PUYB Virtual Book Club Chats with Mary Lawlor, author of 'Fighter Pilot's Daughter'

Mary Lawlor grew up in an Army family during the Cold War.  Her father was a decorated fighter pilot who fought in the Pacific during World War II, flew missions in Korea, and did two combat tours in Vietnam. His family followed him from base to base and country to country during his years of service. Every two or three years, Mary, her three sisters, and her mother packed up their household and moved. By the time she graduated from high school, she had attended fourteen different schools. These displacements, plus her father?s frequent absences and brief, dramatic returns, were part of the fabric of her childhood, as were the rituals of base life and the adventures of life abroad.

As Mary came of age, tensions between the patriotic, Catholic culture of her upbringing and the values of the sixties counterculture set family life on fire.  While attending the American College in Paris, she became involved in the famous student uprisings of May 1968.  Facing her father, then posted in Vietnam, across a deep political divide, she fought as he had taught her to for a way of life completely different from his and her mother’s.

Years of turbulence followed.  After working in Germany, Spain and Japan, Mary went on to graduate school at NYU, earned a Ph.D. and became a professor of literature and American Studies at Muhlenberg College.  She has published three books, Recalling the Wild (Rutgers UP, 2000), Public Native America (Rutgers UP, 2006), and most recently Fighter Pilot’s Daughter: Growing Up in the Sixties and the Cold War (Rowman and Littlefield, September 2013).

She and her husband spend part of each year on a small farm in the mountains of southern Spain.

Her latest book is the memoir, Fighter Pilot’s Daughter: Growing Up in the Sixties and the Cold War.

WEBSITE | TWITTER | FACEBOOK

About the Book:

FIGHTER PILOT’S DAUGHTER: GROWING UP IN THE SIXTIES AND THE COLD WAR tells the story of the author as a young woman coming of age in an Irish Catholic, military family during the Cold War.  Her father, an aviator in the Marines and later the Army, was transferred more than a dozen times to posts from Miami to California and Germany as the government’s Cold War policies

demanded.  For the pilot’s wife and daughters, each move meant a complete upheaval of ordinary life.  The car was sold, bank accounts closed, and of course one school after another was left behind.  Friends and later boyfriends lined up in memory as a series of temporary attachments.  The book describes the dramas of this traveling household during the middle years of the Cold War.  In the process, FIGHTER PILOT’S DAUGHTER shows how the larger turmoil of American foreign policy and the effects of Cold War politics permeated the domestic universe. The climactic moment of the story takes place in the spring of 1968, when the author’s father was stationed in Vietnam and she was attending college in Paris.  Having left the family’s quarters in Heidelberg, Germany the previous fall, she was still an ingénue; but her strict upbringing had not gone deep enough to keep her anchored to her parents’ world.  When the May riots broke out in the Latin quarter, she attached myself to the student leftists and American draft resisters who were throwing cobblestones at the French police. Getting word of her activities via a Red Cross telegram delivered on the airfield in Da Nang, Vietnam, her father came to Paris to find her. The book narrates their dramatically contentious meeting and return to the American military community of Heidelberg.  The book concludes many years later, as the Cold War came to a close.  After decades of tension that made communication all but impossible, the author and her father reunited.  As the chill subsided in the world at large, so it did in the relationship between the pilot and his daughter. When he died a few years later, the hard edge between them, like the Cold War stand-off, had become a distant memory.

For More Information:

Amazon | Barnes & Noble

Before you started writing your book, what kind of research did you do to prepare yourself?

I wanted to structure the “plot” of my family’s life chronologically, with the focus alternating between the larger picture of the Cold War, the more intimate dramas of our gypsy household, and the private convolutions of my own psychological development.  These were very different stories, and each demanded its own kind of research.  

For the larger picture of the Cold War, I had, of course, all kinds of books and articles at my disposal.  Studying multiple histories of the many dimensions and geographies of the Cold War as a professor had given me a lot of background material for the book.  Still, I had to go further, read more, think harder, about the particular phases that determined my Dad’s career.  Spending time with the wars of the twentieth century wasn’t pleasant.  Those are bloody stories for anybody, but for me they brought back memories of hard times at home.  With the names—Eisenhower, Kennedy, Diem—and the places—Vietnam, Moscow, Havana—came recollections of base housing, where we waited for Dad to come home and hoped he was alright.  Apart from the emotional edginess, though, this kind of research was relatively straightforward.  

For the stories of my own family, the sources were more complicated.  First of all, my father had never told us anything.  Like other military dads then and now, he was committed to a code of secrecy about the missions he was involved in.  He took those secrets to his grave.  And he chose not share with my sisters and me those episodes he could relate: they were too violent or frightening in some other way that might shock our young (and girlish) ears.  I have reason to think he did tell these stories to my boy cousins and perhaps to my mother; but she too was very circumspect and kept them to herself if she knew them.

What I did have from my Dad was a substantial collection of letters he wrote.  They start during his years in college and in flight school and continue through the later years.  I’m really grateful to my mother for keeping them and to my sisters, Nancy and Sarah, for letting me hold onto them for as long as I have.  And a lot of military records ended up in my mother’s files after my Dad passed away.  Those provided a crucial map of the very complicated chronology of his career and definitive, if cryptic, indications of where he went and what the missions were.

But much was missing nevertheless.  My Dad was a good letter writer, but he would go for long periods of time without communicating anything.  During his first tour in Vietnam, for example, there was a six-month period when we didn’t hear from him at all.  My sisters and I had nightmares and my mother worried constantly.   Eventually we heard from the Red Cross that he was alright.  It was still a while before we heard from him directly.  I describe the effects of all this on my psyche in the book, but for the purpose of building the narrative it meant I had to try to sort out the speculative from the factual in family rumors (still circulating) about where Dad was and what he was doing those months he was in the dark. 

 

And all the military records aren’t there either.  Big gaps fall between years, and much information about unit missions is absent.  I spent a lot of time trying to get the missing records from the various US Army and Marine Corps archives.  You’d think this would be pretty straightforward; after all, it’s the military, and they’re the epitome of organization, right?  But not so.  There are a number of these archives scattered across the country.  Some of them house certain materials, and others different things.  Archivists don’t all seem to know which facility has what.  And one of them, a large storehouse of military records located near St. Louis, burned down in the 1970s.  All those documents were lost forever. 

 

I should say, though, that those archivists and librarians who I asked for materials were very helpful and did all they could to steer me in the right direction.  Without their help, I wouldn’t have had nearly as much information to use to build the narrative of Dad’s assignments that was the plot of FIGHTER PILOT’S DAUGHTER. 

 

My mother, of course, was another resource for the story of our family.  She was a great story teller.  A striking character herself, she gave dramatic accounts of my Dad, his friends, the extended family, and my sisters and me as kids.  But she was unreliable.  She loved the story more than anything, and the truth sometimes suffered from this.  I interviewed her over a period of several months—this was a few years before I wrote the memoir—and learned a great deal about our early years that I hadn’t known before.  Much of it turned out to be accurate.  When I checked on her versions of the larger history and her tales of my Dad’s work, however, I saw that in some instances she’d picked and chosen scenes and dialogues for their effectiveness in her story rather than as they had actually happened.  I tried to make that in itself part of her portrait in Fighter Pilot’s Daughter—without dishonoring her memory.

For the convolutions of my own psychological development, I had my girl-diaries, journals, and letters to consult.  They brought back some of the crucial details of daily life in our household and in the scattered rooms and apartments I called home after leaving my parents’ care.  The smells of particular kinds of paint or the odd placement of windows—these details can really bring life to a memoir, and I was grateful to my younger self for having kept a record of them.

But the greater pool of information lay in my memory banks.  These in some cases were wide open, but in others not so much.  For the harder memories, I had to sit with whatever I could clearly recall and wait for more to come.  Sometimes it took days of going back and waiting.  It was like courting somebody or, I imagine, being a therapist hoping a patient would come to see something crucial.  Memories of my mother’s anger at me when I came home from college in Paris during a time when I was breaking away from the family ethics and beliefs came slow and with difficulty.  What was even harder to get back was the recollection that finally emerged of her actually fearing me.  She didn’t understand what influences I’d been exposed to in Paris and was frightened to know what they might mean.  In the end, it was all much ado about nothing, but it was a hard picture to look at: my own mother, afraid of me.

Living in memory as continuously as I did during the writing of FIGHTER PILOT’S DAUGHTER introduced a rich practice in my life.  The more I remembered, the more I remembered;  and writing was an important vehicle for drawing it out.  I’ve tried to keep that going in the months since the book first emerged.  Not that I’m plotting another memoir (I’ve turned to fiction now and have a novel ready to go…), but the whole experience of going into the deep past of my youth has given the self-portrait I carry around with me a lot more dimension than before.  You’d think that somebody who took on the project of writing a memoir would know a lot about the self being narrated there.  On the other hand, all this the research—into the histories, letters, journals, interviews, and my own mind—not only made the book possible, but it worked like a kind of self-therapy: and a lead to several new understandings of myself as a fighter pilot’s daughter.

Did you pursue publishers or did you opt to self-pub?

I pursued publishers through an agent and was happy to get a contract with Rowman & Littlefield.

If published by a publisher, what was your deciding factor in going with them?

Rowman & Littlefield has a reputation for publishing good memoirs and particularly those set in the second half of the twentieth, so I felt it was a good choice. 

If published by a publisher, are you happy with the price they chose?

I wasn’t happy at the beginning. I thought it was too expensive. But the book sold well after it’s first year, so it was reissued last fall in paperback. The price is much better now. A lot more people have been buying it in paper (and the kindle sales have gone up to!).

Did you purposefully choose a distinct month to release your book?  Why?

I was happy with the month the publisher chose, September, because it’s when everyone comes home from summer vacation or summer jobs and when schools and universities start up again. I wanted it to be a new book available for that moment.

How did you choose your cover?

The designers at Rowman & Littlefield came up with a few options, and I chose the one that appears on it now. It has a photo of my sisters and me wearing our father’s Korean War helmets—it’s an absurd picture in a way, but I like it very much. I thought it fit the designer’s image quite well.

Did you write your book, then revise or revise as you went?

I revised as I went and then revised the entire draft several times. Each day I would start out by re-reading what I’d written the day before.

What are three of the most important things you believe an author should do before their book is released?

-Make sure you’re on as many social media platforms as you’re familiar with;

-Create a website for yourself or update an already existing one to show the new publication

-Alert as many bookstores and book clubs in your area of the upcoming release and tell them you’re available for readings & signings.

What are three of the most important things you believe an author should do after their book is released?

-Sign up for a virtual book tour with Pump Up Your Book!

-Pay attention to your social media

-Spread the word in any way you can

Do you have a long term plan with your book?

I’d love to see it emerge as a screenplay and am learning how to write one for that reason. It’s a long shot—a really long long shot, but I’d like to try.

What would you like to say to your readers and fans about your book?

I’m very happy I wrote it and grateful for the good reception it’s had.

The Tigress and the Yogi Book Blast - Win Books!

Hot off the presses! THE TIGRESS AND THE YOGI by Shelley Schanfield is available now! Sign up to win a paperback copy of her book or one of 5 ebooks!

Title: THE TIGRESS AND THE YOGI

Author: Shelley Schanfield

Publisher: Lake House Books

Pages: 382

Genre: Historical Fantasy

A talking tigress.

A wandering yogi.

A young woman's harrowing journey through an ancient land where chaos threatens gods and mortals alike.

A tigress speaks to the outcaste girl Mala, and as she flees in terror, she encounters an old yogi. She offers him hospitality. As an untouchable, her very shadow may sully the holy man, but he accepts, repaying her kindness with stories that awaken her hunger for forbidden spiritual knowledge. Soon after he leaves, she is orphaned and enslaved, but the warrior goddess Durga appears in a vision and offers her hope. 

Thus begins her quest for liberation, on which she meets gods and goddesses, high-born Brahmins and lowly keepers of the cremation grounds, outlaws and kings, and young Prince Siddhartha Gautama, who is prophesied to become the Buddha. She finds happiness for a brief time, but when she loses everything, her quest goes terribly wrong. She becomes an outlaw warrior, worshipping the dark goddess, Kali. She masters occult powers but descends into madness, misusing the supernatural gifts the goddess bestows, and when she again encounters the old yogi, she must decide whether to continue on the path of bloody vengeance or seek transcendence through the power of yoga.

The Tigress and the Yogi is an historical fantasy that brings to life the vivid mythical world of ancient India and transports the reader to the Buddha's time in a story filled with love and fear, anger and desire. This visionary novel creates a memorable portrait of a powerful woman, her extraordinary daughter, and the men they challenge and inspire. It examines the yearning for spiritual transformation and inner peace, and the ways in which the pursuit of wisdom and compassion can go terribly wrong.

Amazon | Barnes & Noble

Book Excerpt:

Fragrant trees shaded the grove, though open patches among the leaves admitted some dappled sunlight. After the thick, dense forest, this place was like a spacious and cool green temple. There was a tall, slender stone pillar set in a circle of stones in the very center. The snake-loving Nagas, the most fearsome of the hidden forest tribes, must have sacrificed here once. Nagas had not been seen near the village in years, but everyone still feared them. Sometimes when a village man disappeared, people whispered that the dark ones had sacrificed him to their Great Mother, She who was ancient as the earth.

Mala shrugged off a whisper of unease. It was so peaceful and beautiful, there could be no danger. She crawled to a tree trunk and curled up against it to rest awhile. The birds and insects remained silent. Her own breathing was loud in her ears. It felt good just to rest her hand on her belly as it rose and fell. Soon she was aware of nothing else.

Her back against the tree and her head nodding, Mala slipped into a strange new place of lights and sounds. The tree’s roots cradled her and the earth’s coolness was like a soothing caress. Light fell from the leaves above like drops of water. Then she gasped.

On a tigress’s back, a many-armed, beautiful goddess appeared in radiant splendor, waving hands carrying weapons. One hand the goddess held before her breasts in a strange gesture, thumb and forefinger touching. The other she held out toward Mala, and from its upward-facing palm shot a beam of light. Mala prostrated before the vision.

“Om, Divine One,” Mala said. “Om!”

The bejeweled goddess dismounted from the tigress and with her two free hands lifted her ruby and diamond garland from around her neck, smiling as she did so.

I am Durga, Mala. Durga held out the garland. One day this will be yours. As Mala reached for the sparkling necklace, the red jewels began to drip blood. Mala cried out.

She woke. The vision flitted at the edges of consciousness like a wild animal hiding in the forest’s shadows. Dusk was approaching. In the distance, there was something or someone: a horse whinnied, human voices called and laughed. Or did she imagine it? Was Durga only a dream?

No. The warrior goddess was real. Warriors had strength and courage. It was a sign. Mala must be strong and courageous, too. But what did the jewels dripping blood mean?

That when a warrior fights for justice, blood is shed.

About the Author

Shelley Schanfield’s passion for Buddhism and yoga arose sixteen years ago, when she and her son earned black belts in Tae Kwon Do. The links between the martial arts and Buddhist techniques to calm and focus the mind fascinated her. By profession a librarian, Shelley plunged into research about the time, place, and spiritual traditions that 2500 years ago produced Prince Siddhartha, who became the Buddha. Yoga, in some form, has a role in all of these traditions. Its transformational teachings soon prompted Shelley to hang up her black belt and begin a yoga practice that she follows to this day.

Because she loves historical fiction, Shelley looked for a good novel about the Buddha. When she didn’t find one that satisfied her, she decided to write her own novels based on the spiritual struggles of women in the Buddha’s time. She published the first book in the Sadhana Trilogy, The Tigress and the Yogi, in 2016 and will publish the second, The Mountain Goddess in early 2017.

WEBSITE | TWITTER | FACEBOOK

Giveaway Details:

Shelley is giving away one autographed copy of The Tigress and the Yogi PLUS 5 ebooks!

Terms & Conditions:

• By entering the giveaway, you are confirming you are at least 18 years old.
• Six winners will be chosen via Rafflecopter.
• This giveaway ends midnight January 27.
• Winner will be contacted via email on February 1.
• Winner has 48 hours to reply.

Good luck everyone!

ENTER TO WIN!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

PUYB Virtual Book Club Chats with Krystal Lawrence, author of 'Cat O'Nine Tales'

Krystal Lawrence lives in the Pacific Northwest. She is the author of three novels—— two vampire stories, Risen and Risen II: The Progeny, and a trilogy entitled, Be Careful What You Wish For which is currently under consideration to be turned into a television series. Cat O’Nine Tales is Krystal’s first and much anticipated collection of short stories. Her books are available through Amazon and all major book retailers.

WEBSITE | TWITTER | FACEBOOK

About the Book:

What evil dwells within the pretty lady next door or the ordinary house cat?
What happens when you pursue your dreams into the desert after dark?
Beware the man borne of your imagination. He could seek vengeance on the one who created him.
Visit a bookstore offering a most alluring and sinister service.
Journey to the dark side with ten twisted tales of horror, malevolence, and the truly uncanny.

Amazon | Barnes & Noble

Before you started writing your book, what kind of research did you do to prepare yourself?

The beauty of this book was how little research was required. Writing a collection of short stories requires a great deal less preparation than writing a full-length novel does. Or perhaps, because it’s done in smaller segments and stretched out over a longer period of time it just feels like less.

Did you pursue publishers or did you opt to self-pub?

This is my fourth book, published by Telemachus Press out of Ohio.

If published by a publisher, what was your deciding factor in going with them?

They had been interested in my first book and I stayed with them ever since.

If published by a publisher, are you happy with the price they chose?

The hardback seems a little pricey, but it does seem to be the going rate for hard cover books. I didn’t have much say in that matter, I’m afraid.

Did you purposefully choose a distinct month to release your book?  Why?

Because I write in the horror and suspense genre I always try to release around the bewitching month of October just before Halloween.

How did you choose your cover?

It was a collaborative effort between myself and the house. They have an incredibly good design guy who has the amazing ability to turn my ideas into reality.

Did you write your book, then revise or revise as you went?

I always do an initial first draft and then go back and do three or four rewrites before it goes to the editor, and then I do final revisions after it comes back all polished up.

Did you come up with special swag for your book and how are you using it to help get the word out about your book?

I had really cool vampire bookmarks done for my first book, but haven’t done that since.

Did you consider making or hiring someone to make a book trailer for your book?  If so, what’s the link?

I don’t have a trailer.

What’s your opinion on giving your book away to sell other copies of your book?

For me it’s all about getting as many people to read my books as possible, much more than it is about sales. I always keep a stack on hand and have been known to give them to unsuspecting strangers in the grocery store. Once I tossed one into the bed of a pick-up truck that had a skull and cross bones on the bumper sticker. The owner struck me as someone that might enjoy a good scary story. Does that answer your question?

What are three of the most important things you believe an author should do before their book is released?

Be prepared for less than five star reviews, it was a life lesson for me that the entire world was not going to love everything I penned. You have to develop a thick skin and be able to read reviews about your work without taking everything to heart.

Remember why you wrote the book in the first place. It wasn’t to become a best-seller it was because you were inspired. Hold on to that inspiration.

What are three of the most important things you believe an author should do after their book is released?

Come up with a really good marketing strategy…I know a lady that does an amazing virtual book tour for instance… J

Find reviewers, even if you have to give them free copies. The more positive reviews you get the more viability you have as a writer and the more your book will sell.

Try to get book signing events. I did one in a furniture store during a Labor Day sale once. You would be amazed at how many books you sell, even when you aren’t in the perfect venue.

What kind of pre-promotion did you do before the book came out?  

I didn’t really do much prior to the book being released apart from submit some of the individual stories to magazines for consideration. (As the Crow Flies was published in edition 48 of Sanitarium Magazine.)

Do you have a long term plan with your book?

Like my second book, Be Careful What You Wish For, I would like to create a treatment (screenplay idea) for several of the stories in the book that would translate well to the screen.

What would you like to say to your readers and fans about your book?

Thanks for your continued support…oh, and you might want to leave the light on.

Never Go Alone by Denison Hatch

Title: Never Go Alone
Author: Denison Hatch
Publisher: Lookout Press
Pages: 300
Genre: Thriller/Mystery/Police Procedural

A rash of elaborate cat burglaries of luxury buildings in Manhattan has the police and mayor panicked. When a group of social media obsessed millennials—a loosely organized crew that call themselves “urban explorers”—are suspected in the heists, NYPD detective Jake Rivett is assigned the case.

Already undercover with one foot on each side of the blue line, Rivett is ordered to infiltrate the group and discern responsibility. Battling against both his own personal demons and misgivings regarding his superiors, Rivett dives deep into the urban exploration scene in pursuit of the truth. But what, and who, he finds—deep in the sewers, up in the cranes above under-construction skyscrapers, and everywhere else in New York—will change not only Jake, but the city itself.

Purchase at Amazon.

Book Excerpt:

Two feet hammered the pavement. With movement as rapid as it was controlled, the explorer’s muscles tensed for what was to come. The target, all twenty stories of unabashedly neo-classical splendor, towered across the street. Infiltrating the building would be easy, but the next step was difficult. And the rest? Brilliant meets impossible.
The explorer was wearing a small camera on his chest, which captured his viewpoint with slightly shaky but high-definition clarity. A parking post stood ahead—cement poured into a strong iron tube. The man sprinted forward and vaulted onto the post. He maintained his momentum, springing off the top of the post onto an enormous industrial air-conditioning unit. Now eight feet in the air, he had only one stride before his next jump. He sailed through the empty air, arms outstretched, fingers tensing—a twelve-foot-high brick wall ahead. Just reaching the wall, the explorer’s fingers grasped the edge. His right hand couldn’t find traction. His fingernails scraped desperately as he started to fall. But two fingers on his left hand did their job. He hung on, swinging precariously before centering himself and pulling his body up and over the wall.
The explorer dropped down on the other side. His body contracted into a tight ball as he careened toward the construction gravel below. At the last moment, he rotated and achieved a rolling landing—lessening gravity’s impact. He came to a stop. Breathing heavily, he took a brief respite from the task at hand. His chest heaved as he peered around the construction site that he’d just infiltrated. He knew that a lone security guard sat in a booth on the other side of the block. But he also knew the guard was engrossed in his cell phone, only stopping occasionally to gaze onto an adjoining street. As long as the explorer was quiet, the guard would be none the wiser. The coast was clear. He reached for a mic attached to the side strap of his backpack.
“All silent. Only one clown in the circus,” the explorer whispered into the microphone. Still out of breath, he reached for his hydration tube and took a long sip of water. Then he rotated and watched as three more compatriots covertly slid over the top of the tall brick wall.
They each hit the ground in the same rolling manner, limiting trauma with expert precision. The entire crew was clad in dark outdoor technical clothes, breathable shirts, top-of-the-line Gore-Tex pants and trail runners with all reflective surfaces blocked out by black Sharpie. Their faces were covered by bandanas or ski masks. Respirators, climbing gear, knives, and cameras were both hanging from and strapped to their belts and backpacks.
The crew split in three different directions, acting as lookouts for any errant guard or construction manager onsite in the middle of the night. It was unlikely, but their plans called for extreme caution. That’s what had made them so successful—their secret sauce was not daring; it was preparation. After confirming that the others were in position, the explorer focused on the mission at hand.
An enormous tower crane stood against the edge of the construction site. Built like a towering T, the machine’s base was a concrete shithouse holding up three hundred feet of crisscrossing steel. The explorer expertly grabbed the side of the crane. Instead of heading for the control booth at the bottom, he simply began to ascend up the latticework that made up the sides—hands followed by legs on an upstream ladder.
Stopping midway to catch his breath, the man couldn’t help but look down. Vertigo’s tendrils reached out like forbidden fruit. His foot wavered to catch hold of a one-inch bar of the latticework. But he controlled the panic, centered himself, and continued climbing.
A few minutes later, the explorer reached the top of the crane. He pulled himself over the T’s edge and gazed along the hundred-and-fifty-foot-length atop the long horizontal span. Instead of traversing in the direction of the construction site from which he’d originated, the explorer headed the opposite way. Careful with the placement of his feet, he headed towards the side of the crane that extended halfway across the street below. It was a slow process. The latticework consisted of both ninety-degree and diagonal pieces of steel, like a series of bars with a crosshatch pattern strung across it. And between the pieces of the crane’s structure was nothing—a dark void. One misstep, one hesitation, one dash of grease and the explorer would plummet over twenty stories through thin air and become one with the blacktop of the city. It was not a pleasant thought, making the already difficult process deeply nerve-wracking.
“You will not bust.” The man talked himself through the fear as he reached the far end of the crane. He was now extended as far across the street below as the machinery would take him.
The explorer gazed down the gleaming city from the Upper West Side, all the way through Midtown and into Chelsea. It was more than a place now, more than a landscape. By this point at its evolution, Manhattan represented a geospatial-and-social coordinate on the razor’s edge of modernity. It was no longer what the future could be. It was the future itself, right now, happening in front of one’s eyes and reaching the stage of infinite singularity. As the years had gone on, the surfaces of the metropolis had become smooth, the lights perfect, the façades utterly complete. It no longer beckoned for the masses humbly—it repelled them. The construction site the explorer had ascended from would soon consist of glass, marble, and sex. That was all, and that was everything, and if one was rich enough, one could buy it. The new culture didn’t care for culture itself. It did not bow to subtlety of argument or freedom of soul. It only knew money—astronomical levels of money. The only people who could afford to live here would be the progeny of sovereign wealth fund managers, tech moonshot winners, and industrial titans. Nothing was free, for anyone—not even the views.
Except for our explorer—right now. It was his, alone. He admired the panorama of New York. Yes, there was the mission, but this was deserving of a photograph. He pulled the camera off his chest harness, activated selfie mode, and turned it towards himself. He lined up, framing the background of the city behind him. Click. The camera’s flash erupted. He flipped his hand down, as if to form an upside down V slogan. Click. Another flash—another selfie—his face shrouded by a hood throughout the entire process.
Having finished memorializing the scene, the man ducked down towards the crane. As he secured something to the crane, he gazed away from the construction site and towards his target.
A sharp contrast to the modern structures popping up like weeds, the limestone apartment building across the street was built during the turn of the century—the last century, not this. Its hulking body did not undulate as it rose. Instead the building consisted of strong vertical bands that ran up to form elaborate choragic arches and support the pointed top of the roof. Four large penthouse balconies graced each corner of the building, easily visible to the explorer who stood above them on the crane. He breathed deeply, then jumped off the crane into the darkness below.
Suspended by a climbing rope, the man careened from the top of the crane and over the street, until he was positioned directly above the penthouse balcony of the old building. The pendulum continued, however, and he swung back.
The second time he was ready. His toes landed lithely on the penthouse’s balcony. He paced towards the enclosed glass greenhouse. One of the small windows of the greenhouse was unlatched, exposing a sliver of access.
The explorer carefully maneuvered the window open.
He climbed into the penthouse.
And the city’s lights twinkled as if nothing had happened at all . . .

Double Take by Abby Bardi

Title: Double Take

Author: Abby Bardi
Publisher: Harper Collins Impulse
Pages: 186
Genre: Mystery/Women’s Fiction

Set in Chicago, 1975, Double Take is the story of artsy Rachel Cochrane, who returns from college with no job and confronts the recent death of Bando, one of her best friends. When she runs into Joey, a mutual friend, their conversations take them back into their shared past and to the revelation that Bando may have been murdered. To find out who murdered him, Rachel is forced to revisit her stormy 1960s adolescence, a journey that brings her into contact with her old friends, her old self, and danger.

FOR MORE INFORMATION:

Amazon | Barnes & Noble

Book Excerpt:

1975

I recognized his voice from across the room. When I handed him a menu, he looked up absent-mindedly and went on talking to some guys, then did a double take.

“Cookie?” he said.

I tried on the name like an old article of clothing to see if it still fit. It felt like a suede fringed jacket. “Yep,” I said.

“Wow. You look so different.”

“I cut my hair.”

“Everyone did.”

“I’m older,” I said.

“Everyone’s older.”

“You look exactly the same,” I said. He was wearing a beat-up leather jacket over a green T-shirt, maybe the same jacket and T-shirt he had always worn. His thick black hair was shorter now and curly, skin still tan from summer, small mouth with perfect teeth. He still looked tough and handsome, but in a creepy way, like someone you couldn’t trust.

“Cookie, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I work here. I’d rather you didn’t call me that. My name is Rachel.”

“I thought your name was Cookie.”

“Nope. Do people still call you Rat?”

He laughed. “Nowadays I go by Joey.”

“Okay, Joey,” I said, since this was nowadays.

“Miss?” a voice called from a nearby table. The voice brought me back to where I was standing, in Diana’s Grotto, a Greek diner on 57th Street, with ten tables full of customers. For a moment, I had thought I was in Casa Sanchez.

It took me a while to make it back to Joey’s table. A divinity student had found a fly in his milkshake, and it wouldn’t have taken so long if I hadn’t made the mistake of saying, “So, how much can a fly drink?” Like most academics, this guy had no sense of humor and gave me a lecture on hygiene. It was amazing that knowing as much about hygiene as he seemed to, he would continue to eat at Diana’s Grotto. By the time I got back to Joey’s table, the men he had been sitting with were gone. Off-duty police, from the looks of them, I thought, or plain-clothes. We got a lot of cops in Diana’s; they slumped on stools at the counter with their guns hanging from their belts, sucking down free coffee. Back in the sixties, the sight of their blue leather jackets had always made me nervous, like I’d committed some crime I’d forgotten about.

“So why are you working here?” Joey asked. “I thought you were a college girl. A co-ed.” He flashed his white teeth. “I don’t mean to be nosy.”

“The problem with college is they make you leave when you finish.”

“And here I thought it was a permanent gig.”

“Nope.”

“But why aren’t you doing something a little more—”

“Collegiate? Don’t ask.” I slid into the booth next to him. From across the room, Nicky, the maître d’, shot me a poisonous glance. I ignored him. “I like it here.” I smiled a crazy little smile.

“Hey, different strokes.” His eyes swept the room, resting on a mural of a white windmill on an island in the Aegean. The windmill’s blades were crooked. I remembered this eye-sweep from Casa Sanchez, where he had always sat facing the door so he could constantly scan the whole restaurant. His eyes returned to me. “Didn’t I hear a rumor you were supposed to be getting married? Some guy in California?”

“Just a rumor. Glad to hear the grapevine still works.”

I felt someone hiss into my ear. Nicky had slunk up behind me. He looked like a garden gnome in a plaid jacket and baggy pants, reeking of aftershave that had tried and failed. “Rose!” he snapped. He never called anyone by their right name. “What’s in a name?” I always murmured.

“Be right with you.” I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

“This is a classy place,” Joey said as Nicky ambled away.

“He’s the owner’s brother-in-law.”

“Diana?”

“There is no Diana. She’s a mythological figure.”

“Like Hendrix?”

“Kind of.”

“Hey, you want to have a drink after work?”

“Actually, I don’t drink any more.”

“You want to come watch me drink? What time do you get off?”

“Nine thirty. You could come help me fill the ketchups.”

“What?”

“You know, take the empty Heinz bottles and pour cheap generic ketchup in them.”

“Sounds like fun, but why don’t you meet me at Bert’s? Back room?”

I thought for a moment. This did not seem like a good idea, but I didn’t care. “Okay, why not. So, can I get you anything?”

“Just coffee.”

“You want a side of taramasalata with it? It’s made from fish roe.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

When I brought him his coffee, he said, “You’re still a hell of a waitress, Cookie.”

“You’re still a hell of a waitress, Rachel.”

“Whatever.”

“Thanks,” I said.

 

Sealed Up by Steve Dunn Hanson

Title: Sealed Up
Author: Steve Dunn Hanson
Publisher: Independent
Pages: 402
Genre: Action/Adventure/Suspense

 

The Da Vinci Code unsettles. SEALED UP shakes to the core!

 

UCLA anthropologist Nathan Hill, in a funk since his young wife’s death, learns of staggering millennia-old chronicles sealed up somewhere in a Mesoamerica cliff. This bombshell rocks him out of his gloom, and he leads a clandestine expedition to uncover them. What are they? Who put them there? No one knows. But, self-absorbed televangelist Brother Luke, who funds the expedition, thinks he does. If he’s right, his power-hunger will have off-the-charts gratification.

Striking Audra Chang joins Nathan in his pursuit and brings her own shocking secret. As they struggle through a literal jungle of puzzles and dead ends, she finds herself falling in love with Nathan. Her secret, though, may make that a non-starter.

When a shaman with a thirst for human sacrifice, and a murderous Mexican drug lord with a mysterious connection to Brother Luke emerge, the expedition appears doomed. Yet Nathan is convinced that fate—or something—demands these inscrutable chronicles be unearthed.

And if they are . . . what shattering disruption will they unleash?

Intricately layered and remarkably researched, this enthralling suspense-driven and thought provoking tour de force begs a startling question: Could it happen?

Amazon

Book Excerpt:

“How much farther?” Paul’s shirt was soaked from sweat.

Itzel looked at him and laughed. “Just like Torrance, huh?” Paul rolled his eyes.

“The cenote.” Ichika pointed to a three-foot-wide path that was recently cut through the brush. They followed it as it turned to the left then sharply to the right. The sinkhole loomed in front of them. The water, a huge blue sapphire, sparkled 15 feet below. Thick emerald-green growth reached down the sinkhole’s sides, but where they were standing, the vegetation had been cleared all the way to the water’s surface.

Paul stood at the cenote’s edge and stared down into the bowl. “You slipped here, you’d go all the way in.”

Itzel shuddered and pulled back; thoughts of her father overwhelming her. Was this what it was like where he fell? She trembled and turned away from the cenote. “Let’s leave.”

Paul looked at her and understood. He almost said something about his stupidity, but decided one foot in his mouth was enough. He motioned for Ichika to take them back the way they came. He put his arm around Itzel, and she leaned her head against him.

“Where are the ruins?” Paul asked. Ichika didn’t say anything, just pointed ahead. The brush and ferns that surrounded them were head high and prevented their seeing anything except along the trail. As they turned to go to where they first entered the path, Kish’s men stood waiting. Ikan, Muluc, and Yochi had machetes, and Gukumatz held a tranquilizer gun.

Paul and Itzel stopped. Ichika, her eyes fastened on the ground, kept going until she stood on the other side of the men. She turned back toward Itzel but wouldn’t look at her. “What’s going on?” Paul demanded in Spanish as he stepped in front of Itzel. Gukumatz raised his gun and shot a dart into Paul’s stomach. Paul flinched at the pain and looked down at his stomach. “What the ....” Paul yanked the dart out and threw it on the ground. A small circle of blood soaked through his shirt. He lunged at Gukumatz and swung his forearm around catching him on the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted from Gukumatz’s nostrils as he fell to the ground; a gash flaring open on top of his nose. Ikan and Yochi dropped their machetes and jumped Paul.

“What are you doing?” Itzel yelled in Lacandón. “Where is Kish?” Muluc grabbed her and threw his arm around her neck, holding her from behind.

“Don’t you hurt her!” Ichika screamed, as she advanced on him. Gukumatz stood up and wiped his nose with his sleeve; blood soaking through his shirt to his skin. His stare at Paul was chilling, and he swore at him in Spanish. Paul tried to get up to come at him. It was all the two men could do to keep him down even though his strength was ebbing. Gukumatz turned away from Paul and pulled a cartridge and a dart from the bag on his shoulder and loaded them into his gun. He walked to Itzel and shoved Ichika aside. He lowered the gun and shot the dart into Itzel’s stomach. She flinched at the pain and stared at Gukumatz. “You pig!” she spat.

Within a few minutes Paul and Itzel were unconscious. Gukumatz pulled the GPS trackers from their belts, turned them off, and slammed them against a rock. He grunted as he picked up Itzel and slung her across his shoulder. The other three men lifted Paul. They headed to the platform ruins.

The place of sacrifice.

For Immediate Release: Steve Dunn's SEALED UP: THE COURSE OF FATE: BOOK BOOK Virtual Book Tour

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Pump Up Your Book! is proud to announce Steve Dunn Hanson’s Sealed Up: The Course of Fate: Book One virtual book tour January 3 - March 31.  Steve will be guest appearing at blogs throughout the U.S. and international regions talking about his phenomenal new action/adventure/suspense novel that critics are calling “Fascinating. Intricate. Intelligent.”

Hanson has lived in places that grew him – from a small Idaho farm town, a run-down neighborhood in St. Louis, and a middle-class southern California community to Sydney, Australia and Bucharest, Romania. His experiences are as varied as the places he’s lived.  He says, “I have a hopper of ‘reality’ including being a volunteer jail chaplain and flying with a U.S. presidential candidate in his small plane when an engine conked out.  And all of this is fodder for my writing.”

In Sealed Up, UCLA anthropologist Nathan Hill, is in a funk since his young wife’s death, and learns of staggering millennia-old chronicles sealed up somewhere in a Mesoamerica cliff. This bombshell rocks him out of his gloom, and he leads a clandestine expedition to uncover them. What are they? Who put them there? No one knows. But, self-absorbed televangelist Brother Luke, who funds the expedition, thinks he does. If he’s right, his power-hunger will have off-the-charts gratification.
Striking Audra Chang joins Nathan in his pursuit and brings her own shocking secret. As they struggle through a literal jungle of puzzles and dead ends, she finds herself falling in love with Nathan. Her secret, though, may make that a non-starter.

When a shaman with a thirst for human sacrifice, and a murderous Mexican drug lord with a mysterious connection to Brother Luke emerge, the expedition appears doomed. Yet Nathan is convinced that fate—or something—demands these inscrutable chronicles be unearthed.

And if they are . . . what shattering disruption will they unleash?

Intricately layered and remarkably researched, this enthralling suspense-driven and thought provoking tour de force begs a startling question: Could it happen?

If you’d like to follow his tour stops, visit http://www.pumpupyourbook.com/2016/12/09/pump-up-your-book-presents-sealed-up-virtual-book-publicity-tour-win-25-amazon-gift-card/ and you may win a $25 Amazon Gift Card or an autographed copy of his book. Please leave a comment or question at each of his tour stops to let him know you stopped by!

Pump Up Your Book! is an award-winning virtual book tour agency for authors who want quality service at an affordable price.  More information can be found on our website at www.pumpupyourbook.com. While there, check out our Authors on Tour page to see what we have coming up in the months ahead. We’re always looking for new bloggers to join our team. 

Contact Information:
Dorothy Thompson
Founder of Pump Up Your Book! Virtual Book Tours
P.O. Box 643
Chincoteague, Virginia  23336
Email:  Dorothy@PumpUpYourBook.com

Cat O' Nine Tales by Krystal Lawrence

Title: Cat O’ Nine Tales
Author: Krystal Lawrence
Publisher: Telemachus Press
Pages: 284
Genre: Horror/Suspense

What evil dwells within the pretty lady next door or the ordinary house cat?
What happens when you pursue your dreams into the desert after dark?
Beware the man borne of your imagination. He could seek vengeance on the one who created him.
Visit a bookstore offering a most alluring and sinister service.
Journey to the dark side with ten twisted tales of horror, malevolence, and the truly uncanny.

Amazon | Barnes & Noble

Book Excerpt:

On an overcast Tuesday, Brianna awoke to a commotion out on her back patio in the early morning hours. Glancing at the clock next to her bed, she saw it was just after sunrise.

Having no idea what all the racket was, Brianna flung open the window shade in her bedroom. Taking in the unbelievable scene playing out below her in the backyard, she stumbled away from the window and screamed.

Literally hundreds of birds were whirling in a dizzying cloud on her lawn. They formed a tight sphere and appeared to be pecking and clawing at something caught between them. Brianna had never seen so many birds at once.

The way they were moving together in that frenzied dance was worse than anything from even Tippi Hedren’s worst nightmare.

All were converging on an unknown victim, in a blinding array of colors, shapes and sizes. Brianna could not see where one bird ended and another began. Their claws were working, their beaks snapping, and God help whatever was caught in the middle of the murderous orb they had formed.

She ran from the bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time.

As she approached the back door she heard the mad cacophony of thousands of beating wings. Bartholomew hissed and charged between Brianna’s feet and up the stairs, retreating to the safety of her bedroom.

Brianna cautiously opened the curtains on the back door. She watched in dumbstruck horror as the colorful shroud of madly pecking birds elevated into the sky. It was impossible to see if her trio of crows was a part of that insane roaring tapestry.

Brianna collapsed against the door as the thick veil of screaming feathers flew over the house and due south. Just as they were ascending over the trees, Brianna uttered an anguished moan.

Peeking from between all those madly rushing bodies was Rob’s staring face. It was frozen in a death mask and covered in dozens of bleeding scratches. Where his right eye should have been was only a bloody gaping hole. She saw this grisly scene for only a few seconds before the birds disappeared over the horizon.

            With shaking hands Brianna unlocked the back door and stepped out onto her patio. Apart from several brightly colored feathers lying on the patio and strewn about the yard, there remained no evidence of the unspeakable horror she had just witnessed.

She plucked a single sleek black feather from the Dogwood tree and staggered back onto the patio. Falling into a chair, she called weakly, “Hey, crows. Are you guys here?”

            The morning remained eerily still, and silent as a tomb. Her feeder sat empty and there was nothing perched in any of the bushes or trees. For the first time since she moved in, there was not a single bird anywhere in Brianna Douglas’s yard.

            Eyes glazed over in shock, Brianna sat slumped against the table for several minutes. When the doorbell rang, she recoiled as though a canon had been fired next to her head.

            Sucking in harsh gasps of air, she rose on wobbly legs and made her way to the front door. She did not recognize her visitors, but began shaking uncontrollably when she saw a police car parked in her driveway.

Convinced Rob’s body had already been found, she was sure the men on her porch were there to arrest her. She was the only person alive with a motive to kill him. It would, of course, be futile to try and explain to the authorities what fate had actually befallen him. Who in their right mind would believe it? She barely believed it herself. Brianna hoped Paula knew a good criminal defense attorney.

            Neither of the two men waiting at her front door wore a police uniform. They were in business suits. Brianna steeled herself for their accusations and opened the door.

            They smiled politely and held up their badges for her inspection. “Mrs. Douglas?”

            Unable to trust herself to speak, Brianna nodded.

            “I am Detective Ramirez, and this is my partner Detective Soames. We are sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we have reason to believe your life may be in danger.”

            This was not what she was expecting to hear. For several seconds she did nothing but look back and forth between the two men, her brow knitted in confusion. Finally, Brianna whispered, “What?”

            “Ma’am, we received a phone call this morning from a woman named Ariel Forbes. She claimed that her boyfriend——your ex-husband, Robert Douglas, was on his way over to your house with a gun. According to Ms. Forbes, he was planning to kill you. We put out an APB on his vehicle and it was located about a block from here. We were afraid we might have been too late. Have you seen or heard from Mr. Douglas today?”

            Brianna shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes and she sagged against the door frame. The detective who had done all the talking put a supportive arm around her waist.

He said sympathetically, “I know this is a lot to absorb. May we come in? We don’t want to leave you alone until Mr. Douglas is apprehended. There are officers and a canine unit in the area looking for him. It’s only a matter of time before we catch him.”

            Brianna allowed the officers inside. She looked nervously toward the backyard, but all was quiet there.

Brianna offered the detectives coffee, but her hands were shaking so badly she spilled the grounds all over the floor. Detective Soames wiped them up while Ramirez got the coffee pot going. Brianna excused herself to get dressed and went upstairs to her bedroom.

            The full impact of what the detectives had told her hit her like a ton of bricks and she collapsed onto the bed. She now understood what this morning’s hellish occurrence was all about. The birds had saved her life. Equally amazing; the skinny, anorexic bitch alerted the cops to Rob’s plans in an effort to spare Brianna from his wrath. She supposed she should thank her.

           

Robert Douglas’s body was never found. His disappearance was investigated and even made news headlines. The case was listed as unsolved in the police archives. His fate remained a mystery to everyone. Only Brianna knew the truth.

Eventually the birds returned to her yard——all except the crows. Brianna waited for them every morning and left toast for them on the grass, but they did not show up.

After several months, Brianna accepted that they probably weren’t coming back. She missed them a great deal.

 She reasoned they had been her guardian angels, and once they saved her from Rob, their job was done.

            It was a pleasant surprise when the following summer she found a sparkling seashell waiting for her at the edge of the patio one morning.

She shaded her eyes against the sun and peered up into the Dogwood. The crows weren’t there.

That was okay. She smiled and held up the shell anyway. “Thanks, this is very pretty. Come back and see me, okay? I miss you guys.”

The next morning Brianna awoke to the familiar sound of the crows cawing, and looked out the window to see all three of them waiting patiently for their toast on the lawn.