My guest today is Sarah Baethge.  Hello, Sarah!  Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age!  It’s such a pleasure to have you.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?


My latest book is a space fantasy called Panoptemitry that I began writing when the online store http://www.iwritereadrate.com asked that I write a book for them to sell. It came out last December, and you can get it at Iwritereadrate, Amazon, Barnes&Noble and Smashwords.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you? 

I wrote down a couple of strange ideas that came to me from watching TV Sci-fi and not long after I was asked for a book so I tried to use my half-baked non-sense. Molding what I had come up with into a story was really kind of fun.

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I really do like to write, but this is one of the few stories I've had the guts to publish.

Do you have any favorite authors?

I love Stephen King and Michael Crichton.

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

I have a desk in the corner of my bedroom, and all times of day or night- just whenever the ideas come to me.

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

Write what you like to read; that way even if your book's a flop, it wasn't quite a waste to write!

Here is the blurb for Panoptemitry.

With a goal as high and lofty as the unspecified pursuit of knowledge, there may not be a clear point at which to stop. Acting as one has been taught to can seem to hold just as much purpose as the actual reason for taking those actions. When the growth of technology begins to hold the same powers as religious doctrine has declared divine, does the simple recording of events become blasphemous? Who's to say we even understand that 'so-called' divinity?

On a research mission to provide information for a great galactic computer network (called S.Y.M.A.C.), Emilija Lithuan and her assistants run up against the higher ranks of the Caytalan Church. The punishment that these religious leaders try to stick them with, could possibly have a greater effect than was ever intended.

When their escape saddles them with a famous outlaw, a careful reassessment of what is right and wrong can't be avoided. How much of what is 'common knowledge' is even actually true?

And if it's not, just how much perceived reality is built upon a lie? 

Here's an excerpt from Panoptemitry.

Chapter 1

 

Am I dead? 

The thought in itself echoed as proof of the obvious fact that she couldn’t be. Surely death would leave less of a sensation in her body.

The painful fog that swam untouchably before her face made the researcher pull her hands back over her eyes to try and shield them, yet that action only caused a senseless retreat back into the pounding darkness that refused to give way to sleep inside her head.

Emilija realized that she wasn’t actually tired anyway. The grass on which she found herself was too crisp and damp to have made a comfortable bed in the first place, why was I sleeping there? Pulling herself to hands and knees brought the pain back to her mind.

Both pains... 

The hammering in her head and the ringing in her ears was causing a horribly sickening dizziness, a spinning that had formed itself into a nearly tangible smog in her vision, the pounding of her pulse seemed to quite loudly taunt the misconception that she could possibly have just awoken from some pleasant nap.

Her memories of that one prisoner creep’s left hand clamping upon her right shoulder, while the other inmate viciously tore at her pants as she was feebly unable to fight the two of them off slammed back into her mind. 

The disgust that came as she realized she could still easily feel that they had won the prize the two of them sought hit almost as hard as the rock that the man who had first grabbed her held in his right fist when he had deftly used it to stop her struggles.

As these men now fought each other on the edge of her vision, Emilija knew she couldn’t waste the chance to get away. It wasn’t clear why they now attacked one another, but that such disgusting human beings wouldn’t even trust or get along with so called ‘friends’ didn’t really surprise her.

Unconsciously pulling her torn clothes back together, Emilija wasn’t really sure if she was thankful that her first thoughts of being dead were wrong as she considered the how unlikely it was that she’d ever leave this stupid assignment alive.

From all she had ever read of this world, the prison planet Gilnar, no one could doubt it to be a terrible place. A supposed destination of no return for prisoners judged to deserve death.

Knowing she was probably the only female human among the countless male prisoners abandoned here over the last couple 100 standard years, didn’t exactly fit in with her hopes of not getting raped, again.

Unable to stand up and walk more than a few steps before she stumbled back to the ground, her head pulsing painfully as she tried to hold it still between her hands; she was left trying to neither pass out or throw up.

The only thing that let her keep those hopes of getting away from her attackers alive before they noticed that she was almost up and moving was the sight of another man who was projecting pure outrage towards those two she remembered from earlier. Emilija felt no guilt at the thankfulness that flooded her system as this new third probable inmate time and again picked up the other two forms so he could beat them down.

Although, the ‘good guy’ seemed unwilling to quit despite the fact that his two victims had given up trying to even get away.

Not knowing if this remorseless rescuer would improve or only worsen her present situation, Emilija tried to remain quiet, but couldn’t help herself, and started laughing with the thought that the first two had at least gotten what she was sure they deserved.

Later she decided that the laughter was probably just a form of hysteria as her mind tried to reject the situation, but it did have one effect on her audience- this new prisoner whoseemed to be highly upset with the other two looked over at her with slight confusion for a little bit as he lowered his newest victim’s head to the ground.

A chill of unease quickly silenced her as an eerie grin that didn’t actually touch his eyes, lit up his face.

The primal fear that was radiating from Emilija’s body with the new need to escape was suddenly picked up on by the man across the field. As she tried to stand up again, he started concernedly shaking his head.

Holding his hands up in front of his chest with a motion that clearly meant ‘stop;’ she heard for the first time the garbled nonsense that would spew from his mouth if he tried to speak.

Now the sound wasn’t just some sort of random grunts or a groans; quite clearly it was comprised of words. It’s just that his utterance was something like a high speed chipmunk tape or an audio file listened to at far too high of a rate.

The prisoner’s sentences were so fast, that they nearly overlapped, until it took a moment of thought after his speaking before the shy greeting he had called out to her became clear. And like a recording played at far too fast of a speed, the pitch became unnaturally high until the sound, itself, irritated the ears of the listener.

It was this unusual ugly sour tone of his own speech that seemed to rapidly pull the prisoner’s attention away from Emilija. If even as far away as she was the voice hit her ears like a scratching on glass, the poor man’s ears that were connected to the very throat that had emitted the unnaturally high words couldn’t be able to find them any more pleasant.

Her savior’s eyes squinted with pain; his left hand quickly came up to cover the culprit mouth, as a wince pulled those squinted eyes to the right.

Emilija was certain that she was foolish to suddenly feel concerned for his health, but the man’s actions were clearly not those of a person who found himself to be in perfect condition.

For instance, after the absurdly short amount of time he had distractedly looked away, this prisoner seemed to have forgotten about the simple fact that anyone else was even nearby; and so, he began carefully to walk away, looking irritated and lost.

Not wanting to be left alone and vulnerable for a repeat of what had already happened when she had met the other two, and so caused his attack that she now felt may have saved her life, she decided she should stick with him and at least trust him enough to thank him, because it didn’t seem a risk regaining his attention.

“Hey, wait!” Emilija called to his back as the man appeared to seriously consider simply moving along. “Who are you? I need to thank you, somehow. Why did you save me from them?”

The man she was talking to, turned around with a strange mixture of recognition and surprise on his countenance; “NRITE,” he finally declared, although he looked startled at his own volume as his voice cracked.

Seeming to realize that the expression on her face indicated a general lack of understanding, he tried to elaborate, yet seemed unable to keep from either talking with such speed he would just about end up choking himself or losing his entire train of thought.

After maybe half an hour Emilija was pretty sure the man was trying to explain how he was stuck here on Gilnar too- just like her, and didn’t want to have to live with and accept the actions of those jerks that were so not right; not if he was able to do anything about it.

During that time, Emilija began trying to figure out how she had gotten where she was, and how she could change that fact. For one thing, she assumed the planet must contain some type of guard station. Her protector (not to mention those other two who had come after her) wore strange almost- jewelry consisting of skin-tight bands around the neck, something like dog collars. The purpose of such unstylish, unglamorous equipment, that was made of a very strong synthetic leather band fitted every inch or so with microchip-looking components, must be for keeping tabs on the prisoner whereabouts.

All three wore greenish-yellow camouflage wind-suits, meaning they couldn’t easily be kept under visual watch by the guards at their home station so whatever friendlies she could find, probably didn’t even have any idea of what had happened to her!

Although, the idea of getting to such habitation for help started to unravel almost more quickly than she could think about it. The reason for ‘building’ a prison here was just that; the moist haze that engulfed Gilnar, although may not be very toxic, was highly acidic.

Metallic pieces of any structure would be quickly worn away. Non-metal building materials, although they may withstand the mists a little longer, couldn’t withstand the fierce winds that plagued the endless plains of bitter grass. Taller, almost tree-like yellow bushes swaying in the wind like reeds with no wood to support them were the only breaks on the horizon.

And wildlife? She had heard tales of the endless swarms of biting, buzzing insect-like creatures that would swarm over unbelievably huge areas; some claimed miles in diameter! The creatures were boneless with exoskeleton/shell-skin and wings, like wasps the size of lobsters. 

If the acidic mist or howling wind didn’t conquer any structure quickly enough, these animals (called ‘skrifters’) would easily tear it down.

That difficulty in producing any permanent structure here was arguably why the planet was used as a prison. Those brought here had been sentenced to death, more or less. The only people who would call it a ‘life’ sentence were the council of politicians who ran that bizarre religion when they sometimes needed a way to be done with violent criminals without being forced to dirty their ‘holy’ hands with the stink of death.

The men (it was only men here) who were sentenced to come here (some claimed that the lack of female companionship was simply part of the sentence) were locked within pods that would only open after touchdown. (Emilija wondered if what had happened to her may not be the true reason women weren’t imprisoned here.)

Upon arrival these convicts could join into the tribes of other prisoners who hunted skrifters for food (they were apparently more tasty than the vegetation) or sit back and watch as the small craft they had been dropped in melted with the mist.

Although the man who had thankfully saved her seemed to have difficulty speaking normally; this prisoner reacted as if he understood all that she tried to tell him (as she slowly decoded what he was trying to say she found that this practice seemed to improve his speech). 

Confident that he had consciously tried to save her, Emilija decided that if she was getting out of this hell-hole, there was no way she could leave her new hero behind.

“Look, when my friends get here; you need to come along with us. If you can stay with me and keep me safe, I would be happy to try staging the first successful jailbreak from planet Gilnar.” She held out her hand, “Seriously, even that won’t be thanks enough. I am Emilija Lithuan; now, always, and forever in your debt.”

Looking a little embarrassed; the prisoner blushed, rubbing the left of his face as his right shot out to meet hers with an audible clap. “IMTHDRDWR TSNTHG!” came out of his mouth so fast with his new joy and excitement that she was unsure how he kept from biting his own tongue off.

Her new friend looked alarmed by the quick lack of his own clarity and the revved up pitch of his voice; he pulled back, shame filling his face.

Unsure what he had meant by this outburst, Emilija decided to ignore it rather that possibly offend the man she was truly grateful to.

She figured that it might be easiest just to continue and pretend she hadn’t noticed.

“Ryan Mead and that Max thing will probably have found a diplomatic way out by now and The Church of Caytal will trip over itself as their priests try to avoid the shame surely will be pasted on them for sending one of what they deem ‘the weaker sex’ to an unmerited sentence in this primitive prison.”

Her rescuer, who looked timidly for a moment, took a deep breath and almost questioningly slowed himself down enough to ask, “Caytal?”

Emilija figured things would probably go better if she could just start telling this story from back where it all began; anyway, if this man who might be calling himself ‘THDRDWR’ was a prisoner here, he had had his own unlucky dealings with the Caytalan Church. His statement had probably been more of a friendly lamentation than a question of what Caytal was.

It didn’t really matter. Ryan Mead had been hired to provide her with some safety and transport for this mission; her own actions may have led to their imprisonment, but that robotman, android or whatever, ∞ was, would probably be close enough to get Mead loose to come rescue her.

Emilija could see the doubt in her new companion’s eyes when she spoke of escape. She wasn’t quite sure of how she could ask if he had the brainpower to help her in the escape or if his trouble talking was a sign of serious mental incapacity; if he was simply repeating words she said without understanding, and only reacting through base instinctual impulses. Although his face showed clear irritation as he seemed to recognize her attitude towards him; he reached out with his left hand and pointed at her chest.

“Yoo Emlja,” pulling the hand back to lie flat on his chest, he attempted his introduction once again; “Mh.. Thdr.” Eyes brightening warily with hope, he resisted looking away in shame. 

He almost gave up as she initially pulled back in fear, yet was relieved to watch the slight confusion on her face as she considered his words. The desperate hope that Emilija felt radiate from his eyes, made her wonder how long it had been since he had an encounter with another person that didn’t end in a fight.

“Are you saying your name is Thdr... Theodore..?” Her cautiously understanding expression was mixed with a pity and confusion that he tried to ignore as he nodded.

Looking away, he ran his right hand back across the top of his head. Countless hours had been spent considering himself and his situation, anyway. Emilija was still relatively new to him; not to mention that she had said that she was planning to get him out of here.

In Theodore’s former life, before getting dumped upon this planet (not to mention the whole S.Y.M.A.C.* business), information could be a near-form of currency. Before she got into asking too much of him he might as well get at least the same in return.

And hey, why not use what had happened to his advantage? If he could find out all she knew while she saw him as a fool that could hardly speak, it may come in handy at some time if she was really trusting enough to rescue him. With any luck he could be back at his pad in Vern within a couple weeks.

“S’wy Yoohr?” Theodore tried asking split-seconds after Emilija’s translation of his name. Getting somewhat used to the high-speed talk she really didn’t have to think about what he meant- ‘So,why you here?’  She clearly wanted to ask what was wrong with him, yet if Theodore conveniently didn’t pick up on her unspoken question, he considered it more likely that she’d answer what he had asked. It’s so easy to manipulate those who worry about being seen as rude! Theo nearly chuckled to himself.

Theodore, who wasn’t worried about looking rude, decided he should probably listen enough to whatever she was saying to respond intelligently, so he picked up what she was saying in the middle; “Yes, I realize those annoying Caytalan priests usually don’t consider any action from a woman to be the fault of anything more than bad teaching; normally I would have just been whipped, with the imprisonment/exile reserved for the male who had misled me.

“I was ‘lucky’ enough to avoid that now because they are preparing for some ‘sacred’ ritual. Apparently some prisoner here is to be sacrificed towards the grand prosperity of the universe. Whatever that means, they won’t suffer a woman’s presence during the preparations.

“I don’t get exactly what they are trying to do here- the details are in one of their high-level books that they refused to let us read. Refused, and sent me here for trying!

“They said they’d take me back after the ritual; but truthfully, after what happened to me here today, I’m not sure I want to find out what else they’re willing to let happen to me just to make sure I don’t get in the way.

“Although, I suppose I should be thankful that they wanted to give me the chance to live. I heard them planning to use Ryan as sprite-fodder.

“I’m not sure where Max slipped off to, but I guess it’s no fool. I’d never call it a person (Max is some sort of robot-android-thing) but it has the intelligence to realize that if they feel like they can get away with using Ryan’s body to breed those microscopic insects within, their plans for a non-human couldn’t be expected to be all that considerate.”

Theodore fully understood what she was saying. In fact, the ritual she spoke of was exactly the type of action Mardot was sure they be able to eliminate the need of with the new information, back before Theo was imprisoned here.

That they would still bother with such a ritual made it likely that the attack he had been punished for hadn’t even been completely successful! If that was the case: talk about adding insult to injury. No one had even thought him worth taunting about the failure.

“... because I’m an expert on old books.” Theodore suddenly realized that Emilija had continued speaking while he was thinking. “Because S.Y.M.A.C. command likes my combination of youth and experience I was commissioned to fly around the Galaxy with, Ryan Mead as my pilot, collecting texts for inclusion in the S.Y.M.A.C. system.

“Max (our pet name for our android ∞ or ‘Nitty’) is along for translation of the books we find and the actual job of uploading the data. We are being punished for trying to gain access to some sort of secret, sacred texts.”

Emilija made it clear to Theodore that she was part of some galactic data collating expedition for S.Y.M.A.C. People who were ready to go through the wilds to get hold of unusual artifacts should be able to help the two of them escape this the prison-planet place, especially if at least one of her two supposed co-workers had remained free.

That thought is why when Emilija’s tale ended Theodore simply nodded happily. He had no questions for her. By keeping silent he wouldn’t risk offending her and possibly changing her mind to take him along when she got off the planet.

Purchase Link:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/267204

 

Author Bio
 

Sarah Baethge was born in Texas, was going to UT at Dallas on a full Scholarship for computer science (with the summer job as a high school student as an intern for Lockheed Martin maintaining computers at NASA Houston.) She got in a car wreck driving from Houston to Dallas after Thanksgiving in 2000 and was in a coma for 6 months.

After waking up, she decided there was no point at anything that wasn’t likeable most of the time. Now she writes science fiction and fantasy because it entertains her, and tries to read for and write book reviews when she isn’t too busy storytelling.

The story Panoptemitry was a fun effort at trying to make imaginary nonsense into something almost scientifically sound.

LinkedIn:   http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=137322285&locale=en_US&trk=tyah

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/SarahBaethge?fref=ts

http://www.facebook.com/Panoptemitry

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/22niel

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17160042-panoptemitry

Universal Reader link:  https://books2read.com/u/4NxxRx

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is T.J. Banks.  Hello, T.J.!  Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age!  It’s such a pleasure to have you.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?

Do you write in a specific place?  Time of day?

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

“T. J. Banks offers interesting ‘sketches’ of writers, artists, photographers and others in Sketch People, highlighting passions, ideologies and historical accounts of each person’s true story in her impacting and emotionally driven style.” —Patricia Spork, Sporkette Gazette  

 

 

T. J. Banks is the author of Sketch People:  Stories Along the Way, A Time for Shadows, Catsong, Derv & Co.:  A Life Among Felines, Souleiado, and Houdini, a cat novel which the late writer and activist Cleveland Amory enthusiastically branded “a winner.”  Catsong, a collection of her best cat stories, was the winner of the 2007 Merial Human-Animal Bond Award. A Contributing Editor to laJoie, she has received writing awards from the Cat Writers’ Association (CWA, ByLine, and The Writing Self. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Guideposts’ Soul Menders, Their Mysterious Ways, Miracles of Healing, and Comfort From Beyond. She has also worked as a stringer for the Associated Press and as an instructor for the  Writer’s Digest School.

LinkedIn:  http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=44972436

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Nancy Wood. Hello, Nancy! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?


My latest book is my first book. It’s called Due Date and it was published by Solstice Publishing in May, 2012. It’s a thriller: there are no dead bodies, but it will keep you on the edge of your seat! You can find it on Amazon, Barnes &Noble, Smashwords, and in the Solstice store. 

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you? 

Due Date originally started out as a story of an open adoption and the somewhat difficult relationship between the intended mother and the birth mother. I took this book to a publishing workshop, where I was encouraged to change it into a mystery. At first I was skeptical. I had no idea how to write a mystery. Where to start it? How do you plant clues? How do you keep tension? But I started reading exclusively in the genre and began to study how mysteries and thrillers are put together. Now I’m hooked: I seem to gravitate toward this genre and rarely read or write anything else! 

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?
 
I’ve been writing for a long, long time. In fourth or fifth grade, I started writing a mystery with a friend of mine. I’d love to find that manuscript now! I’ve been writing in earnest for about twenty-five years and have a few unpublished books under my belt: a memoir and two novels. I have published a few short stories over the years. Due Date took about five years from start to finish, so I’m pretty slow!

Do you have any favorite authors? 
 
I’d have to say that mystery/thriller authors are now my favorite authors. As I mentioned above, when I decided to write a mystery, I dove into the genre, and started out by reading the First Novel Edgar nominees for the past several years. I was floored by all or it: the characters, the settings, the plots. An Edgar nominee that I read and re-read is called A Field of Darkness.  The author is Cornelia Read. The protagonist, Madeline Dare, is funny, brave, heroic, and complex. The novel has nuanced characters and a strong sense of place. But the writing was the best: Ms. Read’s writing just sparkles. A Field of Darkness made me understand the genre could hold anything a writer wanted to make of it.

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

Every morning, before breakfast, and before other family members get up, I’m at the keyboard. I try to write for an hour first thing, every day. I sometimes sit on the sofa with my laptop, but lately I’ve taken to writing in my office. The window looks out on the huge palm tree in our front yard (yes, here in Santa Cruz in Central California, there are palms), and I can watch the day begin. On good writing days, I’m reluctant to switch computers (I have two – one for writing, one for work) and start on whatever technical documentation is at hand. On bad writing days, I’m so thankful I can get to something that’s structured and known and knowable!
 
Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

Read everything you can in your genre. And keep writing. That’s key. Just like everything, your writing will get stronger with practice.

Here is the blurb for Due Date.

Surrogate mother Shelby McDougall just fell for the biggest con of all—a scam that risks her life and the lives of her unborn twins.

Twenty-three year-old Shelby McDougall is facing a mountain of student debt and a memory she’d just as soon forget. A Rolling Stone ad for a surrogate mother offers her a way to erase the loans and right her karmic place in the cosmos. Within a month, she's signed a contract, relocated to Santa Cruz, California, and started fertility treatments.

But intended parents Jackson and Diane Entwistle have their own agenda--one that has nothing to do with diapers and lullabies. With her due date looming, and the clues piling up, Shelby must save herself and her twins. As she uses her wits to survive, Shelby learns the real meaning of the word “family.” 

Here is an excerpt from Due Date. 

Chapter One

 

The Beemer driver, right on our tail, tapped his horn a few times, and sat on it. My brother Dexter swerved the SUV toward the dented guard rail separating the gravel shoulder from a steep drop into the Santa Cruz mountain valley below. But the BMW driver didn’t take the hint. He just edged closer, veering in and out of the lane, still trying to pass. 

“What the...?” shouted Dexter as the Beemer’s right front fender hooked our left rear with an explosive crunch.

Suddenly we were sliding out of control, skidding across the narrow road as if it were black ice. Dexter fought the wheel and pumped the brakes, but the pedal plunged to the floor. Yelling “Hold on,” he yanked the parking brake. 

Metal screeched and our CRV fishtailed to the right, jerking to a halt inches from the cliff. Dexter turned the ignition off and there was welcome silence.  

He whacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

“I am so dead,” he groaned. “Jessica is going to kill me.”

He reached over to unclip my seat belt then looked at me, horrified. “Jesus, Shelby, we need to get you to a doctor.”

“I’m fine,” I said, cradling my substantial belly with both hands. “Thank God the airbag didn’t go off.”  

“If I ever catch that asshole...” Dexter tried to start the car but the engine just whirred, clicked, and died. He swore, wiggled his phone out of his pocket, pressed the on button, and swore again. He shook it, as if that would help. “Can I try yours?”

“If you can find it,” I said.

I gestured behind me, where my entire life was crammed into boxes, suitcases, and duffel bags. 

“Don’t have that much time. Gotta get you and those babies to a doctor.”

He opened the car door. “I’ll be back in a half-hour, tops,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

He grinned at me. We both knew I wouldn’t.  

I watched his bright red t-shirt disappear through the redwood grove up the twisting road, under the blue California sky. He’d be at least an hour. Dexter never could tell time. 

I angled the seat back and was rewarded with the familiar poke of a baby foot between my lower ribs, then another on my left side. See? I wanted to tell Dexter, we’re all fine. All three of us. And just because you’re my big brother, you can’t always tell me what to do. 

I reserved that privilege for Jackson and Diane Entwistle, the intended parents of my unborn twins. Although we didn’t know each other that well yet, Diane insisted on taking me in now that Jessica, Dexter’s pushy wife, had kicked me out. So instead of being shoe-horned into an all-purpose office-guest-craft room, I’d have my own cottage. Six hundred square feet all to myself on their expansive Santa Cruz mountain ridge-top estate. Even though the arrangement would only last a few months, until the babies were born, I was looking forward to quiet country living.

I locked the doors, twisted around in the seat for my purse, and busied myself in a fit of organization. I excavated gum wrappers, used movie tickets, wadded up tissues, balls of hair from my brush, bits of broken shells I’d collected on my morning beach walks, keys to Dexter’s house that I wouldn’t be needing anymore, and a dangly red and white African beaded earring I’d assumed was long lost. The trash went in one pile, the earring in my coin purse, and I stashed the keys to my former life in the glove box. 

I’d just have to remember to tell Dexter they were there.

 

* * * *

Forty-five minutes later, I was flipping through the Sunset magazine I’d found under the passenger seat when I smelled smoke. 

Campfires weren’t unusual up here in the hills, where there were at least three state parks, and at first the tendril of what looked like mist winding through the upper redwood canopy didn’t worry me. I was reading about kitchen makeovers, something I couldn’t yet imagine at twenty-three, but maybe someday, after the babies were born, after I finished graduate school, after I found that perfect guy. 

Then I started coughing. And I looked up again. The smoke was as dense as beach fog on a summer morning. This was no campfire. 

I felt a sudden surge in my throat: on the side of the road, near the hairpin curve where Dexter had disappeared, licks of red and orange flame were traveling lazily up the trunk of a spindly shrub. I jumped as it ignited with a crack, sparking in fiery traces like a welding torch. 

As quickly as I could, I unlocked the door and eased out, trying not to look down. A slope as steep as a ski jump yawed beneath my feet. Only an inch of slippery gravel lay between the toes of my flip-flops and the lip. I baby-stepped around the car, taking peeks up the hill, hoping I’d see Dexter running toward me, arms outspread in a victory lap. 

If you wanted something enough, the universe would provide, right? But only a backdrop of flames glowed through the swirling smoke. 

Now whole trees were hissing in the distance as they burned. A power line sparked in a deafening pop. I looked around for my best escape route. I couldn’t follow Dexter. No one could navigate that path, not even a fully-suited firefighter with an oxygen tank. I knew Dexter was somewhere safe by now. Probably as worried about me as I was.

I waddled fast downhill, and ten minutes later, I was in almost-clear air again, the blaze just a memory clinging in sooty, sweaty rivulets to my hair and clothes. My eyes still burned and my tongue felt singed, but a familiar blue sky arched above and the feathery ash only floated down occasionally, gentle as mist. 

I knew it would be just a matter of time before the fire caught up to me, though, and I couldn’t walk forever. 

As if my prayer had been answered, the faint whine of an engine percolated the still afternoon. Gears ground as the vehicle labored up the grade. I dodged off the road and crouched behind a tree. Maybe it was the hormones, but paranoia had been a constant companion since I signed my surrogacy papers. Nobody liked surrogates, I’d learned, especially once they realized the amounts of money involved. 

But I needed a lift. Shaking off my worries, I straightened up, ready to flag down the vehicle. “Shelby Emma Stearns McDougall,” I said. “Get a grip.” 

Above me, a pair of crows squawked, raspy and piercing. I adjusted my huge belly, leaned back against the tree trunk, and waited.

 

Author Bio

Nancy lives in Santa Cruz, California, with her family, where she’s been lucky enough to make writing her career. For many years she made her living as a technical writer, working in software documentation. About six years ago, she set up her own shop and is now a writing consultant and contractor, happy to spend every day grappling with words and sentences. 

Due Date is Nancy’s first published book and she’s now hard at work on the second book in the Shelby McDougall series.

Connect with Nancy here:

Website: www.nancywood-books.com

Facebook Fan page: http://www.facebook.com/NancyWoodAuthor

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6452303.Nancy_W_Wood

Twitter: https://twitter.com/NancyWoodAuthor

Awesome!  Thanks, Nancy, for visiting Writing in the Modern Age today!  Your book sounds interesting!

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My guest today is KateMarie Collins. Hello, KateMarie! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here today.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it? 

My new book is titled Mark of the Successor. It's about a young woman, Lily, who finds out her entire life was a lie. She has to find her inner strength to break free of how she was raised and be who she wants to be, over what others demand of her. It hasn't released yet, but we're hoping for sometime in May or June of 2013. Once it's out, you can get it via Solstice Publishing's website (www.solsticepublishing.com), and it should also be available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble's websites.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you? 

I belonged to an online writing group where we did challenges every week. Someone would put a topic out, and we'd write whatever our take on it was. This particular week, the challenge was a known unknown. I wrote a small story about a small child seeing a school bus for the first time. But then Lily would not shut up! I had to keep writing about her until the story was complete. The challenge part is actually the prologue in the book.

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I've always been creative, even though I can't draw a straight stick figure without a ruler. Where I grew up, though, things like being published were reserved for 'other people', not me. By the time I finished high school, I saw my talent as little more than being able to bs my way through the essay portion of a test. Five years ago, something inside me unlocked the muse I'd kept caged for all those years. I started to write, and it scared me. For the first time I could recall, I liked what I wrote. Once the muse was out, though, she refused to go back inside. 

Do you have any favorite authors? 

Nick Pollotta, Stephen Boyett, David Eddings, and Patricia Kennelly-Morrison are people I will always read. Mr. Pollotta is the only author that'll make me laugh aloud while I'm reading. The others have this sense of realness to their writing. 

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

I've got an office space in our house. I've got to get the right music in the stereo first. Normally, I do a lot of my writing when my kids are at school and the hubby's at work. I can crank the stereo, ignore the telemarketers (yeah for caller i.d.!), and let things flow. 

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

Don't give up. Yes, you're going to get rejections. We all do. It's part of the business. If you get any feedback from a publisher or agent, take it to heart. It's not a good feeling to be told no, but be open to analyzing the story if something's brought to your attention. None of us ever start with the perfect manuscript after one draft.  

Here is the blurb for Mark of the Successor.

Dominated and controlled by an abusive mother, Lily does what she can to enjoy fleeting moments of normality. When a break from school only provides the opportunity for more abuse at home, the sudden appearance of a stranger turns her world even bleaker. Disappearing without a trace, he has left a lingering fear in Lily. His parting words to her mother, “Have her ready to travel tomorrow,” is something her mind refuses to accept.

Running away is the only answer. But before Lily can execute her plan, a shimmering portal appears in her room. Along with two strangers who promise to help keep her safe. With time running out, she accepts their offer for escape and accompanies them into a brand new world. A world in which she is the kidnapped daughter of a Queen, and the heir to the throne of Tanisal.

Can she find her own strength to overcome both an abusive past and avoid those who would use her as a means to power?

Here's an excerpt from Mark of the Succesor. 

PROLOGUE

 

"But why do I have ta go, Mama?" Tears streamed down Lily's cheeks.

Mama bent down, enfolding her in a tight embrace. "It not my choice, Lily. Them folk down the road, the ones that keep tryin’ to talk us into going to church with them, they did call important folk. Them think they knows more than I do."

"No one knows more than you do, Mama!" Lily pulled back a little, wiping at the tears.

"You just remember that, Lily, when them teachers tell you something different!" Mama straightened up. "Now, you go down to the end of the driveway. There goin’ to be someone come pick you up. You be brave, now. I be here when you come back."

Lily knew better than to try and kick up rocks or dirt on the walk to the main road. Mama didn’t like that. She got mad at the delivery man one day, even got the shotgun down when he drove too fast. Told him to go slow and stop making the dust kick up or she'd shoot him.

The end of the drive loomed ahead. A small wooden shed with a bench, open on one side, shone bright in the morning sun. It was newly built, the yellow pine still had the fresh cut look to it.

Lily waited next to it, not knowing what it was for.

A low rumble reached her ears, slowly growing in volume. Lily quickly checked her

raven black hair, making sure it was arranged in the way Mama liked. Mama didn't like the back of her neck showing for some reason. If anyone else saw it, Lily would go to hell, Mama told her.

A strange thing came rolling down the road. It was huge! Lily's green eyes bulged in

terror as it lumbered toward her. It was yellow, with bright glowing eyes below a dark forehead. Or was that a mouth? Black smoke bellowed from behind, reeking like sulfur and coal. She swallowed hard as the great beast pulled up, screeching to a halt in front of her.

A door opened at the side. Lily glanced up, and saw a long row of windows revealing other young folk trapped inside. A set of black stairs led up. A man sat at the top of them. He was looking at her, expectantly. One huge hand rested on a large black wheel. The other held the handle of some shiny device. Mama said the reason men had such big hands was so they could hit girls harder when they didn't obey their Mamas.

"C'mon, sweetheart. I haven't got all morning. Got more kids to pick up." 

Lily took a deep breath and slowly mounted the steps. The creature was full of seats. Lots of other kids stared at her like she was a freak. She stopped, panic rising in her.

"Find a seat, sweetheart. I can't move until you do." The voice made her jump.

Remembering what Mama had said about making men happy or they beat you, she slid into the closest empty seat. The black material felt hot.

The creature lurched as it moved forward, making her slam into the back of the seat.

Author Bio

Born in the late 60's, KateMarie has lived most of her life in the Pacific NW. While she's always been creative, she didn't turn towards writing until 2008. She found a love for the craft. With the encouragement of her husband and two daughters, she started submitting her work to publishers. When she's not taking care of her family, KateMarie enjoys attending events for the Society for Creative Anachronism. The SCA has allowed her to combine both a creative nature and love of history. She currently resides with her family and three cats in what she likes to refer to as "Seattle Suburbia".

Website: http://katemariecollins.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/KateMarie-Collins/217255151699492?ref=ts&fref=ts
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DaughterHauk
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/KateMarie-Collins/e/B008I67BBE/

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My guest today is Laura Graham. Hello, Laura! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it? 


My book, Down a Tuscan Alley, which was published last year, can be bought on Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk in paperback and e-books where it is collecting 5 star reviews. My other books are cat’s adventure stories for children, Tale of Two Tuscan Cats and Tuscan Cats Get Into Mischief. In paperback and e-books, they can also be found on Amazon.
 
Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

I was prompted to write Down a Tuscan Alley because it happened – I found myself at a loose end in life with no clear idea of what to do or where to go. But I owned a minute apartment down a back alley in Tuscany bought and paid for. So I was prepared to take the risk and change my life.

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I knew I wanted to write when I was about 17. But I won a scholarship into drama school and from then on worked as an actress in the theatre in London, understudying Helen Mirren and playing major roles in other productions both in theatre and television. But I always wrote, secretly, stuff hidden in a box, never dreamt it would any good. Then one day I dared to show it to a trusted friend. Because of her reaction I wrote with a passion every day, hoping that sometime in the future I might be published.

Do you have any favorite authors? 

Iris Murdoch, Truman Capote, Joyce Carol Oates, Ian McEwan, Tolstoy, George Orwell, James Joyce, PD James, to name but a few.

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

I like writing in a bar down the road from my house every morning. It’s called the Divine Comedy (says everything really) There are people about, a counter crowded with cakes, But it is less distracting than being at home.

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

The only advice I feel capable of offering is to never give up. Write for yourself. Pour your heart and passionate ideas out onto the page. Give the very best of yourself. For that’s what any creative work is about – giving!

Here is the blurb for Down a Tuscan Alley.

A long relationship ends. At 48, house taken by the bank, Lorri has little money. What can she do? And where can she go? Gathering her meager savings and her two beloved cats, she escapes England for a new life in a remote Italian village, never imagining the intrigue, passion and romance she will find . . .

Here's an excerpt from Down a Tuscan Alley.

I’d lain on the bed, half covered with a sheet, and he had stepped across the room still wet from the shower and stretched himself on top of me. I’d gasped at the hardness of his body.

After, I’d sat at the window, looking out at the stars. The insistent thrumming of the crickets, the distant humming of the generator in the vineyards, the vibration sounds had closed us off, created our own separate reality. “Don’t think too much,” he’d said, turning over in bed.

I closed the shutters. When it rose, the sun would toast his body. It was not so much thinking as adjusting, I’d liked to have said, but couldn’t find the words in Italian. It would have to wait until I’d studied the dictionary.

This is a small review for Down a Tuscan Alley.

Neil Osborn, Arts Theatre review:

Lorri, a quintessentially English woman in her late forties decides to change her life and go to Tuscany. There’s only one problem: she has no money. But she does have two cats and a back alley apartment with a view of the street steps and the greengrocer’s moldy fruit – and I nearly forgot – an ex on the prowl, a shady character following her and a Quasimodo type lurking in the alleyway. Wonderful stuff! It gets even better when a passionate love affair blossoms with a younger man and friends arrive from England causing havoc. To sum up, Down a Tuscan Alley is a well written and entertaining read.

Author Bio

Laura Graham was an actress for many years performing in Shakespearean productions at the National Theatre in London. She has also played leading roles in Chekhov and Strindberg in major theatres in England. One of the major influences in her life was coming to Italy to live, with virtually no money, only two beloved cats for company, and coping with the mishaps, the passion and the intrigue. Which is what her first book, Down a Tuscan Alley, is about. Her second book, this time for children, Tale of Two Tuscan Cats, is about the adventures of her own two cats, one found in the forest, the other on the street. There is now a sequel, Tuscan Cats Get Into Mischief, which is also for sale on Amazon.co.uk.

Website:  http://www.lauragraham.co.uk/
Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/lauragraham7
Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Laura-Graham/e/B007A0CQ6O/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1365136990&sr=1-2-ent

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My guest today is Gail Picado. Hello, Gail! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?  

My latest book, A Cow Named John, is a true labor of love.  It’s a collection of great memories of what we used to do on my aunt and uncle’s farm; a time without toys.  All we had were farm animals, the land, and our imagination.  It came out in August, 2012, and can be purchased through Amazon, Solstice Publishing, or Barnes & Noble if you have a Nook.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you? 

As I see how kids today are so disconnected from family, it saddens me.  They’ll spend hours texting their friends, but not a word to their siblings. Family is very important!  So, I wrote A Cow Named John to show the world the humorous and nostalgic side of growing up on a farm.

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours? 

I wrote a play in the 6th grade and had a lot of fun directing it.  But my dad didn’t approve of the arts and pushed me into business courses in high school.  Then after he died, his adopted mom listed him as a “stranger that assumed their name” in her will.  I was so hurt by this that I wrote my first novel, No One’s Son.  It’s a real tearjerker.  Now, I write for the fun of it.

Do you have any favorite authors?

Stephen King, Dean Koontz, plus the classics like Dickens and Steinbeck.  There are so many good writers out there!  I’ll choose a book just from its title, and I’m seldom disappointed.

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day? 

I have a “hobby” room that’s mine exclusively where I draw, write, sew, and do puzzles.  You can find me there anytime of the day.

Are there any words you’d like to impart to fellow writers? Any advice? 

Don’t try to get rich by writing.  Only the few get there - - very few.  Write only if it’s what you love and you have something to say. 

Here is the blurb for A Cow Named John.

Why did you name your cow John? After all, John is a boy's name.

Twelve-year-old Mike Elsasser lives on a farm in 1950s Nebraska. John is his favorite cow – she lets him go cow skiing with her in the mud. He constantly gets asked about her name, but he doesn't feel like explaining. "Just because," he tells them.

Then one day, John gets lost…

…And even worse, Mike finds himself saddled with his younger cousin, Gaylyn, a girl who smiles all the time and doesn’t know anything.

While John gets up to odd adventures, the two children have adventures of their own. They fight mosquitoes, make their own ice cream, find a secret passage and risk electrocution in irrigation trenches. They get involved in the trickery of fishing and the hunting of snipe. They learn horse tricks, escape an angry sheep, keep their trickster uncle at bay, and even survive a tornado!

A Cow Named John is a nostalgic and humorous story about children on a farm, their antics, and how work can feel like play – and how the search for John can be just as fun as actually finding her.  

Yes.  You asked for it.  We do have an excerpt from A Cow Named John.  Enjoy!

           Two weeks before the fourth of July in 1959, the Elsasser family slept as black, billowy clouds hung in the night, blocking the moon and stars. The lightning cracked; chirping crickets lay silent. Buzzing grasshoppers, the babbling spring, and fish and pollywogs nipping at mosquitoes, all were silent too. Nothing made any noise to alarm the family of John’s intent.

            John’s nose rubbed against the rough rope fibers that held her captive and kept her from exploring. Higher and higher went the rope, until at last, it went over the top of the post and fell to the ground below. John was free! Free to roam. Free to run. Free to be. 

            A coyote yelped and yipped such news, but the family didn’t stir. Hungry was this coyote. Hungry to the bone. 

***

             Twelve-year-old Mike Elsasser crouched in the barnyard the next morning and put his right index finger in his mouth. Getting it nice and wet, he stuck it in the air to check which way the wind blew. He didn’t want Old Red to smell his scent as he snuck up on her. 

            “Sow, boss,” whispered Mike, as he crept quietly behind the cow. Last night’s summer storm made the ground perfect for this: all wet and slippery. He inched closer. When he was within reach of the cow’s tail, Mike grabbed it and hollered, “Whoop, whoop!”

            The startled cow jumped in fright and ran for her life, dragging Mike along! He hung onto her tail, fighting to stay on his feet over the wet, slippery mud. Cow skiing wasn’t easy, and he prided himself on being pretty good at it. 

            “Whoop, whoop!” Mike repeated, throwing one arm in the air. He skied for almost thirty feet before falling over. He looked up from the mud and watched Old Red run to the safety of the barn. He laughed. 

            “Crazy cow!” he yelled. He got up and brushed himself off. Hope Dad doesn’t find out this time, he thought. He’d sure be angry if he knew that I tried to ski behind another cow.

             Mike walked into the barn and patted the backside of Bessie as she stood eating hay. “Sow boss,” he said, while taking a wet cloth from his hip pocket. He wiped the cow’s teat clean and then sat on the three-legged stool to milk her.

            Three kittens came over and he squirted them with milk, much to their delight. After he finished milking Bessie, he moved on to Molly and milked her too. Done, he picked up the milking pails, groaning from the weight. 

            Mike had blond hair and blue eyes like his dad, with lean muscles from carrying milk from the barn to the white, wood-framed bunkhouse, a porch-length away from the farmhouse. They used the basement under the bunkhouse only in case of tornadoes. Hired hands, the men who used to help work the farm, and their beds were long gone, but it still held an old wood-burning stove and a milk separator. The separator looked like a large stainless steel funnel on legs. It had a crank handle like on the front of an old-timey car.

Mike set two buckets under the large funnel and poured the milk in the top. Taking hold of the crank handle with both hands, he began turning it in a continuous circle. The large metal funnel spun around and around until the cream separated from the milk. The milk filtered down one side of the funnel, and the cream filtered down the other side. 

            Once this was done, Mike took the cream and milk to his mom. One day, thought Mike, I’m going to move off this farm, away from this town, and then I won’t have to do all this milking. I’m going to buy my milk from the store, just like city folks. 

            Mike lived in Brady, Nebraska, a small town shaped like a horseshoe off Highway 30, just east of North Platte. Brady couldn’t be found on any map, and a house number wasn’t needed in the address on letters. With a population of 240 people, the mailman delivered the mail by just the name on the envelope.

            Unlike the city, the town had no paved roads, only dirt, and it had wooden walkways in front of each establishment. The restaurant behind the gas station had most of the local branding irons tacked up around the walls as its décor. The town also had a bank, a drug store, a post office, a feed store, and a community center, where every Saturday night people would come to square dance. An outdoor movie theater used the white wall of the drug store as a movie screen. Logs split in half and placed on the ground served as benches, and other logs outlined where walls would have been. The best part? It was free to watch. 

            “Take your boots off,” Mike’s mother, Evelyn, reminded him as he put the milk and cream into the refrigerator. “And go wash up for dinner.”

            Evelyn was a slim, pretty woman. Her blue eyes contrasted with her black hair, which she tied up in a bun to keep out of her face. 

            Mike did as he was told, and then walked to his room without saying a word. He tossed his straw cowboy hat on his bed and went to the farmhouse’s one bathroom to wash up. The bathtub stood on four legs in the corner, and they didn’t have a shower. 

            He heard the screen door bang shut and knew it was his dad.

            “Where’s Mike?” asked his father, Arno.

            “In the bathroom,” said Evelyn. “Why? What did he do now?”

            “I think he’s been cow skiing again. I got to the barn just after Mike left and Old Red’s acting all nervous and upset. Dang kid! I’ve told him a hundred times not to do that!”

            Arno was a fair-minded man, but also hot tempered, and he had a short fuse. His good looks – almost six feet tall, blond wavy hair, blue eyes, and long dimples on the sides of his face that showed off straight white teeth when he smiled – hid his quick temper. 

            Mike listened to his parents’ conversation through the open bathroom door. Oh man, he thought, should I lie or should I come out with it? 

            Mike dried his hands and walked into the kitchen: time to face the music.

Universal Reader Link:  https://books2read.com/u/m2lMBG

 

Author Bio

Gail Picado was born in 1949. In high school, she loved to draw and write, but her father discouraged her, saying that there were too many starving artists, so instead, she took typing and bookkeeping, always working in an office.

As a child, her parents would take her and her siblings to her aunt and uncle’s farm in Brady, Nebraska, every summer to spend time with their cousins. She spent many hours learning chores that seemed more like play, and each chore created a good memory. There were no toys, but the animals were all the toys any child would need. This is how A Cow Named John was created.

Gail’s first novel, No One’s Son, published in 1991, is based on her father’s life. She and her husband reside in California and have three daughters.

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/gail.picado

Authors Den:  http://www.authorsden.com/visit/author.asp?authorid=168207

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/GailPicado 

Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Gail%20Picado 

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My guest today is Friday Abumere. Hello, Friday! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?

Blood Is Thicker Than Water is my latest book and was published in October 2012.

The book is available on Smashwords and other retailers.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

Yes, because we are living in a world where man is an enemy to man and they do have the milk of human kindness again. Men have seen the sky, moon, stars, sun, mountain and valley. Still they do not fear God Almighty. The book focuses on man's inhumanity to man. It is a book everyone must read.  The book is for wisdom, knowledge and for moral lesson.

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

If I feel the need to write, I write provided the place is cool and calm.

Do you have any favorite author?

My favourite author is God Almighty, because he is the creator of heaven and earth and the giver of all good things. He gave me the wisdom, knowledge, understanding and the inspiration to write all my books.

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

Yes.

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers? Any advice?

My advice to them is that they should believe in themselves and God Almighty. They should remember they were born original, not a copy, unique and special in their own ways and they should hold to their dreams. Nothing good comes easily; there must be a sacrifice.

Here is the blurb for Blood Is Thicker Than Water.

This is a story of a young undergraduate, who wanted to become a medical doctor. But the death of their father rubs them for many things. Whatever they got during the burial was taken by the family and they forcibly took their father property that was left for them to fall back on. As a result of all this, their mother develops a mental illness and her daughter now plays the role of father and mother. She seeks for assistance from one place to another to take care of her mother and her younger sisters.

One day she ran into an old friend, who raised her in hope of getting her a good job, but her hope of meeting her employer became deflated, when her friend became her employer and took her into a hotel room where she finally gave her job.

Universal Reader Link:  https://books2read.com/u/mdDn2X

 

Author Bio

  

Friday Abumere hails from Edo State, Nigeria. After his primary education, he was admitted into Ujoelen Grammar School, where he respectively obtained his O/L certificate in 1995. After one year, he proceeded to Niger State, where he worked with Iyayi Sea Food Suleja.

He also worked with Julius Berger Construction Company P.L.C in Abuja, as a checker for five years.  He later obtained his Diploma certificate in Computer Engineering in 2004 and he is the author of Who To Blame, Blood Is Thicker Than Water, The Wind of Change, The Barren Destinys and Cry for Justice.  He is happily married and blessed with children.

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/friday.abumere

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/FAbumere

LinkedIn:  http://ng.linkedin.com/pub/friday-abumere/43/44b/a0b

Additional Links: 

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/334867

Thanks again for visiting us, Friday, on Writing in the Modern Age!

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is KC Sprayberry. Hello, KC! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it? 

Softly Say Goodbye is a story about one teen’s determination to make a difference in her high school, to stop underage drinking. She jumps into this with all her heart because she feels it’s wrong for a small number of students to intimidate the rest. Little does she realize her quest can cause heartbreak, but it does not once but three times. Still, she persists. Softly Say Goodbye released in ebook format in October 2012 and in paperback January 2013. It’s available at Amazon. 

Links:

Universal Reader Link:  https://books2read.com/u/4XrLEN

Solstice Publishing:  https://www.solsticeempire.com/products.aspx?categoryid=442

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you? 

Several things prompted Softly Say Goodbye. The characters jumped into my head, their lives, their dreams, what makes them happy or sad, but without a reason for a story. Then I saw a Facebook status that kicked me in the backside, started the story. Finally, I heard the song "Here We Are" by Breaking Benjamin, and the full story unfolded. But it wasn’t as easy as writing it out. Softly Say Goodbye went through six major rewrites before it became the tale it is today.

So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

Writing has always excited me. I absolutely loved working over my essays for English class, spent most of my homework time on them. Getting a diary at thirteen gave me another opportunity to jot down my thoughts and ideas. This evolved to an interest in creative writing, but I didn’t really get into this passion full time until I moved to Georgia.

Do you have any favorite authors?

Several. I love Penny Estelle’s fresh perspective on problems, especially in At What Price? Robert Jordan hooked me on his Wheel of Time series back in 1991, and I just finished the final book, co-written by Brandon Sanderson after Mr. Jordan’s untimely death in 2007. Stephen King is another favorite. All of his work is good, but 11/23/63 was especially good.    

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day? 

I have an office, and I spend most mornings in there, and some afternoons – depending on where I am in a project. I work best in the early hours of the morning, when it’s peaceful and my teen isn’t blasting his music. However, when it comes to editing, it’s the backside firmly planted on the sofa with a legal pad, pen, highlighter, and my current work in a binder. I’ve found there are less distractions there.

Are there any words you’d like to impart to fellow writers? Any advice?

Read first, whatever you can get your hands on. We have a large personal library, nearly 1400 books. I’ve always been a reader and am more so now. Then never give up. Writing is not only telling a story well, it’s also staying with the constant rejections, the feeling you’ll never be published. Don’t stop because a publisher couldn’t find a place for your work – keep on submitting. And while you are, work on the next project, pen short stories and find homes for them, track down anthologies that might fit your work. But never give up.

Here is the blurb for Softly Say Goodbye.

Erin Sellers, an eighteen-year-old high school senior, hates teen drinking. She and her three friends – Bill, her guy, Shari and Jake - decide to use Twitter to stop a group, the Kewl Krew, from using their high school as the local bar. But the members of this group are just as determined to stop anyone from messing up their fun. Despite veiled threats to her safety, Erin continues her crusade. 

To make matters worse for her, the stress of school and extra curricular work mounts and suddenly, shockingly, booze-fuelled tragedy strikes. Erin is now under greater pressure as she spends all hours to produce a mural and other work to commemorate the death of a teen friend. Bill, Jake and Shari support her in all this...  

But more tragedy lurks nearby… until it’s time to softly say goodbye. 

And at last, we’re giving you a sneak peek of Softly Say Goodbye. Enjoy!

The sound of liquid gurgling and a thunk distracts me as my art teacher, Mr. Janks, says he has a major announcement. An overwhelming urge prods me to confront the offender, but she'll deny my accusation, even though everyone in the vicinity knows she just chugged some vodka. 

Do it! My hands clench into fists. Tell Laura to quit! 

High school drunks totally piss me off. The urge to deal with the offender overcomes common sense. I start to turn around to give her a piece of my mind but stare in shock at my teacher instead. 

A week before Valentine's Day, the most romantic day of the year, I want to throw my books into the nearest trashcan and run until my legs give out. Here I am, sitting in my art class, and Mr. Janks announces we have to do a term project but not just any term project. Oh no! We have to develop a major project like cleaning up the Rec Center's playground and painting a mural on the huge cylinders kids climb all over. Worse, I swear I heard something about a video. Who has time to do all that and a video? 

“Tell me Mr. J didn't say that,” I cry. 

The now protesting students echo my feelings. The new issue drives all other thoughts out of my head. Oh yeah, I heard right, and the timing is rotten. 

Tuck Amstead rolls his eyes and glances at me. “Total pits, Erin.” 

“Maybe we heard wrong?” I offer. 

“Mr. Janks, we can't possibly do this,” Tiana Bolton protests. “It'll…it'll… You're asking us to give up all of our free time and ignore studying for our EOCs. And you want us to show you what we did on the same day we take the EOCs!” 

Boy, does she have that right. EOCs, end of course exams, make up a significant portion of our final grade. To top it off, we also have to take the state's graduation test — a mind-numbing horror challenging us to remember every single thing we have ever learned since our very first day at Landry High School. The idea of planning and executing a major art project due at the same as those dreaded tests gives me the worst scary feeling of my life. 

“Why can't you do like everyone else?” I ask. “This is worse than impossible.” 

“This is my EOC, Erin.” Mr. Janks shakes his head. “You saw the syllabus when you started the class last fall.” He stares at each student, all twenty of us, for a heartbeat. “All of you signed the syllabus, and so did your parents. No excuses. Now—” 

“But we have to do all our other studying,” Tiana cries, interrupting him. “When will we have time for your project?” 

Slender, sweet, and conflicted, Tiana's cap of brandy brown hair frames her porcelain complexion. Oh, so jealous here. She never has to worry about her hair bushing up on a humid day or the sun giving her freckles like I do with my shoulder-length red hair and uber-pale complexion. Even her eyes drive me nuts. Instead of green like mine, which everyone says look like the local pond's algae, Tiana's are gray. She has more than high school to worry about. Her mom won a court decision only a week ago, forcing Tiana to visit her in prison. The timing can't be worse. The first visit is the same day as the Valentine's Day Dance. Poor Tiana not only has to miss the most romantic dance of the year, she has to listen to her mom grouch about how a judge forced her into a plea deal that keeps her in prison for ten years. The dummy never should have driven when she was drunk. The family she hit is still recovering from their injuries. 

“You also have a long term art project,” Mr. Janks says with what sounds like very little patience for our issues. “Now, I have a few things to say about the project since it sounds like most of you can't remember what you signed last August. It will be a major part of your final grade. Just like all your other EOCs.” 

Shocked beyond belief, I scribble what he says in a desperate effort to make sure I pass this very important, blown off exam. Who ever thought I, Erin Sellers, would panic at the thought of an art project? I churn out assignments in this class without a second thought. Art is my passion, the one thing I live for, the way I relax. With everything else going on in my life, and all the issues at school, I don't need an announcement I never expected. 

Usually, I love school. No wasted moments pass before I dive into the planning sessions with my crew for all major projects, the people I share each and every secret with. This time, I'm alone except for Tiana, and she sounds like she wants nothing to do with art. 

“Why can't we just do what we usually do?” she asks. “It's not like we'll ever use art again.” 

Oops! Major faux pas. Boy, is she about to hear it. He lives and breathes art in every form. 

“All of you were included in this class for your artistic abilities.” His voice sounds colder than a late January snowstorm. “I expect you to do this assignment or join me for summer school while the rest of your friends enjoy their vacation, Ms. Bolton. Now, if you're through whining, I need to finish explaining this assignment before the bell rings.” 

Whoa! Mr. Janks never talks like this. He is far cooler than any other teacher, and he dresses the starving artist part. Shoulder-length blond hair with a few gray streaks highlights a thin face. Cheekbones stick out under his super-pale blue eyes, and stubble on his chin makes him look so laid back. Until this moment, I've never heard him tell a student off like he just did. 

“Yeah.” Tiana slumps down in her seat. “Whatever. Like I'll have time.” 

How I wish for the old days, when nothing got her down. She went into a total slide after her mom went to jail for the DUI. My crew and I want to help, but her home life is such a bummer. Her dad smokes pot from the time he gets off work until he passes out around ten or eleven every night. And she has to deal with her mom's stupid remarks whenever the woman calls, and her dad's drug addiction, but she is so cool about staying off the stuff herself. 

“Does everyone understand I won't tolerate any reason for avoiding this project?” he asks. 

His voice warms up a little. Almost like going from minus one to zero on the thermometer. Like me, the rest of the class sits quietly with pencils or pens poised above notebooks. No one wants to piss him off any more than he already is. 

“Fine.” He searches the top of his desk as a question occurs to me. 

“Uh, Mr. Janks?"

“Yes, Erin.” No patience in his voice, just a lot of suppressed anger, like he thinks I'm about to make trouble.

No one, but no one, can accuse me of causing problems on purpose. If anything, I go out of my way to avoid notice and trouble, except telling off any teen drinking booze. The urge to say “it doesn’t matter” almost makes me change my mind, but I really have to know something. 

“Will we have to get permission from the city to do this project? I mean, you used the Rec Center as an example. We can't just go in and do what we want unless someone approves it. Right?” 

“You're right.” His voice softens. “Thank you for mentioning that.” He holds up a folder. “I have a list of places the city wants cleaned up. Mayor Flaggins agreed to let you kids—” 

The whole room erupts into moans and groans. None of us like someone calling us kids, not with most of us already eighteen. 

He laughs instead of getting upset. “Sorry. All right, class, here's the list. I'll call out a location, and the first person with their hand up gets it. I have enough locations for everyone to work alone, except one. Two of you will have to share.” 

I sit back and go over possible locations in my mind. One sticks out. The park across from the police station on Main Street. There's a fantastic in-ground fountain for kids to play in during the summer and a bunch of concrete benches around it with walking paths and short walls. The fountain has a huge jet in the center and shoots water in a long stream over the nearby area. It also has smaller jets with bubbling water around the basin. But it's so plain, and the perfect place for a fantastic mural about living in a rural area. 

“The old Long John Silver's near the Red Foods,” Mr. Janks says. “Mayor Flaggins thought something related to farming there.” 

“Me!” Tuck waves his arm back and forth. “I have this fantastic idea. Maybe something including Jackson Valley and all the farms down there.” 

Wallis County has a lot of small farms, nothing more than five to ten acres for people to put in enough vegetables to feed their families and sell the rest at truck stands. Tuck's suggestion brings up a visual of a long winding road beside a creek with houses against small hills and open fields to either side. In the summer, during the height of growing season, it looks fabulous. 

“Okay, Tuck has the Long John Silver's.” Mr. Janks makes a note. “Let’s get on with the rest.” 

The list of places to decorate sounds boring, and like Mayor Flaggins wants free labor to clean up some pretty nasty parts of town. Yeah, the economy stinks, but why do we have to volunteer to do something the mayor can put people sentenced to community service on? 

“Okay, just two more,” Mr. Janks says, jerking me back to reality. “Next, the fountain near—” 

My hand shoots into the air, and I wave my arm harder than Tuck did. 

“Looks like Erin's hot for this one,” he says. “Okay, Erin. Want to share your idea?” 

“Not sure yet,” I say. “Something including kids and the fountain. Definitely green.” 

“Good.” He nods. “I like the idea of using green products. Now, last but not least is the Rec Center playground. Definitely a two-person job. Tiana?” 

“I guess.” She sounds less than enthusiastic. “But it's a huge job. I can't even think of a single thing kids will like there that won't take me hours and hours I don't have.”

A loud crack of gum snapping jerks everyone forward in their seats. My eyes roll, and I want to grab the gum-cracker’s “water” bottle and throw it out, preferably in another state. A drunk in class is bad enough, but a gum-chewing drunk makes me crazed. 

“I guess I have to bail out Tiana,” Laura Wiley says. “Whatever.” She buffs blood-red fingernails against her sweater. “This better not mess up my manicure.” 

The queen of the Kewl Krew checks in. Oh great! So not.

Author Bio

What a wonderful world it is to have books. Imagine one without imaginations devoted to giving children a place to discover new worlds, make friends, and see a wider view. That was my life until I learned to appreciate books as a child and now I work hard to share my stories with them. So many things interested me, so many adventures beckoned that I had no idea how to discover all of them at once. College brought dreams of photo/journalism but a diversion to the military took me to Europe for five years. Finally, after many years of putting it off, I took the plunge and committed those stories to paper at almost 40! Now over 50, I live in LaFayette, GA with my husband and youngest child, a teen. We also have a near human cat, Fireball.

Links

Website: www.kcsprayberry.com

Blog: http://outofcontrolcharacters.blogspot.com

https://www.amazon.com/author/kcsprayberry

 

Thanks again for visiting us, KC, on Writing in the Modern Age! Your book sounds great!

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Stefan Vucak. Hello, Stefan! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?

Strike for Honor is a pretty intense contemporary political drama with naval action. It’s about an admiral whose son is killed by a North Korean missile attack during a naval exercise. With the U.S. administration unwilling to upset nuclear limitation talks with North Korea by taking a tough stand, the admiral decides to strike North Korea’s nuclear enrichment plant. This, of course, creates an international crisis and upsets the American President. I had to do a lot of research for this book, but that was part of the fun. I did not apply everything I learned, but it broadened my horizons.

Strike for Honor was released this March and is available from Amazon and Smashwords.

Is there anything that prompted Strike for Honor? Something that inspired you?

When I conceived this project, I really wanted to concentrate on my main character, Admiral Pacino, and his problems with the White House administration and how it treats, or fails to look after the veterans. Largely, the book still does, but having opened the door on North Korea, there was no turning back, and during my research, I found out far more than I anticipated – surprisingly more. We all know how North and South Korea were created. What many people don't know is that after the armistice was signed, America housed nuclear weapons in South Korea in direct contravention of the Non Proliferation treaty, which over time, directly led to North Korea developing its own nuclear program. America and North Korea agreed to abandon its nuclear program, and in return, America would provide N. Korea with a water cooled reactor to meet the country's energy needs. It did shut down its program on three occasions, but America failed to deliver on it promises. It is a complicated and tortuous history, and made for fascinating reading.

Great!  So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I always wanted to write. As far back as I can remember, the printed word held a fascination that allowed me to escape into other worlds, other characters. For an imaginative kid, it was better than candy - almost. Where I attended primary school, there was a small library at the top of the street, which I made my own. At school, I loved my essay writing assignments, even though many of my classmates found it an agonizing chore. I could never figure out what was the big deal. My specialty was using elaborate, flowery language. But nobody could describe a sunset, a moonlit night or the booming of crashing surf like I could. The one thing my writing lacked was people. It took me awhile to make the connection. Prose was great, but great writing had to involve people, drama, conflict, emotion and everyday life. When I learned to write dialogue, everything clicked, or so I thought. I still haven’t stopped writing and learning how to do it. Of course, having read many books, it didn’t seem all that hard, so I wrote one. You don’t want to read it. Call it my training wheels. Well, one thing led to another...

Do you have any favorite authors, Stefan?

During my science fiction phase, two authors stood out: Roger Zelazny and Keith Laumer. When his writing was good and before he descended into sorcery and mysticism, Zelazny had an evocative, deceptively easy style that was a pleasure to read. When I can reread a book several times and still enjoy it, that’s my view of a great book, and Zelazny had several. Keith Laumer had an irreverent, sardonic writing style that blasted my sensibilities and often amused me. Some of his stuff was terrible, but a lot was extremely entertaining.
 

Since my sci-fi days, I sampled writers from other genres: 19th century sea warfare, techno thrillers and others. I like Stephen Coonts, at least his early works. Sadly, he descended into trash popularism, culminating with Saucer, a truly terrible book. But a couple of hundred books later, the techno thriller genre gave me a solid grounding into the workings of governments, spy agencies, the military, and war machinery of all kind. It was a good launching platform for my own contemporary novels. 

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day? What works for you? 

I am a morning person, a result of having to get up early over many years to go to work, and that’s when I like to write. That discipline hasn’t left me and I still get up early. I am fresh and my mind is charged, ready to

go – most of the time. I find I am most productive during the first half of the day. In the afternoon, I spend transcribing material from my notebook into the computer and doing initial editing. Although I don’t normally write in the evening, sometimes I do. It all depends on inspiration and what I am writing about at the time. There are also moments when I wake up in the middle of the night when an idea pops up and I simply have to jot it down. When I don’t do that, I wake up knowing there was something important I needed to write, but it’s gone. Frustrating.

I know exactly what you mean, Stefan! 

So, are there any words you’d like to impart to fellow writers? Any advice before you head off?

If there is one thing I learned over the years as a writer, if anyone is contemplating taking this on seriously, he should be prepared to spend many lonely hours with a pencil and paper, and sitting behind a computer screen. There will be disappointments, frustration, angst...and moments of sheer exhilaration and satisfaction when the words flow and the creative process produces something wonderful. Writing is a gift, but it can also be a curse. But once bitten with the urge to create, there is no cure. 

So true.

Okay, so there you have it, folks. Stefan has a great book out. You can get it on Amazon and Smashwords.

Here is the blurb of Strike for Honor.

In a joint exercise with the Korean navy, Admiral Pacino’s son is one of the casualties from a North Korean missile strike. Enraged that the President is more interested in stitching a deal with North Korea, forgetting the lost American lives, Pacino decides to make a statement by bombing military facilities in both Koreas. Appointed as the CIA Director, Mark Price is plunged into a plot by dissidents to overthrow the North Korean Supreme Leader, bringing the country closer to the West. Pacino’s attacks don’t make his new job or the President’s any easier. Wishing to avoid embarrassing the Administration, someone decides to remove Pacino – permanently. Strike for Honor is a stunning geopolitical thriller that examines American foreign policy and national values.

Now, for the good part. We’re giving you a sneak peek of Strike for Honor. Enjoy!

     As they neared the docks, he could see tall loading cranes cluttering the harbor docks. Navy personnel were everywhere: officers, ratings and toiling gangs. Across the water, two tugs crowded the sleek 567-foot length of USS Shiloh, CG-67, a Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruiser, getting ready to depart. Her functional boxy superstructure and rear helicopter housing didn’t make her graceful, but her business was dealing out death, not stand in review.

Linda pulled the car to a stop before a guarded gate and switched off the engine. She looked at him and her brown eyes turned misty. He reached for her. With a strangled sob, her arms were round his neck.

“There, my sweet. It’s only an exercise,” Vin murmured softly into her short hair after swallowing a lump.

She pulled away and dabbed at her eyes. “I told myself I wouldn’t get emotional.”

He smiled and brushed her cheek with a finger. “It’s all right. You can be emotional for both of us.”

“Just don’t be a hero, okay?”

“You’re talking like I’m off to a war.”

“With North Korean boats shadowing you, no one can tell what they’ll do.”

“I’ll have a powerful ship under me with all the missiles I want to fire. They’d be crackers to try something.”

“If they do, make sure you duck. And that’s an order, Lieutenant.”

“Aye aye, ma’am.” He pulled her tight and their lips met. Her soft mouth opened and the first touch of her velvety tongue made him feel all prickly. Joined in a dance of abandon, he wondered what the hell he was doing trading her for the sea.

Having to come up for air, he broke the moment and looked deep into her eyes. “Keep that thought,” he said and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

She tittered and fisted him on the shoulder. “Dirty old man.”

“Always, my sweet.” He glanced at the digital watch on his right wrist and sighed. “Got to go. Love you.”

“Me too,” she said, clearly distressed despite the brave little smile she gave him.

He wanted to say something comforting and endearing, but words would only make it trite. Abruptly, he unclipped his belt, opened the door, stepped out and slammed it shut. As he made his way to the rear of the car, its trunk lid popped open. He retrieved his dark blue duffel and walked toward the guard post without looking back. He heard the Honda accelerate away behind him.

Saying goodbyes had never been his strong suite.

A marine, the semi-automatic on his right hip within easy reach, stepped out of the small windowed shack and saluted.

“Morning, sir.”

A second marine inside the shack watched them both. Vin could see three M16A2 rifles mounted on the back wall. He returned the salute, slid the duffel to the ground and dug out his wallet. He handed the ID card to the guard who passed it to his buddy. After a computer check, Vin got his card back and the marine saluted again.

“Give ’em hell, Lieutenant.”

Vin grinned and returned the salute as the gate rolled back on its tracks. “Cocked and locked,” he said as he picked up the bag. He paced slowly into his world and breathed deeply. The green water was smooth and there was hardly any wind.

Walking down the pier, he was barely aware of background noises permeating the air like a pervasive blanket: cars, forklifts, trucks, prime movers, and the constant hum of machinery—a harbor readying itself for a major deployment.

Tied portside, a thin thread of gray smoke lingered above USS Curtis Wilbur’s rear stack. The warship’s sharp clipper bow cleaved the air as it rose into a clear sky. Massing 6,900 tons and 505 feet long, painted drab gray, the Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer was a powerful ship. Armed with multiple Mk 41 vertical launch cells that could launch Tomahawk or Standard attack missiles, Evolved Sea Sparrows for defense, VL-ASROC antisubmarine missiles, five inch/54-caliber main gun, torpedo tubes and a Phalanx CIWS close in defense system, the ship could hold its own. Two MH-60 Sea Hawk helicopters housed in a stern hangar extended its reach when sub hunting. Pushed by four GE gas turbines powering two shafts, going better than thirty-six knots, the ship was also demonstrably fast.

Admiring the sleek lines, like he told Linda once, he couldn’t wish for more.

Behind his ship, tied along its starboard side, lay a sister destroyer, Mustin. Lassen and Fitzgerald were laid up for major maintenance and would be missing the scaled down FTX, no doubt to the chagrin of their skippers. Apart from them, everybody else was going, except the carrier USS George Washington. She’d be missing this one, a deal to appease the North Koreans. As the Fleet’s Deputy Commander, Rear Admiral Kenneth Pacino—due to get his third star in the fall according to the grapevine—would be running the exercise from his command ship, USS Blue Ridge, LCC-19. Vin wondered what his old man was doing now. Probably giving his chief of staff ulcers, he mused sardonically.

Despite the fact both of them were at Yokosuka, he’d had limited contact with his father. Their respective duties simply made socializing on a grand scale impossible. To make up for it, his mother visited when he was in port and Linda valued being under the wing of an admiral’s wife. It wasn’t patronage, merely taking practical advantage, and Vin would have been nuts not to take the social benefits his father’s position offered. That’s as far as it went, and neither would have it otherwise. His father’s rank was never used to advance or influence his career. Still, it was nice to know he had one admiral in his pocket if needed.

As he approached the destroyer, its arching side looming beside him, the offset gray-black DDG-54 painted prominently on its bow, Vin figured life could be a whole lot worse. He paused beside the gangway guarded by two marines and returned their salutes. Without being asked, he held out his ID. The marine looked at it carefully and made a tick on his clipboard.

Vin shouldered his bag and climbed up the gangway. Reaching the weather deck, he looked up, saluted the colors and then saluted Lieutenant JG, Mike Couper, standing his stint as Officer of the Deck. The boy looked confident; a far cry from his initial eager, trusting phase when he first came on board. Wanting to make a good impression, he micromanaged, driving his team to distraction, forcing Vin to remind him that he was there as a manager. The chiefs were there to look after the sailors.

“Permission to come aboard, sir,” Vin said formally. Couper returned his salute.

“Permission granted, sir.”

Vin stepped on the steel deck and quickly looked around. There weren’t many people about, most of the activity being below decks.

“What’s the word, Mike?”

“Set to shove off at ten hundred, as per the advertised schedule. You’ve got the afternoon watch in CIC.”

“Everybody on board?”

“Just about, but—”

“I know. Koslov hasn’t reported in.”

“Not yet, and Commander Linnen is something pissed,” Couper agreed equitably, clearly not overly agitated at the prospect of Koslov getting a reaming.

“Well, it wouldn’t be a deployment if the Exec wasn’t pissed at somebody,” Vin said comfortably and walked toward an open hatchway leading into the ship’s bowels.

Commander Deron ‘Sheet’ Linnen was a good officer and cut the crew a lot of slack, but he didn’t have much time for any prima donna. Senior Chief Koslov’s last minute departure antics definitely fitted into that category. Every ship had a character and Koslov was Steel Hammer’s, as the ship was commonly referred to. How people came up with such names, Vin couldn’t figure. They might as well have called her Glowing Hammer after the Fukushima reactors went into a meltdown. Curtis Wilbur and several other ships happened to be in port at the time and it was rumored everything in Yokosuka received a dosing, although according to the official poop, tests showed nothing. The men still joked about it and he was told other ships had requests for transfers, but no one from Wilbur went. The men liked how Captain Tyler Woods ran things. For that matter, so did Vin.

After squaring away and raiding the wardroom for a coffee, he went topside. Standing beside the ASROC torpedo launcher, he watched the hands single up the bowlines. At ten a.m. sharp, the ship’s horn blared, sending up a plume of white steam from the forward stack and tugs eased the warship away from the wharf.

It was time to do some paid business.

Author Bio

Stefan Vucak is an award-winning author of seven techno sci-fi novels, including With Shadow and Thunder, which was a 2002 EPPIE finalist. His Shadow Gods Saga books have been highly acclaimed by critics. His book, Cry of Eagles, won the coveted 2011 Readers Favorite silver medal award.

Stefan has leveraged a successful career in the Information Technology industry and applied that discipline to create realistic, highly believable storylines for his books. Born in Croatia, he now lives in Melbourne, Australia. In addition to writing, he is also an editor, a book reviewer, and     an avid reader with a passion for travel.

Website: www.stefanvucak.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/StefanVucak

 Twitter: @stefanvucak

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