Tag: short-story

STRINGS

Published on by mariacatalinaeganLeave a comment

 

Contemporary Fiction

Date Published: 11-23-2025


 

 A pandemic is spreading across the globe. A national lockdown looms in the United States. A Southern journalist sees a chance to protect her health and jumpstart her career by escaping north to a Minnesota wilderness. Feisty and wary of entanglement, she piques the interest of a bored Native American rock star on his way home.


Robby Song’s career may be on hold, but Grace Wheeler is on a mission to build hers. To Robby, she’s an intriguing challenge. To Grace, he’s a distraction she’s not ready to handle. But the brutal Northwoods winter is coming. Grace flees back south . . . to soul-searching isolation and a puzzling middle-of-the-night call.



Excerpt


PART I – THE NORTHWOODS
 
Chapter 1 – Airports


          Empty. No sounds except flight announcements and Covid precautions over the PA as Grace trekked alone through the wide, carpeted corridors, stepped onto the moving walkways, and passed the shuttered kiosks, shops, and restaurants of the Minneapolis airport. The few people she saw, behind counters or scurrying past at safe distances, wore surgical masks, except for one or two who had creative, last-minute coverings . . . red bandannas or black gaiters. The antiseptic smell of hand sanitizer hung in the air, penetrating her mask. If she closed her eyes, she could think she was in a hospital. Her hair probably reeked of the stuff. Of course, her gate was the last one. She shrugged her old, green backpack off and sank into a seat against the wall, leaning her head back and closing her eyes, hoping the flight was still happening. Except for her, the gate area was deserted. Maybe she could drift off.
But it was no good. She couldn’t sleep. She was tired, and the adrenaline had worn off, but she was growing anxious. Maybe she wasn’t as brave or capable as she’d thought. She sat up, pulled the tablet out of her backpack, and began rereading her notes from the last interview she’d done, the one with the middle school English teacher about online classes. She needed to get it written up and into her editor. She could not lose this job, her only income. A seat creaked nearby. She looked up. She hadn’t heard him walk up, but good sign, another passenger. A man was sitting with his head leaned back against the window, eyes closed, long legs stretched in front of him, a guitar case leaning against the next seat with a tan jacket thrown over it. Before long, he sat up, glanced at her over his black mask with tiny gold stars, rose, and walked to the bank of windows at the end of the concourse. He stood there, looking out, a tall, thin man all in black, with a long braid. Quite the silhouette. She looked back at her notes.
“Cozy, huh? A whole airport and just the two of us.”
She jumped. The voice was unexpected . . . and hoarse. He was six feet in front of her. She stared up at him. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
“Well, I try to look for the positive.” He paused and cleared his throat but didn’t turn away. “I’m going in search of coffee. If you’ll keep an eye on my things, I’ll bring you some.”  
“I’ll watch them.”
He moved the guitar and jacket to a seat in her row, then straightening, looked at her. “You want coffee or not? You didn’t actually say.”
They studied each other then, the way people do when they’re wearing masks — all eyes. His were dark, almost black, under barely arched eyebrows. They looked at her steadily . . . with a touch of amusement? Hers were brown, with the beginning of a worry wrinkle between her brows. She looked back with a serious expression.
“Sure. Black, one sugar.” She leaned over to get her wallet and noticed her toenails. She had meant to cover the chips with a fresh coat of blue polish. Oh, well.
“I’ll get it.” He walked off.
A red packet was on the carpet below his jacket. She put her tablet down on the little table between her and the next seat, walked over, and picked it up. D’Addario Guitar Strings. She placed it on the worn suede jacket, under the sleeve but visible, and went back to her notes.
                                                                                ************
          “I stopped at a hand sanitizer.”
She nearly dropped her tablet this time. “You need a bell!”
“Sorry.” He was in a seat, reaching across his guitar to place her coffee on the little table. “One of my nicknames growing up was Sneak. But you seem a little edgy.”  
          “Maybe.” She noticed his long, slender fingers and wondered if that was good for playing guitar. Her mother’d always said it helped with playing the piano. She picked up the cup and went to remove one side of her mask, but the loop was tangled in her hair. She put the cup back down. Masks were proving to be a challenge. She’d given up trying to control her hair long ago, but masks weren’t optional. Her hair was dark red, dark enough it was hard to see the red unless she was in the sun. The kind of red hair that’s big and ends up in long twirls unless you comb or brush it which only makes it a bigger, frizzy mess. She tried to free first one side of her mask, then the other, finally getting one, then a sip of coffee. She looked his way. He was watching her. “I hadn’t realized how much I needed this. Thanks.”
“You have a lot of hair.” He turned away, removed his mask with one hand, took a sip, and turned his face toward her, pausing, then going on, “I knew how much I needed it.” Leaning forward, he put his forearms on his thighs and held the coffee between his knees. He was not unattractive, in an angular, ascetic kind of way — prominent cheekbones, straight nose, full lips, and the dark eyes.
He’d bought her coffee, so she figured she should try to be sociable. “Have you come a long way?”
“Not today. Just from my apartment. But I’ve been traveling. Got in late. You?”
“This is my third airport since five this morning.”
“Sounds like you’ve come a long way. Got somebody in Duluth?” He sipped.
“I wish. I have no idea what I’m doing next.”
He raised his eyebrows and looked over at the clock. “I’d say you have about an hour and a half to figure something out.” Just then, an agent walked up to the check-in desk. 
 “Do you think they’ll take us, if it’s only us?”
“I don’t know. Probably depends on whether they need to get a plane to Duluth, for commuters. I guess we’ll see. I’ve never had this flight cancel.”
“You’ve done this before?”
He nodded, swallowing a sip of coffee. “Every four . . . six months or so. I’ve got family all around Duluth . . . and this time, I’m staying . . . a while. I figure I’m safer up there than most anywhere.”
“Me, too.”
The PA system came on. “Good afternoon passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight 2514 to Duluth. We are now inviting those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring special assistance, to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately ten minutes time. Thank you.” The agent looked in their direction and shrugged. “If you guys are ready, you can board.”
They gathered their belongings. He noticed the strings and looked over at her, but she was putting her tablet away. As she passed him, he said, “I’m Robby.”
She replied, “Oh . . . Grace.”
 

About the Author


Jan Merritt lives on the coast of South Carolina with strong ties to northern Minnesota where her dad was born. Her early life was filled with rich, but conflicting narratives. On the one hand, her dad regaled her with pioneering stories from Minnesota: Merritt boys tramping through tamarack swamps and the Northwoods, learning from their Ojibwe neighbors; surviving -60° winters; and the saga of her great-grandfather leading them to discover iron ore on the Mesabi Range only to lose that mining fortune to John D. Rockefeller in a New York City courtroom. But on the other hand, Jan’s education in an elite private girls’ school in downtown Charleston, South Carolina, led her into a privileged, old South social set she wasn’t born into, one with a different set of values. These opposing values simmered in Jan’s head.


She grew up passionate about teaching, both in the classroom and on horses. She married and had a family. Life was good, but it came to a halt when she discovered by accident that she had brain cancer. She has survived, but after the surgeries and treatments, her brain is not the same. She can’t ride or teach school, but her new brain is busy. It creates conversations. One night toward the end of Covid, Jan gave up trying to sleep and decided to write down what the people were saying … maybe if she got the chatter out of her head, she could sleep. It didn’t work but she hasn’t stopped writing. Jan has a new passion.


 
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Uprising Teaser

Published on by mariacatalinaeganLeave a comment

 

 

Book One of the Fitzjohn Duology


Historical Fiction with Speculative and Romantic Elements

Date Published: 09-01-2026

Publisher: Literary Wanderlust


England, 1381 AD: Blanche Fitzjohn is an outcast in her small coastal village. Not only is she the illegitimate daughter of John of Gaunt, the man responsible for her neighbors’ over-taxation, but she possesses strange abilities: hearing sound from miles away and smelling people’s emotions.

She takes solace in her studies with the local wisewoman and in her friendship with Geoff, a groom at the local manor. Until the day Henry of Lancaster, Blanche’s half-brother, brings her news of an arranged marriage to Sir Thomas Prescott, Constable of the Tower of London. Although she smells cruelty on him, Blanche agrees to marry Thomas in the hopes that her influence may help better the lives of Geoff and all England’s villeins.

But soon, the peasants’ discontent turns to revolt. Though her heart is of the people, Blanche’s nobility makes her an enemy to the rebels. To save herself and Henry from the executioner’s ax, Blanche must use every power at her disposal, even those she once considered a curse.



Chapter Six Excerpt

 

Something shifts, like summer’s green leaves transforming to autumnal gold. Speaking with Geoff about my marriage hurts like I’d never expected, a deep ache. The moon thrums, and an owl, perched in a nearby tree, shifts as she searches for prey. My temples throb.

“It seemed…” he begins again. “It seemed he didn’t want to marry you, after you…” I glare and cross my arms before lifting my face. He continues: “I thought perhaps you could get out of it because…”

“Because of what?”

“Because, ye’re…”

“What, Geoff, what am I?”

His mouth opens like a fish above water, and he doesn’t bother to shut it. In the tree, the owl flaps her wings and leaps into the air.

“Ye’re…” The tips of Geoff’s fingers flutter. “Well, I don’t know what you are, Dandy. Ye’re just…yerself. And I thought—”

“You thought he wouldn’t want me?”

His face falls. “He’s not like you, Dandy. That’s all. He’s not a good man. I heard him talking, when it was just the men…”

He drops his eyes and his cheekbones redden.

Neither of us seems to know what to say next. After a full minute of silence, he lurches forward and grasps my shoulders, crushing me to his chest. “Blanche, just consider.”

I gasp and have to steady myself. But within seconds, tears come to my eyes, along with a calming release of tension. I grip his forearms, inhale his familiar scent. He’s always smelled of horses, with a hint of bread dough and sugar from the manor kitchens he’s constantly raiding. There’s something different tonight. I sniff. It’s crisp, yet soft. Evergreens in winter, covered with fresh snow.

He buries his nose in my hair. “You could refuse,” he says, voice a gentle rumble against my face, “and stay with yer mother. She’d be angry, yes, but she wouldn’t throw you out. They can’t drag you to the church. For a marriage to be real, you must consent.”

Consent. The word ripples through me. It makes me see that I want more, from Maman, from my father, but most of all from Geoff. I need something I can’t identify, something I can’t express.

“If I marry Thomas…” My muffled voice breaks. “It will make the duke happy. He’ll…” I tense, regretting my words.

“He’ll what?”

I can’t answer, can’t tell him that by marrying Sir Thomas, I hope to earn my father’s love. To replace…something.

The moon moves behind a cloud and the trees shift, branches releasing a shower of rain. Geoff drops one hand to the small of my back and lifts the other to my cheek. His palms are warm, and I slide my own to clench his upper arms. When my fingertips brush hardened muscles, I almost snatch my hands back. Before tonight, I still thought of Geoff as a child, the lanky villein who could ride any horse, no matter how fierce. Now…my mouth goes dry, but I can’t resist running my hands up the length of his arms, letting them rest on his shoulders. The skin beneath his tunic is damp with sweat.

Corded muscles tense and stretch beneath my fingers, sending little jolts through me. He stoops, chin brushing my temple.

I touch the notch of his throat with my fingertips. He freezes. Tiny curls of dark hair peek above his collar, tickling my fingers. He lets his face linger on mine, and I feel him inhale.

A pleasant warmth spreads through my belly, then down. Something’s happening, something I don’t understand. I should run, should leave. But I don’t. Another breeze drifts through the tree branches, and he pulls me closer, pressing me to him.

I feel him, all of him, from feet to chin, in a way I never have. A tingling, heavy warmth settles on me, and I feel Geoff’s own need pressing against my belly.

It should make me uncomfortable, but I find myself pressing back, wanting more. Wanting it all.

I’m not well-versed in what happens between a woman and a man—that’s one area of my education Maman neglected—but I’m not completely ignorant. I know Geoff and I stand on a cliff, gazing into a deep ravine. One more step, and we’ll both be lost.

I’m still touching his throat, suspended in our odd dance beneath the shuddering tree branches, when he bends further. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation of his stubbly chin against my face. He exhales, and a shiver runs down my spine.

“Dandy…” he murmurs.

The owl swoops to snatch a mouse from the forest floor in sharp talons. Her screech is like a battle horn, ricocheting with painful deliberation in my skull, joined by the mouse’s squeal. My eyelids snap open and I step out of his embrace.

 

About the Author

 

 J.E. Rizzo is a life-long history fanatic and writer of historical fiction, and her work can be found in Vanity Fair, The Boston Globe, The Guardian, The Tudor Times, Tudor Life Magazine, Scary Mommy, and Ultrarunning Magazine. Rizzo won Manuscript Academy’s Agent Choice Award in 2024, and her article Past and Precedence: Abortion Law in the Middle Ages and Its Use to Overturn Roe v. Wade won History Inquiry’s Medieval History Writing Challenge.

By day, Rizzo works in Human Resources—a field offering more than ample opportunity to observe the follies and fancies of humankind. Before her career in HR, Rizzo worked as an opera singer, a professional baker, and a dog walker. These days, when not writing she can be found running ultramarathons through the forests and mountains of New England, knitting, reading, sewing, baking, or performing any number of (what some might call) old-lady hobbies. She also keeps busing caring for her two children and forty-seven houseplants, making her husband carry heavy things and cook her gourmet meals, and rehabilitating her rescue dog and semi-feral ginger cat.

 

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Only Angels Have Blue Eyes

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Horror / Suspense

Date Published: 08-03-2026




Things are looking up for Maylin Cole and her 4-year-old daughter, Margo. Fleeing an abusive relationship, the private clinic Heaven’s Hope offers shelter and the promise of a new life. Led by the charismatic and beguiling Seraph Nakir, they learn a surprising truth: they’re actually angels who have lost their way.

Everyone has an angel name and is being prepared to ‘ascend’ when the time is right. Their angelic identities will play a significant role in aiding humanity when the world ends.

As the weeks pass, Maylin becomes accustomed to the peculiar confrontational therapy. The black curtains and bars on the windows no longer trouble her. The lack of privacy, mystifying theology, and strange rules become commonplace. She sees Margo less frequently since the children are kept in the basement.

The death of another patient awakens Maylin to dark secrets within the walls, and soon the horrifying truth about Nakir and Heaven’s Hope is revealed. Maylin must confront her insecurities, rediscover her individuality, and use her wits and resources if she hopes to save Margo and the other children.

Inspired by a true crime case, this slow-burn thriller roars to a pulse-pounding climax, reminding the reader to think independently, ask questions, and be careful who you trust.



Excerpt


Maylin stared at Nakir in disbelief. “I…I can’t do this.”

“Administer Uriel’s punishment. Now,” he replied.

Maylin looked at the man’s back as he knelt before the fireplace like a monk at an ancient altar. Then she looked back at Seraph Nakir. “No. N-no way…”

Nakir tilted his head, his dreadlocks falling to one side. He scowled at her. “The injury was against you,” he said. “So, it is only right that you be the one to dispense his punishment.”

She shook her head, eyes still wide, and thrust the poker toward Nakir.

He refused it. “You must, my daughter. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. His bruises for your bruises. Go ahead. Begin.”

“No, no—this isn’t right. It’s not—”

“Carry out the punishment!” Seraph Nakir bellowed, stepping forward to tower over her.

 

About the Author


J. Todd Kingrea is the author of “With A Blighted Touch” and The Deiparian Saga (“The Witchfinder,” “The Crimson Fathers,” and “Bane of the Witch”). He has also authored two non-fiction books, two short stories, and role-playing game scenarios. When not writing, he enjoys collecting and watching movies, reading, and prowling through dusty old bookstores. He and his wife live in Galax, Virginia.

You can find him online at http://www.jtoddkingrea.com.  Stay in touch at jtoddkingrea@yahoo.com.


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Voices Carry Here

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Mystery and Suspense

Date Published: 05-04-2026

Publisher: Mission Point Press



Do you hear the voices? Listen if you dare . . . You’ll get both the heebies and the jeebies in this unsettling new title.

A henpecked husband learns that “till death do us part” isn’t the end of the story when his dead wife returns.

A newly retired couple uncovers a pestilent secret buried beneath their dream home.

A young woman retreats to the countryside to discover herself, only to stumble upon an unsolved tragedy calling out for justice.

Voices Carry Here is a collection of short stories steeped in mystery, suspense, and the supernatural. Set against the beauty of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, these tales will reveal secrets just beneath the surface of tranquil lakes, cries for help echoing from shadowed campgrounds, and small-town characters experiencing extraordinary circumstances.

Blending chills with warmth, author Gail Galotta’s flair for supernatural suspense is tempered with touches of humor, romance, and nostalgia.


 
Excerpt from “The Pestilence House”

We moved into our newly constructed home in early June. The first nightmare occurred just two weeks later.

I awoke to the sound of heavy breathing. Thinking at first that it was Ken, I swept my arm across to his side, but it was vacant. I quickly realized that something else was present in the room, something that was steadily approaching the bed. I lay there paralyzed, my back to the presence that hovered above me for a moment and then lowered toward my head. I could feel the subtle waves of labored breaths against the nape of my neck. I tried to scream, but terror froze my vocal cords. Is this a dream? It must be a dream! Where is Ken! Then, another sound invaded my ears—a guttural noise, like that of an animal. A racoon? A coyote? I jerked my head around and opened my mouth to fend off the beast with a mighty shout. Instead, my lips encountered the extended tongue of a different creature. His distorted face—with its bulbous nose and bulging eyes—scarcely seemed human. His skin was dappled with bruises and only thinly veiled the skeletal frame beneath. Suddenly, the tongue retracted, and the jaw extended in an effort to speak—or bite. I screamed. A bloodcurdling scream that vanquished the intruder and sent my very human husband rushing upstairs.

Ken turned on the light and sat next to me on the bed while I attempted an explanation of…I wasn’t sure what. He suggested that my nightmare may have been prompted by something I heard from the movie he had been watching. My trembling eased as he continued. “Sometimes I wake up and think someone’s at our door. You know, like when our dog used to hear a doorbell on TV.”

The reference made me smile. “I didn’t bark, did I?”

Although Ken’s theory seemed plausible, I wasn’t totally convinced. Especially after I suffered a similar experience a few nights later. Our cocker spaniel had been gone for several years, but when I felt the mattress yield to the weight of something at my feet, my first thought was of that beloved pet, and I instinctively adjusted my position to accommodate her. Then my eyes flashed open. Something was moving slowly along my body. I could feel the light depressions on the blanket, like footsteps in the snow. This time I didn’t scream. My breaths quivered as something pressed gently on my back and then my shoulder. I lay still, waiting to throw off the…squirrel? Rat? But when a whisper approached my ear, I bolted upright. Whatever noise I made alarmed Ken. This time the television was off, and the only ambient sound that could have possibly inspired my dream was the rhythmic breathing of my husband, who had been asleep next to me in bed.

 

About the Author


Gail Galotta was raised in Chicago with childhood summers in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

She’s always been drawn to the mystical pull of water, which often shapes the settings of her stories. An award-winning writer and former English teacher, she lives in Vulcan, Michigan, overlooking the same lake that inspired her earliest work. When asked what inspires her latest fiction, she offers only a cryptic smile.


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Amazing Amanda and the Crazy School Carnival

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@RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #AmazingAmandaCarnival #BeverlyAbear #KidsBooks

 

Kids Books / Young Adult

Date Published: 01-14-2026



Amazing Amanda and the Crazy School Carnival includes comedy and yet realistic life issues. Readers will laugh, giggle, worry, and cheer Amanda’s attempts at growth. Amanda is a pre-adolescent girl who deals with body issues, middle-school drama, angst with new girls, coming of age issues such as seeing beyond the surface, handling responsibilities of leadership, and questions about faith. Set in a mid-size central Minnesota town, the story is told exclusively from Amanda’s point of view. Amazing Amanda is a clean, family friendly story.


This is Abear’s debut novel.


Coming soon: Book 2 Amazing Amanda and the Mystery of the Black Cat and Book 3 Amazing Amanda and Her Bright New Day. The series takes readers through Amanda’s entire sixth-grade experience.

 

Excerpt

Amanda lurched down the hall, flapping her arms like a pelican trying to dry her armpits, and flew past the locker area and into her homeroom class. As sunshine streamed through open windows, she hoped a breeze reached her soon.
She shrank down when she got into her seat, the last desk in the middle row of five. Head and shoulders taller than most students and twice as wide, she preferred the back. That was better than hearing, “Amanda scrunch down so I can see,” or “Amanda, could you move a bit to the left?” and other—not so nice—comments.
When the bell rang, she punched out her left arm. “Yay! I made it on time.”
“Watch it,” Charlie Piggott said in the row to her left. His blue eyes widened. “Almost got me that time.”
“Sorry.” Amanda grimaced. “Really.”
“It’s okay. Better luck next time.”
“Huh?”
“To hit your target.”
She frowned. “I don’t want to hit you.”
He broke out in a grin. “Amanda, I’m just kiddin’ ya.”
Amanda grinned back. “You’re a pal.” After she dragged her science stuff from the book bag, she kicked the bag under the desk. Tucking her thatch of brown hair behind her ears, she wiped sweat from her forehead and closed her eyes to slow her breathing. She sensed the noise and chatter fading away…
“Before you get too settled, Amanda.” Miss Holter’s voice pierced through Amanda’s mist of serenity. “Please close the door.”
Amanda scrambled to her feet, smacking her thighs against the desk. “Ow!” She gritted her teeth and lumbered to the door.
As she started to close it, Miss Holter said, “Then come to the front of the class.”
Amanda jerked, slamming the door.
“Uh Oh’s” escaped from several students as heads swiveled toward her.
Confused, Amanda stumbled over a bookbag on her way to the front, mumbling, “One more thing and I’m going to scream.”
Standing beside Miss Holter made Amanda feel almost petite.
When the teacher turned, she whispered to Amanda, “Go ahead and sit in the chair there beside my desk.”
Amanda glimpsed the corners of her teacher’s mouth turn up ever so slightly and wondered what she wanted. If I’m not in trouble, why am I here? Miss Holter, her favorite teacher, had never done anything to embarrass her before.
The teacher motioned for their full attention. “In faculty meeting this morning, Principal Primson announced we’re having a carnival fundraiser. The sixth grade will be putting on the event. A student representative will help organize the students as we work on the carnival. The four homeroom teachers each nominated one student who must accomplish three challenges.”
“Sounds like too much work,” Mark Nelson said, scrunching his face.
The teacher nodded. “It will be. But a student with real leadership potential should not find the challenges too difficult. The tasks may even be invigorating for him or her.”
A zing of excitement crept up Amanda’s spine.
The teacher crossed her arms with a smug look. “My nominee—no, pardon me—our section 6B nominee is the very best.”

About the Author


As a teacher for almost thirty years, Beverly Abear enjoys writing for middle-grade and young adult readers. She has several stories in progress that she hopes to finish and get published. The Amanda stories are mostly set in a k-6th elementary school like the one the author attended in northern Minnesota. Because her faith has greatly affected her life, Beverly’s passion for her readers is that they grow to trust in the Lord and enjoy an abundant life in Him.

Amazing Amanda and the Crazy School Carnival is Beverly’s debut novel.


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Rancor

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Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: January 16, 2026


(Kiss of Death MC)

 


A broken man, a wary woman, and a past that wants blood — love has never been more dangerous.

 

Cora — Survival is my full-time job. Delivering groceries to the Kiss of Death MC should’ve been just another stop… until Rancor stepped out of the shadows and looked at me like he already knew my secrets. His quiet strength is wrapped in scars and heat. He’s the kind of man who could break the world but touches me like I’m the only soft thing he’s got left. I should run. Instead, I keep driving through those gates, craving the one man who makes me feel safe in ways I don’t dare say out loud.

Rancor — I buried my heart years ago. Grief, violence, and prison killed anything left inside me, and I was glad. It meant I didn’t have to feel anything. Then Cora walked into the compound and cracked me open with a single glance. She’s brave without meaning to be, a storm in a small frame, and the first woman to make me feel anything since the night my life ended. One touch, and I knew I’d protect her with my last breath. One kiss and I knew I’d kill for her. I’ve already lost too much to lose her, too. Especially not to the same family who already ruined my life.



EXCERPT

 

Cora

The gates of the Kiss of Death MC compound loomed ahead, iron and rust and threat. I knew the place was called Kiss of Death because there was a big-ass sign on the gate. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel of my beat-up sedan. No one wanted to deliver here, and for good reason. My second delivery here felt even worse.

The first time I could blame ignorance, on not knowing better. This time I drove through those gates with full knowledge of what waited inside. At least, I hoped I did. The people inside these gates had been nothing but kind to me. Tipped well, too. I still found it hard to let my guard down in a place literally named Kiss of Death.

The sedan’s engine coughed as I pressed the accelerator. The sound seemed too loud, even in a place that could get noisy. The rumble of a bike starting up had me jumping. As the guy caught sight of me, he froze and shut down the bike. Next thing I knew he was rolling backward, pushing the bike with his feet until he returned to the inside of the garage. I rolled forward, past the gates.

Camo netting stretched between the buildings, creating shadows in the afternoon light. The warehouses formed a perfect square like some kind of military precision in architecture. If I didn’t need the money, I definitely wouldn’t be here.

The main building rose ahead. I’d been directed there last time, so I aimed for the same spot. I thought about the envelope from my first delivery. Cash, all of it, with a tip that equaled half the order total. That money had bought groceries for a week, gas for two. It had been the difference between making rent on time and asking my landlord for another extension I wouldn’t get.

The parking area materialized ahead. I pulled in next to a row of motorcycles, their chrome catching the filtered light through the netting. My sedan looked all kinds of wrong among them.

I shifted into park and killed the engine. The silence felt worse than the noise. Now I could hear everything. Distant music from somewhere inside the compound. Male voices, laughing. It all sounded so normal I wanted to laugh at myself. Obviously they’d been grateful to get someone to deliver here and had treated me well. The phone app tracked my movements, kind of like a safeguard, so I really had little to worry about. I hoped.

My fingers fumbled with the door handle. Metal, cold against my palm. I pushed it open and the hinges squeaked, announcing my presence to anyone within earshot. The air outside tasted different than in my car. Heavier. It carried scents I couldn’t identify; motor oil and something sharp underneath, something that made my lizard brain want to run.

Movement from the clubhouse caught my eye. Hannah bounded out waving as she hurried to me. She’d been the one to meet me last time.

She hurried toward me with an easy confidence and a bright, genuine smile I envied. Her dark hair caught the filtered light, pulled back from her face in a way that revealed high cheekbones and those striking hazel eyes. She wore jeans and a simple T-shirt, and a black leather vest. I’d noticed last time the vest was similar to her husband’s, though the back proclaimed her as “Property of Knuckles” where his simply said “Kiss of Death MC” and “Nashville, TN”. It sounded barbaric, but this woman didn’t seem oppressed in any way. In fact, when I met her the last time, her husband had dropped a kiss on top of her head as he’d passed her and hadn’t let Hannah carry anything from the car.

I raised a hand in an awkward wave, immediately feeling stupid for the gesture. But Hannah’s expression softened further, and she picked up her pace. I moved to the back of my car and lifted the trunk lid, ready to help her unload.

“You came back.” Hannah’s voice held a warm welcome that seemed impossible in this place. She stopped a few feet from my car, close enough to be friendly but far enough to respect boundaries. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“The order came through.” I tried to keep my voice steady, professional. “Same as last time.”

“And you accepted it.” Something shifted in her expression, a subtle approval that made me stand a little straighter. “Most drivers reject anything with our address. The guys haven’t done anything, but this many ex-cons in one place makes people nervous, I guess.” She frowned. “People tend to overlook the good they do. Not every person guilty of bad things are bad people.”

I tilted my head to the side. “You know, I never thought about it that way. But you’re right. I shouldn’t judge people unless they give me reason to.” I looked away, suddenly ashamed of myself. “I’d be in a world of hurt if people judged me by what they saw on the surface.”

“Hey.” Hannah moved closer, reaching out to touch my shoulder gently. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. We truly are grateful someone is willing to give us all a chance.” She smiled, squeezing my shoulder gently before dropping her hand.

“Um, can I ask a question?” I didn’t know why I asked her, but once I had, I intended to follow through.

“Of course.” She looked pleasantly curious.

“I saw a guy when I first came in today. He came out of that building,” I pointed back the way I’d come. “But he turned off his bike and rolled back into the shadows.” I swallowed hard. If I’d gotten too nosy I might well have crossed a line I shouldn’t have. But it was odd! Also, I might be feeling a little paranoid. But to my surprise, Hannah only smiled.

“The guys know this place isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. They also know that some people are scared of the noise, to say nothing of the men themselves. There’s not one of them who doesn’t look scary as hell.” She grinned. “But every single one of them sat through and energetically participated in the Christmas party they had for the women and children in the shelter they help protect. The kids adore them all.”

Before I could respond, movement behind her drew my attention. Another figure emerged from the clubhouse, moving with a deliberate slowness that made every step feel intentional.

My breath caught. He was big. Tall and broad-shouldered, and big in the way that suggested power held in careful check. His shoulders stretched a gray T-shirt to its limits.

His head was shaved clean, and somehow, the man was more intimidating for its starkness. But it was his face that made my fingers tighten on the grocery bag I still held. Weathered. Lined with stress that had carved deep grooves around his mouth and between his eyebrows. He looked like a man who’d forgotten how to relax, if he’d ever known.

He approached with that same measured pace, each footfall deliberate. The way he moved reminded me of documentaries I’d seen about predators. Not rushing. Never rushing. Because predators didn’t need to hurry when they knew their prey couldn’t escape. My heart, which had just started to calm, kicked back into overdrive.

“Cora, this is Rancor.” Hannah gestured between us, casually as if introducing neighbors at a barbecue. Thank God she didn’t notice my discomfort because how embarrassing would that be? “He’s going to help with the groceries.”

His gaze met mine, and I forced myself not to look away even though every instinct screamed at me to drop my gaze. His eyes were dark, nearly black in the shadow of the camo netting, and he studied me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

“Ma’am.” His voice was quiet and rough, as if he didn’t use it much.

“Hi.” The syllable came out higher than I wanted. I cleared my throat. “There are a lot of bags.” Brilliant conversational skills, Cora. Truly impressive.

But Rancor just nodded, a single dip of his head, and moved past me to the trunk. He smelled like soap and motor oil, the combination oddly intriguing.

I stepped back, giving him room.

He reached into the trunk and pulled out several bags at once, hoisting them like they weighed nothing. His forearms flexed, muscles shifting under skin decorated with what looked like a burn scar. Then he turned and walked toward the clubhouse, that same deliberate pace.

“So.” Hannah’s voice pulled my attention back to her. She’d moved closer, filling the space Rancor had vacated. “You deliver every day?”

“Most days.” I watched Rancor’s back as he walked away, the way his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. “Depends on the orders.”

“That’s a lot of driving.” Hannah leaned against my car, comfortable in a way I envied. “You like it?”

Did I like it? I liked eating. I liked having electricity. I liked not being homeless. My job met those ends.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Flexible schedule.”

Hannah’s smile widened. Not mocking. Understanding. “Money talks?”

“Sometimes, I guess.” No point in pretending otherwise. My car was clean, inside and out, and I took care with my appearance. I didn’t have anything fancy, nor did I know how to do makeup or anything, but I kept myself clean, my clothes washed and pressed. Obviously, I didn’t have much, but I had pride.

Rancor emerged from the clubhouse, empty-handed now, heading back toward us. My pulse quickened at his proximity. Stupid. His presence made my pulse jump and my body betray me. I’d seen good-looking men before, both nice guys and dipshits. For some reason, though, this guy just did it for me when he shouldn’t. Story of my life. Wanting things I had no business dreaming about.

He reached the trunk and grabbed another few bags. This time when he lifted them, his eyes cut to mine briefly. Just a flicker of contact, there and gone, but it jolted through me like touching a live wire. I looked away first. Examined my shoes as if they held the secrets of the universe.

“Where are you from?” Hannah asked, still making conversation like this was normal, like we were normal people in a normal place.

“Here. Nashville.” I shifted my weight. “Well, just outside the city.”

“You grow up here?”

“No.” The word came out clipped. I didn’t elaborate. Hannah didn’t push. She seemed to have a way of paying attention to my body language and feeling me out.

Hannah glanced toward Rancor, who was emerging from the clubhouse again. When she looked back at me, something knowing glinted in her hazel eyes. “I’m glad you came back. Hopefully I can make a friend because you did.”

Rancor collected the last of the bags. His fingers brushed the trunk’s edge near where mine rested. We weren’t touching, but we were close enough that I felt the heat of his skin.

He straightened with the final bags and paused. Looked at me full-on, not just a glance but actual eye contact that held for three long heartbeats. Then he walked away, and I remembered how to breathe.

When I finally brought my attention back to Hannah, I found her watching me with that same knowing expression, approval written in the curve of her mouth. I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with desire I had no business feeling.

Rancor must have set his load down somewhere because he now stood near the clubhouse door, hands loose at his sides, watching us. Watching me. The weight of his gaze pressed against my skin like humidity before a storm.

Hannah shifted closer, close enough that her voice dropped to something almost conspiratorial. “You know,” she said, quiet enough that Rancor probably couldn’t hear her. “You couldn’t pick a better protector than any of the men from Kiss of Death.”

The words hit me wrong. Too direct. Too knowing. Like she’d reached inside my head and pulled out thoughts I hadn’t fully formed yet. “I’m just delivering groceries.” I kept my voice light, aiming for casual and probably missing by miles. “I don’t need protection.”

But even as I said the words, I felt the lie in them. I was one bad day’s work away from being homeless. I lived in a really shitty part of town because I couldn’t afford anything better.

Hannah’s smile suggested she heard everything I didn’t say. “Of course.” I didn’t know what to do with the implication hanging between us. That I needed protecting. That I might want protecting. Or, more aptly, that the men here, Rancor specifically, could provide the safety I longed for.

The idea should have offended me. I’d spent years learning to protect myself, to need no one, to be self-sufficient in every way that mattered. I’d always been stubborn. At least, I had been after I left my parents’ sphere of influence.

 


About the Author

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts (which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

 

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

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The Legacy of a Lie

Published on by mariacatalinaeganLeave a comment

 

 Contemporary Fiction

Date Published: January 15, 2026

Publisher: Windy Ridge Publishing

The Legacy of a Lie unravels a web of family secrets when the past resurfaces, threatening everything its keepers tried to protect. At its center is Maarit McDonough Malone, a brilliant yet flawed budding opera singer whose scandalous choices ripple across generations.

Her daughters—Kay, a celebrated mezzo-soprano, and Anna, a self-doubting composer—must confront the emotional fallout of their mother’s long-buried lies. Alongside them are a young, truth-seeking journalist, a lawyer, and a priest, all carrying the weight of secrets they are professionally and morally bound to keep.

Set in the haunting beauty of Minnesota’s river bluffs and Lake Superior’s North Shore, this is a story of legacy and redemption—of truth breaking through the cracks of deception and healing in the wake of generations of silence.


Excerpt


She turned the radio off as she pulled into the drive-through at the Coffee Stop. The attendant, too perky for the morning hour, wished her a great day and passed a medium coffee with cream but no sugar through the window. Only two meetings were scheduled for the day: the first with her boss at 11:00 a.m. and a division meeting at 1:00. With any luck, she’d escape the office early.

Instead of turning north to I–94 and Saint Paul, the car pulled out of the Coffee-Stop driveway onto the main street and turned south toward Red Wing. Maarit was surprised at the easy merge into the lighter-than-usual highway traffic.

“Why is the sun in my eyes today?” Maarit muttered. “It wasn’t yesterday.” Within a few minutes, where she expected stop lights, stop signs were spaced apart at irregular intervals. Long stretches of unfamiliar road stretched to the horizon. She looked at her watch and frowned. She should have been at work twenty minutes ago. The highway transitioned into a street with no curb or shoulder, then evolved into a narrow gravel road. She tried to turn around, but the car slid off the narrow shoulder into a ditch.

Confusion became fear. The front bumper hit an orange snow fence. The car shuddered. Forward motion ceased. Engine warning lights glowed red throughout the vehicle. Fear became panic. She tried to yell for help, but only a faint whisper escaped her lips. Her head throbbed. Everything blurred. Then, everything went dark as she lost consciousness.

 

About the Author

 

 Ron Elcombe is a professor emeritus at Winona State University (MN), where he taught various advertising and mass communication courses for 25 years. His eclectic career encompasses teaching instrumental music, as well as sales and marketing roles for multiple companies. He has been published in the Lake Country Journal and several professional academic journals and has attended seminars on fiction writing at the Iowa Summer Writers Festival. “The Legacy of a Lie” is the first book in a three-novel series. He resides in Rochester, Minnesota, with his wife, Sharon, and enjoys summers on the golf course and at the family cabin in northern Minnesota.


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Adélaïde

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by Janell Strube

@RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #Adélaïde #JanellStrube #HistoricalFiction



Painter of the Revolution


Historical Fiction

Date Published: forthcoming January 13, 2026

Publisher: Acorn Publishing


In a world where women are seen but rarely heard, Adélaïde Labille-Guiard refuses to be silenced.

The daughter of Parisian shopkeepers, Adélaïde dreams not of marriage or titles but of earning a place among the masters of French art. With Queen Marie Antoinette on the throne and a spirit of change in the air, anything seems possible. But as revolution brews and powerful forces conspire to deny her success, Adélaïde faces an impossible choice: protect her life—or fight for a legacy that will outlast her.

Inspired by the true story of one of the first women admitted to the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture, Adélaïde: Painter of the Revolution is a sweeping, evocative portrait of ambition, courage, and resilience in the face of history’s fiercest storm.



About the Author

 


Janell Strube makes a mean barbecue sauce. She’s also a world traveler, a baker, and a bicyclist. But when she writes, her identity as an adoptee often steers her attention to topics of alienation, erased history, and displacement.

In 2024, a personal essay of hers was published in the anthology Adoption and Suicidality. Her work has also appeared in Shaking the Tree: brazen. short. memoir and A Year in Ink. Her short memoir, “Taking my Blonde Daughter to a Black Lives Matter Rally,” was selected for the 2020 San Diego Memoir Showcase, an annual live storytelling event.

While much of her writing is personal, she enjoys the freedom that comes with crafting fiction. Her desire to learn about forgotten female artists who shaped the French revolutionary period motivated her to write Adélaïde: Painter of the Revolution.

When not crunching numbers as a tax executive for a hotel chain, she can be found hanging out with Shiloh the Wheaten and plotting her second book.

 

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Never Lost

Published on by mariacatalinaeganLeave a comment

  


General Fiction

Date Published: October 23rd, 2025

Publisher: Acorn Publishing


Zane Carter and his sons, eleven-year-old Ty and thirteen-year-old Joseph, venture one hundred miles into the Idaho wilderness with only a knife and the knowledge of their Nez Perce ancestors. Danger awaits at every deadfall and lurks in every snowy shadow as the boys hunt, fish, make weapons, and build shelter, learning to survive, taking only what they need from the land, and leaving no trace.

During their eighteen-day journey, Zane’s determination to fulfill a promise to his grandfather, an Indigenous warrior who exemplified the tenets of a wise and spiritual existence, is thwarted by a fatal encounter that transports Zane into an ancient realm as he straddles the thin line between life and death.

He wonders what has become of his boys. Have they learned enough patience, resourcefulness, and courage to complete this rite of passage? Will they make it out of the wildlands alive? Or will the unforgiving forces of the natural world take them too far from home to ever return?

 

About the Author


After high school, Aaron Anderson set out to see the world, embarking on adventures through North America, Europe, and North Africa. He enjoyed traveling as a bicyclist, motorcyclist, train passenger, and even as a hitchhiker, reveling in the excitement of the unknown.

At the age of twenty-two, Aaron returned to the US and worked on oil rigs in Wyoming. He later became a carpenter and eventually a real estate appraiser. However, his true passions have always been writing, developing powerful friendships, and exploring new country.

During the 1980s he and his two sons hunted, hiked, and camped throughout the western states. Here, his love for the natural world and respect for Indigenous people prompted him to write his second novel, Never Lost.

 

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The Brothers Brown

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@RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #TheBrothersBrown #RGStanford #BiographicalFiction

Native American Literature, Family Saga Fiction, Western, Biographical Fiction, Western

Date Published: 06-01-2025



You can almost feel the red dust clinging to your skin and catch the faint scent of jasmine in the air. This is Indian Territory at the edge of everything—law and lawlessness, hope and heartbreak, where the lines between right and wrong blur with every sunset.

Told with vivid detail, this is the story of a man caught between loyalty and his past, between a brother’s shadow and the light of his own becoming. A tale of love, betrayal, and the quiet courage it takes to change your fate.

From a stagecoach town in Tennessee to the first railroad towns of the Indian Territory, we delve into the lives of the charismatic and flawed brothers, Matt and Robert. Their sibling dynamic shapes the lives of the entire Brown family, steering them down a road of familial struggles and cultural clashes.

Matt always idolized his oldest brother, Robert – a smooth-talking charmer who taught him at a young age to live hard and win big. Following Robert’s footsteps, Matt is drawn into a life of high-stakes games and deception. Then he meets Milla. Sharp-eyed, brave, and unafraid to speak the truth, Milla is a woman rooted in her Choctaw heritage, carrying both strength and sorrow in equal measure. For the first time, Matt imagines a different future. But the past doesn’t let go easily and buried secrets never stay buried for long, clawing their way back to the surface when you least expect it. Now, Matt must choose between what consumes him and the life he wants to build. 

Set against the raw beauty of the Choctaw Nation, this is a powerful story of blood ties and hard choices, of the people we love and the ones we betray. Gritty, tender, and unforgettable—this is where redemption begins.


Excerpt

 

Albert kicked the door once, twice.

The window lit up with the light of a lamp. Through the window he saw Milla jump out of bed. He kicked the door harder.

Milla wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and stood at the bedroom door. “I told you I don’t want you here anymore,” she yelled. “You can just go…”

“Milla, open the door! It’s Albert!” He kicked again, struggling to hold Matt upright. “Matt’s hurt bad!”

She dashed to the door and let her brother-in-law in.

Albert held Matt tight around the waist and draped Matt’s left arm over his shoulder as the pair stumbled across the threshold. “Help me get him to the bed. I’m going for Doc Poor.”

Milla lifted Matt’s other arm over her shoulder and sat him on the bed, holding him steady. “Hurry,” she gasped.

Albert grabbed the coat hanging by the front door and ran out of the house.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Matt?” Milla pulled his coat off and unbuckled his holster, laying it on the nightstand. The sight of his shirt and pants covered in blood and dried mud sent a chill through her veins. He fell sideways on the bed and then she saw it—the cut on the back of his shirt.

“Owww!” Matt cupped his hand protectively over his wound, but the pain was too intense. He cried out again.

“You hold on, Matt. Albert went to find Doctor Poor. You just hold on now.” It was an order.

Matt gasped for air, then spoke in fits of agony. “They… got… Robert.” He strained to sit up and failed. His body fell limp, then he fell silent.

“Who got him?” Milla tried to roll Matt over, but he wouldn’t budge. Gasping at the sight of the blood on the bed, she backed away, hands trembling.

Is he dead?

Did he die?

Albert bolted straight up in bed and strained to listen. What was that? He thought he heard a horse neigh, but all he heard now was the creaking of the loose shutter and his own breath. But there it was again, the sound of a horse.

He stretched to look out the window. And there it was, the shape of a horse in the front yard.

Throwing off the blanket, Albert fumbled for his pocket watch on the nightstand and held it to the window. In the moon’s light, he saw it was near two in the morning. The horse was neighing again, louder and longer this time.

Albert glanced out the window as he slipped on his pants; it was Matt’s horse, Girl. The moon lit the corner of the yard where she stood, stomping her front right hoof on the frosted ground in distress.

In his bare feet, he flung open the door and rushed to the panicked horse. Matt sat slumped in the saddle, unconscious or dead. He couldn’t tell.

“Matt?” Albert touched Matt’s leg, but he nearly slid from the saddle at Albert’s touch. “Matt?”

The blood on his coat and shirt told Albert all he needed to know. It was bad, and it looked like he’d been bleeding for a while.

Without thinking, Albert mounted the horse, wrapping his arms around Matt to hold him steady, and rode as fast as he could to Matt’s house. Doc Poor lived on the back side of the field behind Matt’s place. He would take Matt home, then go wake the doctor at once.


About the Author


Raised on the beaches of South Texas, R.G. Stanford has always been drawn to stories that transcend time. That passion was ignited in 1976 with the discovery of Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, and deepened with The Feast of All Saints just a few years later. Though historical fiction wasn’t an immediate calling, a personal journey into genealogy changed everything.

With no close relatives nearby, R.G. Stanford turned to online resources in search of extended family. That search became a twenty-year journey through genealogy websites, Federal Census records, the National Archives, and old newspapers. Along the way, R.G. Stanford uncovered incredible stories about her family and the people who once lived in the Choctaw Nation, Indian Territory.

Compelled to record the truth of her family in the lore, sprinkled with imagination, R.G. Stanford is a history lover, a research buff, and a passionate genealogy enthusiast. She is also a mother, a grandmother, and a teller of stories, now living near Orlando.


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