Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: BANEWIND by M.B. Chapman & $25 Amazon Gift Card Giveaway @mbchapman90 #YA #Teen #YoungAdult

 

I've kissed a boy.

I've been to another world.

I've seen death.

By M.B. Chapman

Title: BANEWIND
Author: M.B. Chapman
Publisher: Light Messages / Torchflame Books
Pages: 268
Genre: Young Adult / Fantasy / Fiction

Almost two weeks ago I was just a normal girl getting ready to start my senior year of high school, deciding where I wanted my life to go. And now?
 
I’ve kissed a boy. I’ve been to another world. I’ve seen death.
 
And I don’t know what my life’s become.

Banewind tells the spellbinding story of 18-year-old Genevieve DeWinter, a typical high school girl who finds herself entangled in the throes of adventure, romance, and survival after discovering the existence of a group of magical beings known as Formulists and their co-existing world, Banewind.

With the arrival of several mages in her hometown of Parma, Ohio, Genevieve soon learns that these extraordinary secrets are rooted deep within her family’s history when it is revealed her deceased mother was a heroic warrior in a long lineage of female protectors called the Holy Guardian. Now, a vengeful group of Formulists known as the Voidweavers have returned and set their sights on Genevieve, believing she might be the next Holy Guardian and the key to awakening their fallen leader, the Void King, who had been destroyed by Genevieve’s mother when she sacrificed herself a decade earlier to save Banewind and all of humanity from an unthinkable evil.

With the help of new allies, Genevieve must fight to stay alive as she unravels the mystery and danger that have shattered the stability of the life she once knew before the Voidweavers succeed in shadowing the world in chaos and darkness once again.

Now that he’s in better light, I can get a good view of him. I’m right on the age part—he’s probably eighteen or nineteen—and he’s very attractive. He has black hair that swoops over the side of his forehead, and blue eyes that are sparkling like sapphires. His face is beautiful, with high-set cheekbones and a slender nose. His skin is pale and ashen, but it suits him well. And his body appears fit beneath the turquoise track jacket and matching track pants he wears. “Want me to help you look for him?” He takes another step toward me. “It’s okay. Thanks.” I back up. “You don’t have to do that.” “I don’t mind.” He stares at me with a wolfish grin, and I feel as though his blue eyes are piercing through my body. “It really isn’t smart for you to be out here alone.” “What about you?” I snap back. “I mean, really. A girl can’t spend her time alone in the woods, but it’s perfectly acceptable for a boy?” His eyes widen in surprise. “I-I guess you make a good point.” He bites his lips. They have a blue tint to them. “What’s your name?” “Genevieve.” Can he tell I’m caught off-guard? “I’m Scythe. Nice to meet you.” We both stand there in awkward silence. “Okay. Well, I’m going to go find my dog. Take care.” “Wait.” He jerks his hand towards me. “Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll go find the dog and bring him back to you.” He looks proud of himself for suggesting this. “If not, you might get lost.” “These woods aren’t that big. I’ll be fine.” I’m beginning to get agitated with this punk. “I appreciate you offering to help. But seriously, I’m just going to—” The tree behind Scythe explodes into thousands of splinters, crackling while the red blaze ascends to the top. As I fall to the ground, I see him bound to the left and roll behind a hollowed trunk, taking cover from the hissing flames. The clearing illuminates with a fiery orange light as the trunk bursts into dancing embers. I cover my eyes, blinded by the fire’s brightness as it continues to engulf the shrubbery around me. My face is drenched in sweat, and my breathing is swift and shallow. Up and down, up and down, up and down. My chest rises and falls so fast I’m afraid I’ll pass out if I don’t get myself under control. Another explosion. I cover my ears and scream. I drag myself over to a stump and hide behind it, scanning the clearing to see what has become of the boy. About twenty feet from me, his body lies sprawled out, with flames flickering just inches from his clothes. A nearby tree explodes and falls to the ground, revealing a figure in a hooded red cloak standing in its place.

"This story has a great mix of fantasy and young adult romance. Love the strong female protagonist at the center of the story! It is like Harry Potter, but with a unique, imaginative world all its own. There is a rich backstory of the fantasy land woven throughout the book that makes me excited for future books by this author!"

-- Amazon Reviewer

"I think this could be the next big thing. I would love to see this made into a movie or tv show. The story is intriguing, the characters easy to imagine, and the writing is great. Super easy read and kept me invested the entire time! Ready for book 2!"

-- Amazon Reviewer

I don't think this is a series but it sure could be! The mixture it has sets this into a good read! Especially if you are snowed in. Well written and thought out plot and characters! Very interesting read that you will find yourself completely drawn in and lost from the reality of life!

-- Amazon Reviewer

 

Amazon → https://amzn.to/36O4Ust  

Barnes and Noble: https://bit.ly/3kLolHj

Kobo books: https://bit.ly/36QgZx5

M.B. Chapman is giving away a $25 Amazon Gift Card!

Terms & Conditions:

• By entering the giveaway, you are confirming you are at least 18 years old.
• One winner will be chosen via Rafflecopter to receive your gift card
• This giveaway ends midnight March 31.
• Winner will be contacted via email on April 1.
• Winner has 48 hours to reply.

Good luck everyone!

ENTER TO WIN!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Matt Chapman grew up outside of Cleveland and now lives in St. Louis, Missouri where he is completing his residency in Psychiatric medicine at Washington University in St. Louis. He is a graduate of Creighton University School of Medicine where he obtained his MD and a graduate of Saint Louis University where he majored in Biology.

Matt has had a passion for writing and reading since childhood and continues to find time for these interests among his other pursuits, including medical education and leadership studies. He is currently working on his next novel in The Banewind Series.

Website: https://www.lightmessages.com/mb-chapman

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/mbchapman90

Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/banewind_series

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mbchapman90/

Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: CRUISING THE MISSISSIPPI: FROM NEW ORLEANS TO MEMPHIS ON A GENUINE PADDLEWHEELER by Al & Sunny Lockwood #travel #memoir

 

In crossing another travel adventure off their bucket list, two retirees take a fascinating river cruise and find the heart and soul of the American South…

By Al & Sunny Lockwood

Title: CRUISING THE MISSISSIPPI: FROM NEW ORLEANS TO MEMPHIS ON A GENUINE PADDLEWHEELER
Author: Al & Sunny Lockwood
Publisher: Front Porch Publishing
Pages: 185
Genre: Travel Memoir

If you love travel, beauty, history, fabulous food, and genuine old-fashioned fun, you’ll love this amazing paddle wheel adventure along the mighty Mississippi River.

From a vibrant New Orleans’ Jazz concert at famous Preservation Hall, to the largest plantation mansion on the Mississippi (Nottoway Plantation), to eye-opening Civil War battlegrounds, this lively travel memoir brings American history and Southern culture to life.

The paddlewheeler itself is an enchanting antebellum masterpiece. Period furnishings. Tiffany lamps. An authentic steam calliope. And a huge front porch with comfy rocking chairs where you can relax and enjoy the natural wonder of America’s greatest waterway.

Riverside cities offer their own unique attractions, steeped in history and plantation grandeur.

In this warm and personal travel memoir you’ll learn things about America you never knew before.

If you’ve ever been bitten by the travel bug, you know how the idea of a trip (short or long, near or far) can set your heart a-pumping and your head a-dreaming. Just the thought of walking on ground, or pavement, or cobblestones you’ve never stepped on before can make you pull out the suitcases and start packing.

Sweetheart Al and I were bitten when we were kids. He was in California, eighteen, and about to board an airplane (along with many other young men in uniform) headed for Vietnam. I was twelve, growing up in
Michigan in a family that enjoyed camping in Yellowstone, or the Great Smoky Mountains, or along the shores of Lake Superior.

Decades later, when Al and I met, we were delighted to find we’d both been to Prague, Czechoslovakia back in the 1990s, well before it became a hot tourist destination. He was there with a group of photographers. I went with my reporter’s notebook. And we both found the city, its bridges, buildings, and people life-enriching.

From the start, Sweetheart and I shared the pleasures and challenges of travel: day trips to photograph wildflowers in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, weekend trips to explore little leftover Gold Rush towns along California State Highway 49, and longer journeys to Oregon, Washington, Nevada, and Utah.

Then, on a peaceful summer evening in 2012, a car crash changed our lives. We were waiting at a red traffic light, just outside of Napa, California, when a texting driver slammed into us at full highway speed, totaling both our cars in a painful explosion of glass and metal.

Although we suffered no broken bones, we were bruised and banged up and spent most of the rest of the summer at the doctor’s office or the pharmacy trying to get back to normal.

That wreck convinced us that life is fragile. And temporary. You can be doing nothing more dangerous than sitting at a red light and the next moment, you can be in the hospital, or worse, in the morgue.

That recognition changed us. We stopped putting off things we’d dreamed about. We
stopped saying, “We’ll do that someday” and decided to make “someday” today.

“Cruising the Mississippi gives the reader a genuine sense that they are also on board the American Queen, exploring the small towns that line the river and luxuriating in an atmosphere that exudes the glories of a bygone era.”

— 5-stars Readers’ Favorite Book Review

“If it’s a ‘you are there’ experiential survey of the paddlewheeler environment that is desired, along with . . . Mississippi history and culture . . . then there could be no better virtual tour than Cruising the Mississippi.”

–D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, MidwestBook Review 

“Without ever boring the reader, the authors present . . . many absorbing facts and events that simply jump off the page. From the luxury . . .of travelling on a paddlewheeler to the history of the river and many of the exciting spots they travel to . . . . I was thoroughly engaged to the last page.”

–Wishing Shelf Book Review 

Amazon → https://amzn.to/38UATK0

Al and Sunny Lockwood have traveled by foot, car, rail, air and cruise ship.  They’ve camped in national parks, hiked mountain trails, photographed springtime flowers in Death Valley and wintry surf along the rugged beaches of Northern California.

They’ve watched July 4th fireworks over Lake Tahoe, explored New Mexico’s Taos Pueblo and ridden the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad through forests ablaze with autumn colors.

They’ve ridden the amazing Falkirk Wheel in Scotland, the Flam Railway in Norway and Ushuaia’s train at the end of the world.

They’ve photographed Gibraltare’s Barbary apes and Gentoo Penguins frolicking in the surf on Falkland Island beaches.

From North Carolina’s Outer Banks to New Orleans’ Bourbon Street and Nashville’s Grand Ole Opry, Al and Sunny love to wander and wonder and enjoy.

Everywhere they go, they capture unforgettable moments with their cameras and notebooks, moments to share with their readers. Their work has been published in magazines and newspapers.  It has been recognized with awards from the National Federation of Press Women, the California Newspaper Publishers Association, the Wishing Shelf Book Awards, Seven Sisters Book Awards, and The Independent Author Network Book Awards.

“We write to encourage others to travel, to take a break from their ordinary routine and discover the many rewards of traveling with your eyes wide open,” Sunny said. “Go somewhere new, even if it’s only in the next county. And have fun exploring the sites, the sounds and flavors of the place. You’ll be amazed at how much fun you’ll have.”

Al added, “We also write to share the wonder of our own travels. To help you feel what it’s like to be on a cruise ship, or wandering the back alleys of Venice, Italy. We hope our books give readers a real sense of our travel adventures.”

Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: CAPTAIN CLIVE'S DREAMWORLD by Jon Bassoff #Horror #DarkFiction

A disgraced deputy investigates a string of missing girls in the shadow of an abandoned amusement park…

Captain Clive's Dreamworld

By Jon Bassoff

After becoming the suspect in the murder of a young prostitute, Deputy Sam Hardy is “vanished” to a temporary post as the sole police officer in Angels and Hope, an idyllic town located in the middle of the desert, miles from any other sign of life. Hardy soon learns that Angels and Hope was constructed as a company town to support a magnificent amusement park – one to rival Disneyland – known as Captain Clive’s Dreamworld. When he arrives, however, Hardy notices some strange happenings. The park is essentially empty of customers. None of the townsfolk ever seem to sleep. And girls seem to be going missing with no plausible explanation.

As Hardy begins investigating, his own past is drawn into question by the people in town, and he finds himself becoming more and more isolated. Soon his phone line mysteriously goes dead. His car’s tires get slashed. And he is being watched constantly by neighbors. The truth – about the town and himself – will lead him to understand that there’s no such thing as a clean escape.

Straddling the line between genre fiction and something more bizarre, Captain Clive’s Dreamworld is a terrifying vision of the collapse of the American mythos.

“Captain Clive’s Dreamworld winds its way through an eerie, Lynchian landscape, populated by Stepford citizenry, cursed lives, and all the bleak sensibilities of the most dire Cormac McCarthy tale. Bassoff’s latest is a must read for fans of the genre, or any reader who prefers their fiction with a sense of the off-kilter. Highly recommended!”

-Ronald Malfi, author of Bone White

“Jon Bassoff’s nightmarish bizarro novel Captain Clive’s Dreamworld reads like an extended episode of The Twilight Zone mixed with Twin Peaks mixed with Dante’s Inferno. Unremittingly dark, this roman noir is a trenchant attack on the empty promises of capitalism…a hopeless rebuke of the bright plastic flesh built around the broken, crumbling skeleton of the American Dream.”

-Jeffrey Thomas, author of Boneland

“Jon Bassoff mines an imaginative seam that remains unexplored by any other writer I know working today. I wish I knew his secret, but I’ll settle for reading Captain Clive’s Dreamworld.”

-Tony Black, author of Summoning the Dead

“Captain Clive’s Dreamworld is a masterfully rendered, very disturbing cautionary tale of pathological consumerism and nostalgia for a mid-century America that never was. Jon Bassoff’s vision is relentless and unsparing, his prose like a bone saw laying bare the corruption and perversion lurking beneath society’s superficial pieties.”

-Roger Smith, author of Dust Devils

“In Captain Clive’s Dreamworld, Jon Bassoff has created a haunting, suspenseful masterpiece that straddles the line between mystery and horror with expert skill.”

-S.A. Cosby, award-winning author of Blacktop Wasteland

It was the way the black clouds hid the yellow moon, the way the desert rain deluged the asphalt and gutters, the way the wind whipped through the gnarled branches that caused Deputy Hardy to shiver, not the violence, not the blood, not the death.

And now the muffled voice on the radio ordered them to the worn-out motel where the whore had slit her throat, and his partner Kline shook his head and gripped tighter the steering wheel, although Hardy was convinced he saw the makings of a faint grin on his fat face. “This fucking town,” Kline said. “It ain’t what it used to be, that’s for damn sure. A week ago, a drowned toddler. Two days later, a stabbed Mexican. Day after that, a brained dealer. And now this. You know what I think, buddy? I think somebody oughta douse the whole town with gasoline then take a torch to it. And I'll be in the front row watching it burn. Be doing everybody a favor, you ask me.”

But nobody had asked Kline, certainly not Hardy. The way he figured it, this little town, stinking of slaughter (see the hogs shackled and stuck) and poverty (see the filthy children peering from shotgun shacks) was no different than the wealthiest suburb or loveliest island. Everybody suffered, everybody died—they just went about it in different ways.

And so the deputies drove, the siren echoing down the avenue, and Kline talked and talked and talked. That’s the way it always was. Kline talking and Hardy listening, only occasionally acknowledging his partner with a grunt. Kline needed noise, and Hardy understood that. Because without noise you were forced to focus on the images in your brain, and they were always filled with corpses, eyes staring right back at you, hands clawing at the air…

“The longer you do this job,” Kline said, “the more you realize that they live like fucking animals. Look at the squalor. Look at the ignorance. Drinking and whoring and raping and killing. And it never stops. Never.”

Hardy turned and rested his head against the window. The asphalt reflected the blurry stoplights and taillights. An old woman, wearing a yellow raincoat, stumbled down the sidewalk, a bag of groceries pressed to her hip. A small town whore crouched beneath an awning, a cigarette dangling from candy cherry lips. A drunk and an addict and a bum and a child. Hardy looked to the sky, hoping the moon would reappear, but it didn’t. It was visible somewhere, though. Somewhere a nice boy and a nice girl sat on a porch swing, listening to the crickets and katydids, staring up at a sky filled with stars and that yellow moon. Somewhere people were happy.

More Kline: “My old lady, she's had it. She’s tired of her job. Tired of my job. Wants to get the hell out of Dodge, despite the fact that her parents and brother and cousins all live here. Scottsdale is where she wants to go. Can you believe that shit? What, does she think I’m going take up golf? Now San Diego on the other hand. That’s something I could work with. Sitting on the beach all day, watching all them tight-assed girls. Seventy-two degrees every day. That would be okay with me, you know what I’m saying?” No response from Hardy. More talk, talk, talk from Kline. “Just gotta work on my gut, that’s all. Show those girls what I’m made of. Yeah. But what about you, Hardy? Cause I gotta tell you. These days you’re looking more and more like a corpse. You ever sleep? You ever fuck? Maybe you should consider packing up yourself. You ever thought about that? Going somewhere else? Making a new start?”

For a long time, Hardy didn’t respond. Then he shook his head and frowned. “No. Never thought about it. But I don’t think it matters much where you go. Because you’re always stuck with yourself. Day and night. Week after week after week.”

Kline glanced at Hardy and then back at the slick blacktop. “Well, shit. Thank you for that. That’s a fucking depressing sentiment if I ever heard one.”

A few minutes more and the car slowed to a stop and Hardy stared through the rain-blurred windshield at the derelict motel just ahead. A place he’d been before. There were a dozen or so drab yellow units, a handful of them boarded up. The Breezewood Motel, it said in broken red and blue neon. A rusted metal “Office” sign hung from a corner unit, and a cutout silhouette of a cowboy leaned against the wall. A crowd of people were milling around, whispering what they knew, whispering what they’d heard. And now, staring at the motel, Hardy felt a sense of despair that he’d never felt before, a despair that, he was sure, no amount of time or tears could ever heal. He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t want to see the blood. His own hands weren’t even yet dry…

Kline killed the engine and radioed in their location. They stepped out of the car, the wind whipping around, the rain falling sideways. And then that old thought. Maybe none of this was real. Not the rain nor the wind nor the death. Maybe. Hardy remembered when he was a child, bedridden because of pneumonia. And one night, in the throes of a relentless fever, he had a terrible dream. In the dream, he was wandering across the desert, lost. All around him was death and carnage: rivers of blood, bodies on the highway, maimed children begging for help. And so he ran and ran, a mortise key hanging around his neck, and eventually he came to his neighborhood, and finally to his house. But then he noticed that next to his house was another one that was identical in every way, and he became unsure about which was the real one. He heard screams, and when he glanced behind, the wounded children were closing in on him, dragging themselves across the dirt, and he had to pick a house. He chose the house on the left. He used his key to open the door, and when he stepped inside he saw his parents sitting in the living room, his father reading the newspaper, his mother knitting a sweater. They greeted him with hugs and smiles. But even though they looked and sounded and acted like his parents, he felt something was wrong, that perhaps they were imposters, that his real parents were in the house on the right. And even after he woke, when he saw them, he doubted that they were real, feared that at any moment they would tear the skin off their faces, revealing hideous new ones beneath, and drag him back to the nightmare from which he’d come…

“Just look at this dump,” Kline said. “I'm telling you, some gasoline and a book of matches…”

Hardy pulled back his wetted hair and surveyed the scene. The poor and the mangled huddled in the parking lot, bathrobes slipped open, cans of Budweiser crushed in hands, mumbling fragmented narratives at the weeds and asphalt beneath their feet. One of them mentioned how the devil was making nightly appearances at this motel. Another remembered her Aunt Riddle who died a year ago Wednesday from a mysterious plague. And a third swore that blood was seeping beneath the motel door and would soon cover the parking lot, spread to the avenue, and make its way to City Hall. 

Hardy and Kline stepped through the crowd toward Room Six. An older woman with a mouthful of gums grabbed Hardy’s arm and said, “How long she been dead, you think? A week, maybe more? Just rotting, rotting, rotting. It don’t matter, though, not to me. Just another dead whore. There’s plenty more like her, crawling beneath the bridge and creeping around in alleys.”

The manager had relocked the door after the discovery, so the deputies had to wait several minutes for the Brillo-haired woman to return with the key. “Don’t know who she is,” she said, even though neither of the deputies had asked. “I just came to get money owed. Wouldn’t have opened the door if it wasn’t for that stench.”

Her hands were unsteady (Parkinson’s), and it was a challenge for her to get the key in the hole. The crowd murmured impatiently, delivered more philosophical and religious sermons. Finally, the lock clicked and she pushed open the door. The deputies stepped inside and indicated for the manager and the bystanders to move away. Kline shouldered the door shut, leaving the crowd to scratch at the wood and scream at the moon. 

You never get used to the smells. Blood, shit, decay. Death. Hardy covered his mouth and nose with his arm. He felt unsteady on his feet and thought he was going to vomit but managed to swallow it down.

The floor was a mess of clothes and sheets and broken glass. A lamp glowed on the nightstand, but the rest of the lights had been removed or had simply burned out. The window was pulled halfway open and a soggy curtain flapped in the wind and the rain.

The girl, fifteen or sixteen or seventeen, lay on a mattress crusted over with blood, her legs and arms splayed at grotesque angles. Her naked skin was a pale shade of purple, her eyes bulged from their sockets, and her tongue protruded from an agonized mouth. There was a gaping wound across her throat, and a blood-coated knife rested inches from her clutched hand.

Kline sighed and shook his head. “Ah, Christ. Look at that. What a waste.”

Hardy took a step back and then another. It was too much for him. Every man had a breaking point. The room began spinning and Hardy gritted his teeth and gasped for breath. Behind his eyes, he saw an image of an obese man, thin hair plastered across his head, fat lips curled into a grin, grunting as he fucked the hell out of the corpse, its skin beginning to slough off onto the bed. And behind the fat man, a row of more men, all of them nude, all of them waiting patiently for their moment. Ah, hell. She had it coming. Being born in this world. She had it coming.

A voice in the distance: “Hardy? You okay there, buddy? You don’t look so good. Maybe you should…”

And then he felt himself falling. The floor sped toward him and his body pulsated with pain. Behind his bloody eyes, her face appeared, flickering, and now she was alive, now she was young, now she was smiling, and then Hardy forgot who she was, a sinister elf robbing him of memory, and he closed his eyes and listened to a lullaby played on a harpsichord.    

Amazon → https://amzn.to/32O0X5R

Jon Bassoff was born in 1974 in New York City and currently lives with his family in a ghost town somewhere in Colorado. His mountain gothic novel, Corrosion, has been translated in French and German and was nominated for the Grand Prix de Litterature Policiere, France’s biggest crime fiction award. Two of his novels, The Drive-Thru Crematorium and The Disassembled Man, have been adapted for the big screen with Emile Hirsch (Into the Wild; Once Upon a Time in America) attached to star in The Disassembled Man. For his day job, Bassoff teaches high school English where he is known by students and faculty alike as the deranged writer guy. He is a connoisseur of tequila, hot sauces, psychobilly music, and flea-bag motels.

Website: http://www.jonbassoff.com

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/jonbassoff

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jon.bassoff