Monday, March 2, 2020

Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: FLASH! The Science Behind Intuition by Dr. Anne Watson




We're thrilled to kick off the virtual book tour for FLASH! The Science Behind Intuition by parapsychology/ESP author Dr. Anne Watson. If you would like to follow her tour, visit Pump Up Your Book!



FLASH! The Science Behind Intuition
By Dr. Anne Watson
Parapsychology/ESP

If we have intuitions (and we do) where do they come from? Where, in us, do they arrive? What, in us, allows us to receive and interpret them? And why? Why do we get them?
Fourteen years of research, often waiting for the science to catch up with a vision sent to me by the Universe, these questions are answered in lay terms for the wonderment and affirmation of those interested in energy from another plane.



Amazon → https://amzn.to/37U1Fi7








 PART III – THE SCIENCE
The more scientifically sophisticated the machinery to look inside the brain and body, the less scientific and the more spiritual we become.
Chapter 6. How Do We Receive Messages From Light?
While I was receiving the visitor’s message, I knew that the lights, the vibrations, and the humming were not incidental; they all were vital to the message I was receiving, they all had something to do with how we get messages from light, including how I was currently getting the vision itself. What, inside me, was ready to receive messages from light?
I needed to find something that could take unwritten and unspoken messages from the energy field which our brain is tuned into, and turn them into usable information. Here is a quote from the physicist Nassim Haramein
"There's a fundamental field of information that is the source of our consciousness. Consciousness is not an epiphenomenon of your brain, it's actually something that your brain is tuned into like a radio is tuned into a set of information." 
I am not a radio. I do not have antennae or dials. But something in me acts as if I was a wave receiver. Let’s see what the candidates are for that function.
Obviously, my eyes receive information from light, because when I close them, I can’t see: I cease getting the picture. But wait! If I closed my eyes while looking at the vision projected on my bedroom wall, I could still see it. Also, whenever I try to invite my intuition to come to me, I close my eyes for greater viewing success in case it plans to send me visuals to support its answers. So, I don’t think messages come to us from light via our eyeballs, although some may.
Where, then?
When first I read about the pineal gland, located in the brain, I got excited. This gland is often called the third eye. Many believe the pineal gland to be the receptor site for non-sensory information. That is, information that comes to us not from our five senses. You may recall Descartes’ belief that the Pineal gland was the interface between the mind and the brain, the mind dealing in non-sensory information. Non-sensory information comes to us from insight, from intuition. If you believe that some thoughts arrive through insight, or intuition, then they have to arrive in our minds somehow and the Pineal gland was the only thing I discovered to be up to the task. It is not, however, located on the surface of our brains, ready to receive light messages. It’s situated deep inside the brain, parallel to the space between our eyebrows. (On the cover of this audiobook, you can see a rudimentary diagram of where the pineal gland is located inside our brains.)
 If we are having messages sent to us from light as energy, then within our bodies, something must be ready to receive the vibrations of the energy, the electromagnetic oscillations of it……….









Anne Watson is a Canadian author and educator and co-author of So You Have to Go to Court! A Child’s Guide to Testifying as a Witness in Child Abuse Cases with Wendy Harvey. She was raised in England, trained as a teacher, and after starting teaching in Canada at Thistletown Regional Centre School for Emotionally Disturbed Children, she then taught in the Cayman Islands, the Bahamas, and in Palm Beach County USA. Just before beginning doctoral studies in Special Education Psychology at U. of T., she travelled right around the world. Once a doctor, she became a Prof at UBC and later at Trent U., then switched to doing psychoeducational assessments (CSI of the brain!). After 30 years of midnight oil reports and early morning parent meetings she retired to concentrate on writing and art. Her calling is to help people contact their Inner Voice – the Universe – by fast tracking open brain states using EEG devices, some of which can be glimpsed in a couple of scenes in her just finished movie, “A Thousand Reasons.” She has two successful adult kids and one almost grown up granddaughter.

Twitter Link: @Post_Hypnotic

 





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Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: Hollywood's Victory Lap by Anthony G. Puzzilla






We're thrilled to kick off the virtual book tour for HOLLYWOOD'S VICTORY LAP by  Anthony G. Puzzilla. If you would like to follow his tour, visit Pump Up Your Book!



HOLLYWOOD'S VICTORY LAP
By Anthony G. Puzzilla
Nonfiction

Film historians generally agree that 1939 was a banner year for Hollywood movies during its Golden Era (1915-1963), including such classics as Gone with the Wind, The Wizard of Oz, Gunga Din, Stagecoach, and many more.

Author and film buff Anthony Puzzilla wouldn’t argue that point, but he has published a new book, HOLLYWOOD’S VICTORY LAP: THE FILMS OF 1940, which sets out to prove that the following year was just as exemplary. In essence Puzzilla says, Hollywood took a “victory lap” in 1940, a year that produced its share of films that have become iconic classics due to its continuance of the superlative cinematic productions, creative strides, and technical advances realized in 1939.

Puzzilla’s short list of great movies from 1940 includes The Grapes of Wrath, The Philadelphia Story, Rebecca, The Great Dictator, Yankee Doodle Dandy, Knute Rockne: All American, Fantasia, and The Letter. An astute film historian and an unabashed movie fan, Puzzilla also expresses a fondness and deep appreciation for 1940’s serials such as Flash Gordon; the hilarious shorts made by the Three Stooges, including A Plumbing We Will Go; animated cartoons produced by Warner Bros., such as You Ought to Be in Pictures; and the animated, full-length features created by the Disney studio, which released Pinocchio and Fantasia that year.

“Although 1939 was undoubtedly Hollywood’s greatest triumph during its Golden Age, much of the directorial vision and skill, profound and talented acting, superb writing, and technological advances witnessed in the films of 1939 continued unabated in those produced in 1940,” Puzzilla says.
The ideal readership for HOLLYWOOD’S VICTORY LAP: THE FILMS OF 1940, Puzzilla notes, would be composed of “people who appreciate the way movies were made before special effects, car chases, and unabated violence became the main reasons the general public attends movies today.”
But Puzzilla’s accessible, non-academic writing style makes the book equally user-friendly to a wide, general readership. To sweeten the pot, Puzzilla has profusely illustrated his history with evocative photos of “old” Hollywood, as well as scenes from classic movies, shorts, and animated features.

Both in subject and style, HOLLYWOOD’S VICTORY LAP: THE FILMS OF 1940 would easily lend itself to film adaptation for theatrical or cable/streaming service release.




Amazon → https://amzn.to/2OxyhXM








It is the general consensus that in the history of motion pictures, the year 1939 was undoubtedly Hollywood’s greatest triumph during its Golden Era. However, much of the same winning confluence of circumstances and events that made 1939 such a monumental and productive year for Hollywood continued into 1940.  Despite this fact, the overwhelming and enduring popularity of the movies of 1939 have often overshadowed the importance of cinema’s superlative productions, creative strides and technical advances realized in 1940. This book talks about the movies, the directors, the actors, and the screenwriters whose talent and creativity so ably continued the excellence in movie making so clearly established in 1939.









Anthony Puzzilla was born and raised in upstate New York. He holds a master’s degree in economics. After retiring from a 43-year career with the federal government, he became a writer, publishing two books about railroading before turning his eye to another lifelong love, the movies. The result became HOLLYWOOD’S VICTORY LAP: THE FILMS OF 1940, Puzzilla’s first book in the genre of film history. Puzzilla is a member and supporter of the Pickford Center for Motion Picture Study and the Fairbanks Center for Motion Picture Study, both in Los Angeles; a supporter of the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures; a member of the American Film Institute; and a supporter of the AFI Silver Theatre and Cultural Center, in Silver Spring, MD.

 




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Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: The Knowing by Brit Lunden @britlunden #fantasy




We're thrilled to kick off the virtual book tour for THE KNOWING by Brit Lunden. If you would like to follow her tour, visit Pump Up Your Book!



THE KNOWING: A BULWARK ANTHOLOGY (Book One)
By Brit Lunden
Fantasy Anthology

Bulwark- a wall or stockade that protects or sometimes hides the truth from the outside world. Bulwark, Georgia, isolated, hidden. Who knows what strange things can happen when the rest of the world can't see you? JB Stratton is alone in the world, and all he has left are the memories of his beloved Ellie. Dirt poor JB and wealthy Ellie feel an instant connection that is as intense and primal as the blood red earth of their home. Unseen roots connect them, pulling them into an impossible relationship. Will the memories of past lives help or hinder the path of their love? Based on the original novella Bulwark, by Brit Lunden, The Knowing continues the story of a town isolated from the rest of the world where the impossible becomes plausible, and logic is determined by reality.

"THE KNOWING is a wonderfully written romance, a time-hopping supernatural mystery, and an all-around good time--a worthy addition to Brit Lunden's Bulwark anthology." - Lisa Butts for IndieReader

"Lunden's characters feel real, and their interactions make the story work quite well. Her plot is engaging and suitably dark, making this an entertaining urban fantasy tale. The Knowing: A Bulwark Anthology is a well written and engrossing read. It's most highly recommended." - Jack Magnus, Readers' Favorite

"Romance devotees looking for a quick, colorful read should consider The Knowing, which might spark interest in checking out the preceding novella and other installments in the Bulwark Anthology, all of which are currently available in paperback and ebook." - BlueInk Reviews

An interesting read and wonderful first addition to what seems to be an anthology with much promise. - Insatiable Readers (blog)

The skillful storytelling brings the characters to life and provides a highly immersive reading experience... I strongly urge you to read Brit Lunden's original novella Bulwark as well, which sets the stage for all the characters in the anthology and offers more excitement for fans of paranormal thrillers. - Ice Fairy's Treasure Chest (blog)


"The Knowing, as its title suggests, makes a compelling pull in such a short space of pages, absolutely filled with emotion and conveying a powerfully romantic story line in sharp contrast to the previous book, but also very fitting of the town and its tone. Readers seeking an immersive new series where they can experience all different story types within the same, dark mysterious world are certain to love The Knowing and the Bulwark Anthology in general." - K. C. Finn, Readers' Favorite

"The story is brief yet impactful as the details included and the images they paint are emotionally evocative. The wisdom of characters such as Bear Bryant shines through and adds a beautiful touch to the already delightful love story. The intensity of JB and Ellie's relationship plus the paranormal aspects of their story makes it even more enthralling. The Knowing by Brit Lunden is a well-told tantalizing read." Edith Wairimu, Readers' Favorite

"It is a beautifully written love story encompassing the present, past, and even past lives. It is a romance with a hint of the supernatural. It is well written with a level of area building and character development often unseen in shorter books. It was easy to read this in one sitting; the story is sweet, intriguing, and sometimes moving. It has certainly piqued my interest in other books by this author, especially the Bulwark, from which this story stems. " K.J. Simmill, Readers' Favorite

"The engaging tale's centerpiece is the teens' romance, with a Southern setting the author masterfully captures... The unadorned prose and concise descriptions make for a quick read all the way to the bittersweet ending... A short but undeniably charming love story." - Kirkus Reviews 

"When two people find each other and then lose each other, it sometimes takes extraordinary happenings to bring them back together. "The Knowing" is a quick little story underwritten with the paranormal, and this keeps readers guessing. What could possibly go wrong in this strange world?" - Long And Short Reviews

"For those readers looking for a fast-paced paranormal mystery novel with excellent, vivid descriptive elements, this is a great choice for you. I believe that Brit Lunden's works are destined to become a classic in paranormal short story fiction." - Patricia Lynn Dompieri, Lemon Bee & Other Peculiar Tales



Amazon → https://amzn.to/39skWYJ

 Barnes & Noble → https://bit.ly/38gvppU












SCRIMMAGE
BULWARK, GEORGIA – PRESENT DAY

JB closed the door gently, glad to have the place to himself again. Sheriff Clay Finnes had taken the injured couple to the hospital.
The only sound in the cabin was the creak of the wooden floors settling and the tick of the antique regulator clock that hung on the wall.
It was an old clock and had never worked very well. JB smiled, thinking Ellie would be pleased to see the ornate second hand traveling around the parchment-colored face and the great brass pendulum swinging again.
It must have been set off when he slammed the door shut after he had escorted that ungrateful wretch out of his house. What a creep, calling his wife a witch, of all things. Didn’t she know not to speak ill of the dead?
He recalled that there was a key lying around somewhere. His wife used to wind that clock every so often and then stand next to it pleading hopefully, “Tick, pretty please!”
The old mechanism would give a muffled gong, move a minute or two, and then stall, making his diminutive wife steam up like a teapot.
It was her great-great-grandmother’s, the only piece of her family history willed to her. The rest went to her brother, who married a Northerner and didn’t disappoint the family.
That old clock was made by none other than George Mitchell of Bristol, Connecticut, at the beginning of the nineteenth century.
JB concentrated on the etching painted on the reverse glass of the case. It was a pastoral scene, with women holding parasols and men wearing pantaloons and beaver top hats. He noticed the mahogany case was layered with a coating of dust. He ran a crooked finger down the top, leaving a trail. It’s been neglected, he thought and shook his head. His right knee twinged, and he chuckled, like me.
JB had seen many clocks like this one in his day. Despite its Yankee past, every family around here worth their salt had a similar one in their home, to be handed down through the ages.
Every family except his, perhaps. His family had left him nothing.
JB grabbed a rag on the way to the living room, wiping the water rings from the surface of the coffee table. He’d given the victims of the car accident coasters, but they had carelessly placed them on the surface of the furniture. He’d made that piece for his wife from a tree felled by Hurricane Agnes in ’72.
That tree had nearly killed them all, landing on the back of the cottage and taking out the kitchen and half of the dining room with it. JB had gotten his wife and kids out just in time, hiding in the underground root cellar until the worst of the storm had passed.
His eyes smarted now, and he swiped them with a gnarled hand, his loud sniff filling the silence.
He glanced up, blinking several times to clear his eyes, and focused on the picture of Ellie. He picked it up, his hand caressing the face, wishing he could feel her skin.
How dare she? he thought again, bitterly. How dare that woman say his beloved was a witch?
Ellie Straton was the sweetest woman to grace the earth, and JB missed her with every fiber of his being.
JB shut his eyes, too tired to think. His mind kept replaying the earlier part of the day over and over again.
He wanted to go back in time and ignore the sound of the blaring horn.
He could still recall the commotion outside that had interrupted his late-afternoon news program.
Grabbing a shotgun, he had thrown on an old sweater and navigated the rickety steps out of the cottage. He had struggled down the path leading to the main road, gripping his gun tightly.
A cold snap in the weather had made his old injury act up, slowing his movements and leaving him sleepless at night. Still, he had hefted the gun close since one couldn’t be too careful. He had paused for a minute to give the clearing by the woods a good look. It was only yesterday he had seen a wolf lurking in a thicket at the end of his property.
He’d have to remember to tell the sheriff about it.
JB was sure that wolves were extinct in this part of Georgia.
At first, he had reckoned it might be a stray. He knew Bobby Ray and Trout Parker kept a pack of mongrels that annoyed most of the local farmers. Those mutts were known to raid the chicken houses, wreaking havoc on the best layers in the county.
He thought about the animal he had seen yesterday. It could have been a dog. He felt himself wavering. No it was definitely a wolf. He shook his head. It was one big, bad-looking wolf.
Frankly, he wasn’t used to seeing much of anything on this side of town.
Most people stayed on the other end of Bulwark, especially since that smelly, green puddle had appeared out of nowhere.
He had reported stagnant water as soon as he had noticed it about ten days ago, but nobody cared.
It was on the Old Jericho Road that folks didn’t travel anymore. Everyone knew the street had fallen out of use when the mill shut down years ago.
JB shook his craggy head. People had no business traveling in that direction. Strange stories had always come from that end of the county, even before he was born.
Some claimed spirits walked the woods and meadows; others said evil lurked there. Either way, from the time he was knee-high and the size of a tree stump, he knew to stay away.
Even talking about it gave him the willies, and that took a lot.
There was very little that frightened JB Straton, but for as long as he could remember, going into that neck of the woods was considered forbidden. Not that he believed in mumbo-jumbo. But somehow he had always taken those warnings seriously. Damn, if he couldn’t explain it, nobody could.
JB Straton considered himself a rational man most of the time. However, there were those instances that gave him pause, especially with Ellie.
JB surveyed the growing pond filling the roadway, the shrill blast of the car horn making his heart beat a little faster in his chest. That sound could only mean someone was in trouble.
JB had looked for a source of the spreading water but didn’t see where it started.
He knew the puddle was far from the creek that ran parallel to the back of his home. It was apparent it wasn’t coming from there. Besides, that water was pure and clean, and this looked like sewage to him.
Only last week it had started as a puddle, and today, it looked like it had grown into a small pond, he grumbled. The smell was intolerable, the greenish color made it look like industrial waste.
Clay Finnes should have come earlier and investigated, he said to himself at the time.
He liked Clay well enough, had even voted for him. But maybe taking on the top job as sheriff was too much for the man. JB knew Clay was understaffed from budget cuts, and of course, there was that business about his child and his disintegrating marriage. Sad stuff, kidnapping, right here in safe little Bulwark.
Cries mixed with the discordant sound of the horn had brought him back to himself. JB slid down the embankment, landing in ankle- deep ooze.
He had slipped, catching himself but feeling the tight tendons on his leg protest. Cursing strangers, overgrown puddles, and his own bum knees, he had made his way resentfully toward the water. He had halted at the edge, considering his options.
A lone car, a Ford Fusion, was stuck in the middle of the quagmire. City folk, he muttered under his breath. Any sensible country person would never attempt to drive through deep water like that unless they had a truck.
A woman calf-deep in the water was trying to pull a man from the driver’s side. JB shook his head grimly. The origin of the noise was her companion’s head pressed against the steering wheel.
“Hey!” JB had called. “Hey, is everything okay?”
The stranger had looked in his direction, her eyes unfocused. She waved her hands. She was shouting something, but he could barely hear her.
He had squinted at her, turning his better ear in her direction to try to catch what she was saying.
She had screeched about her children and witches.
Witches? He had huffed. Another nutjob looking for entertainment at the expense of the locals. Last year, a film crew all the way from Hollywood had camped out on the edge of Sam Holsteam’s farm, searching for the ghosts from a Civil War battle said to have occurred there.
The cast and crew had skedaddled quickly enough, screaming bloody murder. Everybody in town knew the film crew had left pasty-faced and hungover from Sam’s peach moonshine. City slickers, he had snickered, couldn’t handle a good jug of’shine.
“Do you need help?” he had shouted to the woman.
This time, when she had looked at him, he had noticed a thin line of blood trickling from her hairline.
JB had patted his back pocket. He had hissed under his breath, calling himself five kinds of fool.
He’d forgotten that blasted cell phone his kid insisted he keep on him at all times in case he fell or something.
JB had bent awkwardly, placing the gun on the dry part of the incline and then gingerly stepping into the slimy puddle. He had realized that he had never changed into boots as his slippers filled with cold water.
Gritting his teeth, he had fought the urge to leave. Why hadn’t he removed the slippers? Ellie had bought those slippers for him their last Christmas together. Now, they’d be ruined; his jaw twitched with resentment.
JB had waded toward the vehicle as the woman grew increasingly incoherent. As he had moved her out of the way, one of her flailing hands had caught him on the side of his head, and JB swore he heard bells ringing.
“No, stop it, woman. I’m here to help.”
He had held her by both her shoulders, trying to reason with her, but she had looked as dazed as Johnny Gottfried had when he collided with a linebacker and suffered the worst concussion the NFL had ever recorded.
Her eyes had rolled in their sockets, and he saw her face drain of what little color it had. He had shaken her gently. “Now, don’t go and faint on me, ma’am. I can’t carry you both.”
This had seemed to reach her, and she had whimpered.
She had grabbed the collar of his sweater, her bloody fingers poking holes in the fragile weave.
“My children . . . my children. Wicked, wicked place.” She had looked like a wild woman, her mouth stretched in a soundless scream.
She had snagged a thread on his sweater when she grabbed him, loosening it. JB had watched it unravel and fought the urge to brush her away. Ellie had knitted this sweater. How much more was this day going to cost him?
JB had taken a steadying breath and then patiently turned the woman in the direction of his house. He had given her a poke to the center of her back. “Go there.” He had pointed up the embankment. “I’ll get your husband out.”
He had watched her slog through the water to the other side, her head lowered.
Satisfied she was making progress; he had turned back to the man. His head rested against the steering wheel, his eyes were closed, and his skin had a faint bluish cast.
“Mister?” JB had called over the noise of the horn. He had touched the skin of the man’s neck, recoiling at the clammy feel. This was not looking very good.
JB had wavered with the idea of moving him. He realized the water was now inching up over JB’s thighs.
Again, he had looked for the source of the water, but had seen nothing except a widening greenish body of muck.
The door to the car was open and rapidly flooding with water. JB reached in, and using his upper body strength attempted to move the man. He couldn’t budge him. JB placed his shoulder under the victim’s arm and half dragged the man from the vehicle. He had been rewarded with a low groan, but the victim had definitely been nothing more than dead weight.
He had managed to get the couple into his cottage, wrap them both in blankets, and call the sheriff.
Tea with brandy had revived the wife enough for her to notice her surroundings.
It was then that she had focused on his Ellie’s picture on the mantle and had accused his wife of stealing her children. Sheriff Clay Finnes had arrived just then, as his patience was wearing thin, along with that pushy news reporter Dayna Dalton. The injured couple was taken away, and he was left to the thick silence that felt like a comforting old blanket.
He was well rid of the intruders and now looked around his peaceful home, wishing his unwanted guests a speedy recovery along with the hope that he never had to set eyes on them again.
JB shuffled over to his recliner, his worn knees protesting.
He had changed his clothes after the whole hullabaloo but still felt chilled to the bone. Took a long time to warm this old body, he remembered ruefully.
He rubbed the skin of his thigh, the site of another football injury so horrible the bone had snapped and torn through his skin. What was it, forty-four or forty-five years ago?
He remembered waking from surgery, Ellie’s hand brushing his forehead, her soft voice assuring him his football career had not ended.
He cleared his throat noisily, tears smarting his eyes, happy that Ellie wasn’t here to witness it. How dare that woman accuse his wife of being a witch? Not his Ellie, his soul mate, his life.










Brit Lunden is a prolific author who’s written over 50 books in assorted genres under different pen names. Bulwark was her first effort in adult fiction and was chosen by several of her fellow authors as the basis for a new series, A Bulwark Anthology.  Using her characters, they are creating new denizens in spin-off stories to this bizarre town. Brit Lunden lives on Long Island in a house full of helpful ghosts.

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Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/britlunden



 




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Monday, February 24, 2020

Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: Willa's Grove by Laura Munson @lauramunson #womensfiction



We're thrilled to kick off the virtual book tour for WILLA'S GROVE by women's fiction author Laura Munson. If you would like to follow her tour, visit Pump Up Your Book!



WILLA'S GROVE
By Laura Munson
Women's Fiction


In this powerful and inspiring novel, three women, from coast to coast and in between, open their mailboxes to the same intriguing invitation. Although leading entirely different lives, each has found herself at a similar, jarring crossroads. Right when these women thought they’d be comfortably settling into middle age, their carefully curated futures have turned out to be dead ends. The sender of the invitation is Willa Silvester, who is reeling from the untimely death of her beloved husband and the reality that she must say goodbye to the small mountain town they founded together. Yet as Willa mourns her losses, an impossible question keeps staring her in the face: So now what?

Struggling to find the answer alone, fiercely independent Willa eventually calls a childhood friend who happens to be in her own world of hurt—and that’s where the idea sparks. They decide to host a weeklong interlude from life, and invite two other friends facing their own quandaries. Soon the four women converge at Willa’s Montana homestead, a place where they can learn from nature and one another as they contemplate their second acts together in the rugged wilderness of big sky country.




Amazon → https://amzn.to/2uxmKjH

 Barnes & Noble → https://bit.ly/2NS3HaM












You are invited to the rest of your life.
You know you can’t go on like this.
Not for one more day.
You need an interlude.”












LAURA MUNSON is the bestselling author of This Is Not The Story You Think It Is, which chronicles her journey through her own midlife crossroads. Drawing from the striking response to her memoir, the essay version of it in the New York Times “Modern Love” column, and her speaking events at women’s conferences across the US, Laura founded the acclaimed Haven Writing Retreats and Workshops. After watching hundreds of people find their unique and essential voices under the big sky of Montana she calls home, Laura created Willa, the invitation, the friends, and the town to share what she has learned with people globally. Her work has been published and featured in many media outlets throughout the world.

WEBSITE &SOCIAL LINKS:

Website: https://www.lauramunsonauthor.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Lauramunson
Facebook: https://www.instagram.com/lauramunsonauthor/




 





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Monday, February 17, 2020

Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: Mocha, Moonlight and Murder by MaryAnn Kempher #romance #mystery





MOCHA, MOONLIGHT, AND MURDER
By MaryAnn Kempher
Romance/Mystery

One night, 28-year-old, Katherine O’Brian, decides to walk to an all-night diner. The only problem? It’s midnight, but Katherine lives in Reno Nevada, a city that never sleeps; she can clearly see the diner’s lights in the distance. It’s no big deal, until she passes someone’s garage where a man is loading a dead body into the trunk of his car.

And now, she’s in trouble. She outran the man that night, and while she has no idea who he is, he knows who she is. And he wants her dead.

As if attempts on her life weren’t stressful enough, Katherine has gone back to college. She’s determined to finally finish her degree, but her lab partner is driving her crazy. He’s hot, but annoying. And she’s not sure which she wants more—a night of mad, passionate sex or a new lab partner. It varies from day to day.

Will Katherine give in to her lust for her partner or will she give in to her desire to throttle him? If she’s in the ground before graduation, it won’t matter.
Not your typical romance, not your typical mystery.




Amazon → https://amzn.to/2OkHlii










Monday afternoon, the raspy wind snarled Katherine O’Brian’s long hair and reddened her face as she quickly walked into the building. She pulled her gloves off and blew on her hands for a few seconds before weaving her way through the thick crowd in the college’s hallway. It was the first night of class and she was nearly late.
She looked around the classroom self-consciously; she seemed to be the oldest person in the room. Well, that’s what you get for putting off college. You get to take classes with kids barely out of high school.
All the desks had been placed in a circle and the professor was moving from one student to another, having them introduce themselves. Katherine’s eyes widened when the teacher got to the man directly across from her.
The day before she’d stopped at a nearby Starbucks. After placing her order, she’d casually looked around. Her eyes had met those of a woman sitting across the room. When the woman smiled, Katherine had blushed. She was a he, dressed in drag.
Slap on some eye shadow and a pair of high heels and that’s the guy I saw yesterday, minus the dress.
Once everyone had introduced themselves, the professor began talking about the term project.
“You’ll be working in pairs, and this assignment is worth seventy percent of your grade, so obviously you’ll need to work together to do a good job.”
Katherine quickly looked at her syllabus. There it was: the class term project. Very writing-intensive. Even PowerPoint slides were required. This was why she’d put off taking the class—writing wasn’t her strongest subject.
 “You’ll find your partner listed there,” the professor continued, pointing toward the chalk board, to which a piece of paper was taped.
After all the details of the project had been covered, class was dismissed. Katherine quickly looked at the paper on the board. Oh, this just gets better and better. She looked around for her new partner, but he was speaking to the teacher.
I’ll talk to him about the project on Wednesday.
She hugged her book to her chest and walked toward the exit. When she dropped her purse and stopped suddenly to pick it up, she heard a deep voice.
“Hey.”
Katherine looked up—and up—to the face that went with the deep voice.
“Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize you were behind me.”
He was smiling. Not that it matters, but of all the men in the class, why do I get the one that wears dresses?
“I’m Scott Mitchell. We’re partners on the project.”
She turned back and held out her hand. “I'm Katherine.”
As he pulled on his coat, he said, “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go get something to eat or drink, to talk about it.”
Katherine stalled by moving closer to the wall, as if to let other students hurry past. Her first instinct was to say no, but then she remembered her resolve to do well in the class.
“Sure, where?”
They started walking outside together.
“There’s a Starbucks near here,” he said. “We could meet there.”
Coffee was always the magic word for Katherine, or chocolate.
“Sure, I’ll see you there.”
As she sat in her car waiting for it to heat up, she noticed her hands were shaking slightly. She looked at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Jeez, it’s just a guy. Get a grip.
They arrived at the same time. The hard part came after they’d gotten their drinks and sat down. Katherine could hardly put two words together; it had been a long time since she’d had a decent conversation, especially with a man. After a few minutes, Scott broke the silence.
“So, how about that project?” he said, a little too loudly. Katherine flinched and turned pink. When she answered, the words flew out. “Going to be an avalanche of work: slides and an oral presentation, thousand words each. A monster.”
“Yeah,” said Scott, “and not really what I expected from a history course. Doing a biography from birth to death is a big deal, especially with all the details the professor wants. Do you have any ideas who we should do it on?”
“How about van Gogh?” suggested Katherine.
“He committed suicide, didn’t he?”
“So?”
Scott sighed. “Well, I don’t know. I’d just prefer to do the biography on someone I can respect. For me, it’s hard to respect anyone who kills themselves. Seems so cowardly.”
“That’s very presumptuous of you,” said Katherine. “To assume the man was a coward because he killed himself. And such a generalization. Sometimes people are just in pain, and that’s the only way they see to end that pain.”
Scott held his hands up defensively. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were such a fan of van Gogh.”
Katherine rolled her eyes. “That’s what you take away from what I said?” Jeez, this guy’s hot, but what an idiot.
Scott tipped his cup forward and backwards, side to side. Katherine held her cup to her lips, blowing on the coffee. Judging by the attention their cups received, Starbucks’ coffee had never tasted so good. Scott sat up, leaning forward, his arms folded in front of him. He seemed to take up the whole table. Katherine sat back in her chair.
“We should probably plan on getting together at least a few times during the week,” he said.
The prospect of seeing him so often filled Katherine with both dread and excitement - dread, because she wasn’t sure she even liked him, and excitement because his baritone voice made her unwilling heart flutter, and his mahogany eyes made her blush. He’s right, though, she thought, if I’m serious about getting a good grade, this project will need a lot of attention.
“You’re probably right,” she answered, her eyes avoiding his. “When do you want to meet?”
“How about tomorrow at the library,” Scott replied. “The one on Virginia Street near the mall, does five thirty work for you?”
“Sure.”
After exchanging numbers, Katherine stood. “I should go,” she said. “It’s getting late.”
They walked out together, Scott holding the door for her.









For many years, MaryAnn Kempher lived in Reno Nevada where most of her stories are set. Her books are an entertaining mix of mystery and humor. She lives in the Tampa Florida area with her husband, two children, and a very snooty Chorkie.

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Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: The Turkish Affair by J. Arlene Culiner @jarleneculiner #romance




THE TURKISH AFFAIR
By J. Arlene Culiner
Romance

Love and Danger at the ancient Hittite site of Karakuyu

Priceless artifacts are disappearing from the ancient Hittite site of Karakuyu in Turkey, and the site director has vanished. Called in to solve the mystery, archaeologist Renaud Townsend is hindered by both his inability to speak the language and the knowledge that the local police are corrupt. His attraction to translator Anne Pierson is immediate, although he is troubled by her refusal to talk about the past and her fear of public scandal. But when murder enters the picture, both Anne and Renaud realize that the risk of falling in love is not the only danger.

Praise:

Author J. Arlene Culiner does not disappoint in this fast-paced novel, The Turkish Affair. Glittering descriptions, magical settings, and enviable characters bring the solemn grounds of Turkey to life as we are planted firmly in an archeological dig in Karakuyu, Turkey. Culiner's mastery of the English language and sentence combinations form an enchanting read. The Turkish Affair is a must-read for all lovers of romance and adventure.
--Lisa McCombs for Readers' Favorite


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A delicious breeze tickled the air, and the little boat rocked gently. A fine line appeared between Renaud’s brows, and his blue eyes were, once again, serious. “I need your help.”
Anne stared. “My help? With what? Translating?”
“No. With something else. I have to find out who is behind the thefts at Karakuyu.”
The feeling of dread returned, but she forced herself to sound casual. “How could I possibly help you with that?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “I just don’t want to feel that I’m alone in this.”
What could she say to that? Tell him she was the last person he should team up with? That long ago, she’d escaped arrest by the skin of her teeth? If she did so, this splendid moment would be over. The silver-foil glimmer of romance would be tarnished forever. He’d row back to shore, drive back to Gülkale, get rid of her as quickly as possible.
“Anne?” He reached out to caress her bare arm. “Come back from wherever you are.”
“You know nothing about me,” she said jaggedly.
“Nothing,” he agreed.
She swallowed. “I could be involved in the thefts for all you know. Why ask for my help? Why choose me?”
He smiled faintly. “A good question. I suppose, quite simply, I need—or want—to trust you.”
She felt utterly miserable. Why was life always like this? Wanting someone and not being able to have them? Wanting trust, but seeing it snatched away before it came close?










Writer, photographer, social critical artist, musician, and occasional actress, J. Arlene Culiner, was born in New York and raised in Toronto. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, has lived in a Hungarian mud house, a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave-dwelling, on a Dutch canal, and in a haunted house on the English moors. She now resides in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village of no interest and, much to local dismay, protects all creatures, especially spiders and snakes. She particularly enjoys incorporating into short stories, mysteries, narrative non-fiction, and romances, her experiences in out-of-the-way communities, and her conversations with strange characters.

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