Thursday, October 27, 2022

Guest Post: Erica Miner, Redone, Re-Published, and Rebooted

What is it like to have a series redone, re-published, and rebooted? This was a whole new experience for mystery writer Erica Miner, and the journey was an unexpected one.

 

I have often thought that having a book released is akin to giving birth. As writers, we first conceive of the idea. Then comes the gestation period, where the concept grows, changes, becomes an ever-better version of itself. Rewrites follow rewrites, edits upon edits. After a very long, difficult labor, your baby novel is born. Whew, what a process!

 

For those of us who were unfortunate enough to go through that experience in the middle of the pandemic, the journey became even more challenging. For me, it took an unexpected turn.

 

My original concept was to write a murder mystery that took place at the Metropolitan Opera in New York, where I had been a violinist for 21 years. I found a traditional publisher and drew upon my experiences at the Met, adding large doses of my wicked imagination, and Murder in the Pit was born. Readers requested a sequel, and I delivered one that took place at Santa Fe Opera. My “Opera Mystery” series was created. San Francisco Opera asked me to write another that took place at that venerable institution, and another sequel was published.

 

Then, the pandemic happened.

 

The San Francisco novel languished in e-book only, with no print version. I was at a loss. My Puget Sound Sisters in Crime colleagues sent me to the wonderful local organization, Washington Lawyers for the Arts, who advised me to get back my rights and find another publisher.

 

I lucked out. Level Best Books offered me a contract to re-publish all three books, with different titles and covers. I then went to work adding changes: new plot points, updates and more. Et voilà: the first book in the series is now about to be reborn as Aria for Murder, releasing Oct. 28. New sequels will be published in 2023 and 2024. That’s what I call great family planning!

Violinist turned author ERICA MINER now has a multi-faceted career as an award-winning author, screenwriter, journalist and lecturer.

Erica’s lectures, seminars and workshops have received kudos throughout California and the Pacific Northwest, and she has won top ratings as a special lecturer for Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines. An active contributor to OperaPulse.com and LAOpus.com, she also contributed a monthly Power of Journaling article series for the National Association of Baby Boomer Women newsletter. Other writings have appeared in Vision Magazine, WORD San Diego, Istanbul Our City, and numerous E-zines. Erica’s lecture topics include “The Art of Self- Re-invention,” “Journaling: The Write Way to Write Fiction,” “Solving the Mystery of Mystery Writing,” and “Opera Meets Hollywood.” Details about Erica’s novels, screenplays and lectures can be found on her website.

Sign up for Erica's newsletter at https://ericaminer.com/email_signup.php 


 


ARIA FOR MURDER

 

 

Prologue

 

Chi eÌ morto, voi, o il vecchio?

Che domanda da bestia! Il vecchio.

Who’s dead, you or the old man?

What an idiotic question! The old man.

—Mozart, Don Giovanni, Act I

 

 

Collateral damage. Sometimes it just can’t be avoided.

 

That was what his partner had told him. When you’re trying to kill someone, other people can get in the way. It’s not planned. It just happens. Though the Metropolitan Opera’s orchestra pit was the largest in the world, when the orchestration of an opera was vast, as in Wagner or Strauss, things could get quite crowded for the one hundred or so musicians squeezed together there. Tonight’s Verdi was no exception. Grand opera at its loftiest, with plenty of brass, extra strings, and the like. He would do his best to hit his target precisely. But it wasn’t an exact science. And if, under pressure, he was slightly off, well...

 

Tanto peggio, as they say in French.

 

He chortled to himself. Everyone in the Met knew “tanto peggio” was Italian, not French.

 

He salivated with anticipation as he lovingly cleaned his VAL Russian sniper rifle with its special bronze-bristled brush, and oiled and lubricated the ammunition chamber with the fine-spray One Shot gun cleaner and a cotton swab. He picked up the last tiny fragments of powder residue with an alcohol patch threaded through a needle attached to the brush. Then he polished the entire instrument with one of his special-order McAlister microfiber gun cleaning cloths.

 

If you look after your firearm, when the time comes, it will look after you.

 

And what better time for an assassination than opening night at the Met?

 

Copyright © 2022, Erica Miner



Book Details:

Genre: Mystery

Publisher: ‎Level Best Books (October 28, 2022)

Language: ‎ English

Paperback: ‎ 254 pages

ISBN-10: ‎ 1685121985

ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1685121983

Item Weight: ‎ 13.4 ounces

Dimensions: ‎ 6 x 0.58 x 9 inches

Pre-orders at: https://www.amazon.com/Aria-Murder-Julia-Kogan-Mystery/dp/1685121985/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr= 

Tuesday, October 18, 2022

Interview: E.M. Munsch, Author of A Haunting at Marianwood

E.M. Munsch is a native of Cleveland, Ohio, but has spent her adult life in Louisville, Kentucky.  She graduated from Nazareth College of Kentucky located outside of Bardstown and attended The Ohio State University for her graduate work. She has been a bookseller for fifty years working in both large and small, chain and independent bookstores. She opened the first Barnes & Noble in Kentucky where she set up a mystery reading group which is still active today. She also taught classes in the mystery genre for the Veritas Society and joined the local chapter of Sisters in Crime. 

With Susan Bell, she co-edited MYSTERY WITH A SPLASH OF BOURBON, an anthology of bourbon-related stories.

As E.M. Munsch, she writes the Dash Hammond series set on the shores of Lake Erie. The latest title, A HAUNTING AT MARIANWOOD, is now available on Amazon.


1.      When did you know you wanted to be an author?

I have always been a reader and am most comfortable in a library or bookstore. In 1972 I found my true calling as a bookseller in a small independent in Louisville. I was in heaven. Not only did I get to see all the new and old books but talk with the customers about them. And as my career progressed and I worked for B&N, I also got to meet many authors as they toured. I have the utmost admiration for them. To be able to stick to a project from start to end amazed me. I love stories, reading them and creating them in my head. I would scribble first lines, first paragraphs, even several pages but never finished anything. I would start something and then look over to see a book I wanted to read. Let someone else do the heavy lifting. It wasn’t until  I was 69 and a member of Sisters in Crime did I think I could be an author. And by Jove, I did it.

 

2.      How did you choose the fiction genre you write in?

As I said, I love good stories with interesting  characters. When I started bookselling, I picked up a Chip Harrison book by Lawrence Block, more about him later. This series is a take-off of the Nero Wolfe/Archie Goodwin series by Rex Stout. It prompted me to begin reading Stout and I fell in love with Archie and the gang. Customers and I would discuss the fine points of living in the Brownstone. At that point I decided that mystery would be my field. I also read a lot of Regency romances since I was intrigued by that era and did start one or two romances (still unfinished). But time spent with a good mystery series won out.

 

3.      What is your current project and can share a little?

I’m currently working on the seventh Dash Hammond book tentatively titled A RELIABLE MAN. Maud Grealis, a cranky little old lady who claims to be a cousin of Dash’s mother, calls his father, a former sheriff, telling him something feels off. So father and son drive to Cleveland only to find Maud’s body. Dash discovers he is heir to all her worldly goods and several secrets.  Although Dash feels like he barely knew Maud, she chose him since, as she told her attorney, “Dash is a good man, a reliable man. He will do the right thing. He is a seeker of truth and a finder of lost things”.

You’ll have to read the book to see if Maud is right.

 

4.      What inspired you to create Dash Hammond?

I live in a  condo which has a small area for a garden. I had a knock-out rose that had turned into a monster. One day while pruning it,  I lost my balance, falling into and onto the bush. After I stopped swearing and as I slowly untangled myself from the thorns, I wondered how a writer would write this scene. Inside I went and sat at the computer, dabbing away at my multiple thorn pricks. I pictured a younger woman entangled in a large rose bush. Now, wouldn’t it be more interesting if, instead of climbing out of it unassisted, she had a neighbor who would help her. And Dash was born. He’s six-four (Thomas Magnum), has brilliant blue eyes (like my dear departed husband) and a wise-mouth (Rockford, Archie Goodwin and Bernie Rhodenbarr). This is his first encounter with his new neighbor as he had been traveling when she moved in.

I ‘dashed’ off several pages and took it to the critique group of my local Sisters in Crime. They loved it and asked the fateful question: What happens next? My answer was a simple: I have no idea, for all I know Annie’s still stuck in the rose bush.

These kind ladies pushed and prodded me along. All of a sudden I discovered I loved writing this story. And I still do love writing about  the Hammond family, the town of Clover Pointe, Ohio, and all the good and bad guys who pass through.

I guess I should add that he got his name ‘Dashiell’ because his mother (and me) are big fans of Dashiell Hammett.

 

5.      So you’re an author. Which authors do you enjoy reading?

My two favorite authors, ones whose books I re-read constantly, are Rex Stout and Lawrence Block. Stout, of the Golden Age of Mysteries, created two very interesting characters. If Archie Goodwin were a real person, I’d be camped outside his brownstone, begging for a chance to go dancing with him.

Which brings me to Bernie Rhodenbarr, the burglar turned bookseller who still dabbles in the light-fingered trade. The cast of characters who surround Bernie are quirky but believable and Bernie’s comments on the books he reads and sells are both funny and educational. When we were in lock-down, the Burglar series was first off my shelf to help me get through those challenging times.

Block has such a body of work, from several series to captivating short stories. His non-fiction books, on writing, living and life, read like he is sitting across from you sharing a pizza and a beer. Like his characters, Larry, if I may, is a very remarkable man. I guess I should stop gushing but if you haven’t read Block do so at your earliest convenience. And if it’s not convenient, drop what you’re doing anyway and read his books.

 

I belong to a mystery reading group, and over the almost thirty years of meeting, we have tried a bit of this and that. For me the most satisfying are the series books. If I discover a new one, I’m thrilled. It means a whole new group of friends to visit on a Sunday afternoon. Teatime with Ann Cleeves.  


Thanks for visiting with us!

More on A Haunting at Marianwood:

Life is good for Dash Hammond. He's recently remarried his childhood sweetheart, Dr. Maevis Summers, and together they're raising his four-year-old son, T.J. A retired Army colonel, Dash keeps himself busy fixing everything from a leaky faucet to an unsolved murder.

His cousin Billy calls Dash to Kentucky when his sister, a nun, is in trouble. Sister Miriam Patrice has been hearing things, seeing things, and misplacing things.

Marianwood, the motherhouse of the Sisters of the Blessed Mother of God, is located on an old plantation thought to be haunted by its original inhabitant, who is rumored to prowl the grounds in search of her murdered beau.

In a battle of wits, will the victor be supernatural, or a very corporeal retired Army colonel?

Friday, October 14, 2022

Cover Reveal: A Haunting at Marianwood

 


A Haunting at Marianwood is the latest installment in the Dash Hammond series by E.M. Munsch
The Kindle version is now available for preorder on Amazon. E.M. Munsch is a member of the Derby Rotten Scoundrels chapter of Sisters in Crime, the first chapter of SinC I belonged to. Mystery and Horror, LLC, our press, is publishing this novel.

Description of the book, and excerpt below!

Life is good for Dash Hammond. He's recently remarried his childhood sweetheart, Dr. Maevis Summers, and together they're raising his four-year-old son, T.J. A retired Army colonel, Dash keeps himself busy fixing everything from a leaky faucet to an unsolved murder.

His cousin Billy calls Dash to Kentucky when his sister, a nun, is in trouble. Sister Miriam
Patrice has been hearing things, seeing things, and misplacing things.

Marianwood, the motherhouse of the Sisters of the Blessed Mother of God, is located on an old
plantation thought to be haunted by its original inhabitant, who is rumored to prowl the grounds
in search of her murdered beau.

In a battle of wits, will the victor be supernatural, or a very corporeal retired Army colonel?

An excerpt: 

Sister Miriam Patrice slid back from the kneeler. The quiet of the church soothed her as it wrapped its velvet cloak of serenity around her. She sat, hands folded, once in prayer but now to stop the trembling. Glancing at the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows casting a rainbow on the empty pews, she drew in deep slow breaths. She looked at the watch pinned to her tunic. Time to get back to work. She rose to leave the church, her place of refuge, a place free from the distractions of the running the community and the new retirement home the sisters established to help make ends meet. 

The members of the Sisters of the Blessed Mother of God found their numbers dwindling. New recruits, as Sister Miriam Patrice called them mimicking her cousin Dash Hammond’s military jargon, were very rare. The teaching congregation once had more than a hundred sisters. Vocations, callings to either the religious or the educational side of the community, had fallen to less than a handful each year. 

 As she walked down the aisle to the back of the church, she heard it again. Tap, tap, tap. She stopped to listen, making sure she wasn’t mistaken. That sound sent shivers down her spine. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to the doors next to the church exit. One led up to the choir loft, the other down to the cellar. In days past she had gone up the stairs; today she would go down. 

Pulling the doorknob, Miriam Patrice met the resistance of a locked door. She pulled out her keys and unlocked it. She struggled with the door, suggesting to her that no one had gone to the cellar in a while. 
The stone steps were worn but sturdy. She moved cautiously into the darkness, one hand on the wall to steady her nervous knees, the other searching for the handrail. Her hope was that the security guard forgot to close the door one day and some critter, not two legged, was trapped down here and making the tap, tap, tap sound. Logically she knew this was wrong, but the alternative could be worse.

Decades ago, they discovered one of the newer buildings constructed during a period of rapid expansion had been built on an underground spring. It wasn’t long before the building tilted, as did their finances. What a waste of time and money. Fearful that what she would find was a tell-tale pooling or bubbling of water, she moved forward slowly. She said a silent prayer that she would not stumble into a puddle, a precursor of the inevitable unwelcome news.

Her trek seemed unnecessarily slow though reason told Miriam Patrice she should alert one of her sisters where she was just in case she lost her footing. But her reasoning had not been the sharpest of late. She blamed her sleepless nights, not because of an uneasy conscience but an overabundance of concern for her congregation and its uncertain future, both financially and individually. 

After spending a half an hour poking into the corners, searching for the origin of the sound, Miriam Patrice gave up. She needed a flashlight if she wanted to do a proper search. Next time she would be prepared. Next time she told herself she would be less skittish, more confident that she could deal with whatever sprung up from the tap, tap, tap. After deciding this, she nodded to herself. At least she didn’t hear a drip, drip, drip.

The sound had stopped so she decided to return to the church. As she locked the door behind her, the tap, tap, tap began again, louder this time. If she permitted herself, she would have said damn.





Monday, October 03, 2022

Interview: Carol Preflatish, Author of Witch Hunt


Welcome to a thrilling blog tour perfect for the Fall season and those who love mysteries!  Enjoy all of the stops on the Nathan Perry Mysteries Blog Tour featuring Witch Hunt, by Carol Preflatish! This blog tour will be taking place from Monday, October 3rd, to Sunday, October 9th!

The Witch Hunt Blog Tour includes reviews, guest posts, and interviews, so don’t miss any of the activities taking place on the participating blog sites!



When did you know you wanted to be an author?

Even in elementary school, I loved writing stories. In both high school and college, I took every writing class I could. After I got married, got a full-time job, and then started a family, I sort of forgot about writing for a while.  In 1999, my goal for the Millennium was to see if I could write a book. I succeeded and was hooked again, but it took me two more books, and not until 2010 before I became published.

Which part of the research did you enjoy the most?

I love everything about research, probably a little too much. Most of my research is done online and once I start, if I’m not careful, I find I’ve spent too much time on it. I write a police procedural mystery series, so my other source for researching technical things is YouTube. Again, if I’m not careful, I find I’ve gone down that rabbit hole. I also have a pretty good library of books about writing mysteries, police procedures, different weapons, and forensics. I also rely on a couple online writing groups that have both mystery writers and police officers as members that will answer questions.

What inspired you to create Nathan Perry?

When I was in college, I actually was interested in becoming a police officer. Subsequently, I got hooked on the late Robert B. Parker’s Jesse Stone books. I loved the city cop coming to the small town to be the police chief. The location in Massachusetts was beautiful choice, and the characters were so likeable. It actually caused me to stop writing romantic suspense to start writing my mystery series. My main character, Nathan Perry has left the Army and comes back to his hometown to become the first police detective in the department. I am using the fictional town of Mystic, Massachusetts, which is modeled after Salem, Massachusetts.

What would you define as literary success?

I think different authors would define it differently. Some would say it’s getting an agent and then being published by one of the Big Five publishers in New York City. I’m happy being signed with a small press. Counting my romantic suspense and non-fiction, I’ve written and published twelve books. I count that as a success.

So, you're an author. Which authors do you enjoy reading?

As I mentioned, I love the Robert B. Parker books. I also really like both of the Private and Instinct series by James Patterson, and I don’t think I’ve ever read a Lisa Gardner thriller that I didn’t love. 

Thank you for stopping by!

About the author: Carol Preflatish, from southern Indiana, is the author of the Nathan Perry Mystery Series, as well as several romantic suspense novels, and two non-fiction books. When she’s not writing, she loves to read, watch Indianapolis Colts football, and do just about anything outdoors.

An avid photographer, Carol has had many photos published in her local newspaper, as well as in “Golf Journal,” the official publication of the United States Golf Association. A few little-known facts about Carol are that she’s a licensed amateur radio operator, and is a collector of celebrity autographs, stamps, and coins.

You can learn more about Carol by visiting her web page at http://CarolPre.com


Book Synopsis for Witch Hunt: Is it 1692 all over again?

When a millionaire’s daughter is found hanging from a tree in the Mystic, Massachusetts cemetery, witchcraft is suspected. Police detective Nathan Perry is assigned the case and works closely with an attractive female private investigator hired by the father to find who murdered his daughter.

Mystic is known for its history of witchcraft in the area. It’s what brings tourists to town, and when another murder occurs, there is rising pressure on Nathan to solve the case quickly.

Nathan’s investigation pulls him into an unfamiliar world rife with covens, magic, and lore to find the killer.  A small town gripped in fear is depending on him to prevail.  

Witch Hunt is a stand-alone novel that is part of the Nathan Perry Mystery Series.


Author Links:

Website: http://CarolPre.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/CarolPreflatish

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/AuthorCarolPreflatish


Tour Schedule and Activities

10/3    The Scribblings of Sarah E. Glenn     https://saraheglenn.blogspot.com/ Author Interview

10/4    The Seventh Star Blog           https://www.theseventhstarblog.com/Guest Post

10/5    Jazzy Book Reviews    https://www.jazzybookreviews.com/ Author Interview

10/6    BookBekAdventures  https://www.bookbekadventures.Wordpress.com Review

10/7    Sapphyria's Books     https://saphsbooks.blogspot.com/ Review

10/8    The Book Lover's Boudoir     https://thebookloversboudoir.wordpress.com Review


Purchase links for Witch Hunt:

eBook Links

Kindle Version: https://www.amazon.com/Witch-Hunt-Nathan-Mystery-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B09SXB8K7M/

Nook Link: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/witch-hunt-carol-preflatish/1141024472?ean=2940160885889

Print Links:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Witch-Hunt-Carol-Preflatish/dp/1736812564/

Barnes and Noble Link: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/witch-hunt-carol-preflatish/1141018691?ean=9781736812563

Wednesday, September 28, 2022

Guest Post: Aaron Drown

 



As a writer whose actual living is made as a freelance graphic designer, the role of book design in independent publishing is a topic near and dear. I’ve given workshops on the key importance design considerations have for small presses and self-publishers, arguing that to be taken seriously in the marketplace it’s vital not only to have a story worth reading, but to put out a product that looks like it belongs on the same shelf as the Kings, Grishams, Robertses, and Graftons.

I believe the presentation of a work is an extension of the work itself, much like an album jacket augments the music contained inside. In that regard I’ve been very fortunate to have such an indulgent (and patient) partner in Seventh Star Press, as they graciously allow me the freedom to design my own book covers. Though it may be just as fair to say what holds true for a lawyer who represents themselves also goes for a writer who designs their cover art, it’s that extension of the writing—the visual lure that will hopefully grab attention and compel a closer inspection and a thumbing-through—that I like to believe as both author and cover artist I’m especially positioned to make. Of course, it may be even fairer to say that in the same way doctors make the worst patients, designing for a graphic designer can easily become an exercise in exasperation so it’s a lot less headache for my publisher just to let me do the thing myself.

My most recent book, a short story collection called The Gods Must Clearly Smile, features cover art that I also created and I think, if I may be forgiven the conceit, makes for a good example of that close relationship between packaging and content. The title of the collection comes from a quote by Aristotle, “If some animals are good at hunting and others are suitable for hunting, them the gods must clearly smile on hunting.” And it’s that theme of hunter and hunted that caught my attention and pricked my sense for the wry and my sideways way of seeing the world.

The front cover depicts a quaint little cottage floating on an island of tranquility surrounded by cheerful blue sky and happy little clouds worthy of Bob Ross. The typography, too, lends to the congeniality. In the upper and lower left corners, though, hints of darkness intrude—tiny indications that all might not be so carefree and untroubled. As one turns over to the back, the reality of the scene is revealed in the form of a jagged-toothed monster opening wide its maw in preparation to devour our friends in the cottage—a star-filled beast comprised of the universe itself.

The stories in The Gods Must Clearly Smile run the spectrum from the Old West to futuristic science fiction, and the thread that wends its way through each and stitches them together into a whole is the central theme that sometimes we are the hunter, sometimes we are the hunted, and no matter how serene a given moment may seem, the next moment has every bit the potential to reveal the monster that’s been stalking you the entire time. It’s a tongue-in-cheek metaphor—promise—meant to be amusing and ironic rather than pessimistic, but it’s a concept that I felt I could bring to fruition visually and convey a sense of what awaits the reader inside.

I’d welcome hearing whether I was successful.


Monday, September 19, 2022

Interview: C.L. Tolbert, Author of Sanctuary



Sanctuary

by C.L. Tolbert

September 12 - October 8, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

When did you know you wanted to be an author?

When I was nine years old, I won a writing contest. Writing the essay was fun, but since my teacher entered me in the contest, I wasn’t fully aware that I was involved in a competition. As a result, I’d never considered the possibility of winning a prize. I was thrilled to discover that winning meant that I was allowed to pick out a gallon of my favorite ice cream. I’ll never forget the taste. It was Spumoni, with pistachios.

Writing was a pleasure to me then, and it still is. Even after spending thirty minutes searching for the one perfect action word for a given scene, I enjoy it. (Notice I didn’t say that I enjoy editing.) Throughout my school years, I wrote other essays and reports which received praise, or in one instance, tears. But I never considered writing a novel, until I retired from the practice of law.

Even though lawyers essentially read and write for a living, a legal background does not prepare you for a fictional writing career. Legal writing is formulaic. It is something to unlearn.  But one day, when I was convalescing from a surgery, I decided to write a story. A fictional story. Several years later, I submitted the story to the Georgia State Bar Journal Fiction Contest, and won.  That win gave me the courage to turn the rather long short story into my first novel, Out From Silence. 

I haven’t stopped writing since.  

Which part of the research did you enjoy the most?

I write legal procedurals, so its important that I accurately describe all legal details and procedures in my novels. I spend hours ensuring that every legal procedure I’ve detailed is correct. Both case law and statutory law changes, and can be modified or overturned frequently. It is imperative to get those details right. Since my books are currently set in the 1990’s, I have to know what the law was on a given subject during that time frame. And that isn’t always easy. It’s much simpler to verify what the law is in 2022. I would describe that research as necessary, even mandatory, but not particularly enjoyable.  

But my last two books, The Redemption and Sanctuary, were set in New Orleans. The fourth book, The Legacy, is set there as well. New Orleans is a visually opulent, culturally rich city, with diverse citizens, food, and music. Known as much for its graft and corruption as the touristic venue of Bourbon Street, it’s a great place for a murder mystery. I’ve enjoyed researching the city historically, architecturally, and geographically.

I lived in New Orleans for twelve years. They aren’t kidding when they describe New Orleans as a ‘walkable city.’ You can walk to most places within forty-five minutes to an hour. But there are a few places in the city I’ve never been.

In Book Two, The Redemption, I had a scene set at the industrial docks between Felicity and Louisiana Streets. I had never had a reason to visit those docks, and in fact, it would be unusual for anyone other than a member of a boat crew to be there. I wrote The Redemption during the pandemic and couldn’t visit the city, but I needed to know whether the docks were constructed of poured concrete or wood. (I was planning on having the protagonist run down the dock and stub her unshod toe.) I decided to use Google Street View to answer that question.

Using Google Street View, I traveled down Felicity Street, curved around the bend of Tchoupitoulas Street, and then crossed over to the industrial docks, which are along the Mississippi River. I could tell, once I was ‘there,’ that the docks were poured concrete. It was an enjoyable and satisfying experience, and one I would recommend for any author who is writing about an actual town, isn’t quite sure of the terrain or street placement, and can’t travel to the location.   

In Book Three, Sanctuary, Emma Thornton, the protagonist, represents a young girl accused of killing the charismatic leader of a New Orleans cult. I’ve always been interested in what would cause a person to join a cult, and researching and writing about that issue was enlightening. I was surprised to discover that cult joiners are often going through a transition themselves, such as a divorce, or may be close to college graduation. The majority of cult members only want to do good and help others. They rarely realize or acknowledge that what they’ve joined and what they’re contributing to, financially, is a cult. Research like this, which allows me to take a closer look at societal problems, has broadened my world view, and my ability to understand and empathize with others.   

What inspired you to create your “hero?”

Emma Thornton, the protagonist of the Thornton Mystery Series, is a single mother, an attorney, and a law professor. Some people assume that the character of Emma is based on me and my experiences. While my experiences have inspired the Thornton Mystery Series, I created the character ‘Emma’ based on all of the women I know who have raised children by themselves, or with a spouse who doesn’t deign to help, who have educated themselves, sometimes even in the face of adversity, and who have held down complicated and difficult jobs. More than seventy percent of women in the United States fall into that category. These women are heroes, and their intelligence, work ethic, and strength are very often ignored.

Emma is a nod to all working mothers: the mothers who serve in the armed forces, the mothers who are police officers, nurses, teachers, hairdressers or grocery clerks, lawyers or doctors. Those mothers who manage to work and still get their children to their doctors’ appointments, and put something on the table for dinner. They are the glue that holds their families together, the heart and soul of their community, and the strength and backbone of the country.

What would you define as literary success?

Success is typically defined monetarily, but I would have given up writing after my first book was published if that was my criteria. Ideally, success would come through colleague and reader recognition, an award or two, and a multitude of stunning reviews. While I have been lucky enough to have good reviews, there hasn’t been as many as I would like. And that means not as many people as I would like are actually reading my books. But still, they’re being read, and I have a wonderful group of supporters and readers. That means the world to me.

It is a luxury to write. It is a reward in and of itself, and I’m learning much through the process. I am a plot driven writer, and am discovering that emotional scenes are more difficult for me to write. Emotions have always been difficult for me to express in my private life, as well. So, there’s an interesting parallel between my writing issues, and my actual life. I’m learning more and more about myself as I write.  

I’ve always been a workaholic, and often worked more than eighty hours a week as an attorney. Even after I retired and worked as a volunteer attorney for a legal aid group, I’d still log in eighty hours a week, and I wasn’t even being paid!  Unable to stop that habit, I spent my first few years writing on a schedule which ultimately left me feeling burned out. I didn’t take breaks, exercise, or even drink an adequate amount of water during writing sessions.

I’m now determined to enjoy the process, write stories which are thoughtful and say something that’s important to me, exercise, drink enough water, and at least try to relax every once in a while. I’m in it for the long haul. I want to endure. I’d like to write until I can’t any longer. That would be literary success to me.

So you’re an author. Which authors do you enjoy reading?

My favorite author is Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and my favorite book, “Love in the Time of Cholera.” But there are so many writers I love. Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird” is my second favorite book, and Truman Capote’s “In Cold Blood” is a close third.  

I started reading all of the titles from the books of my favorite writers when I was in junior high, starting with Peal S. Buck, and Agatha Christie. I read everything they wrote. I progressed to Leo Tolstoy when I was in high school, then Fyodor Dostoevsky, and finally Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. (I went through a Russian phase.)

My next phase was reading books which won awards. Fellow Mississippian Donna Tartt’s books are brilliant. Her plot lines always stunning, although I found “Gold Finch” excessively long. Still, it was a great book. I recently discovered Anthony Doerr and his transcendent “All the Light We Cannot See,” which was breathtaking, a work of art. And, of course, I have read all of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s books.

Mysteries have always held a special place in my heart. I love the world building of Agatha Christie, and more recently, Louise Penny.  I’ve read the majority of Penny’s books, all of which have heart. She knows loss and feels deeply about the injustices of the world. Louise Penny is a woman whose soul and mind are beautifully connected, and it’s reflected in all of her books. Jodi Picoult is another talented writer who captures your interest with her subtle, insightful, but clever stories.

I read Karin Slaughter to learn. She dives unflinchingly into the brutality of murder, laying out the horror, the tragedy, the loss, and the gut-punching sadness, all at once. Her words make you want to close your eyes, but you open them, and read, unable to stop the avalanche of terror.       

My favorite writers are artists who carve emotion into an identifiable shape. They can manipulate fear, but they also shine a light on the better nature of humanity. I strive to be more like them. 

Thanks for stopping by!

Synopsis:


A Thornton Mystery

In SANCTUARY, the third book in the Thornton Mystery Series, Emma is back again. This time she’s agreed to represent a former client accused of killing the leader of a suspicious cult in New Orleans.

James Crosby, the charismatic leader of the Japaprajnas, is found dead one late afternoon, his body draped over an iron fence in the courtyard of the nineteenth-century house where he and several cult members work and live. Although police initially presumed his fall was an accident, they quickly discover that James received a lethal dose of a drug before he was pushed from his office balcony.

The next day the police discover a syringe and a substantial amount of the drug which killed James in Stacey Robert’s bedroom. The nineteen-year-old cult member is brought in for questioning, which leads to her arrest. Emma, who had represented Stacey when she was a sixteen-year-old runaway, agrees to take the case.

Convinced she is innocent Emma begins an investigation into the cult and its members. Emma’s questions uncover dangerous secrets, illicit activities, and the exploitation of innocent victims. Emma’s suspicions lead her to the killer’s trail and the case’s final resolution.

Praise for Sanctuary:

“Brace yourself. Deadly personalities, hidden agendas, and long-buried secrets threaten law professor Emma Thornton, after she agrees to defend a terrified young woman accused of murdering the charismatic leader of an oppressive cult. The dark heart of New Orleans has never felt so dangerous.”

Roger Johns, Author of the Wallace Hartman Mysteries

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: July 2022
Number of Pages: 280
ISBN: 9781685121464
Series: The Thornton Mystery Series, Book 3
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter Twelve

The French Quarter was home to Stacey. She could relax there. She loved the winding streets, the ancient buildings, the ironwork on the balconies, and the festival-like spirit of Jackson Square. Plus, it was easy to blend in. With at least as many tourists as native New Orleanians, no one stood out more than anyone else. The exceptions ˗ the homeless, the street performers, and artists ˗ were part of the scenery. They blended into the background in a multicolor splash.

She needed money and had been watching the tarot card readers in the square. They made thirty-five dollars a read, plus tips. She could do that. She’d been taught the Celtic spread years ago and still had her deck tucked away with the rest of her stuff. It had taken her a few days to get squared away. Yesterday, she’d found a discarded chair on the street in one of the residential areas of the Quarter. She knew someone who worked at a pizza place right off of Pirate’s Alley, a small street next to St. Louis Cathedral. She’d asked if she could stash the chair behind their dumpster, and he’d agreed to it. That was helpful since she could store her things close to the place where she’d be reading. Now she just needed a small table or a box and a second chair, and she’d be ready.

Even though the city required a license and permit for the artists who painted in Jackson Square, there were no such requirements for card readers. But, every once in a while, the Jackson Square artists proposed an ordinance to the City Council to remove the fortune-tellers. So far, they’d been unsuccessful, and recently the readers had come back in full force. They added an ambiance to the area, especially when they burned their incense. She liked the way it smelled.

Stacey glanced at her reflection as she walked by a shop with a large plate glass window. She still wasn’t accustomed to her new look. She’d used some of the money she’d saved to purchase hair color and had dyed her honey blonde hair a dark brown. She’d also cut it much shorter with a pair of cheap scissors in hopes of disguising her appearance. She’d done it herself, and not very well. She didn’t like the jagged ends. But overall, it worked. She had to admit she looked like a different person and thought it was possible to sit in full view in the middle of Jackson Square, conduct tarot card readings, and not be recognized. At least not by the likes of police officers or others who might be looking for her.

She crammed her hand in her pocket, making sure that the wad of dollar bills she’d neatly folded and covered with several rubber bands was still there. One of the problems of not having a place with a door to lock was that you had to carry your valuables with you. She still had some of the money she’d saved from working at the Temple. She was frugal, eating only one meal a day, and that was a cheap one. But she’d been on her own for four days, and her money would run out soon. She hoped her plan to make more money in Jackson Square was a good one.

Stacey avoided shelters. Emma knew everyone in the city who ran them and would look for her at women’s shelters before she’d look anywhere else. But Stacey had found the perfect place to stay about three miles away from the Quarter—a small chapel in the middle of a cemetery in the Bywater District. It was called St. Roch’s and was named after the patron saint of dogs, invalids, and the falsely accused. The cemetery, the street, and the surrounding community were all named after the saint. Locals mispronounced the chapel’s name, calling it St. Roach’s. Even though the structure was crumbling, it still provided the shelter Stacey needed.

St. Roch’s had been built in 1867 by a priest who had prayed to St. Roch during the yellow fever pandemic in New Orleans, asking the saint to spare his community. Ten years later, when no one from his parish had succumbed to yellow fever, he made good on his promise, built the shrine, and dedicated it to the saint. It was a small chapel comprised of only two tiny rooms. One room contained a statue of St. Roch and his loyal dog, and the other room was filled with human prostheses, braces, glass eyeballs, glasses, false teeth, and praying hands, rosaries, and religious figurines, all offered to St. Roch as thanks for healing. Bricks on the ground in that room were inscribed with the word thanks and littered with coins. Over the years, a dusty haze had settled over the various prostheses at the shrine. The walls were crumbling, and a statue of Mary had started to disintegrate. Most people considered the chapel creepy, so creepy, that they avoided it at night, although tourists occasionally visited during the day. Rumor had it that voodoo ceremonies were carried out in the cemetery after dark, although Stacey never saw anything like that. She slept in the tiny room with St. Roch and his dog.

It took between forty-five minutes and an hour to walk to the French Quarter from the chapel, depending on whether Stacey stopped for anything. She woke up early in the morning and left the chapel well before any tourists might arrive. She usually walked to Decatur Street, then down to the Riverwalk Mall, avoiding Esplanade Avenue entirely. She liked the restrooms at the mall. They were clean and usually unoccupied early in the morning. She washed up and brushed her teeth. Once, she’d even shampooed her hair. She carried her bag of dirty laundry with her and would occasionally rinse out her things in the sink. What little makeup and toiletries she needed were easily picked up from department store samples. She walked back to the chapel before dark. At night, the same laundry bag served as her pillow.

By Friday, Stacey had found the second chair, a wooden box tall enough to use as a table, and an interesting scarf someone had stuffed in a Goodwill box along the side of the road. She’d decided to throw it over the makeshift table to give her fortune-telling booth some panache. She was ready for business.

On Saturday morning, Stacey walked to the Quarter, freshened up, grabbed her table and chairs from behind the dumpster at the pizza place, and set up her tarot stand, all before ten o’clock. She was pleased with the location. Only five feet from the steps of the St. Louis Cathedral, it was a prime spot. Tourists swarmed to the cathedral at all hours of the day and were already beginning to mill about. Within fifteen minutes, a middle-aged woman wearing a baseball hat, a neon green bandana, and pink tennis shoes, approached Stacey.

“How much do you charge?”

Stacey stood, her hands behind her back, and smiled. “Thirty-five dollars.”

“How long’s the reading?”

“It’s for fifteen minutes.”

“Okay.” She looked around the square. “Looks like that’s the going rate. But you need a sign. Let’s go.”

She sat down across from Stacey, perched on the tiny seat, and waited for Stacey to shuffle the deck.

Stacey mixed the cards a couple of times, then set the stack in front of the woman.

“Cut the cards into three smaller decks.” She’d noticed a man staring at them from a distance. He was too far away to see clearly. Perhaps he was staring at someone else.

The woman cut the cards.

“Now pick one of the three decks.”

The woman chose one.

Stacey fanned the cards from the chosen deck out in front of the woman and removed the other cards. She thought the man looked familiar. He started to walk toward them. As he approached, she could tell who he was. Raphael. He stopped on the stairs of the cathedral to watch.

“Choose fourteen cards.” Stacey glanced up at Raphael. He hadn’t budged.

The woman carefully chose fourteen cards and handed them to Stacey, who began laying them out in the traditional Celtic cross. The woman had chosen the King of Pentacles as card one, crossed by the Tower. The King of Pentacles, which represented business acumen, was in the position of present influence. And the Tower, which was a card of catastrophic or shocking change, and chaos, crossed the King, indicating the nature of his obstacles. The third card, placed under the cross, was the Death card. Death also represented change, and even occasionally, but rarely, death. Stacey froze. Had the cards picked up on what had happened to James instead of the woman’s situation?

Stacey sensed movement and glanced up. She flinched when she saw Raphael walking toward their table. Raphael stopped about a foot away from where she was reading, stopped, then crossed his arms.

“This is a private reading.” Stacey stopped laying out cards. Her heart was pounding.

“Interesting that you got the death card, don’t you think?”

“Sir, please leave. This isn’t any of your concern.” She didn’t want him drawing attention to her. She just wanted him to go away.

“I’ll leave. Sorry I interrupted.” He nodded toward Stacey’s client. “Thousand pardons, ma’am.”

“If you haven’t cut into my fifteen minutes, I’m fine.”

“Of course not.” Stacey smiled at the woman. “You’ll get your full reading.” She stood and turned toward Raphael. “We have nothing further to discuss.”

Raphael shrugged. “I’ve been worried about you, and so are a couple of other people. And just in case you thought that new hair color was a disguise, let me just tell you it isn’t. If I know who you are, so will others. They’d be very interested in knowing where you are now and what you’re doing.” He nodded toward the cards in her hand. “Good luck with that.”

“You need to leave immediately.”

Raphael started backing away. “I’ll be back.” He put his hand to his forehead in a farewell salute. “You can count on that.”

Stacey didn’t know if Raphael was threatening or warning her. But she knew she didn’t want him to come back to the Quarter to see her anytime soon.

Stacey glanced back at her client. “I’m so sorry for the interruption. Where were we?” She sat back down. “Oh yes.” She examined the cards. “Has a man in your life undergone a significant change, the end of a relationship, or even a death?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“Alright, well, let’s proceed.” Stacey watched as Raphael retreated across the square and took a right at Pirate’s Alley.

She continued to lay out cards for the woman.

The fourth card, the card of past events, was the seven of swords, the card of deception. As far as she was concerned, that card certainly applied to James. He’d deceived her from the very beginning. She’d fallen for his tricks. She couldn’t see through his deception at first, but she caught on, finally. The fifth card, the card of the present, was the Chariot, the card of courage and movement. She smiled. She was hoping to do something about the mess she’d gotten herself in. At least she wasn’t sitting in jail like a scared rabbit. For the final card in the cross, the card of the near future, the woman had drawn Justice. She held the final card in her hand for a couple of seconds before laying it down in front of the woman. Even though she hadn’t drawn the cards, Stacey still believed they were telling her story, not the woman’s. Justice, the card of fair decisions, gave her comfort.

“The final outcome, Justice, relates to karmic justice. It refers to legal matters as well, but generally, it’s telling you that all actions have consequences. Have your own actions contributed in any way to any of the circumstances you find yourself in today?”

The woman nodded. “I can see that they have. I’m not sure that a man in my life has met any sort of catastrophic end, though. Maybe something’s coming up. I hope not.” She shook her head, reached into her pocket, and handed Stacey three tens and a five. “That was fun. I love getting tarot readings.”

Stacey watched the woman walk off and thought about the consequences of her recent actions. She’d been trying to avoid that for months. It was so easy to blame others. It was also easy to turn a blind eye to what was going on in front of you. She was young, but she wasn’t stupid.

That day she had four other readings, making a total of $175.00. She was stunned. She’d made money at the temple, but they held on to it for her rent and food. So, she’d never had much cash, even though the temple made seventy-five dollars per massage. She packed up for the night, brought her table and chairs back to the pizza restaurant, stashed them behind the dumpster again, and tipped the manager. She was glad she knew the guy. That was the thing about New Orleans. If you knew how to get around, you could make things work for you, even though it could be a dangerous place.

She was starved and decided to treat herself to a shrimp po’ boy from Felix’s on Bourbon. She hadn’t had one in forever, and she felt like celebrating. And now that she had enough cash to last a few days, she could afford it. Plus, she wanted to walk by ETC to talk to the girl who was working in the back of the shop. She didn’t know who it was, and she didn’t care. But she hoped she could work out a deal with her. Pay her a little cash and get her to leave the back door open so she could start sleeping there at night instead of St. Roch’s. The chapel floor wasn’t comfortable, and the cemetery wasn’t safe at night. An option would be nice. It was worth a try.

***

Excerpt from Sanctuary by C.L. Tolbert. Copyright 2022 by C.L. Tolbert. Reproduced with permission from C.L. Tolbert. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:


After winning the Georgia State Bar Journal's fiction contest in 2010, C.L. Tolbert developed the winning story into a full-scale novel. OUT FROM SILENCE was published in December of 2019, and is the first novel in the Thornton Mysteries series. Her second book, THE REDEMPTION, was published in February of 2021, and SANCTUARY, the third book in the series, was published in July of 2022.

Licensed in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Georgia, C.L. practiced law for thirty-five years before retiring to pursue writing. During her legal career she spent several years teaching at Loyola Law School in New Orleans, where she was the Director of the Homeless Clinic. She also has a Masters of Special Education, and taught in a public school prior to enrolling in law school.

C.L. has two children and three grandchildren, and lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and schnauzer.

Catch Up With C.L. Tolbert:
www.CLTolbert.com
Goodreads
Instagram - @cltolbertwrites
Twitter - @cltolbertwrites
Facebook - @cltolbertwriter

 

 

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Saturday, September 17, 2022

Interview: Ash Bishop

 

Intergalactic Exterminators Inc by Ash Bishop Banner

Intergalactic Exterminators Inc

by Ash Bishop

September 1-30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour
When did you know you wanted to be an author?

My dad was Chair of the Reading Department at Cal State Fullerton, teaching teachers how to best develop their students' reading skills.  You could say my sister and I were the unwilling, but lucky, recipients of his field research on the subject.  Our entire childhoods, he brought home book after book after book and dropped them into our laps.  So much of my young life was spent absorbed in other people's stories that I came to the natural conclusion of wanting to contribute some of my own.  I can't remember the exact moment, but I do know it was the culmination of a household of readers, and a lot of great encouragement from my whole family, my teachers and friends. 
       
Which part of the research did you enjoy the most?

I'm not sure this qualifies as research, but… one of my characters is a sentient robot who has lost his previously persistent connection to a central galactic server.  He counts on the connection to download knowledge that would help him navigate various situations.  Since his ability to download has been severed, and he's stuck on Earth, he ends up reading a lot of books instead.  Thus, his understanding of Earth culture is colored by the books he happens to get his hands on.  I was already familiar with most of them, but it was a lot of fun deciding which Earth books he should read and how they would affect his character's perspective.  Earth can look pretty strange if you get your hands on 50 Shades of Gray, then Tale of Two Cities, and then you jump to Archie comics.
    
What inspired you to create your “hero”?

I was a very quiet person growing up but I also always had these strong heroic impulses.  Unfortunately, for the most part, I ended up indulging them in literature, cinema, and video games instead of real life, but I never stopped wishing for the opportunity to do heroic things.  My wife is always shaking her head because she sometimes has nightmares, and when she wakes up to tell me about them, I'm usually emerging from a dream about saving a town from gigantic spiders.  My protagonist reflects this same dormant impulse.  He's a good person but life hasn't presented him the opportunity to prove his heroic nature until the events of the story begin to unfold.  As a rookie hero, he doesn't have a lot of confidence.  He's not natural at self-promotion, while others around him are, so he has to let his actions do the talking for him.    
 
What would you define as literary success?

I'd love to quit my day job, but also not have to produce so much writing content that I begin to dislike the process.  Writing for a living, at your own speed, sounds heavenly.  

So, you're an author. Which authors do you enjoy reading?

I'm a huge fan of comic books.  My favorite comic book authors, Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman and Joe Casey had a big impact on my development as a prose writer.  They all seemed to value something I value as well, originality and breaking away from rote formulas.  When you're reading something by Alan Moore, no matter the subject, it always feels like you've never read anything like it before.  That's a thrilling sensation. As for prose, I really like the authors value that same originality, as well as those with charming, but self-deprecating protagonists, be it Agatha Christie, Philip K. Dick, John D. MacDonald, or F. Scott Fitzgerald.  I know that's an eclectic mix, but good writing is good writing.    

Thanks for stopping by!

Synopsis:

Finding work is easy. Staying alive is a little bit harder.

Intergalactic Exterminators Inc by Ash Bishop
When Russ Wesley finds an unusual artifact in his grandfather’s collection of rare antiquities, the last thing he expects is for it to draw the attention of a ferocious alien from a distant planet. Equally surprising is the adventurous team of intergalactic exterminators dispatched to deal with the alien threat. They’re a little wild, and a little reckless. Worse yet, they’re so impressed with Russ’s marksmanship that they insist he join their squad . . . whether he wants to or not.

Praise for Intergalactic Exterminators, Inc:

"This book is so much fun it ought to be illegal in all known galaxies. Ash Bishop has written a wildly imagined, deeply felt, swashbuckling page turner. I loved it."
Jesse Kellerman, New York Times bestselling author of The Burning

Book Details

Genre: Science Fiction Published by: Camcat Books Publication Date: September 6th 2022 Number of Pages: 416 ISBN: 0744305616 (ISBN13: 9780744305616) Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | IndieBound.Org | CamCat Books
 

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

RUSS
Russ woke up lying flat on the ground, his mind foggy as hell. He could smell blood. When he reached forward as gingerly as possible, his muscles screamed at the movement. He was on his back. The forest trees waved down at him, blocking out the faint moonlight. He took a couple of deep breaths and reached forward again, groping around in the darkness. His hand came back slick with blood and fur and leaves. And then he heard voices. “. . . do you want to do this, then?” “I just wouldn’t call this tracking, is all. The blood trail’s three feet across. A tiny baby could follow this trail.” “Show me that baby.” “Shhh. Both of you, quiet. Something’s registering on the heat index.” The confusion and pain made it hard to think. Are these locals . . .? he thought. He fumbled in his pocket, looking for his flashlight but also testing for further damage. His hand found the light. It illuminated the small clearing. The deer’s corpse was just a few feet away, right where he’d shot it, but it wasn’t whole. Something had torn off its back legs, shearing straight through the muscle and bone. Russ took a deep breath but didn’t let his body or mind react to the sight of the carnage. Seconds later, the strangers’ flashlights found him. “He’s over here. To our left.” Russ heard three or four people hurrying through the brush. A woman in all black stepped into the clearing. Her brown hair was tied back in a bun, and she had a long steel shotgun in her hands. An odd earring twinkled in her ear. “You okay, son?” she asked, crouching down to place her hands on his chest. She stared into his eyes, examining him. “Looks like you’re going into shock. Just stay on your back and concentrate on breathing.” A man followed shortly after her. He glanced around, holding up a funny-looking flashlight to cast out the darkness. “He’s alone,” the man confirmed. “Are you from around here?” he asked Russ. “I’m from California,” Russ groaned. “I don’t know what that means,” the man said. “Just hold still,” the woman said. She pulled a gadget from her pack. The end telescoped out like an antenna. Russ watched as an aqua blue light shone down from the device, running across his entire body. He flinched as it reached his face, and even that small movement caused his lungs to burst with pain. “He’s got four broken ribs, a hairline fracture in the left wrist and a torn hamstring. Did you see what hit you?” the woman asked him. Russ tried to think. “No.” The word was as much a groan as anything else. “Tell us what you remember.” Russ rolled over onto his side. It hurt badly. Now that she’d pointed out the injuries, everything was localized. His ribs throbbed. His wrist felt hollow. His left leg was pierced with pain. “I was driving down Route Eighty-Nine, and a deer . . .” Russ pointed to the half deer corpse beside him. “. . . this deer dashed in front of my car. I knew I’d injured it by the sound it made when it hit the bumper, but I didn’t think I’d have to chase it this far into the woods to put it out of its misery.” Russ took a moment to swallow. “After I shot it, I—I was kneeling, jacking out the leftover rifle shells. But then . . . I was flipping through the air. I think I hit that tree right behind me.” The woman looked back at the tree. “It’s pretty splintered up.” “I was flying upside down. Backwards.” “Can you walk?” the man asked. Two more women, dressed in the same black combat gear, entered the clearing. They both had long rifles slung over their backs. Russ glanced at the newcomers, his eyes lingering on the guns. They weren’t locals. He could tell that much. “Who are you guys?” “Just local hunters,” one of the newcomers said. “Sure,” Russ said. “Tell me what hit you,” the first woman said firmly. “’I don’t know. A meteor? A buffalo? Maybe . . . a . . . rig?” The woman pulled a roll of pills from a MOLLE strap on her backpack. “Swallow two of these. They’re going to kill the pain.” Russ chewed the pills. Their chalky taste filled his mouth and crept up his nose. “They won’t cure any of the damage. You’re going to feel fine, but you’re not fine. Move carefully until you can get proper medical treatment. The road is two miles north. Can you reach it without help?” Russ nodded. Whatever she gave him was blazing through his bloodstream, kicking the fog and ache off every organ that it passed. “What’d I just eat?” “Two miles north. Don’t stop for any reason.” One of the newcomers, a well-muscled young woman with close-cropped brown hair, glanced at the half deer corpse lying next to Russ. Its blood had sprayed a pattern across the splintered tree. “Look at the animal, Kendren,” she said. The guy, Kendren, shone his flashlight over the deer corpse. “Whoa,” he said. “We definitely found what we’re looking for.” “You really chummed the water with this stag,” the short-haired woman told Russ. “Kendren, Starland, mouths shut,” the first woman said, making a slashing gesture. She pulled Russ to his feet. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but it was gone. Kendren and Starland stayed huddled around the deer, crouched low, inspecting where the hindquarters had been sheared off the bone. Kendren looked at the deer's head and saw where Russ had shot it. “You make this shot?” he asked Russ. “In the dark?” “Yeah.” “Was the deer already dead? Were you a foot away? Point blank?” “No. I was up on a ledge over by the river. Forty feet in that direction.” Russ pointed up the gradual incline. Kendren was still looking at the dead deer. “You shot it between the eyes, from forty feet, in the dark?” “Yeah. I guess.” “Head on back to the highway,” the woman said firmly. “You should start now. It might be dangerous to stay here.” The way she was looking at him, Russ kind of figured she meant that she was what was dangerous. If he didn’t do what she said. “I just need to find my grandpa’s rifle first,” Russ told her. She grabbed him by the arm. Her grip was incredibly strong. In the light from her flashlight her eyes seemed almost purple. “Start walking toward—” Before she could finish her sentence, the third woman, who’d melted back into the darkness, stepped forward again. “Cut the light,” she hissed. “It’s here.” Something came crashing through the brush, making a howling sound. It wasn’t a sound Russ had ever heard before. It was a deep rumbling growl, followed by a pitched screech that made the hair on his arms stand up. Branches were snapping, and he could hear claws scraping on rock. It was still thirty feet south, but it scared the hell out of him. “‘El Toreador.’ You’re up,” the woman hissed. The girl they called El Toreador had been on lookout. She was far enough into the darkness that Russ could barely see her, just a wisp of thick brown hair bobbing in the darkness—that is, until she pounded her chest with her fist. The vest lit up red, casting shadows across the trees. “My real name’s Atara,” she told Russ quickly. Then: “Don’t look so worried. We’re professionals.” “Starland, hit her with the hormone.” “The vest is enough,” Atara growled. Starland slipped back into the light. She was carrying some kind of tube that looked like a pool toy. She pushed hard against the end, blasting thick goo all over the other woman. “Hurry up. It’s almost here.” Russ was scrambling around in the brush, looking everywhere for his rifle when the creature burst through the perimeter glow of his tiny flashlight. Atara’s vest reflected off its face, bathing it in red light. It was all fangs and claws, huge, twice the size of a grizzly bear and full of rippling muscles stretched out in terrifying feline grace. It leaped at Atara, but midflight it caught the scent of the goo and reoriented to the left, bumping her off her feet but not harming her. The huge cat-thing landed softly, immediately turning toward the fallen woman, sniffing the air, growling, and bobbing its head. “It’s got the scent. The big kitty’s feeling amorous,” Kendren yelled. He, Starland, and the other woman all had their rifles raised. They were tracking the cat, ready to fire. Atara looked pissed, sprawled on the ground with her legs splayed. “Knock it down. We’re authorized for lethal. What are you waiting for?” she shouted. The creature was fully in the light now. It looked a lot like a tiger, but it was at least six times the size, with wavy, shaggy hair. “What the hell is it?” Russ shouted. The feline was practically straddling Atara. “I don’t like how it’s looking at me. Come on, shoot!” she demanded. The creature batted a paw, claws extended, and tore the glowing vest off her chest. It drew the vest up to its nose, sniffed, and started to growl again. Then the huge beast paused, slowly turning away from Atara. It sniffed the air, shoulders hunched, fur on the scruff of its neck rising. As it turned, its deep onyx eyes looked squarely at Russ. It growled and took a step toward him. Russ thought his heart had been beating hard before, but as the huge cat glided toward him, the thudding in his chest was so loud it drowned out every other sound. He didn’t even hear the discharge of Starland’s shotgun, two feet away from the monster. The wad of pellets sprayed against the creature’s flank and it howled, tearing away into the darkness so fast Russ didn’t even see it move. Atara scrambled to her feet and dropped her rifle. “Did you see that? A direct hit and no penetration. I told you Earth tech was garbage. What is this? The thirteenth century? I’m powering up.” The first woman—the one with the purple eyes—glanced at Russ. She was short, wiry, with the powerful shoulders of a linebacker. Russ realized she was the leader of . . . whoever these people were. “When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?” she barked at Atara. “You already used the CRC wand on him.” “Two hours of mandatory training videos. The second this is over.” “I’d rather be cat food than watch those again,” Atara said. “You skip the videos and I’ll send you back through CERT training.” Atara wasn’t really listening. She crashed off through the brush in the direction of the big cat. Nodding toward Russ, the woman shouted, “Kendren, you’ve got containment.” Then she disappeared into the darkness. Starland drew a pistol from her belt and followed. “Containment? More like babysitting,” Kendren grumbled. “I should be the one doing the good stuff.” He glanced in the direction they’d gone. Russ kind of agreed. Kendren was huge, at least six-five, and covered from head to toe with what Russ’s cousin had always called beach muscles. He had thick, wavy hair down to his shoulders. Out in the darkness, Russ could see the others’ flashlights bobbing up and down. They were headed up an incline, probably straight toward the bank of the river. “Was it my imagination, or was the cat more interested in you than the vest covered in mating hormone?” Kendren asked. At first, Russ didn’t answer. Finally, he said, “What would make it do that?” “No idea. It’s supposed to follow the hormone. What’s better than sex?” Kendren shook his head, seemingly unable to answer his own question. He frowned slightly. “The only thing I’ve seen them more interested in is an Obinz stone. You ever seen an Obinz stone? They’re about this big”—Kendren held his hands six inches apart—“usually green, with yellow veins running all along the edges? I don’t think they’re native to . . . this area.” Kendren looked around in distaste. “But I’ve seen these cats jump planets just to get near one if it’s in an unrefined state. An Obinz stone is basically intergalactic catnip.” “I’ve never seen one,” Russ told him. His voice wavered slightly, but Kendren didn’t seem to notice. “Then we better shut this vest down,” Kendren said. He stepped up onto a boulder and reached high into a tree, grabbing the vest from where the cat had tossed it. He folded the vest up and tucked it under his arm. “I’m not even sure how to turn it off,” he said. “That was a saber-toothed tiger, right? You guys cloning stuff? Is this Jurassic World or something?” Russ rubbed his temple. His questions were coming so fast, they were jumbled in his mouth. Kendren had just said intergalactic, and something about jumping planets, but here in the dark Wyoming forest, six miles from his grandmother’s house, he wasn’t yet ready to face those pieces of information. Kendren threw the vest on the ground and raised his rifle, pumping a slug into it. It kept glowing. “Damn. It’s pretty important I get this thing turned off.” Starland’s discarded rifle was just a few feet away. While Kendren kicked at the vest with his boot heel, Russ inched toward it. “Touch the weapon and I’ll shoot you in the face,” Kendren said. He stomped on the vest again. The flashlights were way north now, probably on the other side of the river. Russ could hear the distant voices arguing about which way the big cat went. The voices were so loud, neither Kendren nor Russ heard the cat until it was right in front of them, growling, hissing, and spitting. It stalked into the circumference of the faint red light from the vest. Kendren was still standing on the vest, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Beside him, the cat was enormous, twice as tall as a man. It crouched down, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m dead,” he said quietly. The creature coiled back on its powerful flanks and threw itself forward like a bullet. Its wicked claws stretched out, razored edges slashing at Kendren’s neck and chest. Russ kicked Starland’s gun off the ground, caught it, leveled it, and fired. The bullet split the cat’s eye socket, ripping through its optic nerve and straight into its brain. Momentum carried the dead body forward on its trajectory, smashing into Kendren and pinning him to the earth. A few moments later, the rest of the team returned, clambering through the thick brush. The leader approached the enormous beast and nudged it with her boot. “Is it dead, Bah’ren?” Atara asked, her gun still pointed at the fallen creature. “Sure is,” the leader, Bah’ren, responded. The wind was starting to pick up, blowing the branches of the trees, shaking off a few dead leaves. “How about Kendren?” “Negative,” Bah’ren said. “Get it off me,” Kendren demanded. “It’s gotta weigh nine hundred pounds.” “How many intergalactic laws do you think we’ve broken here?” Atara asked. She moved next to Bah’ren, looking down at Kendren with an expression that was half pity and half amusement. He had managed to sit up, but his legs were still wedged under the huge carcass. “Including the law about referencing intergalactic law on a tier-nine planet?” Bah’ren asked. “You guys are being a little careless,” Starland said. “Not our fault this thing was a hundred miles off course. The MUPmap promised there wouldn’t be any tier-nine bios in the vicinity.” “What are we supposed to do now?” Atara said, nodding toward Russ. “Oh, we’re conscripting him, for sure.” Bah’ren said. “Really?” Atara said. “We’re getting another human?” “Who? Who do you mean?” Russ asked. He glanced back in the direction of the highway. His eyes were starting to adjust to the dark again, and he could make out a thick copse of trees just a dozen or so yards away. “Get the huge beast off me,” Kendren insisted. Bah’ren moved to one side of the big cat and dug her powerful shoulders into it. Starland ran over to join her, wedging one arm against the creature’s flank, but putting her other arm around the waist of the woman giving the orders. “Atara, come on. You, new guy, we could use your help too. It’s heavy as hell.” Russ half ran over to them and dug his side into the creature. Its hairy skin sloshed around against the pressure, but the four of them eventually got it moving. “Roll it the other way!” Kendren demanded. “Its penis is right next to my face.” They kept rolling, and Kendren kept protesting, as the great shaggy cat slowly grinded over his shoulders and face. Gravity finally caught hold of its weight and the corpse flopped to the ground. The three in black all chuckled as Kendren spit out the taste of cat testicle. “Oh, that’s what you meant. Sorry about that,” Starland said, laughing. Kendren crawled onto his knees, still hacking and spitting. He stopped for a minute and looked at the cat’s face, poking a finger in the thing’s empty eye socket and wiggling it around. “Another hell of a shot.” “The debriefing wasn’t just wrong about location,” Atara said. “The creature’s fur is like steel mesh. Our bullets were doing jackshit.” Kendren rolled up onto his knees, both hands propped on his thighs. “You saved my life,” he told Russ. “No problem,” Russ said. It was the last thing Russ said before he dropped the rifle and sprinted full speed back toward the safety of the trees. He was running as fast as he could, pumping his arms, banging his shins on rocks, bumping past pines, carelessly plunging through the dark. He’d only gotten about twenty yards, running full speed, when something metal slapped around his ankle. It tipped him off balance and, for the second time that night, he could feel himself careening head over heels. He hit a tree, again, then slowly slipped out of consciousness. --- Excerpt from Intergalactic Exterminators Inc by Ash Bishop. Copyright © 2022 by Ash Bishop. Reproduced with permission from Ash Bishop. All rights reserved.
 

Author Bio:

Ash BishopAsh Bishop is a lifetime reader and a lifetime nerd, loving all things science fiction and fantasy. He has been a high school English teacher, and worked in the video game industry, as well as in educational app development. He even used to fetch coffee for Quentin Tarantino during the production of the film Jackie Brown. Bishop currently produces script coverage for a major Hollywood studio, but he spends his best days at home in Southern California with his wonderful wife and two wonderful children. He earned an MFA in Creative Writing from San Diego State University. This is his debut novel.

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