Thursday, March 5, 2015

Guest Blog and Giveaway Earth’s Imagined Corners by Tamara Linse

All Stories Are Ghost Stories
by Tamara Linse

I recently read Kelly Link’s great short story “Two Houses” in The Best Science Fiction of the Year, Volume Seven. It’s also in her new collection Get in Trouble.

It’s such a great story.  Two sister ships are sent out into deep space, and one of the ships disappears in the blink of an eye. Years later, the crew of the second ship awakes from hypersleep for a birthday party and to tell ghost stories.  There’s the story of the ghostly people looking up from the table in the meadow. There’s the little girl cut in half by a falling tree. There’s the rich aristocratic boyfriend who lived in two identical ghost-ridden houses. I won’t tell you the end, but it gives me the chills just to think about it.

That got me thinking. Someone much smarter than I said that all stories are ghost stories, and I think that’s true.  We writers are in the industry of memory.  We take our own emotional memories, and we bleed them out on the page. 

Our best writing comes from those things that haunt us, the make us uncomfortable, that embarass us, that shake us to our bones.  One of my mentors, Steve Almond, once said, “Run screaming toward the pain.” It’s so true.  We writers have to embrace discomfort and pain in a way others can avoid.  We have to “go there” in our minds, experience things, in order to write about them.  If your character is dying, you have to experience what that’s like in order to write about it, even if it’s just research. You have to imagine it.  You have to imagine the worst possible scenarios to make them real on the page, and the more fully you imagine them and convey that, the better the work is.

My novel Earth’s Imagined Corners is a ghost story because it’s my imagining of what my great grandfather and great grandmother went through as he grew up in poverty and was thrown in prison for a horse thief.  Them meeting and marrying and moving to Kansas City to open a store.  These are some of my ghosts ~ Ma Strong and her husband Frank. It haunts me, how Frank and his mother were in poverty. How Frank was both a good man and also did things like stealing horses and chasing his wife with an ax. 

It’s also my ghost story because it takes my deepest feelings of terror and puts them on the page.  I fear the powerlessness that comes with being a woman, and it was so much moreso in the 1880s.  I am deeply saddened by poverty, and I empathize with that little boy who was so powerless to help himself and his mother.  I feel in some small way the terror and struggle of what it was like ~ and still is ~ to be black in America.  And there’s the physical struggle of trying to escape natural disasters large and small.

Writers find different ways to show these ghosts.  Some people are literally drawn to ghosts, and there are so many wonderful ghost stories. In addition to Kelly Link, Harry Potter comes to mind. And sometimes those ghosts are morphed into other forms, whether it’s historical fiction or science fiction or paranormal.  It’s taking the metaphor and putting your own personal twist on it.  And I love that.  I love that two people can take the exact same idea and their stories will be so different.  It’s the one thing that is uniquely ours ~ unique in the true sense of the word, as in the only one in the world.  That’s what you offer: your unique take on things. 

And so I would encourage you to take that thing that makes you so special ~ your unique take on the world ~ and write the very best stories you can.  The world would be poorer without your ghosts.

Photo: The author’s great grandparents Frank and Ellen Strong.

Earth’s Imagined Corners
The Round Earth Series
Book 1
Tamara Linse

Genre: Historical Fiction

Publisher: Willow Words

Date of Publication: January 31, 2015

ISBN: 978-0-9909533-1-9          

Number of pages: 472
Word Count: 130,000

Book Description:

In 1885 Iowa, Sara Moore is a dutiful daughter, but when her father tries to force her to marry his younger partner, she must choose between the partner—a man who treats her like property—and James Youngblood—a kind man she hardly knows who has a troubled past.

When she confronts her father, he beats her and turns her out of the house, breaking all ties, so she decides to elope with James to Kansas City with hardly a penny to their names.

In the tradition of Willa Cather’s O Pioneers! and Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, Earth’s Imagined Corners is a novel that comprehends the great kindnesses and violences we do to each other.

Available at Amazon


Anamosa, Iowa, 1885

Sara Moore should have nothing to fear this week. She had been meticulous in her entering into the ledger the amounts that Minnie the cook requested she spend on groceries. She had remembered, just, to include her brother Ed’s purchase of materials to mend sister Maisie’s doll house and to subtract the pickling salt that she had purchased for sister Esther but for which Esther’s husband Gerald had reimbursed her. She stood at her father’s shoulder as he went over the weekly household accounts, and even though her father owned Moore Grocer & Sundries from which she ordered the family’s groceries, he still insisted she account for the full price in the ledger. “No daughter of mine,” he often said, though sometimes he would finish the thought and sometimes his neatly trimmed eyebrows would merely bristle.
Despite the buttressing of her corset, Sara hunched forward, somewhat reducing her tall frame. She intertwined her fingers so that she would not fiddle with the gathers of soft navy wool in her overskirt, and she tried not to breathe too loudly, so as not to bother him, nor to breathe too deeply, in order to take in little of the cigar smoke curling up from his elephant-ivory ashtray on the hulking plantation desk.
As always, the heavy brocade curtains armored Colonel Moore’s study against the Iowa day, so the coal oil lamps flickered in their brackets. Per instructions, Sipsy the maid lit them early every morning, snuffed them when he left for the grocery, lit them again in anticipation of his return at seven, and then snuffed them again after he retired. It was an expense, surely, but one that Sara knew better than to question. The walls of the study were lined with volumes of military history and maps of Virginia and Georgia covered in lines, symbols, and labels carefully inked in Colonel Moore’s hand. In its glass case on the bureau rested Colonel Moore’s 1851, an intricately engraved pistol awarded to him during the War of Northern Aggression. Sipsy dusted daily, under stern directive that not a speck should gather upon any surface in the room.
Sara’s father let out a sound between an outlet of breath and a groan. This was not good. He was not pleased. Sara straightened her shoulders and took a breath and held it but let her shoulders slump forward once more.
“My dear,” he said, his drawl at a minimum, “your figures, once again, are disproportionate top to bottom. And there is too much slant, as always, in their curvatures. I urge you to practice your penmanship.” His tone was one of indulgence.
Inaudibly, Sara let out her breath. If he was criticizing her chirography, then he had found nothing amiss in the numbers. The accounts were sound for another week. Later, when he checked the numbers against the accounts at the grocery, there was less of a chance that she had missed something.
He closed the ledger, turned his chair, and with both hands held the ledger out to her. She received it palms up and said, “I will do better, Father.”
“You would not want to disappoint to your mother.” His drawl was more pronounced.
So he had regretted his indulgence and was not satisfied to let her go unchecked. His wife, Sara’s mother, had been dead these five years, and since then Sara had grown to take her place, running the household, directing the servants, and caring for six year-old Maisie. Ed needed little looking after, as he was older than Sara, though unmarried, and Esther, the oldest, was married with two daughters and farm of her own.
Sara straightened her shoulders again and hugged the ledger to her chest. “Yes, Father,” she said and turned and left the room, trying to keep her pace tranquil and unhurried. She went to the kitchen, where Minnie had a cup of coffee doused with cream and sugar awaiting her. Minnie gave her an encouraging smile, and though Sara did not acknowledge what went unsaid between them—one must shun familiarity with the servants—she lifted her shoulders slightly and said, “Thank you, Minnie.” Minnie, with the round figure and dark eyes of a Bohemian, understood English well, though she still talked with a pronounced accent, and Sara had only heard her speak the round vowels and chipped consonants of her native tongue once, when a delivery man indigenous to her country of origin walked into the kitchen with mud on his boots. Sara tucked the ledger in its place on a high shelf and then allowed herself five minutes of sipping coffee amid the wonderful smells of Minnie’s pompion tart. Then she rose, rinsed her cup, and applied herself to her day.
The driver had Father’s horse and gig waiting, as always, at twenty minutes to nine. As Father stretched his fingers into his gloves, pulling them tight by the wrist leather, he told Sara, “When you come at noon, I have something unusual to show you.”
“Yes, Father,” she said.
It seemed odd that he would concern her with anything to do with business. He left her to the household. He had long tried to coerce Ed into the business, but Ed’s abilities trended more toward the physical. He was a skilled carpenter, though Father kept a close rein on where he took jobs and whom he worked for. All talk of renaming the business Moore & Son had been dropped when Father had recently promoted the young man who was his assistant, Chester O’Hanlin, to partner. Mr. O’Hanlin had droopy red muttonchops and a body so long and thin he looked a hand-span taller than he really was, which was actually a bit shorter than Sara. Mr. O’Hanlin didn’t talk much, either, and he seemed always to be listening. He held himself oddly, cocking his head to one side, first one way and then the other, his small dark eyes focusing off to the left or right of the speaker. His nose, long and wedge-shaped, seemed to take up half his face. “Chester, the Chinaman,” Maisie called him outside of his presence because of the way he stooped and bobbed whenever their father entered the room.

About the Author:

Tamara Linse jokes that she was raised in the 1880s, and so it was natural for her to set a book there. She is the author of the short story collection How to Be a Man and the novel Deep Down Things and earned her master’s in English from the University of Wyoming, where she taught writing. Her work appears in the Georgetown Review, South Dakota Review, and Talking River, among others, and she was a finalist for an Arts & Letters and Glimmer Train contests, as well as the Black Lawrence Press Hudson Prize for a book of short stories. She works as an editor for a foundation and a freelancer.

Find her online at and her blog Writer, Cogitator, Recovering Ranch Girl at

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Earth's Imagined Corners by Tamara Linse

Earth's Imagined Corners

by Tamara Linse

Giveaway ends April 02, 2015.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter to win

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Guest Blog: Remember The Maelstrom by Josh Sinason

Edmond Hamilton and Writing Fantastic Space Battles
Josh Sinason

I’ve only discovered Edmond Hamilton in the last few months.  In a way, I’m glad I found him after Remember The Maelstrom because I might have lost my nerve for science fiction and for space exploration fiction after reading work of that quality.  The things the man did with anepic space battle elevated it to new heighs.

Edmond Hamilton was the first science fiction author published in hardcover, a short story collection including the novella The Stars My Brothers, a story about an astronaut unfrozen  years after his presumed death and dragged into a planetary rebellion of lizard people.  Our hero encounters a planet where humans are primates and ruled by the lizard men in a story eerily reminiscent of the movie Planet of the Apes years before the movie’s release.

Hamilton’s agent in the early part of his career was a man named Julius Schwartz, agent to Ray Bradbury and H.PLovecraft amongst others.  But he’d go on to great success as the longest running editor of the Superman comics and he brought in many noted science fiction writers from his agency list but none of them made the impact like Hamilton made.  Hamilton was one of the first writers to bring a hard science fiction element into superhero comics predating work like Watchmen by over thirty years.  Hamilton’s Superman dealt with corrupt military, cloning and the nature of life and death, and in my personal favorite Superman story, Action  Comics 300, the man of steel dealt with the possibility of a world he couldn’t protect, stripped of his powers in a post apocalyptic future and forced to fight for his lif, Hamilton’s Superman was forced to really live up to the name or die trying.  Hamilton’s comics were considered old fashioned by the sixties when camp elements entered the genre but they remain decades ahead of their time.

My favorite Hamilton story, The Sargasso of Space, involved a battle over a salvage yard between one spaceship and a group of pirates.  Yes they’re lizard men too..frogs this time.  It’s kind of a thing with him Lizard men, Frog men, even his Superman comics featured multiple anthropomorphic characters, hero and villain alike.  It speaks to Hamilton’s views on the nature of humanity, regardless of reptile or mammal; we all have a choice in what we become.

The true gift of that particular Hamilton story was the way he writes a space battle.  Space battles tend read like someone describing a world war two dogfight movie to their friends or are done from the perceptive of someone on the ground.  Hamilton puts the reader not just right in the action, but into the eyeballs of someone behind the wheel of a spaceship.  We see what they see and Hamilton flat out refuses to give you any more even if it means we miss some action somewhere else.  

I admire the gumption it takes to just let that kind of thing linger, to tell your audience you don’t care if they miss something because that’s not the part of the story we’re in right now.  It takes a discipline I hope to have someday. 

Decades before Neil Gaiman did it, Edmond Hamilton went seamlessly between comics and novels, and finally leaving comics completely in the mid sixties but his stuff was reprinted long after and was even adapted into an episode of an animated series.  He died in 1977 one year before his wife, herself an accomplished author and screenwriter, Leigh Bracket.  (She is credited with writing a little film called Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back and adapting The Big Sleep to the screen.) I’m still discovering Hamilton’s work both in comics and novels and it excites me as science fiction fan…and scares the heck out of me as a writer.

Remember The Maelstrom
Josh Sinason

Genre: Sci-fi Romance

Publisher: TWB Press

Number of pages: 40
Word Count: 10,000

Book Description:

A botched investigation into the past triggers a domino effect, thrusting T.I. Agent Amanda West into a race to get home to the man she loves in a future that may no longer exist. 

Available at Amazon    Smashwords     TWB Press


“Let’s go, rookie.” I set my blaster on stun. “I want to be home in time for dinner.”
Corporal Winger nodded and drew his gun.
I noticed his hand shake. That should have been my first cue something was wrong. He clutched his gun so tense his knuckles turned white. This was his first op, and it already went way far south way too soon. This was just supposed to be a routine run: bring back a fugitive who had bolted through an unauthorized time portal. We were the closest ship to it. He was just one guy, but he had a gun. Who would have thought things could’ve gone so wrong?
I kissed the scar on my right hand before we chased him through Central Park in the year 2014. It was a silly ritual, but when I found myself far from home, I started to get superstitious. On cold nights, when time, space, and a universe kept me away, I’d look at that scar and think about Parker.
Winger was a hair faster than me catching up with our time jumper. Maybe if I’d been there a second or two sooner I could have stopped him, but I arrived just in time to watch him aim his gun. I was just within view when our jumper pulled in a hostage, a little girl, something that would’ve made any experienced agent hold his fire.
Winger was just reacting on instinct.  He didn’t pull back in time, and the guy held the kid in front of him. The scene played out in slow motion. Maybe Winger thought he could make a head-shot on the perp, or maybe he just fired in the heat of the moment; we were both tired. All I knew was, as the girl and our jumper fell to the ground, the look of horror on Winger’s face didn’t last long.
I’d never seen a person fade from existence before, not until that moment. The theory, according to Temporal Investigations, was that one dies before actually disappearing completely. Sheer shock and horror was the killer, like falling off a tall building. But Winger looked me in the eyes the entire time, silently pleading for help as he faded right in front of me. I reached out to grab his hand, but it vanished, and that’s when I noticed my scar begin to ghost.
I didn’t know who that little girl was. Maybe she had invented something that made the Galactic Conferences possible, or maybe she was the grandmother of the grandmother of someone who assigned cores in the Academy, and because she no longer existed in the future, Parker and I may have ended up in different course plans. Or maybe she did something at just the right moment, a move in one direction or another, a decade from now, and things just fell into place for us. It was impossible to tell what could happen without her influence, but I feared something was wrong. I could have lost Parker already without even knowing it.
When I saw that scar on my hand ghost, I knew it was a sign that the time stream was starting to realign. We were briefed on ghosting at the Academy. They told us to run; they said always run back to the ship, flat out as fast as we could. But we all knew the truth. We couldn’t outrun a time realignment. It would be like outrunning the hand of the universe.
The moment I saw that scar flicker, I took off in a dead sprint back to the ship and leaped into the captain’s chair. As the controls came on around me I felt the hum of the hyperspace time bubble curling around the ship like a warm blanket. Then, when I tried to catch my breath, I felt a hot sting in my gut. Our jumper had managed to get off a shot, and as luck would have it, his blaster charge went straight through Winger’s ghosting body and hit me in the stomach. I did my best to breathe slowly, but each inhale felt like razor blades slicing through my chest. I winced and put pressure on the singed and bloody wound then throttled up the engines.
“Well today just sucked, didn’t it.” I looked at the picture of Parker I kept on my dashboard. We had our pictures taken when we were assigned to The Bartlett. Knowing this meant I hadn’t forgotten about least not yet. Then I looked to make sure the hyperspace time bubble had restored the scar on my hand. Yes. I gave it another kiss for luck. Just lifting my arm sent shooting pains through my stomach, but I figured I needed a fair amount of luck right about then, so the pain was worth the effort.
“Just make it home for dinner.” I clutched the steering yoke tightly. “Just one more trip.” I forced a breath. “Let me see that everything is all right with Parker. Then let whatever changes I’ve made to the future do what they will to me.”
“Some time cop I turned out to be.”
I slammed on the thrusters hard and gunned the engine boosters through the time jump, but the inertia field didn’t have time to boot up, so I felt my ribs crack as my chest slammed against the crash belt and the back of my head bounced off the top of my chair.
I screamed in pain.
In flight school I had experienced what happened without an inertia field. Senior cadets would watch Parker and I train in the flight deck sim. We’d shoot to hyperspace without any problems. But every once in a while the cadets would program in an inertia field glitch just to see how we’d respond to the stress, at least that’s what they told the instructors. It was really a rite of passage made worse by the fact that the simulator didn’t have crash belts, so the only way to go was flying backwards. If it wasn’t for the crash helmets, our brains would’ve splattered against the cold metal exit door.
“Stupid prank,” I said, spitting blood. I was bleeding internally. The scar on my hand ghosted again. The time bubble was weakening already, so I started going over my past, wondering just how much of it I would forget.
I decide to listen to my personal logs and make sure everything was just as I remembered. Hopefully that last ghosting wasn’t a sign that I was too late. The computer accessed my files, starting with my first week studying for the Academy mid-terms.
I remembered that day by the lake on the Academy grounds, fresh in my mind no matter what time jump I was in. The lake was clear blue enough that I could see the incoming spaceships reflected in the surface. I had sat there so often over that first month I could tell how low the ships were flying by the ripples their wakes made in the water.
I sat near a tree, hoping to keep my mind on my introductory engineering midterm studies. Sometimes the Academy felt like a monster looking to swallow cadets whole, but out there, under the shuttles flying by and the transport ships jumping to hyperspace like little daylight shooting stars, the Academy grounds felt peaceful. That day the transports lit up the clouds like purple and red lightning. I listened to the low rumble of the shuttles as I skipped a rock across the water. Then I cracked open a book.

About the Author:

Josh Sinason grew up in DeKalb, Illinois, and has been featured in the Two With Water reading series and at

In addition he has won the Creativity in Media award for his work on  

His work has been recently featured in Burroughs Publishing Lunchbox Romance Line and Eternal Press’ young adult fiction line.

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Cover Reveal Unhinged by Shelley R. Pickens

The Haunting of Secrets
Book 2 of the Trilogy
Shelley R. Pickens

Genre: YA, mystery, paranormal

Publisher:  Fire and Ice
Imprint of Melange Books

Date of Publication:  March 2015

Word Count: 62,364

Cover Artist:  Caroline Andrus

Book Description:

Being normal isn't always a good thing, especially if it ends up killing you.
Aimee, the sixteen year old girl who can see your every memory with just one touch, is fresh out of the torture room after risking everything to capture a killer.

Despite her instinct to avoid contact with others, she tries her best to find a new normal at school - perhaps even a boyfriend. But for those who are cursed, happiness and normality aren’t easy to obtain. A bizarre illness is spreading like wildfire through the school causing those around Aimee to lose their sanity before falling into a coma. Slowly, all the people she loves succumb to this strange disease.

Alone and terrified, she must use her curse to find a way to save her family and friends. As she delves deeper and deeper into their memories, she realizes a delusional person from her childhood named David is the bigger threat that could end up destroying her. Despite the danger that surrounds her, she struggles to solve the puzzle before it’s too late to help those she cares for the most.

But as David moves closer to eliminating her, one puzzle still remains. Will she be able to save herself?

Book Trailer for Book One:

Book 1 The Haunting of Secrets Available on Amazon  BN   Goodreads

About the Author:

Shelley Pickens is a Spanish teacher by day and a novelist by night. She's been in love with everything paranormal since she can remember. After years of teaching high school students, she decided to take her firsthand knowledge of young adults and apply it to her passion for creative writing and fantasy. When not teaching or writing, Shelley likes to spend time with her husband and two beautiful children in Atlanta, Ga. Her escape from reality is her love of complex thriller and science fiction TV series like Supernatural and Sleepy Hollow. In her spare time she is an avid watcher of little league baseball. THE HAUNTING OF SECRETS is her debut novel.

Reap and Repent by Lisa Medley

Reap and Repent
The Reaper Series
Book 1
Lisa Medley

Genre: Urban Fantasy Romance
Reapers, Demons, Angels, Sex

Words 84K  
326 pages

Book Description:

They see death. Can they share a life?

Ruth Scott can read the energy of every person she meets. Then she meets Deacon Walker. She can see his ice-blue eyes, his black hair, and his gorgeous face. But this beautiful stranger has no aura.

Deacon is just as unsettled by Ruth—and, having spent more than two hundred years ushering souls to Purgatory, Deacon is seldom shocked by anything. As he helps Ruth to understand her true nature, she awakens desires that he decided long ago a Reaper can’t afford.

A demon invasion forces Deacon to confront the darkness in his own past even as he fights to save the human souls he’s charged to protect. When he’s taken captive, his first concern is for Ruth. But Ruth just might be able to save herself—and the Reaper she can’t live without—if she can learn to wield her newfound powers.

Available Exclusively on AMAZON 

Excerpt: from  Chapter Five

Ruth opened her eyes to complete and utter chaos. There were creatures everywhere. She would have been hard-pressed to prove most of them were now or ever had been human. It was like the cantina scene in Star Wars without the fun band. Ruth’s mouth gaped open. It was dark, foggy and damp in the long underground chamber where they’d landed, like some kind of subterranean cave. She’d never seen anything like it.
It was a depot of sorts, it seemed, and there were long tunnels crisscrossing every which way, disappearing into the stone walls. Her mouth still agape, Ruth followed Deacon into what appeared to be the main hall, where the floors and ceilings were also rough stone, and light from an unseen source flowed down through strategically positioned skylights along the ceiling. Reapers were everywhere: men and women but also a disturbing number of…well, monsters was the word that came to mind.
There was so much to take in that it was overwhelming. Chiseled placards demarked the top of each tunnel in a language she didn’t understand. And at each end of the main channel, huge platforms rose above the fray. Sitting on stone thrones upon the platforms were two very similar-looking men who looked like angels, complete with flowing purple robes and wings.
Deacon took her hand and dragged her along behind him. “Keep up.”
“Don’t worry.”
She did not want to be down here alone, wherever here was. They rushed through the throng of creatures, large and small, human and otherwise, toward the opposite end of the channel and the angel who was sitting there. They were almost there when someone called out behind them.
“Walker? What the hell? I thought you would have cashed in by now,” the man said. Deacon spun around, pushing Ruth behind him. “Kylen,” Deacon said, grimacing and barely containing his obvious disgust. He clearly wasn’t happy to see the guy. “I’ve been…occupied.”
“I can see that,” he said, leaning over to give Ruth a slimy once-over look. “Who is she?”
“We’re bringing in a sleeper,” Deacon said, changing the subject.
“A sleeper? Wonder how I missed that one?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Deacon said, forging ahead.
“Put up a good fight at least?” Kylen asked with inappropriate enthusiasm.
“What are you doing down here? Have you grown tired of your ride?”
“Oh, no. I just like to keep a finger on the pulse of things. Network. Mingle.” He winked, then directed a disturbing smile Ruth’s way.
“Right.” Deacon pulled Ruth away from Kylen, leading her the last few paces to the platform.
A line of mixed creatures wound in front of them. Ruth had no idea what some of them were. Of the ten or so in front of them, two looked passably human. The rest were all variety of sizes and degrees of grotesqueness. One great slobbering gelatinous mass in front of them, who was Deacon’s height, but twice his girth, turned to assess her. His wet reptilian skin shimmered and glistened as his Ping-Pong-sized lizard eyes looked her up and down, then locked on to hers. She looked away and snugged up closer to Deacon.
“Eyes on the prize, asshole,” Deacon said to the thing through gritted teeth. Mr. Lovely turned back around with a grunt.
Otherwise, there was no chitchat in the line. She wondered if all these things even spoke the same language.
Deacon leaned over and whispered, “Try not to freak out—this will get easier. This is Purgatory—a way station. It’s a neutral zone. A no-man’s-land of sorts. All reapers can meet here and interact, but there can be no conflict. It’s a forced d├ętente essentially. Pray you don’t see most of these creatures on the topside.”
She couldn’t imagine any situation where she would.
“The guy in the purple robe is the angel Rashnu. The guy on the other end of the station? Also Rashnu. He’s split himself into two because he doesn’t trust anyone else to do the job right. He’s the sorter. The gates of Hell and Heaven are locked up tight. No soul gets through Purgatory except with his blessing. He’s rarely wrong, but once in a while a soul gets kicked back and…well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen today.”
The line inched forward. She watched as the reapers approached the angel Rashnu and wished she could hear the exchange between them. From where she was standing, she was close enough to get the gist of it. The reaper approached and spewed forth its cargo, which floated down and assumed its original shape. The deposits held their ghostly form for a few moments, and then Rashnu waved his open palm in front of them, and they were sucked away down one of the various tunnels carved into either side of the station’s stone walls. The contrasting colors of the walls clearly indicated which tunnels led to which eternal resting place. Left was lovely, and lightly colored markings and symbols adorned the wall. The right side? Not so much. It looked like street gangs had tagged the entire wall from stem to stern. The souls streamed away in a smoky mist ranging in color from black to white and everything in between.
“Are all of them reapers?”
“Yes, there are a lot of different races represented down here. I can give you a crash course later. But stay quiet for now—Rashnu hates disrespect.”
Ruth zipped her lip, and they shuffled forward again. Deacon was up to bat. Ruth tried to look small and insignificant behind him, which was not much of a stretch. Rashnu bored a hole through Deacon, and then she felt his gaze settle on her.
“Forward!” the angel bellowed.
She was frozen in place. Deacon hesitated for a second then swung her around in front of him.

Lamb to the slaughter. Thanks.

About the Author:

Lisa has always enjoyed reading about monsters in love and now she writes about them, because monsters need love too.

She adores beasties of all sorts, fictional as well as real, and has a farm full of them in her Southwest Missouri home, including: one child, one husband, two dogs, two cats, a dozen hens, thousands of Italian bees, and a guinea pig.

She may or may not keep a complete zombie apocalypse bug-out bag in her trunk at all times, including a machete. Just. In. Case.

 Goodreads Google+ | Amazon Author Page

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