DUKE DU JOUR
Lords in Time series, Book 1
by Petie McCarty
by Petie McCarty
Continue reading “DUKE DU JOUR by Petie McCarty GENRE: Regency Time-Travel Romance”
DUKE DU JOUR by Petie McCarty GENRE: Regency Time-Travel Romance
Author: mariacatalinaegan
MCV EGAN multicultural, multilingual #Author of #Historical #Mystery & #Womensfiction. #Astrologer Her passions are #Pacifism & #Cooking http://amzn.to/2s8TSdW
SEXUALITY AND ITS IMPACT ON HISTORY by Hunter S. Jones GENRE: History/UK/Women & Gender/Sexuality
SEXUALITY AND ITS IMPACT ON HISTORY
The British Stripped Bare
by Hunter S. Jones
Screams You Hear
Horror
Date Published: January 22, 2018
Murder and madness infect a small town
For sixteen-year-old Ruthie Stroud, life on tiny Hemlock Island in the Pacific Northwest is an endless sea of boring green, in a place where everybody knows everybody’s business and nothing ever happens. Then her world is ripped apart when her parents divorce and a new man enters her mother’s life. But worse is yet to come.
When she drifts ashore on the mainland, hideously burned, Ruthie has a harrowing tale to tell. It begins with the murder of a family. It ends with her being the sole survivor of a cataclysm that sweeps her little island. As a detective attempts to unravel Ruthie’s story of murder and madness, only one horrifying conclusion can be drawn: whatever was isolated on remote Hemlock Island may now have come to the mainland. Is Ruthie safe? Is anyone?
Excerpt
Chapter One
I wake to pain, pain beyond comprehension, my skin on fire, only to find myself in a hospital bed, my arms bandaged, and wires snaking into machines. The burns are covered in white gauze and every motion, no matter how small, sends my nerves screaming. The air is heavy against my skin. And that smell. I can still smell the bitterness of my singed hair. I feel my head, expecting strands of hair, thick and wavy, but it’s gone. There are only splotches of emptiness, a topography of touch that alarms me. I wonder if it will ever grow back.
Tendrils of anxiety course through me, pulsing steadily. I need to wake up from whatever this is.
In spite of the pain, I caress my face and I have no eyebrows. Only stubble. No matter where I touch, my skin isn’t soft; it’s leather, a mask that rests too tightly against my skull. It’s like my skin is both expanding and contracting, pushing and pulling.
In the cyclone of terror, I remember. I remember everything.
I wish I didn’t. I wish it all away.
Around the room, there are no mirrors, and I know it’s no accident. It’s small comfort. I don’t want to see myself. I may never look in a mirror again. It’s only me and a bed, and colorful murals of elephants and giraffes on the wall, their cartoon smiles mocking me. I must be in the children’s wing, even though I’m sixteen. Next to me, an IV recedes into my vein. To my left is a button. It could be to call for assistance. Or to adjust the bed. But I think it’s something else. I think it’s for pain.
I could press it and disappear into numbness.
I could press it and just drift.
But there is something about pain. It’s the price of being alive.
The button is my litmus test.
I am stronger than my pain. I need to focus on something—anything. I need to distract myself.
I am not my pain.
I am Ruthie Stroud. I live at— wait—not anymore. I have a brother—no, not anymore.
I shut my eyes. I can’t shut them hard enough. Through the darkness, I still see fire. My world engulfed with flickering orange and reds. And the all-encompassing heat, heat beyond boiling, bordering on oblivion. Melting.
My last memory is coming ashore on the mainland, alone and fiercely tired. I didn’t walk, didn’t run. I moved, floating, held aloft by the most invisible of strings, my eyes on the horizon, people on the edges of my vision. Adults. I felt their gaze. The air was cool and moist and my skin so hot. Moving and moving; people staring. I hear them, words like police and 911 and oh my God. They surround me, a horde. They’re feral creatures, circling, their faces distorted. They are coming for me. I have no escape.
I scream and my world goes dark.
“Ruthie?”
I open my eyes. A woman stands in the hospital room doorway. Her skin is the color of teak, her black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and without a uniform, she’s clearly no nurse. I look down her button-down shirt and a badge is attached to her belt, a gun holstered at her side.
She says, not unkindly, “I’m Detective Perez from the Washington State Police.”
I knew the cops would get involved, even though they’re late. Far too late.
She waits for me to invite her in. “May I?”
I nod and my skin crinkles and cracks. She enters, pulling a chair beside my bed and sits down. Her brown eyes rest on me and then dart away. She can’t bear to look. I must seem a monster. She asks, “How are you feeling?”
I don’t know how to answer that question.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
Down the hall, I hear a child scream. From surgery or fear, I don’t know. I think fight the pain, fight the pain.
She speaks to me in soothing tones. “I need to ask you a few questions. About what happened. Can you talk?”
My mouth is dry, my throat sore, my vocal chords thrashed. I’d forgotten how much I screamed. I feel my skin wrinkle into deep crevices as I move my jaw, and it’s an effort to form words. Even my tongue feels burned; this strange muscle in my mouth. “Is my dad coming?”
“He’s on his way.” We share a bit of silence and I stare at the woman she is, the beautiful woman I will never be, and she says, “I’d like to start at the beginning. And if there’s ever a point where you need to stop, just let me know, okay?”
“There’s just one thing,” and I clear my throat. I force her to find my eyes. To see. To look. To understand.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t judge me,” I tell her. “I did what I had to.”
About the Author
James Morris is a former television writer who now works in digital media. He is the author of the Kindle Scout selectees What Lies Within and Melophobia, as well as the young adult suspense Feel Me Fall and trio of short stories Abraham Lincoln Must Die. Catch him at jamesmorriswriter.com.
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Ever wondered about the personalities behind your favorite books? #bestseller @JayCrownover #podcast #interview
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THIS WEEK’S BEST SELLING AUTHOR…
JAY CROWNOVER!
Jay Crownover is the international and multiple New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Marked Men Series, The Saints of Denver Series, The Point Series, Breaking Point Series, and the Getaway Series. Her books can be found translated in many different languages all around the world. She is a tattooed, crazy haired Colorado native who lives at the base of the Rockies with her awesome dogs. This is where she can frequently be found enjoying a cold beer and Taco Tuesdays. Jay is a self-declared music snob and outspoken book lover who is always looking for her next adventure, between the pages and on the road.
THE DEMON DELIVERANCE
THE DEMON DELIVERANCE
Knights of Black Swan, Book 12
by Victoria Danann
THE THREE SOULS by BILL THOMAS
The Three Souls Blitz
Contemporary Fiction/Fantasy
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: June 2017
Johnny Chambers is jailed in Texas in the early 1960’s. He is falsely convicted of a crime and is sentenced to five years in prison. While is prison he meets two other inmates Vinny Le Pugh and David Madejas.
Both inmates have had near death experiences and yet both have shown new found talents in music and art. Johnny decides to talk to the warden about their ability in a way to help them find their freedom. The warden goes along with it for a while but then decides to pull the plug on the craft room. Johnny, fearing for his life, decides to plan an escape with the two inmates and their art.
About the Author
Bill Thomas grew up in Austin, Texas. Bill started playing drums at an early age and played in many local bands including The Rock Hounds and Primitive Moderns. Bill moved to guitar and released two original CD’s on CD Baby. He performs with a stage name of Bill James. Bill has also written two full length screenplays.
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LOYAL & TRUE Hearts of Caledonia
Searching for Gertrude by D.E. Haggerty
Searching for Gertrude Blitz
Historical Fiction, Historical Romance
Date Published: January 22, 2018
While growing up in Germany in the 1930s, Rudolf falls in love with the girl next door, Gertrude. He doesn’t care what religion Gertrude practices but the Nazis do. When the first antisemitic laws are enacted by the Nazi government, Gertrude’s father loses his job at the local university. Unable to find employment in Germany, he accepts a position at Istanbul University and moves the family to Turkey. Rudolf, desperate to follow Gertrude, takes a position working at the consulate in Istanbul with the very government which caused her exile. With Rudolf finally living in the same city as Gertrude, their reunion should be inevitable, but he can’t find her. During his search for Gertrude, he stumbles upon Rosalyn, an American Jew working as a nanny in the city. Upon hearing his heartbreaking story, she immediately agrees to help him search for his lost love. Willing to do anything in their search for Gertrude, they agree to work for a British intelligence officer who promises his assistance, but his demands endanger Rudolf and Rosalyn. As the danger increases and the search for Gertrude stretches on, Rudolf and Rosalyn grow close, but Rudolf gave his heart away long ago.
How far would you go to find the woman you love?
Excerpt
As usual, the clerk rushed out of the room as soon as it was lunchtime the next day. Rudolf waited until the other administrative workers had left, and then he waited an additional five minutes to make sure no one was coming back. He didn’t sneak over to the clerk’s desk. He strolled over as if he had business to which he needed to attend even as his palms sweated and his heart beat erratically. He tugged on the drawer to ensure it was locked before pulling the letter opener out of his pocket. He looked around to ensure he was still alone before kneeling in front of the drawer and sticking the letter opener in the tiny lock. With only a bit of jiggling, the lock clicked open. As quietly as he could, Rudolf pulled the drawer open and peeked in. Sure enough, the cabinet keys were sitting in the tray on the top of the drawer. He slid the drawer closed and went to stand. That’s when he realized his mistake. The drawer had to be locked when the clerk arrived. Otherwise, he would immediately assume something was wrong.
Rudolf kneeled in front of the closed drawer and once again stuck his letter opener in the lock. If the letter opener could unlock the drawer, it stood to reason it could also lock it. It took quite a bit of fiddling made worse by his shaky hands before he felt a click. He heard the clacking of boots on tile and jumped to his feet while thrusting the letter opener in his pocket. The sound came closer. He didn’t have time to check the lock was engaged. He rushed in the opposite direction of the approaching person, entering the hallway on the far side of the office. He walked to the toilet and waited until he was locked in a stall before he dared to take a breath. He leaned against the stall door and took deep breaths while his heart slowly went back to its regular rhythm.
After he managed to gain some semblance of calm, he splashed cold water on his face before returning to his desk where he waited for the clerk to arrive. Was the desk drawer locked? Would the clerk know someone had tampered with the drawer even if it was locked? It took all of Rudolf’s willpower to not constantly glance at the clerk’s empty desk. When the clerk finally arrived, Rudolf tilted his chair in the clerk’s direction and waited with bated breath. But nothing happened other than the clerk unlocking his desk after sitting down. Rudolf waited for the man to notice things were amiss. It took several hours before he realized the clerk was not going to notice anything, and he could relax. He could breathe for the first time since lunch and got back to work.
About the Author
I grew-up reading everything I could get my grubby hands on, from my mom’s Harlequin romances, to Nancy Drew, to Little Women. When I wasn’t flipping pages in a library book, I was penning horrendous poems, writing songs no one should ever sing, or drafting stories which have thankfully been destroyed. College and a stint in the U.S. Army came along, robbing me of free time to write and read, although on the odd occasion I did manage to sneak a book into my rucksack between rolled up socks, MRIs, t-shirts, and cold weather gear. After surviving the army experience, I went back to school and got my law degree. I jumped ship and joined the hubby in the Netherlands before the graduation ceremony could even begin. A few years into my legal career, I was exhausted, fed up, and just plain done. I quit my job and sat down to write a manuscript, which I promptly hid in the attic after returning to the law. But being a lawyer really wasn’t my thing, so I quit (again!) and went off to Germany to start a B&B. Turns out being a B&B owner wasn’t my thing either. I polished off that manuscript languishing in the attic before following the husband to Istanbul where I decided to give the whole writer-thing a go. But ten years was too many to stay away from my adopted home. I packed up again and moved to The Hague where I’m currently working on my next book. I hope I’ll always be working on my next book.
Searching for Gertrude is my twelfth book.
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~~ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ~~ Breath ~~ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ~~
* I usually avoid Kickstarter projects. This however is one I strongly believe in, not only because I am a huge fan of Victoria’s writing but also because her stories are such, so high quality that they stay with you.
BREATH by
Victoria Dougherty
Victoria Dougherty
Are you
looking for a story that’ll make you feel the lush beauty and thrill of true
love, while taking you on a pulse-pounding journey through history?
looking for a story that’ll make you feel the lush beauty and thrill of true
love, while taking you on a pulse-pounding journey through history?
BREATH is
what you’ve been waiting to read. And to experience. Because you can be a part
of bringing this story into existence.
what you’ve been waiting to read. And to experience. Because you can be a part
of bringing this story into existence.
Imagine if
you’d been there when Suzanne Collins was writing The Hunger Games or Stephanie Meyer was writing Twilight. When George RR Martin was
penning Game of Thrones. You might
have lived the story through advance copies and maybe a conversation or two.
When you join me on BREATH, you can receive advance copies, artwork,
photographs, and short, BREATH-inspired love stories that only a handful of
readers will ever lay eyes on. You will receive regular updates from me about
how BREATH is coming to life.
you’d been there when Suzanne Collins was writing The Hunger Games or Stephanie Meyer was writing Twilight. When George RR Martin was
penning Game of Thrones. You might
have lived the story through advance copies and maybe a conversation or two.
When you join me on BREATH, you can receive advance copies, artwork,
photographs, and short, BREATH-inspired love stories that only a handful of
readers will ever lay eyes on. You will receive regular updates from me about
how BREATH is coming to life.
Nif and Sherin are
Ninti. They share a deep and powerful devotion that puts them both in mortal
danger, while propelling them towards an extraordinary fate that ensures they
will live infinite human lives…and suffer an equal number of deaths. Together
they must solve a mystery that spans the ages, or risk losing one another
forever.
Ninti. They share a deep and powerful devotion that puts them both in mortal
danger, while propelling them towards an extraordinary fate that ensures they
will live infinite human lives…and suffer an equal number of deaths. Together
they must solve a mystery that spans the ages, or risk losing one another
forever.
BREATH
is a story of lovers, killers, curses and destinies. It’s about the people who
lived history, but it’s also a tale of those who unearthed history in order to
preserve and understand its legacy.
is a story of lovers, killers, curses and destinies. It’s about the people who
lived history, but it’s also a tale of those who unearthed history in order to
preserve and understand its legacy.
You
get to travel with Nif and Sherin during their adventures, but you’ll also be
present alongside the past and future archeologists who are driven to solve the
puzzle of their existence.
get to travel with Nif and Sherin during their adventures, but you’ll also be
present alongside the past and future archeologists who are driven to solve the
puzzle of their existence.
To make
BREATH an amazing, immersive, world-building experience, the novel will need
original art work, award-winning editorial direction and design, plus vintage
photography from some of the greatest archeological expeditions the world has
ever known.
BREATH an amazing, immersive, world-building experience, the novel will need
original art work, award-winning editorial direction and design, plus vintage
photography from some of the greatest archeological expeditions the world has
ever known.
And you
can help make that happen, and get some fantastic rewards, too. Not only swag
like printed copies of the book before
it’s available to the general public, but BREATH posters, a limited edition
book of BREATH artwork and photography, and even personal story consulting worth
hundreds of dollars.
can help make that happen, and get some fantastic rewards, too. Not only swag
like printed copies of the book before
it’s available to the general public, but BREATH posters, a limited edition
book of BREATH artwork and photography, and even personal story consulting worth
hundreds of dollars.
Just
click on the link to my Kickstarter campaign, watch a video or two, and read
about the incredible potential to make BREATH unlike any other epic historical
romance you’ve ever read or even imagined.
click on the link to my Kickstarter campaign, watch a video or two, and read
about the incredible potential to make BREATH unlike any other epic historical
romance you’ve ever read or even imagined.
Readers
want and deserve a story experience that is as visually stunning as it is
soul-stirring. A poetry of words and pictures that doesn’t merely introduce
them to a story, but draws them into a whole world of passion, adventure and
intrigue with characters who come to feel like family.
want and deserve a story experience that is as visually stunning as it is
soul-stirring. A poetry of words and pictures that doesn’t merely introduce
them to a story, but draws them into a whole world of passion, adventure and
intrigue with characters who come to feel like family.
With
your support, BREATH will become a story you can’t do without. One of the three
things you’ll grab and save if you ever have to run out of your burning house
in nothing but your underwear.
your support, BREATH will become a story you can’t do without. One of the three
things you’ll grab and save if you ever have to run out of your burning house
in nothing but your underwear.
Victoria
Dougherty bio:
Dougherty bio:
Victoria Dougherty is the author of
THE BONE CHURCH, THE HUNGARIAN, WELCOME TO THE HOTEL YALTA and COLD.
THE BONE CHURCH, THE HUNGARIAN, WELCOME TO THE HOTEL YALTA and COLD.
A writer and consultant with Dougherty
Dialectic since 2001, she has ghost-written articles, speeches and testimony
for Fortune 500 executives, and taught multiple seminars on writing. Her
journalism and essays have been published in the Chicago Tribune, the Prague
Post, and the Sunday edition of the New York Times. Victoria has also written,
translated, and produced television news segments and video scripts.
Dialectic since 2001, she has ghost-written articles, speeches and testimony
for Fortune 500 executives, and taught multiple seminars on writing. Her
journalism and essays have been published in the Chicago Tribune, the Prague
Post, and the Sunday edition of the New York Times. Victoria has also written,
translated, and produced television news segments and video scripts.
Earlier in her career, while living in
Prague, she co-founded Black Box Theater, translating, producing, and acting in
to sold-out audiences in several Czech plays – from Vaclav Havel’s “Protest” to
the unintentionally hilarious communist propaganda play “Karhan’s Men.” Black
Box Theater was profiled in feature articles in USA Today and numerous European
publications.
Prague, she co-founded Black Box Theater, translating, producing, and acting in
to sold-out audiences in several Czech plays – from Vaclav Havel’s “Protest” to
the unintentionally hilarious communist propaganda play “Karhan’s Men.” Black
Box Theater was profiled in feature articles in USA Today and numerous European
publications.
Her blog – COLD* (www.victoriadougherty.wordpress.com) – features her short essays on faith,
family, love, and writing. WordPress, the blogging platform that hosts over 70
million blogs worldwide, has singled out COLD as one of their top Recommended
Blogs by writers or about writing.
family, love, and writing. WordPress, the blogging platform that hosts over 70
million blogs worldwide, has singled out COLD as one of their top Recommended
Blogs by writers or about writing.
Asleep From Day Blitz
Contemporary/General Fiction
Date Published: January 10th, 2018
Astrid can’t remember the best day of her life: yesterday.
A traumatic car accident erases Astrid’s memories of September 9th, the day she spent with an oddly charming stranger named Theo. Ever since, she’s been haunted by surreal dreams and an urgent sense that she’s forgotten something important. One night, she gets a mysterious call from Oliver, who knows more about her than he should and claims he can help her remember. She accepts his help, even as she questions his motives and fights a strange attraction to him.
In order to find Theo and piece together that lost day in September, Astrid must navigate a maze of eccentric Boston nightlife, from the seedy corners of Chinatown to a drug-fueled Alice-in-Wonderland-themed party to a club where everyone dresses like the dead. In between headaches and nightmares, she struggles to differentiate between memory, fantasy, and reality, and starts to wonder if Theo really exists. Eventually, she’ll need to choose between continuing her search for him or following her growing feelings for Oliver. Astrid might go to extreme lengths to find what she’s lost . . . or might lose even more in her pursuit to remember (like her sanity).
“A compelling and original take on the classic amnesia tale . . . The narrative bursts with detailed, vivid characters . . . The dialogue is expertly crafted.” – The BookLife Prize
“Simply riveting from start to finish… a captivating, literary piece that winds a path somewhere between mystery, romance, and psychological thriller.” – D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review
Excerpt
What’s the last thing you remember?
A rumble, a static rush, the world on a dimmer switch.
Outside, everything was gray.
But inside, a galaxy of color and light. Fireflies behind my eyes, neon in my bones. A nerve net of bioluminescence.
Radiant with hope. Glorious.
Do you know where you are?
In the heart of a storm. Give me lightning. Give me the flood. I’ve bled the sky of pigment, devoured its clouds. They remain like honey on my tongue, crystalized with promise. Nothing was ever sweeter.
What happened?
Something incredible.
Something terrible.
No more color. Fade to grey.
I’ve been robbed of this elation.
Stay with me.
—
I have the weirdest taste in my mouth. Metallic, like I’ve been sucking on pennies, and spicy—no, not spicy. Stinging. Blood. What the—? I move my tongue and feel tiny pebbles. They’re sharp, cutting my gums and the insides of my cheeks. Not pebbles. Teeth? No. Glass.
I turn to spit out pieces of broken glass, but there’s something around my neck and I can’t move it. Okay, don’t panic. I push the glass out of my mouth with the tip of my tongue and pieces roll down my chin on a trail of saliva and blood. Now let’s turn on a light in here.
I open my eyes. Huh.
What is this place? There are shelves of equipment, strange monitors, dials, wires. Some kind of . . . storage room? The image blurs and wobbles. If my head is a handheld camera, whoever’s operating it has a serious case of the shakes. I can’t get a steady picture and I have no idea what this place is.
Have I been kidnapped?
That thought should trigger some modicum of fear. But it’s like I’m trapped in a block of ice and fear is on the other side of it. I can barely muster any curiosity to figure out where I am. The rest of it—how I got here, if I’m safe, hurt, etc.—will have to wait.
So let’s see. The room is tiny, and moving, and noisy. There are beeps, the hiss and tinny chatter of a walkie-talkie, the looped bellow of a siren.
Seriously, where am I?
Nowhere good, a black whisper warns, and a fog in my mind parts, clearing a path for fear, the belated guest.
The image finally snaps into focus and it registers: an ambulance.
Why the fuck am I in an ambulance?
I sit up with a—nope, I can only lift my head maybe an inch.
Why aren’t you panicking more?
Because it’s getting foggy inside my head again and blurry outside of it. I could really use a nap. It’s so chilly in here. And bright. Might as well close my eyes and deal with this in the morning. Ah, the dark is much better.
Hang on. Let’s get some questions answered first, maybe make sure I’m not missing any limbs. I try to sit up again and a hand on my shoulder prevents me from rising any further. No, it’s not just the hand. I’m strapped in.
“Nice to see you coming around, but don’t try to sit up. My name is Leo and I’m a paramedic. Do you know today’s date?”
I squint but can’t make out the face above me.
“September ninth, 1999,” I mumble.
“It’s actually September tenth,” he corrects me. Close enough.
“What happened? Am I hurt?” Of course you’re hurt, genius. I doubt you’re tied to a gurney, with a mouthful of glass, just joyriding in an ambulance.
“It’s going to be okay, Astrid, we’re almost at the hospital.”
How does this guy know my name? Why am I going to the hospital? Because that’s usually the drop-off destination of ambulances. Try to keep up here. What happened to me?
My head is so damn heavy. Back down it goes, more blood, more spit trickling out of the corners of my mouth. I form words but can’t speak them. I manage a garbled whisper, but it’s drowned out by sirens, rattling noises, and the tapping of heavy rain on the ambulance roof.
I need to take stock. I’m mostly immobile, but am I paralyzed? I try to wiggle the toes. Okay, those work fine. Fingers? The ones on the left hand move then seize up in pain. Blinded? Obviously not, but my vision is still fuzzy at the edges. Obviously, I can’t move my head much, but I shouldn’t anyway, in case I have a concussion. Or worse. Go away, black whisper, I don’t need you scaring the shit out of me right now.
Back to my self-assessment. Do I feel pain anywhere else in my body? Now that I mention it, hell yes. Where? Everywhere, especially my left side.
Why can’t I remember how this happened? I keep asking the paramedic, but he won’t tell me. Why won’t he answer me?
Oh yeah, because he can’t actually hear me. Because my lips are barely moving and no sound is coming out.
It’s an effort to form any more words or keep my eyes open. Is there a cold, heavy blanket over me? Uh-oh, those blurry edges are going dark. It’s like someone pushed me into a deep well and I’m falling in slow motion.
“Try to stay awake, Astrid.”
Fingers snap in front of my face.
Cut it out, ambulance man. You’re messing up my nap. It’s so much nicer with my eyes closed. All you do is boss me around with “Don’t sit up” this and “Stay awake” that. The darkness is quiet and doesn’t make annoying demands.
“Astrid. Astrid!”
His voice is like a megaphone in my ear. Where is your mute button, ambulance man?
I think I found it. It’s here, further down in the dark.
I hear two voices, growing fainter as they speak.
“She’s out again, but vitals are stable.”
I’m not out, yet, ambulance man. Give a girl a break, would ya? It’s not my fault I have anvils on my eyelids. Besides, the light in here is too bright. And you are too loud. But I can still hear you fine . . . Mostly . . . Kind of . . .
“You’d think people would know not to drive like assholes in this kind of rain.”
“What is this, third one today?”
“Fourth. You hear about the wreck by the BQE? Five cars and a motorcycle. Two fatalities.”
“This one got lucky.”
“So to speak.”
“So to speak.”
“Want to get breakfast after this?”
“It’s lunchtime.”
“So? I want breakfast. Couldn’t you go for some French toast or pancakes?”
“Maybe eggs. Some strong coffee, bacon . . .”
“Extra bacon.”
How about taking my order, ambulance man? I’ll have—
Darkness.
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About the Author
Margarita Montimore received a BFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. She worked for over a decade in publishing and social media before deciding to focus on the writing dream full-time. She has blogged for Marvel, Google, Quirk Books, and XOJane.com. When not writing, she freelances as a book coach and editor. She grew up in Brooklyn but currently lives in a different part of the Northeast with her husband and dog.
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Universal (all buy links can be found here)
M.C.V. EGAN ❧Defining Ways❧ 