Thursday, May 21, 2020

Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: GRAVE CONSEQUENCES by Lena Gregory @lenagregory03 #cozymystery




GRAVE CONSEQUENCES
By Lena Gregory
Cozy Mystery

Cass Donovan is reminded that you can’t believe everything you hear, especially when it comes from the dead . . .

When stories begin circulating of a centuries-old ghost haunting the Bay Island lighthouse, Cass is caught up in mystical happenings of her own, with countless voices from the beyond all clamoring for her attention with dire warnings. But before she has a chance to learn whether there’s a connection between the rumored ghost and her restless visitors, the lighthouse keeper mysteriously falls to his death, and Cass’s reputation for communing with the dead lands her right in the middle of the police investigation.

Cass knows the victim was no saint, as he made little effort to hide his philandering ways from his wife or anyone else, and often acted out with no thought for the feelings of others. But had he finally gone too far, or were there more menacing motives behind his murder? As Cass begins building a list of suspects, including the man’s supposedly grieving wife and a mysterious new woman in town, she also turns her ear to those otherworldly voices, hoping for a clue. And as she begins to close in on the culprit, she realizes too late that if she’s not careful, she’ll soon be communicating with the dead in person . . .

BUY LINKS

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0881XMPB2/ref=sr_1_6?dchild=1&keywords=lena+gregory&qid=1588623125&sr=8-6
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/grave-consequences-lena-gregory/1136968677?ean=2940162632931
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/grave-consequences-10
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1019948

Other Books by Lena Gregory





A worn book sat on a stand beneath a glass case. A card beside it read “Kitty Garrison’s Journal—the life of a lighthouse keeper’s daughter.”
“It doesn’t look like much.” Bee crossed the rope barrier set up to keep patrons from getting too close, then leaned close to the glass and squinted.
“It looks like a diary.” Cass tilted her head to try to read what was inside the book but to no avail.
Bee opened the case.
“What are you doing, Bee? You can’t open that.” Stephanie shot out a hand and pushed the small door closed.
“Well, then, how am I supposed to know what’s in it?”
“Easy,” Stephanie said. “You wait for Amelia to come back and ask her if she’ll let you read it.”
“Yeah, but your way, she might say no. At least my way I can just apologize after the fact. And then we would have seen the inside of the book, maybe gained valuable information on how to find the treasure.” He grinned. “Much better to apologize later than to ask permission now.”
“Is that what this is about, Bee?” Cass wouldn’t mind having a peek in the book, either, but she wasn’t about to upset Stephanie. “You want to find the treasure?”
“You bet I do.”
And somehow Cass had a feeling Levi had counted on that when he’d shared the story. “Question is, if Fred is trying to find the treasure, what does Levi have to gain by making sure everyone under the sun—or at least those living on and probably visiting Bay Island—know about it?”
Bee shrugged off her concern. “Maybe he doesn’t want to see Fred find the treasure? Not that I can blame him. Fred DiCarlo is not a nice man.”
“I suppose, but still.” Cass looked in the direction Levi had gone.
Voices carried into the museum, and Bee deftly hopped the security rope, then propped a hand on his hip and leaned against the railing, possibly going for a nonchalant pose that ended up looking more like I just got caught doing something I shouldn’t have been doing.
When the group headed past the museum entrance and up the stairs, presumably toward the third floor, Cass tugged Bee’s arm. “Come on, we’ll climb the lighthouse before it gets too late. We can always come back here afterward, if there’s time, and talk to Amelia. Maybe she’ll let you read some of the book once everyone’s gone.”
Bee stared longingly at the journal, then sighed. “Sure thing. Whatever you say, Mum.”
They headed out of the museum and followed the concrete walkway toward the lighthouse. The salty sea breeze rustled the bushes lining the path. The mild wind carried the softest hint of a whisper, tantalizingly close, yet just out of reach.
Cass paused. An illusion created by the wind funneling along the walkway? It had to be. It’s not like she was giving a reading, and that’s the only time the voices called to her, assailed her as they competed for her attention. At least, that’s the only time they’d reached out to her so far.
Stephanie looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming, Cass?”
Bee stopped and turned, then frowned. “Is something wrong?”
Shaking off whatever apprehension had stopped her, Cass moved on. “Sorry, daydreaming, I guess.”
“It’s a beautiful day. I bet you’ll be able to see for miles.” Stephanie dug through her bag and pulled out her phone.
“Oh, definitely.” Bee pointed past the bushes and over the choppy waters of the bay. “Look, you can see the south fork of Long Island from here.”
The height of the bluff the lighthouse stood on offered an amazing view across the bay. A foghorn sounded from somewhere in the distance, seagulls circled and dove, occasionally coming up with a prize, and the ferry chugged toward Long Island, only about half full from the looks of it.
They entered the tower and started up the circular staircase, the clang of their shoes against the iron steps echoing off the sandstone walls.
“Not what it seems . . .”
“What do you mean?” Cass studied Bee’s back as he climbed a few steps ahead of her, though how he did it in his signature platform shoes was beyond her.
He paused and looked back at her over his shoulder. “Huh?”
“You said something, but I didn’t quite catch—”
“Stop.” The man’s voice seemed to come from all around her at once.
This time she’d been staring straight at Bee, and he’d been in the middle of saying something else when the male voice had interrupted him.
A woman’s voice joined the man’s. “Why don’t you . . .”
A chorus of voices answered in unison.
Cass shook her head, willing the voices to retreat. “Nothing, Bee. Sorry, I thought you said something.”
Though the scowl remained firmly imprinted on his features, Bee turned and resumed his trek up the stairs, seemingly content to ignore whatever was happening with her. Probably for the best, anyway. If he thought for one minute ghosts haunted the lighthouse, he’d probably plow both Cass and Stephanie over in his haste to leave.
“Watch . . . go . . . stop . . . please . . .” The voices continued unsolicited, demanding, insistent.
“What do you want?” Cass yelled and covered her ears.
Bee stopped again and looked back. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, please . . .” She lowered her hands, taking a firm grip on the railing to steady her shaking hands. “Just go.”
Bee shook his head and picked up the pace.
Fear skittered along Cass’s spine as she tried to open herself up, make sense of what the voices wanted from her. She focused intently on one voice, that of a man, more demanding that the rest, just a bit louder. “. . . lighthouse . . . rocks . . . look . . . back . . .”
Look back? Look back where? Did he mean literally? She glanced over her shoulder at Stephanie bringing up the rear. She seemed okay. Maybe figuratively? Look back. But at what? The past? The story of the lighthouse keeper, maybe. Is that what the voice was trying to tell her?
They stepped onto the observation deck, the wall of windows opening up an even more incredible view than offered from the bluff. She closed her eyes and concentrated.
“You know,” Bee said, “you could try to block the voices out, ignore them. That’s what I do when I don’t feel like hearing what people are saying.”
“Bee!” Stephanie’s mouth dropped open.
He held up a hand, his eyes wide, as if just realizing what he’d said. “Other people, I mean. You know, when I don’t want to hear what other people are saying. Never you two.”
Stephanie pointed a finger past Cass at him. “That had better be what you meant, buddy.”
Bee grinned and held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Of course that’s what I meant.”
“Uh-huh.” Eyeing him out of the corner of her eye, Stephanie returned to admiring the view. She snapped a few pictures with her phone.
Cass tried to ignore the bickering. She massaged her temples. If she didn’t relax, she wasn’t going to get anything.
Bee continued offering advice. “And if ignoring the voices doesn’t work, you can try doing what I do when I walk into the diner, or the deli, or Tony’s Bakery when there is an undeniable undercurrent of excitement rippling through the air, and I know before I take another step there’s really good gossip to be had.”
“What’s that?” At that point, she’d try anything to shut them up.
He turned his back to the view, leaning against the railing that would keep anyone from falling through the circular wall of windows. “Narrow them down one at a time, eliminating those that don’t seem to know anything, those who are just hanging out trying to make sense of what’s going on the same as you are, and continue to whittle away at them, ignoring those you dismiss in favor of those who seem to have knowledge, then focus in on them until you get the message.”
Cass moved to the railing lining the circular platform and leaned her hands on it. Choppy waves battered the coastline, washing up onto the large boulders lining the bluff and beach, sea foam bubbling over between crevices.
“Lighthouse . . . away . . . back . . . push . . .”
She couldn’t grab it. Something, though, so close. Like something just at the edge of her awareness, something she should be able to . . . She closed her eyes, allowing the voices to wash through her.
“Stay . . . back . . . stay away . . .”
Her eyes shot open. “I’ve got it. I know what the voices are trying to tell me.”
Bee folded his arms over his chest, no doubt over any talk of the paranormal. “Oh, and what’s that?”
Cass tried to swallow, her mouth gone to paste, and glanced from him to Stephanie and back again. “Stay away from the lighthouse.”
Bee groaned and returned his attention to the view of the bay.
Stephanie studied her. “Do you think—”
Movement in her peripheral vision caught Cass’s attention. Her gaze shifted to the third floor of the keeper’s house just as someone tumbled out the window toward the rocks below.
A silhouette backed away from the window, barely noticeable, a shadow among shadows as it slid away into darkness. Was the vision real? Or was she witnessing some past tragedy that had played out time and time again over the past couple of centuries? Hadn’t Levi said Samuel Garrison had been found dead on the rocks below the lighthouse, the very same jetty someone had just fallen from the keeper’s house onto?
Muffled screams in the distance assured her the man lying on the rocks was real enough, but what of the silhouette she’d seen as the man fell?



















Lena Gregory is the author of the Bay Island Psychic Mysteries, which take place on a small island between the north and south forks of Long Island, New York, and the All-Day Breakfast Café Mysteries, which are set on the outskirts of Florida’s Ocala National Forest.
Lena grew up in a small town on the south shore of eastern Long Island. She recently relocated to Clermont, Florida with her husband, three kids, son-in-law, and four dogs. Her hobbies include spending time with family, reading, jigsaw puzzles, and walking. Her love for writing developed when her youngest son was born and didn’t sleep through the night. She works full time as a writer and a freelance editor and is a member of Sisters in Crime.

To learn more about Lena and her latest writing endeavors, visit her website at http://www.lenagregory.com/ and be sure to sign up for her newsletter http://lenagregory.us12.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=9765d0711ed4fab4fa31b16ac&id=49d42335d1.

WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:

Website: http://www.lenagregory.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/LenaGregory03
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Lena.Gregory.Author/?fref=ts



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Monday, May 18, 2020

Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: PANORAMA by Ross Victory #RealLifeStories





PANORAMA
By Ross Victory
Real Life Stories/Relationships & Sex

After a friendship ignites and morphs into a curious tale of parallel souls with a Brazilian-American soldier serving in the U.S. military in South Korea, Panorama reflects on the author’s contemplations to return to a crumbling family life in Los Angeles or to endure his life in Seoul for an end-of-contract cash payout.

With a thought-provoking storyline that covers eating live octopus, philosophical debates about the gender of God, a pregnancy, and bisexual erasure in men, Panorama delivers a page-turning cerebral adventure. Ending with prose that simultaneously bites and soothes, Panorama suggests readers stand tall in their unique intersections of relationships and sex. Reminding us that as daunting as the vicissitudes of life, and no matter the view from the cockpit of life, the human spirit cannot, and should not, be restrained. While truth may be the bitterest pill of them all, the effects of our truth can bring us closer to an unbroken life.

PRAISE

In this small book are two masterpieces, a riveting remembrance of several life-altering experiences and relationships the author began in Seoul, South Korea, and an essay, let's call it part tirade, part profound reflection on our view of men, masculinity, sexuality, and romance. You cannot stop until finished because there is no midway, no stopping point as you become a part of his world. After nearly every sentence you scream with or at his observations either with critical reflections or ecstasy. Ross has his pulse on his generation and the most precarious issues confronting sexuality and romance.

--Dr. Ritch C. Savin-Williams, Ph.D. -Cornell University & Author of "Mostly Straight: Sexual Fluidity among Men"

ORDER YOUR COPY

Amazon → https://amzn.to/2xZyCNi

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







I found myself in a local bar called Panorama, skimming through my work contract. I contemplated my ability to continue this working abroad disaster and considered walking away from a large end-of-contract payment, or perhaps I was simply waiting for an explanation from “God” about why everything falls apart. I read the pages over and over, searching for what I needed to do to end my contract and still get the cash. Panorama was a quaint, local bar that Koreans escaped to to enjoy horrific karaoke and shots of throat-burning Soju, the equivalent of cheap vodka. Americans were not interested, nor did they notice this dingy place.
Tonight, it was fairly empty. Alone on the stage stood a Korean ahjumma, or aged woman. An ahjusshi, or aged man, also Korean, sat in flooded tan trousers on a short stool next to her, holding a large cello. The woman had a gray, shoulder-length poufy perm with a slight purple tint. She wore a hanbok—a traditional Korean dress—her face covered in thick, pasty-white makeup. With clarity, passion, and purpose, she and the cellist performed as no one but me watched. The song had a simple, memorable riff with a reflective chord progression. The woman had turned off the karaoke television screen and sang from memory as the cellist supported her.
She sang as if this were the last song she would ever sing. Her soul flickered between every note, with presence and awe. Like she was going somewhere and would never return. As the woman sang, she reached into the spotlight that lit her, pulling the light closer to her chest—like she and the light had established a deep state of devotion. As the ahjusshi played the cello, hidden in the woman’s shadow, particles of dust floated through the light and disappeared into the darkness, like floating glowworms. I could not recognize her words but recognized the source of them. This woman must be singing to me... I thought. I fantasized about hope as she sang.
The four soldiers sat at the empty bar, near the stage. I sat in an oversized, black leather booth near the entrance. One of the soldiers went back outside, propping the door open momentarily. The glacial breeze returned. The soldier strode back in and took a detour toward my booth, warming his hands. I turned away but could see him approaching from the corner of my eye.
“Ey, excuse me, bro. Restroom around here?” He shivered.
“Behind the bar...” I pointed.
After a few minutes, as I began to pack up, I heard a voice. “Ey, can I sit here? You look normal...” I looked up, confused. It was him again. He chuckled and shivered.
“Yeah, I’m headed out...all yours. Has a good view of the stage.” I snickered to myself.
“Man, this woman can sing. I wonder what she’s saying. I’m Alveré,” the soldier continued, “Alvín in English. What you drinkin’?”
I motioned to my waiter for the check.
“Let me guess. You’re from the West Coast,” he said.

Alveré quickly made it clear that he had plenty of time to chat and was looking for a new friend. He removed his hat, placed it on the table, and rolled up his sleeves; he began flipping through the beer menu. Someone new in my life is the last thing I wanted.
Alveré had a slightly grown-in buzz cut and a naïve presence. He was dressed in army fatigues with coyote brown boots. He was covered in crisp snowflakes; Somehow, I could see the hexagonal and octagonal crystalline structure of the ice. His face was stuck in a half-smile, on the verge of a chuckle. He was nearly six feet tall with perfect posture and the typical, stiff, herculean stance of a military person.
He wore a forearm tattoo on his left arm of an Admiralty ship’s anchor wrapped in chain links. The anchor trans- formed into a thirty-petal rose at the eye of the anchor. There was a hummingbird feeding on the rose, its wings curled in and up.
“Yep, from California—L.A. I’m Ross.”
“Ross from Cali...” He seemed to contemplate this and quickly mumbled something in Portuguese. “Nice to meet you, Ross. I’m from New York, born in São Paulo, Brazil, though.” “Moved here when I was thirteen.” Alveré excitedly corrected himself, having momentarily forgotten that he was now in Korea. “You know what I mean...moved out there.” He laughed.
“Brazil? How’d you get into the U.S. Army?”
“Long story. My unit just got here. I just met these idiots—FML.” He continued. “You military? What are you doin’ all the way in Korea...by yourself?”
“I’m actually an English teacher in a work-abroad program,” I responded.
“You signed up to come here? Who does that?!”
I pondered, squinting my eyes. “I guess I did? What a dumbass.” We laughed. “And I’m honestly sitting here regretting every moment.” I held my contract up.
“Respect. Wow.”
For the next several minutes, we spoke about the absurdities of Korean culture. Every time I glanced at Alveré to size him up, his eye contact felt like a Cyclops beam, at least for the fraction of a microsecond our pupils met. In these moments, the details of his eyes were apparent. His eyes were thalassic, deep, abidingly blue, with a thin chestnut lining. While intense and notably awkward, something about Alveré seemed familiar, like a puppy’s gaze.
As we spoke, Alveré was wringing his hands on top
of the table. He would rub his hands on the side of his pants and laugh randomly between longer gaps of silence, uttering, “Interesting!” at the end of most of my sentences. One of the other army guys tumbled into my booth.
“Hey, bro!” a drunken soldier said to Alveré.
“Ooh, he’s sexy, Alvin! Did you get his number?” the solider drunkenly joked while reaching out and twisting Alveré’s nipple. Alveré pulled away, embarrassed.
Another soldier interjected, “Alvin, you going tonight, bro? Rampant Korean p*$$y, bro...free flowing like mas agua.” The soldier began to do the robot dance.
“Alvin’s our new resident Brazilian model to attract that tiger pussy... Look at this face.” The soldiers exploded into gut-wrenching laughter, grabbing Alveré’s chin and squishing his lips. “F$g#@t,” one soldier joked. “We’re headed to this joint in Hungdae.” Hungdae was Seoul’s party capital. A night in Hungdae would mean we would be out until 6 a.m.
“You should join us...” The solider glanced over at me. “I’m Connor.” Connor reached out to shake my hand. He continued, “I hear they just let you...” The soldier paused, then wiggled his middle and ring finger around in quick circles. “And the girls just start makin’ out with each other.”
“You wanna roll through or...” The soldiers looked at me as Alveré hesitated. He whispered to me, “Don’t leave me with these idiots. Please, bro, pleassssse!”
I explained to the soldiers that I was an English teacher and that my class started early. They became distracted and began to chatter drunkenly to each other.
“Please, Ross from Cali... Don’t leave me with these douches—we vibin’, right?”
I continued to pack my bag.
“I’ll text you the address. Let me get your number. Just a few hours; never been to Hungdae...”
“Nice to meet you, Alveré, but I’m out...”
“My mom calls me Alveré; friends call me Alvin—you can call me Alví, though, if you want...” He continued. “You can tell me about L.A. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
I laughed. I stared at my contract. My passport looked back at me from the bottom of my bag. I looked back at Alví.
All right. I’m in, let’s go.









Ross Victory is an Award-Winning American author, singer/songwriter, travel geek and author of the father-son memoir, Views from the Cockpit: The Journey of a Son (2019) and Panorama: The Missing Chapter (2020). Ross spent his early years collecting pens, notepads and interviewing himself in a tape recorder. With an acute awareness for his young age, Ross was eager to point out hypocrisies and character inconsistencies in children and adults through English assignments. If he weren’t keeping his English teachers on their toes for what he would say or write next, he was processing his world through songwriting and music.

WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:

Website: http://www.rossvictory.com
Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/rossvictoryofficial
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/rossvictoryofficial

 




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Monday, May 4, 2020

Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: THE MARVELOUS MECHANICAL MAN by Rie Sheridan Rose @riesheridanrose #steampunk





THE MARVELOUS MECHANICAL MAN
By Rie Sheridan Rose
Steampunk/Adventure/Romance

The Marvelous Mechanical Man is the first book in a Steampunk series featuring the adventures of Josephine Mann, an independent woman in need of a way to pay her rent. She meets Professor Alistair Conn, in need of a lab assistant, and a partnership is created that proves exciting adventure for both of them.

Alistair’s prize invention is an automaton standing nine feet tall. There’s a bit of a problem though…he can’t quite figure out how to make it move. Jo just might be of help there. Then again, they might not get a chance to find out, as the marvelous mechanical man goes missing.

Jo and Alistair find themselves in the middle of a whirlwind of kidnapping, catnapping, and cross-country chases that involve airships, trains, and a prototype steam car. With a little help from their friends, Herbert Lattimer and Winifred Bond, plots are foiled, inventions are perfected, and a good time is had by all.

ORDER YOUR COPY

Amazon → https://amzn.to/3bfoz55









I was debating just what I should do next when I heard the sound of a key in the front lock. Hurrying back to the laboratory, I was just in time to see Alistair Conn step inside.
            “Professor Conn! Am I glad to see you.”
            He set the bundles he was carrying down on the counter.
            “What is it, Miss Mann?”
            “Your mechanical man...can it walk on its own?”
            He frowned, glancing quickly at the rear door and back.
            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
            I rolled my eyes.
            “We don’t have time for shilly-shallying. Yes, I know I didn’t have your leave to look in the back rooms, but I did. I saw the automaton, or statue, or whatever he was, but when I opened the door to the hallway this morning, the door to the storage room was ajar and the man was gone.”
            “Gone?” All the color fled his face, and he pushed me aside, practically running down the lab to the rear door. He threw it open and darted to the storage room. “No...no! This is impossible! How could he be gone?”
            “That’s what I was asking you.”
            “He can’t move on his own, Miss Mann. He has no power source. He’s just a big metal doll without his heart—and that doesn’t work yet.” He wiped his hand across his lips then turned and ran back to the lab, searching furiously amid the items I had so carefully arranged—apparently to no avail—on the counter. “It’s gone!” he cried. “They got that, too? Oh, this is disastrous, indeed.”
            “Got what?” I asked, following him back to the lab, where he seemed determined to destroy all my neatening efforts of the day before.
            “The heart, Miss Mann, the heart! I showed it to you yesterday morning—it’s an oblong machine, about so big….” He held up his hands about six inches apart. “You asked me what it did.”
            I stepped over to the counter and opened the drawer beneath it. Rummaging in the back, I withdrew the silk-wrapped package I had placed within it the night before.
            “Is this what you’re looking for?”
            He practically snatched it from my hand.
            “Thank God! Oh, that was most clever, Miss Mann. Most clever.”
            I decided there was no need to tell the man it was only chance that had protected his precious...whatever it was. Let him think it had been foresight.
            “You say that’s the statue’s heart?”
            “Well, it will be, if it ever starts working. This little object will provide the power necessary to move the automaton’s limbs, to let him think. He will be a true mechanical man.”
            “But it doesn’t work.”
            He sighed.
            “Not yet.” He set the oblong down on the counter. “I’ve done everything I can think of, but I just can’t make it do anything.”
            I looked down at the funny little machine. I couldn’t tell him I had played with it and added things. He would never forgive me.
            Something looked odd about the assembly. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what, so I put my finger on the machine instead. There was a tiny lever half-hidden by the new gear assembly. It shifted under my fingertip, and suddenly, the heart began to beat.











Rie Sheridan Rose multitasks. A lot. Her short stories appear in numerous anthologies, including Nightmare Stalkers and Dream Walkers Vols. 1 and 2, and Killing It Softly Vols. 1 and 2. She has authored twelve novels, six poetry chapbooks, and lyrics for dozens of songs. These were mostly written in conjunction with Marc Gunn, and can be found on “Don’t Go Drinking with Hobbits” and “Pirates vs. Dragons” for the most part–with a few scattered exceptions.

Her favorite work to date is The Conn-Mann Chronicles Steampunk series with five books released so far: The Marvelous Mechanical Man, The Nearly Notorious Nun, The Incredibly Irritating Irishman, The Fiercely Formidable Fugitive, and The Elderly Earl’s Estate.

Rie lives in Texas with her wonderful husband and several spoiled cat-children.

WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:

Website: https://riewriter.com/  and https://theconnmannchronicles.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/RieSheridanRose
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheConnMannChronicles/

 



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Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: Home by Alison Neuman #children



 

HOME
By Alison Neuman
Children

Fluffy, the cat, knew the minute she met Levi that he would become fast friends with the friendly mouse using a special wheelchair. In the third installment of their adventures, join Fluffy, Levi, and his family on their final leg of adventure to find their forever homes together.

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Amazon → https://amzn.to/2Va96Ox

Smashwords → https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1015552

 


 






It was a playful neighbourhood dog named Buster, and a winter storm that had brought Fluffy, the Persian cat, to a warehouse where she’d met a little mouse named Levi. Levi had taken his new friend to meet his family who made their home in an old car. Now Fluffy, Levi and his entire mouse family were headed to Fluffy's home, in a swing the cat had made his new little friend to help transport him and his custom-made wheelchair.
 “I’m going to miss this car. It’s been a good home to us, but staying here is no longer safe for our growing family,” Levi’s dad said.
The area the mice lived in was patrolled by a cat whose job it was to hunt them.
 “Me too. But at least we’ll be together at Fluffy’s,” James, Levi’s big brother, squeaked.
 “No sign of that mouse-eating cat! Best to get going while the coast is clear,” their friend Charlie the Sparrow chirped, pointing his wing in the direction of Fluffy’s house. “I’ll keep an eye out until you’re at the fence.”
“Thanks, Charlie,” Levi’s dad squeaked, as they all started across the large field ahead.










Alison Neuman is a writer, author, choreographer, and dance artist, who is passionate about sharing underrepresented voices. She holds a Bachelor’s of Applied Communications Degree, a diploma in Professional Writing, and a Master of Arts degree with a focus on Educational Studies.

WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:

Website: www.alisonneuman.ca
Blog: http://www.alisonneuman.ca/blog/
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/Alison_Neuman
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/alisonneuman.ca
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4375290.Alison_Neuman

 


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Friday, May 1, 2020

Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: 35 MILES FROM SHORE by Emilio Corsetti III @emiliocorsetti




We're thrilled to kick off the virtual book tour for 35 MILES FROM SHORE by Emilio Corsetti. If you would like to follow his tour, visit Pump Up Your Book!
 

35 MILES FROM SHORE
By Emilio Corsetti III
Nonfiction

On May 2, 1970, a DC-9 jet departed New York’s JFK international airport en route to the tropical island of St. Maarten. The flight ended four hours and thirty-four minutes later in the shark-infested waters of the Caribbean. The subsequent rescue of survivors involved the Coast Guard, Navy, and Marines. In this gripping account of that fateful day, author Emilio Corsetti puts the reader inside the cabin, the cockpit, and the rescue helicopters as the crews struggle against the weather to rescue the survivors who have only their life vests and a lone escape chute to keep them afloat.

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Amazon → https://amzn.to/39zbKBq

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Prologue
Thirty-five miles off the coast of St. Croix, sitting beneath some five thousand feet of water, lies the most unlikely of wrecks. It is not the wreck of an ocean liner or a Spanish galleon or a fishing boat caught in an unexpected storm. This wreck is that of a passenger jet. The exact condition of the aircraft is unknown. It has remained unseen in the dark depths of the Caribbean Sea for more than thirty years. What is known is the condition of the aircraft before it sank.

The plane remained afloat and intact for at least five to ten minutes. The galley door and two of the four overwing exits had been opened. There was a hole in the forward cargo compartment large enough to allow several aircraft tires to float free. Witnesses reported watching the plane bank to the right then sink nose first. From there, it would have continued its mile-long dive until finally hitting the sea bed.

No attempts have ever been made to recover the aircraft or any of the flight recorders. The cost of recovery simply outweighs the value of what might be retrieved. Treasure seekers might find a few items of interest. There is a blue suitcase discarded by one passenger who claims that the suitcase contained over $135,000 in jewelry. Another passenger claims to have left behind a briefcase containing several hundred thousand dollars in cash. The veracity of these claims has yet to be proved or disproved. Little else of value remains inside the fuselage: a few purses, reading glasses, a wine bottle. There are four twenty-five-man life rafts still secured inside the large bins mounted in the ceiling. Somewhere in the debris inside the cabin are two cameras containing rolls of undeveloped film that captured the last moments of the ill-fated flight. There is something else inside, however, of great importance to a number of people – clues to what might have happened to those who didn’t make it out.

The date is May 2, 1970. Low on fuel and flying just hundreds of feet above the ocean’s surface, the crew of ALM 980 look out their cockpit window and see a turbulent sea swirling beneath them. Ten- to fifteen-foot swells rise and fall in all directions. The sky above is equally turbulent with heavy rain and low visibility. Back in the cabin the passengers don their life vests, for they have been told to prepare for a possible ditching. They are obviously concerned, but most consider it nothing more than a precaution. A few passengers refuse to put on their life vests, considering it an unnecessary inconvenience. Assisting in the cabin is a purser, a steward, and one stewardess. The stewardess strolls through the cabin helping passengers with their cumbersome life jackets. In the front of the cabin, in the galley area just behind the cockpit, the purser, the steward, and a third cockpit crewmember, a navigator, struggle with one of the five life rafts aboard. No one pays much attention to the four life rafts located in the bins mounted in the ceiling just above the four overwing exits.

The lack of concern displayed in the back of the aircraft is not shared by the two men in the cockpit. Their eyes are glued to the digital fuel totalizer, which indicates a figure so low that the number is unreliable. Both men know they are only seconds away from losing both engines due to fuel starvation. When the engines finally do quit, there are only seconds left in which to act. The captain flicks the seatbelt and no smoking signs off and on to signal the cabin crew of the impending impact; he doesn’t use the PA system because it’s not working.
Some of the passengers stand as they put on their life vests. Others sit with their seatbelts unfastened. No one notices the seatbelt and no smoking signs flicker off and on. Nor do they hear the bells that accompany these signs. Even if they had noticed, it wouldn’t make much difference. The cabin crew was trained by a different airline, one that didn’t use bells to signal an emergency landing. A few people look outside their window and note how close they are to the water. One man sitting near an emergency overwing exit looks around at his fellow passengers; most have no idea that they are just moments away from impact. In the forward section of the cabin, two men stand in the aisle snapping pictures. They are not wearing life jackets. There are shouts from the front of the cabin for everyone to sit down. But the aircraft strikes the water before everyone can take their seats.

Accident investigators often use the term “error chain” when explaining how accidents occur. They know from experience garnered from decades of accident investigations that accidents don’t occur in a vacuum. Accidents are usually the end result of a series of mistakes or events. Remove one of the proceeding events, or links in the error chain, and the accident does not occur. While we can never totally eliminate errors, we can strive to not repeat them. When I first contacted the captain of the flight, Balsey DeWitt, to inform him of my intention to tell this story, he was reluctant to participate. He finally agreed to be interviewed because he felt that by doing so he might help prevent a similar accident from occurring again, or at least increase the chances of survival should another plane succumb to a similar fate. In the numerous times that I have spoken with the former captain, he has not once shifted blame to another individual. He accepts full responsibility for what took place. But the mistakes he admits to are not the only links in the error chain that led to the ditching of ALM 980.







Emilio Corsetti III is a professional pilot and author. Emilio has written for both regional and national publications including the Chicago Tribune, Multimedia Producer, and Professional Pilot magazine. Emilio’s first book 35 Miles From Shore: The Ditching and Rescue of ALM Flight 980 tells the true story of an airline ditching in the Caribbean Sea and the efforts to rescue those who survived. Emilio’s latest release Scapegoat: A Flight Crew’s Journey from Heroes to Villains to Redemption tells the true story of an airline crew wrongly blamed for causing a near-fatal accident and the captain’s decades-long battle to clear his name. Emilio is a graduate of St. Louis University. He and his wife Lynn reside in Dallas, TX.

WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:

Website Address: https://www.EmilioCorsetti.com
Blog: https://www.35milesfromshore.com (dedicated website)
Twitter: https://twitter.com/EmilioCorsetti 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Emilio.Corsetti.III

 

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