Sunday, 21 December 2014

New Release ~ Destiny Calling


The Enchatlings: Volume 1

Hope only wants to find out if her ability to infuse euphoria or despair with her touch makes her the devil's spawn, or his exterminator. But when the woman who raised her is murdered by something not human, she loses the only family she knew and discovers one she might wish she hadn’t.

Drawn back to the hometown she vowed never to return to, her ability is seen as an asset to everyone but Hope, and she doesn't know who to trust. Her family wants her to help them overcome an enemy oppressing the human population, while the man of her dreams is courting her for the Underworld.

Time is running out, and Hope’s choice may be made for her, as she discovers she’s a pawn in a bigger game played by a merciless ruler who doesn't lose.


I strained to release my arm from Griffith’s vise-like grip while scanning the surrounding trees, trying to determine which was less of a threat, the beast of a man holding me or those who might be waiting for me in the woods.
“You will come inside, now.” Griffith spoke slowly and deliberately as if I were a small child.
I batted at the hand Griffith placed on my head. “I’m not a puppy, quit petting me.”
“I will protect you.” Griffith’s warm breath caressed my ear. “If for no other reason, to find out what I’m giving up and why she wants you so badly.”
I inhaled his masculine scent, like musky earth. It washed over my face, and the tension in my jaw released. I stopped struggling. “Are you the devil?” My tongue was thick and heavy so the words came out slurred.
“Not even close.” His words soothed and comforted, like having a weighted blanket cocoon me. Each movement was an effort. It wasn’t the same as the thing in the woods. This was more like the feeling after a long massage or bubble bath.
“It’s not safe.” Griffith wrapped his arms around me, and I rested against his broad chest.
“It’s not safe.” I nodded. My muscles relaxed and my eyelids grew heavy.
“It’s cold. We’re going inside.” Griffith kept his arm supporting me as he steered me toward the house.
“We’re going inside.” I parroted and walked up the steps, leaning heavily on him.
Out of the corner of my eye, something was cautiously moving at the edge of the woods. Branches snapped as whatever was observing us crept closer.


Wednesday, 17 December 2014



Amazon U.S.
On sale until December 23rd


A look back. Without the rose-tinted spectacles, but with hindsight and humour, and with poignancy and affection. 

1978. The North.

Phillip sees life in a simplistic if passionate way: up or down, us and them, black, white and nothing in-between. When not doing his ‘thing’ in Wigan’s Casino Club – voted ‘The Greatest Disco in the World’ by Time Magazine – Phillip hates the world. Or at least he thinks he does. He longs for the weekend, or a greater, permanent escape from the daily grind of factory life in an industrial town.

With a little imagination, he might realise things midweek aren’t that bad: there’s the loving family, the secure job amid mass unemployment, a relationship with the perfect young woman… Or maybe he realises too late. And all he’d deemed important was only ever an illusion, his reflected image included.

Coming full circle by way of loss and more loss, you would hope lessons are learned…

The book progresses through myriad dream sequences, interwoven song-themes, a father’s philosophical ramblings, ever blackening wit, leitmotif – or seemingly recurring scenes; is someone laughing at our hero? And Phillip’s own, lyrical, strut-like, black or white manner.

Dancehall adventures via train rides to Heaven, scooter cruising almost coast to coast. Beneath the pier encounters with the opposite sex, et al… set against the birth of Scargill and Thatcher feuding…

Excerpt – Chapter 19:

`Is this the region, this the soil, the clime… this the seat,
That we must change for heav’n, this mournful gloom,
For that celestial light?’

   April hauled ex-Macca’s ex-body, directing our army via the fairground, supposing her beguiling beam would secure that crucial last ride, even if the boys had put the toys away half an hour back. As all but two of us fell for it, it was a sight to behold, evoking flashes of dizzy Disney scenes – that our band of tearaways should sprout tails from trench coat vents for their excesses!
   Jed was taken more by life on our side of the road, his eyes reflecting a medley of promenade hue. ‘Look at this lot,’ he said, nipping my question of where on earth Ilkeston was in the bud. ‘None of ’em have any convicts of their own.’
   ‘Do you mean convictions?’
   He didn’t hear. But asked had I noticed how ‘Mod’ and ‘Ted’ rhymed. He barred my smirk with a hand: ‘Three letters, ending in d…’
   The rhetoric was cut short when someone turned to meet us dead on, pressed us in a North-eastern accent to offer our allegiance, until the glaze of anxiety was snuffed by a frothing beer bottle, a stick-grenade of sorts, impacting against his head, granting Jed a light ale-blood facial. The beggar collapsed into my arms. The bottle crashed onto the kerb.
   Screams of a different nature rippled like a breeze of bitter change, and yet I couldn’t put my finger on its source. Groups silhouetted, an approach, a retreat; a car shunned dug-in feet, the to-ing and fro-ing. And then, in squadron-like re-formation, on a general’s growl, all became as plain as a size ten boot: ‘Skinhead! Skinhead!’
   There was something malevolent in the way they did that.
   Jed yanked my hood as I laid my patient to the ground. He dragged me down a street leading to the park, safest bet, but for a division of our craven copraphagics catching on, screeching forth their personal excreta.
   I took the knee-high wall Red Rum-style, only to recognise that one of us had committed an error of judgement: a step, a day out-stepped, my grand-national winner falling to dust at this last hurdle; a frantic thought on which to cling, this short-straw-of-a-moment million. And so again I placed a glossy sole upon a Jolly Fisherman’s sun-bathed stairway, in past imitation or practice for the future – I had the world at my feet after all...
    Teeth penetrated the footwear in Morph-ish splatter. Courage cared for the spine.
   “You’re going to fall flat on your face,” echoed a warning, before a nervous laugh above…

Chris Rose bio:
Born and bred in the city of steel: Sheffield.

Spent - or misspent, whichever your viewpoint - the majority of his 'young' years on the Northern Soul circuit. It's around this time and place that his novel is set - 'Wood, Talc and Mr. J'

His academic education came much later, from scratch, in a sense.

In time, he fell in love with the idea of languages, French in particular, and went on to get a BA Hons in French Language and Literature with subsidiary Spanish, at The University of Sheffield. He was a 'mature student', though maybe not as mature as he would like to think, looking back...

After which, he moved down south - mid 90s - and eventually further still to the South of France for a few years, where he taught English. He then moved up to northern France to do much the same thing.

But it was here where he also began to write, or experiment with writing.

He came back to England in the mid-00s and lived in North London for five years, teaching and writing again.

And for the last four or five years, he's lived in Norwich, where he's completed a Masters in Literary Translation, at the UEA - he likes to believe he's most definitely mature now!

He's now working his way toward making a living by writing, with a little translation on the side...

He tends to be picky about books, and take his time reading them; he expects each word to count; something he can go back to, read again - and again. Things witty, satirical, poetic... Moving. Favourite writers of late? Maybe Markas Zusak. Anna Funder, her 'All That I Am'. Actually, he's only just discovered Kurt Vonnegut, and read 'The Slaughterhouse Five'.

Soulful writers, and their soulful things. And maybe he tries to emulate them.

Same goes for his taste in films, music... and people.

Amazon Buy Link:>>

Sunday, 14 December 2014

A must for the Season!

Mrs. Claus and the Viking Ship
by Laura Strickland
Historical Romance

Scottish chief’s daughter, Tinnie MacAieth, can think of only one way to ransom her clan’s folk, defeated by the fierce Viking, Claus – agree to his demand that she become his bride.  She hopes her faith and love for her people will allow her to endure a lonely, loveless future in the cold north.
Claus has claimed Tinnie for his wife, but the prize he truly wants is her heart.  Determined to win it, he offers her many gifts, but not until he undertakes a dangerous winter voyage for her sake does he dare hope she sees what’s in his heart.  And on one magical Christmas Eve, while delivering toys to her clan’s children by sleigh, he begins to believe she may grant him the one gift he desires …


Thursday, 11 December 2014

The Tenth Suitor

Just in time for the holidays! 
The Twelve Brides of Christmas 
Book Ten
Laura Strickland

When Edwina Armstrong’s father invites ten titled lords to spend Christmas at his estate so Edwina may choose one for a husband, she finds the idea romantic. She dreams of gazing into the eyes of one of her suitors and falling deep in love. But it soon becomes apparent the lords in question are far more interested in gaining her father’s estate than Edwina’s hand.
Thorstan’s in attendance but he hasn’t been invited and he’s no lord. A former mercenary, he’s come disguised as a fool to get near Edwina, long adored from afar.  Edwina quickly falls for his charm and quirky humor even though she fears her father will never approve of a commoner for her husband.  But when Edwina is abducted, only Thorstan—a skilled swordsman— has hope of rescuing her in time for the promised Christmas wedding.

Click on the Buy Links for THE TENTH SUITOR:
Author Web Page:
Author Bio:
Born and raised in Western New York, Laura Strickland has pursued lifelong interests in lore, legend, magic and music, all reflected in her writing. Though her imagination frequently takes her to far off places, she is usually happiest at home not far from Lake Ontario with her husband and her "fur" child, a rescue dog. Author of Scottish romance Devil Black as well as The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy consisting of Daughter of Sherwood, Champion of Sherwood and Lord of Sherwood, she is currently working on the second book of a new Steampunk romance series and has two Christmas novellas releasing this season: The Tenth Suitor and Mrs. Claus and the Viking Ship.

Thursday, 20 November 2014

Great Deal - Limited Time

99¢ from November 22 - 28

Tough, driven Kit Kendall has replaced her frills and dresses with no nonsense haircuts and wranglers, years ago. As owner of Sage Brush, the once thriving west Texas bed and breakfast ranch, she now struggles daily to keep her business afloat. Since McCabe Resort Lodge reopened next door as a multi-million dollar hotel, her financial difficulties compound, as she suffers one cancellation after another.
Just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, Kit’s childhood sweetheart turned nemesis returns as the new owner of the resort that’s now putting her out of business, resurrecting memories she thought she’d buried long ago.
Cowboy, entrepreneur Sam Dawson has returned to Sugar Creek, Texas after six years of exile with a secret that could destroy Kit’s happiness. He left town because of it and for the past two years has secretly tried to make it right. Having failed, he now returns to make one last attempt to undo the tangled web created by his father.
Set in motion by his father’s Last Will and Testament and with the clock ticking, Sam has only weeks to convince Kit to sell him her ranch or reveal the truth that will break her heart.


Sam could tell she was spitting mad. He watched her jerk the seatbelt over her chest several times before he reached over to click it into place.
He straightened up and glanced at her as he turned into the street. “Is that steam I see coming from your ears?”
Kit responded by snapping her arms across her chest.
He heaved a sigh and shook his head. “She told you, didn’t she?”
Kit didn’t say a word she just stared out the window.
“I’m sorry you had to find out that way. I was going to stop by tonight and tell you myself.”
“How thoughtful of you. So. What do you want?”
“For access to the land. Otherwise my guests have no place to hunt or fish.”
“Sell me the road frontage I need.” He’d deliberately forced her hand and hated himself for it. But far better for her to part with a few measly acres than lose everything. And if she ended up hating him in the process then so be it. He cursed both their fathers under his breath.
Kit’s mouth fell open and she slowly turned to face him, hoarse laughter tumbling from her lips.
“You’ve got to be kidding. After this stunt, do you really think I’d sell an inch of my property to you? One Kendall made the mistake of caving to a Dawson’s blackmail, but let me assure you, this one won’t.”
He hated what he was about to do. Hated to force her hand, but she gave him no choice. When did she become so stubborn? Gritting his teeth, he continued.
“Then I won’t allow you to use the Lowman property for access. You’ll be forced to shut down. Sage Brush will close. You’ll be through. You’ll lose your property to the bank when they foreclose. Then it’ll only be a matter of time before I have it all anyway. Is that really what you want?”
“Why you no good, conniving, lowlife.”
“Look at it this way, if I get the road frontage I need, then you get to stay in business. It’s a win-win.”
They slowed to a stop outside of her house.
Kit opened the truck door then turned to face him.
“You would actually do that? You’d put Trip and Jake out of work? And what about Maggie? Have you even thought of her?”
“I told you, you wouldn’t like it.”

Rogue’s Son:

>>>Buy on Amazon<<<

Connect with Darcy Flynn on the following Social Links:
Facebook Page:
Amazon Author Page:

Sunday, 16 November 2014


New Release: Stones: 
Coming-of-Middle-Age Fiction  

Stones is a humorous coming-of-middle-age women’s fiction about closure.

New Adult fiction seems to be all the rage these days. Well, I’m starting a trend of my own—Old Adult Fiction.  
Or more accurately, Coming-of-Middle-Age-Fiction. Stones features women of a certain age. Before being published by The Wild Rose Press, the manuscript, which finaled in the Georgia Romance Writers Unpublished Maggie Award for Excellence, was called The Colonoscopy Club. 
So you have an idea of what age I’m talking about.

In Stones, readers are introduced to the concept of closure in the very first paragraph.

“Thank God for LINT. It’s the one area in my life where I’ve been able to achieve closure. I can wash a load of towels, toss them into the dryer, fold them, and, after opening the lint filter, peel back a glorious, thick, colorful strip of lint, admire it, and throw it into the wastebasket. Then I can cross that task off my to-do list. Now, THAT is closure! And, by the way, I have a new dryer that gives really good lint.”

Back of the Book blurb:                            

When Julie Paver’s husband Matt moves his business to Atlanta, she is forced to leave behind her thriving jewelry boutique, Stones. The move threatens their twenty-five-year marriage, because now if Matt isn’t out of town negotiating a merger, he’s spending late hours on overseas phone calls with his sexy-sounding second-in-command. Feeling neglected and unloved, Julie seeks closure by reconnecting with her first love, Manny, when he pursues her with his Internet innuendos. Manny is unaware he’s the father of Julie’s son, and Julie contemplates revealing the secret to him on the eve of their son’s wedding. But would such a walk down memory lane be worth the cost? Julie and Manny finally meet at her oceanfront condo — in the midst of a hurricane — and elements collide to create the perfect storm in a coming-of-middle-age crisis.
To go or not to go to Palm Coast is no longer the question. The question is what will I do once I get there? Will I really have the nerve to reconnect, or as my daughter Natalie likes to say, “hook up,” again with Manny Gellar? How will I feel tomorrow when I see him alone for the first time after twenty-five years? Will I finally reveal what I feel compelled—no, what

I’m busting a gut—to tell him? That he has a beautiful son, that our son Josh is getting married in just three months? I’m probably rationalizing, but I think he finally has a right to know.

If I could, I’d fix what is wrong with my marriage and put it back the way it was before, as easily as Ricardo fixed my washing machine. Before Matt yanked me out of Miami by my roots as if I were a noxious weed he was tossing out of a flower garden and carelessly transplanted us to Atlanta.

Before we moved a state away from my family and my best friend and a business I’d worked a lifetime to create. Before Matt sold his freight-expediting business to a German conglomerate for mega-millions and agreed to run the company for them from Atlanta for the next two years, barely consulting me. Before the German occupation, or rather before he became preoccupied

with his sexy-sounding German second-in-command, Gretchen. Before he stopped sleeping with me in the biblical sense. Before I turned fifty.

All I really want is closure. I’m convinced that meeting Manny Gellar again is the only way I will ever come full circle and reconnect with my life.


Romancing the “STONES” Novelist Interview:

What draws you as a ‘reader’ to the romance genre?
Reliving that feeling of “first love” and attraction, reading about how the couple overcomes obstacles and gets their happy ending.

What is the most difficult part of writing a love story? 

Building tension in the relationship.  I always want things to happen too quickly.

Is creating a book title easy for you? Tell us about the process. 

Coming up with the title is the first thing I do before I can even start writing the book. Anything can inspire me. I may overhear a word or a phrase and it triggers an idea. When a title pops into my head and I know it’s the right one, then I can begin. My background is Marketing and Public Relations so for me, writing a creative title is the easy part. That said, in my eighth book with The Wild Rose Press, which is under contract, the original title was “Murder on the Repositioning Cruise,” and I had to shorten it to Killer Cruise, because it was consistent with the other two-word titles in my psychic mystery series: Sixth Sense and Homecoming Homicides. And not everyone knew what a repositioning cruise was. But by the time I renamed it, I had already written the book. Other than that, all of my books retained their original names. One of my favorite titles is Murder at the Outlet Mall, a shopping suspense tale I co-wrote with my sister, a Florida artist in Ponte Vedra Beach.   

Do your characters love the direction you take for them or do they have other ideas?

The characters always have other ideas. And I usually go along with them. The characters will have complete conversations in my head and when that happens, I just listen and write it down.

Any tips for writers that you’d love to share?

Many people have said this, but it’s great advice: Finish the book. The best way to promote your book is to write another one.  Hang in there. Don’t give up on your dream to publish. You may be the last one standing, but eventually you will get published if you are persistent. Stones was some ten years in the making. And these days authors have so many paths to publication.

Marilyn will give away a PDF copy of Stones to one commenter.

Stones is available at the following sites:   

Amazon (Kindle and Paperback):

Barnes & Noble Nook:  

My Author Web site:

About Marilyn

Marilyn Baron is a public relations consultant in Atlanta, Georgia, and the author of humorous women’s fiction, historical romantic thrillers, a psychic suspense series, supernatural short stories and a musical. She has won or finaled in writing awards for Single Title, Suspense Romance, and Paranormal/Fantasy Romance and just finaled in the Georgia Romance Writers 2014 Published Maggie Award for Excellence in the Novel With Strong Romantic Elements category.

Marilyn has published six books with The Wild Rose Press (TWRP), She is under contract for two more books, The Widows’ Gallery, part of the new Lobster Cove series with TWRP, and Killer Cruise, A Psychic Crystal Mystery, Book Three. She has published four humorous paranormal short stories with TWB Press and co-authored three books with her sister, award-winning Florida artist Sharon Goldman.

To find out more about Marilyn’s books, stories and upcoming releases, visit her Web site at Visit her on Facebook at and follow her on Twitter at

Sunday, 9 November 2014

Romancing The Novelist


When twenty-year-old Ashby Overton travels to Overhome Estate for the summer, she hopes to unearth her ancestral roots and the cause of a mysterious family rift surrounding the horseback riding death of her Grandmother Lenore many years ago.

From the moment she enters her room in the oldest wing, Ashby feels an invisible, enfolding presence.  She learns the room belonged to a woman named Rosabelle, but no one is willing to talk about Rosabelle—no one except Luke, the stable boy who captures her heart. As Ashby and Luke become closer, she realizes he can be the confidant she needs to share the terrifying, unfolding secrets. 
 Ever present is a force Ashby never sees, only feels.  Candles light themselves, notes from an old lullaby fall from the ceiling, the radio tunes itself each day.  And roses, always meant for Ashby, appear in the unlikeliest places.  Are the roses a symbol of love, or do they represent something dark, something deep and evil?

Great to have you as a guest today, Susan. I always ask the question "What draws you as a reader to the romance genre?"
Actually, I do not read “pure” romance by choice. I love romance in other guises—Gothic -romance, for example or mystery-romance. To me as a reader a little romance goes a long way.  So it needs to be GOOD!
As a writer, I tend to lean in the same direction—subtle romance to enhance the mystery or the adventure or action. For my cozy mystery/Southern Gothic A Red, Red Rose, I leave much of the gore and sex to the reader’s imagination; Shakespeare might call it “off-stage.” I feel this technique leads the reader on, titillating and encouraging mental images without boundaries.

Something I always wonder is "What is the most difficult part of writing a love story?"
Well, let me begin by telling you the easiest part: conflict. In life, isn’t all romance made up of multiple conflicts? Will my parents approve? Is he right for me? Is it love or simply fascination?  As a mystery writer, I find plotting conflict is paramount and thus easily extended to the romantic elements involved. For example, in A Red, Red Rose, for her first serious tryst with Luke, Ashby, my protagonist, arrives late—having overslept in a nap. She had wanted to look perfect—but she’s a mess—hair tousled and no makeup—rain-soaked and mud-splattered. Luke could not care less. He wants romance! But when they finally settle in the hayloft, a swarm of wasps threatens to completely thwart any love-making on the horizon. Conflict! It’s the root of all romance. What’s hard is writing realistically about the physical details without sounding melodramatic , awkward or unnatural.

Is creating a book title easy for you? Tell us about the process.
It seems my books entitle themselves! I usually look for a recurring theme or symbol rather than plot or character for my titles.  Thus, I am generally well along with the writing before the title emerges. The sequel to A Red, Red Rose is entitled Beneath the Stones (The Wild Rose Press, publication date TBA). Stones are symbolic throughout the novel, so the reader is always looking for the connection with the title.
Do your characters love the direction you take for them or do they have other ideas?
Now, that’s an interesting question. I know authors who say their characters talk to them—guiding the story. Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple, for example, lived with her characters—moving from location to location, sometimes at their whim. My characters don’t converse with me—sometimes I wish they would! But they often do seem to take matters into their own hands as I am writing about them. It’s like an idea is suddenly transmitted from their mind to mine! And I admit that often I take a character down one road, only to realize it’s the wrong path for him or her. That’s when the delete key comes in handy.
Any tips for writers that you’d love to share?
Writing is such a personal journey that every writer must chart her own path. Life experiences, values, preferences, loves and losses, inspiration, role models—unique for every writer— will guide and mold and refine the individual’s craft.  That said, I would add that every writer must also be an avid reader and a close observer of life, in general, and of people, places and events specifically.  Who knows when that bubbling mountain stream might flow its way into a setting? Smell it, hear it, feel it, look closely at its depths and shallows for sensory details and jot it all down in a journal or relegate it to your writer’s memory bank. The quirky, brilliant professor whose classes generate mental lightning could be a character in your next novel. Store his mannerisms, his speech patterns, his retro clothes in your data base and bring it all out when the time comes. No detail is too small for the observant writer’s sensory antennae. Do you remember your very first extended trip away from home? The excitement of the unknown—the hopes for adventure and stimulating discoveries? Dredge up those impressions and infuse your journeying character with hopes and fears and expectations akin to your own.  Every reader can relate to the human experience.

Excerpt from A Red, Red Rose:
     As suddenly as it began, the music stopped.  Bewildered, I held out the candle as though it might illuminate the harmony I had heard so clearly only moments ago.  Except for the dying sputter of the storm, all was quiet again.  My ears strained, listening.  Faintly this time, but distinctly, I heard the melody again, this time in the hall outside my closed bedroom door.  Barefoot, holding the candlestick in front of me, I moved slowly to the door, drew the latch, and, without thinking, only feeling the music, I followed the mellow strains, like a child of Hamlin behind the Pied Piper.  Descending the steep steps, on the first floor, now, I continued to follow the path of the music, through the dining room, to the old keeping room and out a door I had never used or even noticed before,
     I halted, shook my head, trying to clear out the hypnotic tones that crowded out all thought and plugged my senses.  Once again, the music abated.  It was like a game of musical chairs.  Where was I?  No longer in the house, I felt the damp night air on my bare arms, and rough floorboards beneath my bare feet.  Holding the candle at arm’s length, I crept forward, a step at a time, my other hand grasping at the air in front.  I felt like a blind person without a guide dog.
       My reaching fingers brushed across a grainy surface, and crumbling powder dusted my fingertips.  Instantly, I recognized the metallic smell of old, rusting screens.  I knew then I must be on the ancient screened porch tucked between the wings of the house, the crumbling porch with the antique rocking chairs.  The old part of the house, reached only by the door in the keeping room.  The music had led me here.  Again the strains wafted over and around me, holding me captive as I stood, shivering, gazing at the dim light of my flickering candle.
     The music stopped as abruptly as it had begun.  Struggling to clear the cobwebs of sound spinning in my brain, I took a deep breath and looked around.   I sensed, rather than saw a movement in my periphery.  When I turned, I became aware of one of the old rocking chairs.  Gently, so as to be barely perceptible, the chair rocked itself back and forth as though someone invisible sat in it, enjoying the languorous, rhythmic motion.  Rocking, rocking, rocking, without any sound at all.
     Not conscious of moving, I found myself standing beside the ancient rocker, now motionless, dusty, the seat sagging within inches of the floor, as though it had not moved in a hundred years. I had not dreamed it.  The chair had rocked itself, and someone or something had led me here to witness it.  Led me with the music.  I had the evidence.  On the decaying cane seat lay a single fresh rose just out of bud.

>>> A Red, Red Rose on Amazon <<<

Susan Coryell has long been interested in concerns about culture and society in the South, where hard-felt, long-held feelings battle with modern ideas.  The ghosts slipped in, to her surprise.
Susan Coryell is the author of the award-winning young adult novel, Eaglebait. She lives at Smith Mountain Lake, Virginia.