychic contracts at his research facility, her life changes irrevocably. However, her true power becomes apparent on meeting physicist, Dr Paul Eldridge, and she becomes an integral part of his ground-breaking project. What they discover challenges their understanding of the universe, yet this is only the beginning...

Written in the style of a TV series, Seven Point Eight draws together psychic powers, parallel dimensions, time travel, past lives, ancient wisdom, quantum physics, drama, romance and conspiracy in a soap opera for the soul.

Editorial Reviews

'buckle your seat belts as 'Seven Point Eight: The First Chronicle' will take you on a wild ride of universal discovery' ~ Best Chick Lit.com

"Seven Point Eight has to be one of the most fascinating reads I've come by in quite a while... It's always risky to mix several genres and sub-genres but for this book, the execution was flawless... Captivating and intelligently written - definitely could appeal to fans of Star Trek, Star Wars, Dan Brown books, fans of the Jodie Foster film 'Contact' and anyone who loves X-Men" ~ Dream Reads

'Seven Point Eight has a structure like a TV show...the kind of sweeping show - Game of Thrones perhaps - which has several ongoing plot arcs...this device works well.' The Bookbag
‘Intelligent, unique and intensely detailed…quite a reading experience. Filled with deeply detailed characters, strange experiences and will leave readers asking themselves, “could this be?”’ ~ NetGalley

Read an Excerpt from Seven Point Eight: The First Chronicle

A minute later, they heard Paul’s voice over the intercom.
“We’ll be delving into unchartered territory once again. I hope you both have a nice trip.”
Sakie’s gaze drifted towards the hatch, like she had second thoughts and was itching to make a bid for freedom.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tahra asked.
Sakie adjusted her seating position, nodded and said succinctly, “I’m fine. It’s a little scary, that’s all.”
“I won’t trigger any alarms this time, I promise.”
Yes, don’t touch anything.
Observe.
Learn.
But don’t touch.
They settled back into their respective chairs, the machine began to hum and the field threw them into the Duat. Tahra had few problems grasping Sakie’s disembodied consciousness and they exploded through the net, tumbling through a series of electrified vortexes. A sea of coloured particles fizzed around them and an alluring song sucked the two travellers from this scene, nudging them into darkness with a puff of dust. Silence engulfed them.
“Tahra!” a panicked voice said.
“I’m here, I’ve got you.”
It was impossible to discern where they were, with pure nothing as their new environment. Tahra had the awful feeling this trip would yield twenty minutes of fumbling around in deep impenetrable darkness.
“Hello?” Sakie called out.
Her voice echoed, but as Tahra listened carefully, she heard something in the distance.
“What’s that?” she whispered, unsure why she tried to avoid speaking at a normal conversational volume.
In the distance, someone was singing. More specifically, it was the evocative lullaby vocalised by a woman. It was an insanely beautiful tune, ethereal and hypnotic.
“I hear it,” Sakie whispered back. “We are clearly not alone, wherever we are.”
“I don’t know whether to call out. She might be friendly or hostile.”
“Do you think she knows we’re here?”
Immediately after the words left Sakie’s lips, the space around them began to slowly fill with illumination. They were standing in what appeared to be a church or temple. The roof arched high above their heads, supported by a series of pillars which bore lamps glowing blue. Strangely, the place had no windows so it was likely they were underground.
“It’s quite beautiful,” Sakie said, looking around in wonder.
Once they’d become accustomed to the cold blue light, Tahra pointed out several alcoves with archways.
“They look like a series of chambers or tunnels,” she commented.
She was correct in her assumption. They wandered over to the nearest alcove and instantly, a tunnel lit up, inviting them to enter. The two girls looked to each for confirmation to proceed.
“After you,” Sakie said. “You – guide.”
Tahra sighed in resignation and stepped into the tunnel, instantly bathed in pale blue and pink light. Tiny lamps were set into the tunnel walls, giving it the appearance of a fairy tale grotto entrance. Sakie followed, running her fingers along the surface of the tunnel walls.
“I can’t feel anything,” she commented.
“Remember you’re pure mind here,” Tahra said, peering closely at the walls. “Your senses don’t operate the same as on Earth.”
A series of engravings had been carved onto the tunnel walls by an unknown hand, and Tahra tried to discern what they depicted.
“This looks like a big bull,” Sakie said, pointing.
Tahra inspected the engraving and it did look a bull, but one with the body of a man. It was a huge beast…it had a name on Earth…
“A Minotaur?”

 
About the Author:
Marie Harbon-Gruchelska is a speculative fiction writer who travels extensively, having lived in Czechia, Slovakia, Spain, Russia and Bulgaria. Her career has been varied and exciting, from working in retail to helping people pump iron as a fitness instructor, from teaching in the UK to living and working abroad as a TEFL teacher.

She would describe herself as a child of the world, still full of wonder and imagination, travelling both physically around the globe while also enjoying flights of fancy. Her interests and taste in food is eclectic, while her characters and situations remain as diverse and colourful as her life.

Some more recent highlights of her life include summer camp in St Petersburg, where she wrote and helped produce a stage show with an original story, one which will appear as a novel in the not too distant future. Travelling as a TEFL teacher has also created some unforgettable memories, such as meeting her husband on a train to Warsaw and making the subsequent return with the same enormous amount of luggage, including a sewing machine which provided some entertainment for customs on the Estonian border.

Marie on the Web:
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About the Book:


My name is Terra, and I’m a Psychic. Strange, you might think, but in a world of vampires, shifters and supernaturals of all kinds, I’m not so weird—in fact, it’s my job to protect them. As an Enforcer Field Agent, I work alongside my cute boss’s annoying younger brother, a wolf shifter called Kaleb. Together we hunt down the most dangerous criminals of all, but it isn’t easy. My visions are my only weapon, and they don’t keep a schedule.

We’re on the tail of a psycho, a cannibalistic serial killer worse than any I’ve seen. We’re close now, but something about this case just doesn’t feel right. There’s a darkness approaching, but even with my gifts I can’t see past it, and if we’re not ready, I fear there might not be a future for any of us.

Meet Terra Vane from Death Be Blue

If you had a free day with no responsibilities and your only mission was to enjoy yourself, what would you do?

I have no clue. My work is my life. Chasing down bad guys is a hobby to me—as well as a chosen career path—so I struggle when I have free time. I suppose when I do kick back, I catch up on my Earthside programs on the Hologram TV. Or I’ll go see my stepdad, Chris at the labs of Portiside. He works irregular hours and is more of a workaholic than I am. Sometimes, I'll hang out with my partner, Kaleb. But he usually takes advantage of sleeping or sleeping with someone to fill his free time. My roommate Rosie is a member of the Fey who also works at the labs, so I take advantage of when we’re both home and hang out with her. And failing that, my witchy friend, Mayra who runs a magic shop in the Victorian Quarter will let me hang out there. Until I annoy her by moaning about having nothing to do, that is. She takes so much then kicks me out toward the nearest bar. If I’m really bored, I’ll take a walk in the Fey forest or the Moors of Maorga, or jump on The Rail to take in the views of the city. Portiside is a huge world and is accessible from Earth (or Earthside as it's known here) through one of four portals. But the city is where a lot of mixed-species live, and it’s beautiful landmarks and buildings differ from quarter to quarter. Taking a ride on the monorail that rides high above the city is a great way to take it all in.

If you could spend the day with someone you admire (living or dead or imaginary), who would you pick?

If I had to choose it would probably be my mentor, Dan Vasquez. He’s the Special Agent in Charge of the Seattle Division of the FBI—Criminal Investigation. I work for him sometimes when they need a psychic mind over on Earthside. The other agents think I’m FBI who consults every now and again. And Dan lets them think that. But I’d love to spend time with him because he’s also a thousand-year-old woodland elf. What he must have seen over time as Portiside evolved into what it is today makes me curious. And during his years as FBI. We don’t get time to hang out much anymore. He lives on Earthside with his wife, and aside from having a brief catch up or the odd dinner with them both, I don’t get much time to probe further into his past. He’s also a closed book on a lot of things, telling me often not to dwell on what’s gone by. I suppose when you live a long life, the past can become a heavy weight around your neck if you let it. But I admire him so much. He saved me when I was sixteen and stuck in a psychiatric hospital because my mom was a doormat to my grandparents. They thought me the child of Satan because of my psychic gifts. But the hospital I got transferred to in my late teens was a hell hole where I discovered only loneliness and abuse. Dan was my savior, his Finder gifts seeking mine out like a divination rod. Then he worked his magic and convinced my mom of a world through the portal where I could live alongside others like me. Mom didn’t last long though, and she left me with my stepdad, running back to Earthside away from those who went against ‘God’s Plan.’ It sucks. But I got a great home and new family out of it, so I’m not complaining. So yeah. Dan would be a good person to hang out with for the day.

What is your idea of perfect happiness? And, what is your current state of mind?

Perfect happiness. Does that even exist? I’ve seen flaws. So many flaws in human nature during my years as an Enforcer Field Agent for the PCA. And human nature doesn’t stop at humans. But if I had to say what my idea future would be, then I guess it would be to continue what I’m doing. Hunting down the bad guy. Putting them behind bars. But I’d also like to help others, you know? People like me. If Immigration Control allowed more people from Earthside to cross over, I’d like to find those with gifts like mine and tell them that they’re not going insane. If they hear voices or feel things others don’t, then maybe it’s because of something bigger—something we don’t understand—and that there are other things to explore. I’d also like to have a family someday. But someday way off in the future. Marriage and playing happy families wasn’t something I was a part of growing up, so I don’t feel like I’m missing out. But I see how Chris is with me, and how awesome a dad he’s become, and I’d like that with a child of my own in the future. Only giving birth sounds gross. Maybe I can book-a-baby? Just kidding. But if I have a kid in Portiside with someone who wasn’t human, then we’d have to apply for a license. All interspecies couples do if they want to have kids. It’s to stop any deformities or to control any pregnancy environments. A must in our world, I suppose.

What do you consider to be the most overrated virtue and why? 

Religion. Sorry guys. I don’t want to offend. And I don’t mean the belief kind. I’m talking about the sheep kind. I’m a big believer in following your own path, your own heart, and to follow your gut, your instincts. We all believe in something, even if that’s choosing not to believe, and I respect that. I respect that people believe in different things. But what I don’t buy into is the blind following of something to the point where someone gets hurt—either by the fist or poisonous words. I grew up in that world, and trust me, it’s not great. I’ve had a pastor try to beat the ‘demon’ out of me. I’ve had to eat from a bowl on the floor until I could recite my evening prayers. If there is a God who allows that? Then I’m sorry, but that’s not a God for me.

Tell us 3 things about yourself that the readers do not know about.

I love bubble baths. Don’t tell my partner, Kaleb. He’ll never let me forget it.
I once ate five huge burgers in one sitting to try and beat Kaleb in an eating competition. He’s a wolf shifter so of course, he won. And he ended up looking after me the rest of the night when I spewed my guts back home. So maybe in a way, he didn’t win?
Last of all, I’m like a kid when it snows. Wrap me up and throw me outside and prepare to be annihilated with snowball after snowball.

About the Author:


Katie Epstein is an author of fantasy and paranormal romance. She loves reading. Give her a supernatural twist or a fantasy world any day. Oh,and don’t forget some edgy romance with some passionate love scenes thrown in. And a battle or some action. A good plot. Some comic relief maybe. Not that she’s greedy or fussy or anything. She’s just a storytelling, book loving, magic believer who knows what she wants!




Katie on the Web:
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About the Author:

Author's Amazon Page

My historical novel with magical realist elements, The Prisoner of the Castle of Enlightenment, was published by D.X. Varos in February 2020. I’m also the author of A Lost Argument: A Latter-Day Novel, published through my own Strange Violin Editions micropress imprint in 2011.

My fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in literary magazines, including Embark, Hotel Amerika, and Bayou, and an essay of mine was selected for the Notable Essays list in Best American Essays 2011. I’m also a creative writing residency fellow of the Virginia Center for Creative Arts.

I grew up in Tucson, Arizona, and then studied philosophy and classics at Brigham Young University. My graduate studies included a Fulbright Fellowship year at the University of Hamburg in Germany and degrees in cultural history from the University of Chicago and in public policy from The George Washington University. I currently divide my time between Washington, D.C., and Knoxville, TN.

Therese on the Web:
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Interview with Therese Doucet

What inspires you to write?

I’m always torn between, on the one hand, wanting to use writing as a way to escape into an imaginary world that’s more glamorous, beautiful, exciting, interesting, adventurous, and romantic than the real world -- and on the other hand, wanting to use fictional characters and situations as a way of reflecting on my own questions about human psychology and moral choices.  So I’m inspired by music, art, dance, fashion, fairy tales, architecture, and scenes from nature, but also by philosophy and real-life situations where people face difficult choices.

How did you come up with the idea for your current story?

I had a really intense dream about a lover in the darkness, and the whole novel emerged from trying to build a story around the feeling of the dream.

Are there some stories tucked away in some drawer that was written before and never saw the light of the day?

Yes! I wrote another magical realist historical novel set in Normandy in the mid-1850s (the Second Empire period of Napolean III), which wove in themes of mermaids, ondines, and sea-goddesses. I also wrote a fairly scandalous novel (also with some magical realism) about the life of Judas Iscariot, in which Judas is the hero and Jesus is the villain. That one could probably qualify me for a fatwa! Both could use a lot of revision, but who knows, maybe they’ll emerge from the drawer one day ...

Tell us about your writing process.

My favorite time to write is in the wee hours of the morning, from 3 to 8 am, when it’s quiet and the rest of the world is sleeping and there’s nothing else really to do, and I have fewer distractions. There absolutely has to be a pot of coffee to get it started. But I have to wake up naturally when my body is ready, without an alarm. I’m not creative without enough sleep, but I often wake up that early anyway, which seems to be something I inherited genetically from my grandma. I write long-hand because I feel more free that way to mess up, to cross things out and write notes on the side of the pages and draw lines to connect where things should go. Then I type up the manuscript and edit as I type.
Before I get started, I outline the heck out of things and sometimes also write up character sketches to get to know my imaginary people before I have them start talking to each other and reacting to things. I give them back stories and secrets, physical traits and tics, longings, flaws, tastes, habits, hobbies, and so on. Of course no matter how carefully I plan things, the characters still tend to spring surprises on me, and that’s often the funnest part of writing.

What is the best piece of advice you would give to someone that wants to get into writing?

I would suggest starting out by doing one of those 30-day novel-writing challenges, like NaNoWriMo. The fact that you’re just aiming for a certain word count every day frees you up to feel like it’s okay if you write crap to begin with, so you write a lot. And then even if you end up with something you’re never going to get published, it makes you realize that it’s not the impossible-seeming huge task you thought it was -- getting those words out is something you can do. So then you’re less intimidated, and you have a sense of how much time it takes to write a given number of words, and when you set out to write future novels, you can budget out your time, knowing that if you write a certain number of words day after day, eventually you’ll end up with a novel-sized thing. I think you have to practice with writing a few bad novels before you start to improve -- anecdotally it seems like most authors have written at least a couple of novels before they produce one that’s publishable. So, expect the first few novels to suck, but keep looking for ways to improve, asking for feedback, taking classes, reading books about the craft of writing, and bit by bit you will almost certainly get better at it with each one you finish.

How do you spend your free time? Do you have a favorite place to go and unwind?

I work an office day job, and I literally spend a lot of the day at work fantasizing about that moment when I can get home from the office, grab a plate of snacks and a book, light some candles, and then immerse myself in a book for a couple of hours, cozy on the couch under a blanket. On average I get to do that 3-5 nights a week. I also just love spending time with my daughter, who is twelve, having dinner and reading or watching a movie together. Or when I’m not with her, going out with friends to our favorite book-themed cocktail night. And occasionally I go out dancing at goth-industrial themed clubs, or to music shows. I love to dance and love gothic aesthetics!

Can you share with us something off your bucket list?

I get frequent bouts of wanderlust and read a fair number of travel books. I’d love to spend a year being a nomad on a shoestring and seeing the world, hiking, camping, exploring forests and museums, castles, beaches, and museums.

What do you have in store next for your readers?

I’m working on another magical realist historical novel set in Paris during the Belle Epoche art nouveau period (1890-1910), possibly featuring composers, artists, jewelry makers, witches, ghosts, and figures from Arthurian legends...

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About the Book:

Check out the Book on Amazon

FASTEN YOUR SEAT-BELT FOR THE SCI-FI ADVENTURE OF MULTIPLE LIFETIMES!

In the Stone Age Arctic, Osnat, a brilliant, pregnant, quantum scientist knows where she is but she doesn’t know when. A mysterious technology has exiled her and her people across time to a frigid wasteland above the northern radiation belts. She and her husband Simon search for food, warmth, for any kind of help. They find instead a band of indigenous Tunniq who attack, rather than assist. Though she craves vengeance, Osnat realizes that the murderous savages are the help her people need to survive. The conflict between need and ideals tears at her as she learns their ways. Must Osnat become a brutal savage in order to save her people?

Quantum Cannibals is an epic tale spanning five thousand years. Science, folklore, history and ethnography bind Quantum Cannibals into an intelligent, cohesive and action-packed adventure.

Interview with Author Nathan Elberg

When did you first realize that you wanted to be a writer/ a storyteller?

My father was a world-renowned Yiddish writer and lecturer.  English was his fourth language, and sometimes the forms from the other three languages carried into his English.  I helped him smooth things out, and at that point I realized I had some talent putting words together.  Years later, I organized a presentation for an Eskimo organization to a Parliamentary committee in Quebec.  I wrote the main speeches for the organization’s leaders, and they were very effective.  The government gave them what they were asking for, even though it went against a lot of government policies.  That cemented my confidence in myself as a writer.

What inspires you to write?

Sometimes I recognize a moral dilemma, a problem among people or societies that I have some insight into.  No one will listen to me lecturing them.  Hopefully they’ll be inspired by my stories.  I’ve done some interesting things in my life, and I fit my experiences into the stories.  I studied anthropology, worked with Indians and Eskimo.  I’ve put a lot of those things into my writing.  I want readers to understand that people, that culture.

How did you come up with the idea for your current story?

I took a folklore course at university, in which I read about a beloved 16th Kurdish-Jewish woman who was a community leader and rabbinic scholar.  She is still revered today, even by Kurdish Muslims.  There are many legends about her.  I started Quantum Cannibals with one of those legends, and adapted her as my main character.

Are there some stories tucked away in some drawer that was written before and never saw the light of the day?

I started another novel based on some travel experiences, but then decided it was too preachy.  My writing has been mostly tied up with my Doctoral Thesis these days.

Tell us about your writing process.

All my stories start with one idea, one event.  As I write it, I imagine what happened beforehand, what happens next.  My characters develop as I put them through these experiences, to the point that their personalities play a role in determining events.

What is your favorite scene in the book? Why?

Despite the violence, despite the sex, Quantum Cannibals has a spiritual, a religious heart.  At the point where the main character has lost everything, and concludes she is losing her mind, she meets God.  Not an anthropomorphic, power modeled after ancient royalty.  Rather, God is a source of blessing, of understanding.  The characters who meet God take it from there.

Did any of your characters inherit some of your own quirks?

I don’t get violent when I’m angry at someone, nor do I call people names.  I can however, get viciously sarcastic.  I’ve been working, somewhat successfully to control this part of my behavior.  I was able to apply my sarcasm skills when writing Quantum Cannibals, having characters make viciously remarks when annoyed.  There were many such instances in the first draft of the novel.  I didn’t want that to be a major part of the books style, so I excised many of them as I revised.

What is your most interesting writing quirk?

I generally have my best ideas when I’m in no place to write them down.  I can be attending a lecture, paying attention, when the resolution to a problematic scene pops into my head.  The solution then flowers into a whole scene or series of scenes, having implications that can penetrate the entire story I’m working on.  This often happens on Sabbath, when I’m enjoined from writing anything down or using any electronic device.  Sometimes I’ll remember the resolution long enough to mark it down, but sometimes it fades from my mind before I get to it.

Do you read? Who are your favourite authors and how have they influenced your writing style?

If the Bible had inspired me as much as Aldous Huxley’s Eyeless in Gaza, I would be too holy to walk amongst mortal humans.  All of Huxley’s novels answer deep questions, while at the same time holding the reader’s interest.  I should clarify that: they hold my interest.  Some parts of his novels have very heavy slogging through philosophical or social musings, with references to classical literature, art and poetry.  They’re not for all readers.  Working on the unthought premise that other readers enjoy the same things as me, I was adapting Huxley’s style to my own.  My editor stopped that.  The only things I kept are the brilliance and depth (and modesty, ha!), and having three timelines in the novel.

What is the best piece of advice you have received, as a writer, till date?

Print and read aloud whatever you’ve written.  It’s the best way to get a sense of whether your writing has a proper rhythm, a proper cadence.

What is the best piece of advice you would give to someone that wants to get into writing?

Ask yourself why you’re doing it.  Is it to satisfy your ego, as an entertaining hobby, or to turn into an all-consuming endeavor?  The publishing industry is mutating rapidly, and the advice you read two years ago is probably out of date by now.  You have to know how much time, energy, and money you want to invest in becoming a writer. Make sure you can afford the requisite investments.

What would be the Dream Cast for you book if it was to be turned into a movie?

Asenath: Monica Belluci
Osnat: Gal Gadot
Taiku: Gary Sinese
Ja’ix: Sean Penn
Wendy: Elizabeth Banks
Aarluk: Sean Bean

If you were to be stranded on the famous deserted island, what three things would you carry?

• A Star Trek food replicator
• A solar powered battery
• A tablet with lots of downloaded fiction.

How do you spend your free time? Do you have a favorite place to go and unwind?

What is this “free time” you speak of?

Can you share with us something off your bucket list?

I would love to tour India.  I am not pandering.  I have wanted to go for years, but don’t expect I’ll be able to.

Tell us three fun facts about yourself.

• I spent a winter hunting and trapping with an Indian family in the northern wilderness
• I’ve been best friends with the same person for the last sixty years
• I’m doing a PhD in religion

What do you have in store next for your readers?

I want to adapt a short story I’ve written into a full length romance novel.  Time, time… fooey.

Is there anything else you’d like to share with your readers?

If Adam and Eve hadn’t sinned in the Biblical Garden of Eden, God would have found another excuse to kick them out.  There is no life in perpetual bliss and contentment.  Life is in the disturbance, in the struggles.


About the Author:
I have lived and hunted with Indians and Inuit, studied folklore, warfare, cannibalism, shamanism, Kabbalah, primitive art and communications among other things. I have published numerous essays and short stories.  I have an M.A. in Anthropology and am a Doctoral Candidate in Religion and am a member of the Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction Association.  My most recent publication, Zionism—An Aboriginal Struggle has been published by RVP Press. I co-edited and contributed to the book.  In recognition of this work I was selected as a Scholar In Residence in March 2020 at a Florida synagogue.  I’m happily married, happily retired, and have three grown children (who usually make me happy)


Nathan on the Web:
Website * Twitter

About the Author:

Author's Amazon Page

Kate Ressman has been writing for her entire life. It's true – she has proof of a second grade story where a cat inherits his human's money. She is the author of Cherry Blossom Express and Sugar and Spice. A bit of a nomad in the past, she has settled down and currently lives in Northern Virginia. She has two businesses, a day job, and an imaginary cat.

Interview with Kate Ressman

When did you first realize that you wanted to be a writer/ a storyteller?

I have always loved writing and making books. In fact, I did my best to skip recess in elementary school to make an alphabet book. I wasn't sure it would be anything like a career path, but I always wanted to be in print and to write.

What inspires you to write?

My brain doesn't stop. I've got enough plot bunnies to sink a battlecruiser. So, I write to get the bunnies to be quiet.

How did you come up with the idea for your current story?

My office-mate had a chronically ill child. I took some of that and thought, what would he do to make her better? Would he take the chance on a cure even if it meant turning his world upside down and taking a leap of faith? I blended that quiet desperation with a mother trying for custody while she had an addiction that I came across during an internship. And my cousin who used IVF to conceive. I blitzed all of that together with a dream I had of a market where everything was for sale and the colors were like an Indian painting. Then, I added a glittered coating of faerie and stirred well.

Are there some stories tucked away in some drawer that was written before and never saw the light of the day?

Yes. Oh, yes. There are stories that are hidden in the corners of boxes and in drawers and in the recesses of my back-up drive. A few might creep out into the light. But some of them never will. Even though I can't conscience deleting them yet.

Tell us about your writing process.

I like to write in compressed spurts. I occasionally take a three-day weekend, rent a hotel room and just write. Sometimes, I'll do 45 minutes sprints of writing to get the words down. I find that the tight constraints of writing this way means I actually manage to keep my plots consistent and the colors of my characters eyes the same the whole way through the story. Then, after letting it sit for a little bit, I'll edit it. I am a ruthless editor and do not fear the red pen.

What is your favorite scene in the book? Why?

There is one scene where, in a market where anything is for sale, all Bianka wants is the comfort of a familiar space and a refresh of her hair dye. It talks to the reality of needing a community and connection and the small parts of self-care that help us keep going when we're caregiving.

Did any of your characters inherit some of your own quirks?

Bianka has my fascination with science and my nerdom credentials. But beyond that? Nothing intentional.

Do you read? Who are your favourite authors and how have they influenced your writing style?

If the book is too slow to get away from me, I'll read it. Within reason. My favorite modern authors are Martha Wells, Simon R Green, Ben Aaronovich, Richard Kadrey, and Lawrence Block. My favorite classic authors are Arthur C Clark, Ray Bradbury, Lewis Carroll, Douglas Adams, and Arthur Conan Doyle.
Oddly enough, my writing style is more like Hemingway than any of my favorites. Though, I might have snagged a bit of Lawrence Block's banter or the insanity of Carroll's Wonderland.

What is the best piece of advice you have received, as a writer, till date?

Write what you would like to read.

What is the best piece of advice you would give to someone that wants to get into writing?
Start writing. It's as easy and as hard as that.

If you were to be stranded on the famous deserted island, what three things would you carry?

Duct tape, a knife, and a mirror.

How do you spend your free time? Do you have a favorite place to go and unwind?

I read usually. Sometimes I do crafts like needlework or knitting. I play D&D with my friends.

Can you share with us something off your bucket list?

I would like to see Prague.

What do you have in store next for your readers?

I am actually working on a sequel to this book and the sequel to Sugar and Spice. (My second book.)
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Every fairy tale has consequences.Bartender Bianka Freeman meets all kinds across the sticky bar at Murray’s. Usually they’re cagey drunks with more money than sense and bad taste in liquor. Sometimes they’re red wine drinkers with blue hair and fancy blue lipstick. Periwinkle Jones may drink her weight in box-wine, but she tips well and when Bianka’s daughter winds up at the doctor—again—Peri thinks they can help each other. If Bianka accompanies her to The Market while she sues for custody of her child, she’ll pay handsomely. While the money is helpful with a chronically ill child, the offer of a market where anything can be found and everything is for sale is the real lure. If Bianka can find a specialist who can cure her daughter? Well, she'll put up with dragons, fairies, giant bakers, and hell hounds. She'd do anything for Serenity. Every magical cure requires a sacrifice.

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The Council is the governing Coven over the Land of Five, a region entirely inhabited—and split apart—by witches with varying powers.

Lilith Lace, a witch thought to be born powerless, happily resides in Ignis, the Coven of Fire, until she suddenly develops telekinesis, an ability only seen in some witches born in Mentis, the Coven of the Mind. She's terrified of it, unsure who she can trust. Her best friends, Helena and Clio, are hot and cold about what she can do, leaving Lilith even more unsure about her future.

At her Arcane Ceremony, the truth comes out.

When the Council learns what she can do, she’s taken under their wing and is finally told the truth—everything she’s learned about the Land of Five, herself included, have been nothing but lies.

Read an Excerpt from The Council

A training session with the Adept is a high honor to any of the members of our class, but I don’t feel as if it has the same effect on me. The relationship between Clio and me is different than theirs and for that reason, I’m not sure if it will hurt or help. After the day I’ve had, I can almost guarantee something bad is bound to come from it.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” I look at the blank spot where the wound had been. Ambrossi had already warned me away from a second accident, and I know not to take it lightly.

“Scared, are we?” Clio asks. “Maybe you don’t have powers after all. You know, I never took you for a liar before.”

I stare at him for a long moment, observing the way he looks at me through haughty eyes. He’s trying to egg me on with the oldest psychological trick in the book, and I hate that it works. He knows what he’s capable of, and I hate him for that fact too. I would give anything to have his confidence.

 Of all the people I had ever known, he is the only one to treat me as an equal…in his own strange way, and I owe him for it. Thanks to my accident, everyone else in our Coven looks at me with pity—besides Fern of course. In a weird way, I appreciate the fact that of the other witches, Clio—our Adept—had chosen me as his rival.

It’s an honor…even for someone as mixed up as I am.

“You’re on,” I say, pacing backwards.

“Standard rules?” he calls, assuming his stance a few feet away.

“You bet,” I reply, balling my hands into fists at my side. Once again, it’s hard to see him in the dark, but I don’t let the thought overwhelm me. I breathe in deep, just as I had done while studying the vase, and let an eerie sense of calm wash over me.

We stare each other down before he lifts a hand, sending a blast of fire my way. The spark of orange shines dazzlingly bright, but I’m ready for it. I copy his gesture and create an invisible shield around me before I use the other hand to send him flying, ending the battle as soon as it had begun.

His eyes grow wide as soon as his feet leave the ground, and his expression of terror will be forever etched into my mind. I smile when I hear him gasp in surprise upon landing and fight the urge to ask if he’s okay.

I don’t want him to know how out of control my powers are.

After a minute, he sits up, kneeling as he peers at me through confused and pained eyes.

“Does this mean I win?” I tip my head to side and send him my best innocent look.

“You didn’t say you were telekinetic,” he breathes, dusting himself off as he stands to his feet.

“You didn’t ask,” I point out. “Besides, I thought you heard everything from your eavesdropping.”

“Not enough apparently. You must be nervous as Hell for the Arcane Ceremony tomorrow,” he says. “And here I was thinking I had it the worst.”

“Not really.”

“I sense a lie in your tone.”

“My situation…it isn’t common,” I remind him. “I don’t know how the Council will react…how anyone will react.”

“If they’re normal, they’ll handle it like me."


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Kayla Krantz is a proud author, responsible for a number of fantasy novels, and is fascinated by the dark and macabre. Stephen King is her all-time inspiration, mixed in with a little bit of Eminem and some faint remnants of the works of Edgar Allen Poe. When she began writing, she started in horror, but somehow drifted into thriller and fantasy. She loves the 1988 movie, “Heathers.” Kayla was born and raised in Michigan, but traveled across the country to where she currently resides, in Texas.


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Ember Oheada is no savior. But when the planet marks her as one, her fate is sealed. She will fight the Pathfinder, the evil creature who has taken over the planet, and she cannot lose. But before she can fight that epic battle, she must learn to control her new powers. For that, she'll travel to a distant land under the watchful eye of the Pathfinder's personal guard, Aaron--who may have plans of his own for her.

Read an Excerpt from Ember of the Planet

Her pocket full of the tasty mushrooms, she straightened, putting her hand against the tree for support.

Ember Oheada.

She snapped her hand back to her body with a start. Her head swiveled to the left and right, but she didn’t see anyone. What was more, she hadn’t really heard anyone. It was like she had felt someone say her name.

Glancing around once more, she again placed her hand on the tree. Nothing happened.

Shrugging, she gave the tree a pat to walk away.

You must help me, Ember.

She was sure she’d heard something. Or felt something. Or…something. Turning, Ember looked all around her, her eyes scanning the tops of the trees to see if maybe someone was hiding in them to trick her. She could see some birds in the higher branches; a rabbit scurried by, going faster when it saw her. She saw nothing unusual. But she’d never heard that voice before.

She decided she needed to head home and get the mushrooms to Ashla. She was taking too long as it was and apparently she was hearing things. It was probably better she kept that to herself, she thought. Ashla had enough to worry about.

I’m sorry if this hurts a bit.

“What?” Ember said out loud.

Before she got an answer the tree reached down and grabbed her.

Ember was so startled when she was grabbed she didn’t even think to scream. The tree had wrapped two of its lowest branches around her wrists, pulling her arms out to the sides and trapping her against the trunk. She pushed against the tree, yanking on her arms, the branches tightening to the point it hurt. She thrashed, but the tree held fast.

When the branches poked thorns into the skin of her wrists she finally screamed.


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Dove Winters is a young adult fantasy author from Nebraska. Her works include the Knight Heir Series and the trilogy Ember of the Planet. When not writing, she's usually thinking about writing, or spending time with her husband and five kids.



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Being kidnapped by aliens is only the start of Jade's problems. Thankfully, her rescuers, an alien race known as the Clecanians, are willing to protect her, but she has to stay on their planet for one year and respect the rules of their culture—including choosing a husband. Jade refuses at first but decides to play along until she can find a way back to Earth.

Theo, a scarred mercenary who prefers a life of solitude, is stunned when Jade selects him as her husband. After years of being passed over, he never imagined he would be chosen and neither did anyone else. Only one explanation makes sense…the curvy enticing female must be a spy, and Theo’s determined to break her cover using any means necessary.

As Jade and Theo are forced to spend time together, their chemistry becomes undeniable. But neither can afford to bring love into the equation, especially since Jade seems determined to go home. After all, she can't possibly stay here, right?

Read an Excerpt Choosing Theo: The Clecanian Series #1

Jade stared out through a wall of glass. She’d been dragged here and then placed, quite forcefully, on the far-right end of the long room by her surly guard, Nedas. To her left, there were about twenty beautiful young women looking out through the glass as well. Some of the women were standing in groups and talking while others were on their own, waiting for…something.

Jade looked around, scanning the room for a door, but instead found two angry eyes, one of them swollen and red, staring back at her. It was obvious from his stance and his unwavering gaze that his job was to watch her and make sure she didn’t try to escape. She pointed at his eye and then gave a sarcastic pout. His scowl deepened.

Jade studied the women she saw milling about. All of them had human qualities, but they also had strange features that made it clear they were aliens. What Jade didn’t understand was whether they were all different species or different races of the same species.

Some of the women had pale skin with thin, shining markings running all over their skin. Some had horns or tails. One hypnotizing woman in the corner had midnight-blue skin that was almost translucent and glowed from within. Her golden eyes met Jade’s, and Jade quickly glanced away, feeling a flush of embarrassment that she’d been caught staring. 

Suddenly the lights in the room dimmed and the other side of the glass was illuminated. All chatter ceased, and everyone turned to look at the plain gray hallway on the other side of the glass. Jade could now see that the hallway continued out of sight in either direction.

The other women in the room were all peering into the left side of the hallway expectantly. Curiosity burning in her, she examined the hallway as well. She’d just managed to spot a door a few feet down the hall when it opened.

A tall, handsome man walked out of the door and stood almost directly in front of her. Instinctively, she took a step back but then she noticed the man wasn’t looking at her. In fact, it didn’t seem like his eyes were focused on anything. Tentatively, she waved her hand in front of the glass. He didn’t react. With a low chuckle, Jade realized this must be some kind of one-way viewing room.

The Viewing, indeed.

Zikas had explained she’d be viewing a group of males, but she hadn’t thought he’d meant that hunky aliens would be paraded in front of her like beauty pageant contestants. Apparently, on this planet women chose their partners by anonymously ogling them. After a second’s deliberation, Jade found that she was for it.

Just because she didn’t intend on becoming anyone’s bride didn’t mean she couldn’t objectify a few fine aliens. When in Rome!

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Dane was a reliable guitarist until he got addicted to ants. Now he’s just a giant anteater with an abysmal grade point average. On a date with lead singer, Serena, they witness a gruesome incident. Waking up in the hospital, Dane realizes Serena’s missing. Going to the police only gets him a felony for possession of ants. Now, forced to lick the habit while he tracks down Serena, he’s going to need a little help from the band.

Investigating familiar watering holes (while stopping for one or two drinks) leads him to an underground criminal organization. Is it a coincidence that a feline fatale attempts to recruit him for the mob? Should he expose the dirty underbelly of their society, putting Serena and his band on the line, or try to take them down from the inside? Either way, it’s going to take more than the Komodo dragon on clarinet.

Read an Excerpt from Undertones

Chapter 1

Dane squinted the glare out of his eyes. His eyes were narrow to begin with. They watered up with the effort, the tip of his long nose curled up slightly, and the string of red tongue emerged for a second, like a serpent’s testing the air for danger. The familiar sensation of ants crawling inside his nasal cavity came and went, and he clenched the muscles of his snout to alleviate the aggravating itch. He often ran his noodle-like tongue along the gritty channel of his mouth, searching for stray flavors. Later, in the privacy of his apartment, he would pick the wrinkled bag of dried ants out of his pocket and go to town. But for now, he leaned against the tall speaker, playing it off with style, totally aware that he was the only giant anteater in the room.

The stage was set. Everything gleamed. Gaston flexed nimble fingers above the ivories. Years ago Dane caught sight of the numbat at a nursing home, performing for a herd of elderly gnus. For a numbat, he could cover a huge range, and his tail curved under the stool, patterned like the keys, and would often lever his lightweight body from side to side as he tickled or pounded out the notes.
The crowd was restless, though you could not really call the half-empty barroom a crowd. Dane could not wait for the set to end. The first few songs had gone okay, but they were beginning to bleed together in his mind like the past few nights, and the various flavors of his life. Luckily, he got by on muscle-memory alone, and let the music carry him away. It had always been like that, tough to start, but once he got going, no big deal at all. At times a euphoric bliss came over him during a guitar solo. It was the closest thing he knew to eating ants.

After lapping his reed from end to end, Rick blew a test note on his tenor sax, causing an irritable bison in the front row to jump. The shaggy-headed mammal turned his head slowly, catching glints of neon light in his greasy beard. Rick did not apologize but hopped back. Dane told them to minimize eye contact with audience members. They were putting on a show, after all.

Like any good jazz band, a third of their time was spent warming up. Gaston drummed his foot, and music started to flow out of the upright Yamaha. According to him, this approach built tension in the room. A few lingering notes tricked animals into thinking something was about to happen. Once the goat bartender got that impatient look on his mug and gripped the grimy rag until it squeaked against the smooth counter, all Dane had to do was nod his head at his companions, and the opening riff would erupt abruptly from Ava’s bass as if she had stumbled onto it by accident. Then the trumpets and drums would burble to life, drawing a few glances from tables in front, and the waiter paused in the act of setting down a pitcher, flash-frozen by jazz. Conversations broke off, and every corner of the dusty room filled with the majesty of their sound, like a mesmerizing fog.

Dane did not bother trying to read the audience anymore. Only the sound mattered. It was an interplay of high and low; a meshing of natural rhythms that had existed in their bodies since the day they were born. For him, it came as easily as conversation, intimate talk between lovers - or how he imagined intimacy to be. He loved the certainty of it, but more than that, he loved the formula behind it. Put notes together like a good equation, and the world swooned or cried. It passed like a dream. Someone had turned the hands of the clock - no, their allotted three hours were already up.

A profound dryness asserted itself in his mouth. He watched Chelsea place her fiddle in its case, handling it as gently as a newborn chick, with the tips of her feathers. She caressed it one last time before shutting the lid.

“What kind of jazz was that?” a cob with an incredibly high collar said, bending to gurgle his fizzy water in a shallow bowl.

“Dirty jazz,” Dane replied, wiping spittle off the microphone with exaggerated slowness.

Dipping his beak by tilting the effeminate glass ever-so-slightly, the middle-aged swan leaned in with wide eyes. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything classy from a place called The Hair of the Dog. However, I’m surprised you keep an avian in your band.” The swan gave a look to Chelsea that spoke of how he felt about birds deigning to play in such a motley group.

“There’s a froufrou pub on Jefferson and Maine called Horse Feathers,” Dane said snidely. “Too much glockenspiel for my taste, but it might tickle your fancy.”

The swan snorted, and rolled his pure black eyes before whispering something to his companion.
“Can’t wait to get out of here,” Gaston said, slamming the keylid shut, “I haven’t even started my Geology assignment yet.

“I’m in the same boat, mate.” Rick said, slinging his case over his back. “Chels, I think we might need to reschedule our date. That blasted professor assigned a devil of a paper right at the start of the semester.”

The burrowing owl fluttered onto the kangaroo’s muscular shoulder. “Working date is okay. I finished it yesterday. I always love Geology!” It is hard to tell when an owl is kidding, but Chelsea had a way of ironically turning her head around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.

“You go on without me,” Dane said, “I’ve got to see Harrison about something.”

Gaston paused, putting on his diminutive gloves, and stared enigmatically at his roommate. Behind his glasses, his eyes betrayed a knowing calm.

“Don’t give me that look,” Dane laughed, unsettled by the numbat’s glare. “Just want him to comp me for taxi fare - that time I filled in for that other singer.”

Gaston clearly did not buy it, but followed Chelsea and Rick down the creaking stairs, lugging his backpack.

Ava straightened her glasses, smoothing the furrow in the red fur of her nose. “I suppose Tech and I’ll handle the amps?” She said coolly, straightening the bandanna over her dreadlocks.

“Sure. Whatever,” Dane said to the red panda before idling up to the bar. He had to squeeze his bulky frame between two small tables, drawing stares from a group of cats in three-piece suits. He barely caught himself before stepping on the cleaning sparrow, who picked at microscopic crumbs underfoot.

“Hey, Billy.” Dane called to the one-horned barmen. The goat spat into a nearby spittoon.

“You know I hate being called Billy,” he said dryly. “It’s William. Why do you think I go by my last name?”

“No one calls you Harrison when you’re not around, you know?” Dane said, leaning on the counter.

“Get to the point. I’m surprised you’re still here. Don’t you go to the clubs?”

“We’re college students. That means we have classes.” Dane’s tone made it clear how little stock he put in academic pursuits. “Now, I didn’t come here to chat.” He lowered his voice, directed his eyes to either side of the bar, and said, “How about a cup of crawling joe?” He hid his urgency with effort. The goat smiled thickly, and finished polishing a cloudy glass.

Grinning at Dane with toothy arrogance for several seconds, he said, “You keep going through them at this rate and you’ll have to start stealing them from the sanctuaries.”

Nonetheless, he pulled out an unmarked, black velvet bag. Dane took it and glanced inside. Live ants crawled around inside like a congealed shadow. “Hey, we all have our vices.”

“Well, I don’t mind slipping folks a fix here and there, but if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself in pretty bad shape.”

Dane shrugged, “I’m still young, aren’t I?”

“Young and inexperienced.”

“Speak for yourself.” Dane laid down a small wad of cash before heading for the door.

About the Author:

Author's Amazon Page

L. S. Popovich is the author of UNDERTONES, a comedic Noir fantasy centered around an anthropomorphic jazz band.

They have always been a cat person (a person who like cats, not a cat human hybrid).

Every house needs at least one room completely crammed with books, so they believe. Other rooms should contain scattered piles.

Their short stories and poems have appeared in Chrome Baby, Havok, Aphelion, Bull & Cross, Red Fez, Bewildering Stories, The Ansible, 365Tomorrows, Commuter Lit, Farther Stars than These and other secluded places on the Internet.

Aside from writing Science Fiction, Fantasy, Noir & Magical Realism, they enjoy long walks on short beaches, black coffee on the rocks, and level grinding. 

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Seemingly abandoned by her parents on a dark and lonely road during a freezing rain storm, Abby desperately seeks shelter before losing consciousness. She wakes in a strangely beautiful place, a modern yet castle-like building powered by an AI more advanced than any she has ever experienced. One of hundreds of residents mysteriously suffering from severe memory loss, Abby is assigned a roommate and guardian so beautiful and kind, she accepts that he can't tell her where she is. And then there's the Virtual Reality Hall provided for everyone's entertainment, which is so realistically immersive it's hard to keep worrying about where she came from.

But when Abby begins remembering, the flashbacks are so vivid, she loses all sense of her surroundings reliving them. Disturbed by what these memories reveal of her former life, she begins exploring the vast and beautiful lands surrounding her new home. Then one day, she meets a young man who tells her he has come in search of her. Surprised, intrigued, and instantly drawn to him, she lets him begin leading her down a thrilling path of discovery, marred only by the growing sense of a dreadful danger waiting for her at the end.

Abby must decide who she trusts, and how far she is willing to go in search of the truth and her freedom.

Read an Excerpt from The Way of the Prince 

I wanted to cry, "No! Stop! Wait!" but I could not find my voice, and it was already too late. I knew that. Yet as my dread peaked, I also mysteriously relaxed, because it had been with me for as long as I could remember, so it was almost a relief finally not being able to ignore it; obliged to face it once and for all. Any second now, I would be consumed by nothingness, because that's what happened when you died. My parents' silhouettes were swiftly receding at the center of two bright yellow lights, and for terrifying seconds, I seemed to be looking straight into the glowing eyes of a predator about to devour me. Were those headlights? Why had my parents abandoned me here? They were driving away! Didn't they realize how cold it was?

I kept wanting to yell, to beg them not to leave me, but everything had happened so fast, in a silence too heavy for my voice. Then there was an immense rushing sound, and I was deafened by a sudden downpour. I was lying on my back, but I rolled over now and, finding my hands beneath me, pushed myself up, only to glimpse my parents' headlights winking out. Then the deluge, as solid as massive hands digging into me with icy nails, shoved me back down again. For a few dark seconds, I couldn't breathe as my face was buried in a slimy mud threatening to choke me. Pushing myself back up, but keeping my head down, I took a deep, wonderful breath. This was all I had to feel good about.

The rain had frozen not into balls of hail but into sharp lances attacking me, so I felt colder by the second as I realized I was either naked, or whatever I had been wearing was already so drenched it had become molded to my skin and so made no difference. The pressure, the cold, the sense of abandonment, not knowing why I was here, everything was conspiring to paralyze me. There was a reason, but any explanation for my situation had slipped out of my mind. I knew only one thought now: I can't just keep lying here! I was in the middle of the road. What if another car came by? It probably wouldn't even see me in time. And there was no doubt that if I didn't keep moving, I was going to freeze to death.

These thoughts intangibly but effectively leveraged themselves beneath me. My parents were gone, and feeling colder than I ever had in my life, I was sure they wouldn't have a change of heart. But I had to keep moving. I couldn't stop to think about them and wonder why this was all happening. I didn't have any answers only the possibility of action, and the first thing I had to do was try and find shelter from this icy rain...

Suddenly, an immense sound like that of a supersonic engine rose above the noise of the deluge. Before I knew it, I was up, and fleeing the danger of being run over by what sounded like an approaching truck. I ran with my head down, but it was so dark I couldn't even see my feet. I was heading in the opposite direction my parents had gone, but that hardly seemed to matter anymore. I simply had to get off this road.

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Maria Isabel Pita was born in Havana, Cuba. Her family moved to the U.S. when she was eight months old, and she grew up in Fairfax, Virginia. Reading, writing and history have been her abiding passions ever since she can remember. In college, she majored in World History, and minored in English Literature and Cultural Anthropology.

Following in the footsteps of Mary Magdalen, before becoming a practicing Catholic, Maria wrote erotic romances. A former member of the International Association For the Study of Dreams, Maria is a regular contributor to the Lucid Dreaming Experience Magazine.


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