Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Zachery Humpherys--Up Close and Personal

Epsilon AR
by Zackery Humphreys

About The Author:

Zackery Alexander Humphreys is a Novelist, Actor and Poet who occasionally dabbles in Screen Writing and Play Writing.

Book Description:

Hundreds of years into the future, mankind has gone under ground to relocate to the beautiful city of Epsilon. Epsilon is run by a strong, secretive government that keeps its citizens in check by subtle manipulation and strict schedules. No one questions its authority and no one is unhappy. ALN-896, an average man who is just trying to live a normal life, begins to have dreams; something strange and rare in Epsilon. In his dreams, he meets a man named Harry and everything is fine- until Harry dies. When ALN-896 wakes up, he shrugs it off as if nothing has happened. It was only a dream. But then the next day, he is suddenly arrested and sent to prison for killing Harry, whom ALN-896 assumed was just a figment of his imagination. Now inside prison, ALN-896 begins to learn about everything the government of Epsilon has been doing and he plans on escaping. Not only from prison, but from Epsilon. This one decision turns him against everything he has ever known and forces him to face against centuries of lies. To escape means to live. But what will it cost?


A black-and-white tie...
Thoughts froze within his mind. Spit bubbled through his pursed lips.
ALN-896 finally managed to pull away from the exposed wire. He fell to the ground and wiped away the spit dribbling down his cheek. His heart raced, and sweat poured down his body.
That was the most painful sensation he had ever experienced.
I never should have grabbed that wire...
ALN-896 stood up slowly and looked around. No one saw what had just happened. He was alone on the desolate stretch of Simov Street.
Fortunately, I did not get hurt.
Instead of continuing, he decided to get back into his car and let a nice cup of tea calm him.
From the center console of the car, green tea was automatically dispensed into a cup. He let the liquid slide down his throat, easing every muscle that had tensed. He melted into his plush seat as he let his mind come to a halt. Then the silence was interrupted by a robotic voice. “ALN- 896, your vitals are irregular. Is everything all right?”
Everything is fine. I went to inspect one of the house's trashcans as I was instructed to, but I noticed an exposed wire on the ground. I went to cover it back up when it...”
ALN-896 wasn't quite sure what had actually happened when he touched the wire. He hadn’t been electrocuted, but something strange had occurred. The only thing he could get out of the experience was that he had seen a black-and-white tie floating in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. Nothing surrounded it, but he knew it had been attached to a body. One he hadn’t been able see, but one he knew existed somewhere within the black.
When it...,” ALN-896 stumbled. “When it shocked me,” he lied.
Your job still needs to be completed. You still need to inspect the trashcans for Monday's workday. After your tea, you need to continue.”
Yes, I understand.”

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Up Close with Zachery

What inspires you as a writer?
Inspiration is a huge deal with me. I am a very dedicated person which can work both, with or against me. I can be very dedicated to finishing something, such as a Three-legged-race, or I can be very dedicated to lying on a couch munching on candy bars. Because of this, in order to get me up from the couch, I need a spark of some kind. Inspiration. What is my consistent inspiration? I don't know. What I do know now, though, is that I am constantly driven forward by you. My fans. Before you my constant inspiration, I think, was dedication to finishing the product (AKA stubbornness).
When did you have that ah ha moment when you knew you were a writer?
I've always considered myself a creative person but never a writer until recently (I always did badly on essays). The first ah ha! moment for me must have been when I finished my first sonnet in iambic pentameter. Take that Shakespeare!
Tell us about your favorite character and why you chose to write about them?
My favorite character, despite not being the main character, is actually INSN-3396 (Twitch). He is just kind of a great guy who got caught up in the wrong circumstances. He's genuine and someone I would really like to know (outside of my head).
What are you currently working on?
Oh boy, that's always a fun thing to think about. Other than various acting projects and side projects with writing, I am currently in the midst of finding an illustrator for my poetry-novel. I am also writing the sequel to Epsilon A.R.!
Any upcoming events?
I am still planning as many book signings as I can for Epsilon A.R. Right now, however, my life is a little more involved in my acting. I am currently in a production of A Streetcar Named Desire at my university.
If you could be anyone you like, who would you be?
Thought of putting a really mushy and romantic answer to this. Instead, I'll say Shakespeare. As a writer, how awesome would that be?!
Do you have any advice for new writers and something that a seasoned vet can learn?
Advice for the new writers: Keep at it. It's hard to get through the novel and even harder to get through the marketing and reviews afterward. Stay persistent. It'll pay off. I promise you kiddo.
Something for a seasoned vet: Garlic.
Where can your followers find you?
Social media is my home away from home. Two places you can find me best are
Any last words?
Thank you for joining me on this interview. I hope you enjoyed yourself. If you didn't, why are you still reading?

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

The Black Song Inside

The Black Song Inside
by Carlyle Clark
Author Bio:
Carlyle Clark was raised in Poway, a city just north of San Diego, but is now a proud Chicagolander working in the field of Corporate Security and writing crime fiction and fantasy. He has flailed ineffectually at performing the writers' requisite myriad of random jobs: pizza deliverer, curb address painter, sweatshop laborer, day laborer, night laborer, twilight laborer (of the fang-less variety), security guard, campus police, Gallup pollster, medical courier, vehicle procurer, and signature-for-petitions-getter.
He is a happily married man with two cats and a dog. He is also a martial arts enthusiast and a CrossFit endurer who enjoys fishing, sports, movies, TV series with continuing storylines, and of course, reading. Most inconsequentially, he holds the unrecognized distinction of being one of the few people in the world who have been paid to watch concrete dry in the dark. Tragically, that is a true statement.
Author Links:
Title: The Black Song Inside Genre: Mystery Thriller Publisher: Make Luck Press Release Date: November 14th, 2012 Amazon   Synopsis:  
Shortlisted for the2012 Faulkner-Wisdom Award
Newly engaged private investigators Atticus Wynn and Rosemary Sanchez have seen the dark and violent side of life. Atticus's dry wit is born of a traumatic childhood that's left him emotionally scarred and estranged from his homicide detective sister. The medals Rosemary earned during her tour of duty in Iraq are little reward for returning home to San Diego missing a leg and tormented by PTSD and her continuing failure to save her younger brother from his own violent nature. Still, nothing they've been through has prepared them for an explosive murder investigation that tests the couple's trust as they struggle to solve a case where the best result leaves them in prison or dead. Atticus's manipulative and gorgeous ex-girlfriend, Claire, bursts back into their lives wielding a secret about Rosemary's family that she exploits to force the couple into investigating the execution-style slaying of her lover. The case thrusts Atticus and Rosemary headlong into the world of human trafficking and drug smuggling as well as rendering them pawns in Tijuana Cartel captain Armando Villanueva's bloody bid to take over the Cartel. Villanueva Machiavellian scheme sends one of his minions, Rosemary's own gangsta brother, after Atticus, and as if that weren't bad enough, Villanueva dispatches "The Priest", a former child soldier for a Colombian rebel group who is now a messianic mercenary whose religious psychosis has launched him on a trajectory that can only end in mayhem. The Black Song Inside is a vivid crime thriller rife with the murder and madness, melded with gallows humor and the heroism of two flawed protagonists who, in struggling to unravel a skein of human suffering, learn the nature of redemption and the ability to forgive others and themselves.  


Meadows shoved the door open and marched in with a man he introduced as Detective Morales, his partner. Morales stood behind Meadows, thumbs hooked in his belt, and smiled vaguely at Atticus. He seemed to be trying for harmless, but stocky and clad in a bright-banded shirt, his dark-skinned face spattered with nodules and pockmarked, black-pebble eyes measuringly cold, and a bald head, he looked like a Gila monster eyeing a wounded rabbit. Meadows sat at the head of the table and plunked down a tape recorder. “We’re going to play a 911 call. Please tell us if you recognize the voice of the caller or have any idea what she’s talking about.” Atticus nodded, suspecting the real reason they wanted to play it for him without a hint of what it was about was to keep him from having the chance to guard his reaction. That didn’t worry him. His childhood had trained him to hide his feelings well. The question was how was he going to glean more information than he gave?9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher said.There’s a girl,” a woman said, choking back tears. “She needs help.”Is she there with you?”No, no, oh God help me. I left her out there.”Left her where, ma’am?”In the desert. She was dying and I...I just left her there. You have to understand! She was already dying. There was nothing I could have done. It was hours ago. She’s dead by now anyway.” Meadows leaned toward Atticus. Morales seemed to stop breathing, but who can tell with a Gila monster? Then came the sound of five quick thwacks that sounded like the receiver was being banged against something while the woman repeated, “fuck” over and over.Listen, ma’am,” the dispatcher said, “you need to calm down and tell me who you are, where you are, and where the girl is. We can send people to give you whatever help you need.” The woman was suddenly back, her voice tight and venomous. “You can send me whatever help I need? That’s so wonderful. Can you send someone who can tell me how to get my soul back?”Ma’am, I—”It’s a very simple fucking question! Can you send me someone who can help me get my fucking soul back, or can’t you?”Ma’am, you need to calm—”GOD HELP ME!” the woman shrieked. There was banging again, but this sounded different, not something hard against something hard, but soft against hard. The woman’s crying grew fainter, along with the sound of footsteps walking away, and then came the roar of a car engine and the squeal of tires. The tape ended.What was that at the end there?” Atticus asked. He hadn’t recognized the voice or had a clue what was going on, which was good, for him at least. For that woman and that girl, the moon was closer than good. Morales and Meadows glanced at each other. Morales shrugged. Meadows said, “She was calling from one of those three-quarter phone booths. We’ve got a witness who said she went crazy at the end, banging the plastic with her fists, palms, elbows, her head, everything. Then she staggered away crying, got into a car, and drove away.”Was she alone?”Yes.”Do you know what girl she was talking about?”The question is, Atticus, do you?”Not a clue.”When was the last time you saw Clarice Rousseau?” Atticus blinked, paused, blurted too late, “About two hours ago.” Morales tilted his head, his brow furrowing, a caricature of confusion. Meadows leaned forward and said, “Took you awhile to remember. Weird, isn’t it?” So much for not giving anything away, Atticus thought.

Friday, March 22, 2013

The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff
by Lane Heymont

About The Author:

Lane Heymont was born in Pennsylvania. He earned a BA in Liberal Arts with a focus on literature and history. He also holds a double minor in psychology and business. After college, he turned his focus back to writing. Lane has several short stories published, one of which was recommended for the 2012 Bram Stoker Award in short fiction.

Genre: Historical, Fantasy, Slipstream
Publisher: Sunbury Press, Inc.
Release Date: December 23, 2012
Buy: Amazon

Book Description:

Jeb, a former slave, rescues his brother-in-law Crispus from the Ku Klux Klan, pulling him into a world of Creole Voodoo, hatred, time travel, and redemption. The two brothers-in-law set out to stop Verdiss and his Klan followers from using the Pharaoh's Staff, a magical artifact from ancient Egypt. Soon, Jeb and Crispus learn Verdiss’ diabolical plan and discover that he is working for an even more evil force. In the end Jeb and Crispus must stop the eradication of an entire people and each must find redemption for his own past sins.


Allenville flashed in Jeb’s head. Bodies burning, people tortured and brutalized in the streets. Somehow he felt the same thoughts in Fallon. The way his slender hand tightened around his when he’d said the word. He imagined hatred blistering inside the boy. Maybe the need for a father blinded him. Thank the Lawd–that ain’t the case no more…I hope.
Jeb. Fallon. This way. I found a mambo a few blocks away on Laurel Street.” Crispus’s voice broke through the crowd.
Come on!” Fallon pulled Jeb through the throng of people. Crispus’s voice always sounded just beyond them, amidst the night madness of Baton Rouge. “Wait!”
Where’d he go?” Jeb tugged on Fallon’s hand, pushing aside a doughy man.
He took a right down Nacadian Road. Wait, Crispus!” The hideous ensemble of vendors, farriers, knackers, and other merchants crying out their goods seemed to drown out the boy’s call.
One moment, mayhem wracked the market, the next it fell silent. Fallon stopped, so Jeb did. He couldn’t move, the herd seemed to stop stampeding. Footfalls echoed in the street. The crowd spread. Then came the heavy clacks of soldier’s boots on the flagstones. A band of men, too many to tell. But Jeb knew them by the procession’s cadence–Confederate soldiers. Men clad in gray uniforms marching through Baton Rouge. No doubt, they’d be Klansmen too. Shouts of jubilation spread like wildfire among the townspeople.
Kill them carpetbaggers!” came a woman’s elegant voice.
Long live the general!”
The South shall rise again!” shouted a boy.
Jeb felt the panic in Fallon’s hand, his heartbeat racing as he pulled him away. “What general? I know that cadence like I know my field.” Jeb focused on dodging whatever lay in his way, stumbling over garbage and bumping into people.
Fallon stammered over his words, “Not–not–nothing. Nathan Bedford Forrest?” He gasped, tightening his grip on Jeb.
Somehow Jeb overcame his instincts, keeping his head bowed. Not daring to look up in fear that monster of a man would see him. Though blind, Jeb saw Forrest clad in the gray Confederate officer’s uniform, adorned with medals. He’d seen photos of him. Tall, in his fifties, a receding hairline and a curly mane of black hair. A well-kept goatee tinged gray like his uniform.
I can end it all. Fight through the crowd. A single shot to the head. To hell with being blind, I can do it. For a moment Jeb meant it, caressing his pistol. It’d be easy. Instead, he listened to the Ku Klux Klan founder, savior of the white race, and ender of Reconstruction, parade along the street. Celebrated by a throng of who knew how many people. They were closer now, close enough for Jeb to count them. Four guards following him. Plus Forrest, that’s five. Six shot pistol. Just enough for one miss. He gripped his pistol. It didn’t matter that the crowd loved Forrest, even cheered him on. Six rounds is enough. Jeb edged his pistol free from its holster.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Goal Driven Women-Yales Smith

Goal Driven Women
by Yales Smith

Hello my name is Yales Smith I am originally from Fort Worth, Texas however; I have resided in Houston, Texas for the last seven years. I am an educator, father, veteran, supporter of Breast Cancer Awareness, and a lover of life. I believe that everyone has a purpose in life and you are either living your purpose or you are still trying to find yourself.

This is a inspirational and motivational book written to help anyone achieve their goals by applying the WAVA process. In addition, this book has a secret code that can be cracked and you could win $1000.00 if you are the first to crack the code. Also each book that is sold part of the proceeds will go towards Breast Cancer Awareness don't wait any longer if you want to be successful.

Gener: Self-Help
Release Date: September 24, 2012

Giveaway: There will be surprise gift cards $10 - $20 awarded during tour

for Amazon & Starbucks Gift Cards during the tour, so please let your readers know and encourage them to comment and share.

In Addition - if you crack the secret code in the book, you could also win $1000

Part of the Proceeds of this book go to Breast Cancer Awareness
Leave a review on Amazon for an extra entry (hosts welcome) and don't forget to click the "Like" button while you're there :). Just add GDW at the end of your review and it will be included as an extra entry when tallying total reviews.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

All About The Savage Boy--Nick Cole

About The Author:
Nick Cole is a working actor living in Southern California. When he is not auditioning for commercials, going out for sitcoms or being shot, kicked, stabbed or beaten by the students of various film schools for their projects, he can often be found as a guard for King Phillip the Second of Spain in the Opera Don Carlo at Los Angeles Opera or some similar role. Nick Cole has been writing for most of his life and acting in Hollywood after serving in the U.S. Army.

The Savage Boy by Nick Cole
Genre: Science-fiction
Publisher: Harper Collins Imprint: Harper Voyager
On-Sale: February 26


Amid the Wasteland remains of a world destroyed by a devastating Global Thermonuclear Armageddon, barbaric tribes rule the New American Dark Age. A boy and his horse must complete the final mission of the last American soldier. What unfolds is an epic journey across a terrifying post-apocalyptic tribal America gone savage. Jack London meets The End of the World.

1. What inspires you as a writer?  I think I’m drawn to destruction.  I always have been.  I like thinking about the end of the world or survival situations.   I like empty spaces and places where you can tell there might be some unseen or unknown story lurking amongst the weeds and wreckage.  Places often inspire me and sometimes even clothing or time periods.  It’s usually never a character.  That comes later.  But starting anew, amidst hardship, that sort of thing gets my attention.
2.  When did you have that ah ha moment when you knew you were a writer? Bypassing the “I always wrote and knew I wanted to be a writer” stuff which is sort of a given for anyone who wants to write, I would say just after my earnings began to justify the writing life.  Now, having said that let me say this:  Before that could’ve ever happened I had to have the faith that it was possible to one day sell something.  Yes, I knew I was a writer every time I received a rejection letter from a SciFi magazine or a website.  I knew I was a writer when I finished a manuscript to completion one hot summer afternoon on the second story of a house deep in the sweltering Central Valley of California and it felt good, like I had actually done real work.  I was still a long way from submitting it to anyone, but all by myself, at that moment I felt like a writer.  And, when my current agent initially rejected me, suggesting a rewrite and to submit again, yes, I felt like a writer.  I felt like a writer when he accepted that manuscript and still has not to this day managed to sell it through no fault of his own.  And there are many other small and quiet moments of feeling like a writer at any given point.  I give these examples to illustrate that most of these moments could have been taken as either some form of acceptance or conversely, rejection that I was indeed not a writer.  So we arrive at this truth:  We decide whether we are writers or not writers.  Don’t let any other human being have that power over you because they won’t take responsibility for the consequences of the decision to be or not to be.  I won’t lie to you and say that I lived in a world where I was as constant as the northern star in my belief that one day someone might buy something I had written.  I was filled with doubt.  I would wake up at 3 in the morning and say, “what am I going to do now?”  And yet, like the Biblical Abraham, I hoped for a city not yet seen.  I continued through the desert of rejection.  And yes I still felt like a writer, but there were many times that the feeling was not altogether good.  I think that’s part of the process.  It separates those that see it through from those that don’t.  For so much of my life I felt embarrassed to admit I was a writer especially because I hadn’t any success to show for my efforts.  But when that success did come, then yes, at that moment also, I felt like a writer as I had all those other times.  I just wasn’t embarrassed or melancholic about it.  I was grateful and, surprisingly, I was afraid.
3.  What is your writing process? The day to day process is simple:  It’s generally six days a week in the afternoon and evenings in a variety of places, i.e. desk, car, opera house, streets of LA.  I write on a laptop and my wife is a very busy opera singer.  We go everywhere together so I’m not fussy about location or rituals.  I do like to write on a computer but I’m not tied to it, so I guess if I ever end up in prison I’ll write on paper, though my hand does have a tendency to cramp up and I might be a bit busy what with all that prison stuff.  The actual writing process consists of me praying to God to bless my work and use it, and then writing or editing one chapter or section for the bulk of my time.  I try to work section to section ending at good stopping points where I’ve completed a particular bit and have a good idea about what needs to happen next.
4.  Tell us about your favorite character and why you chose to write about them?  The Old Man from my books is my favorite character.  I generally like older, interesting people who’ve lived a lot and have very specific knowledge.  I can generally get interested in just about anything, which is a good skill to have when writing and talking to people, as most people enjoy talking about themselves.  Not because they’re self- obsessed, but because it’s generally easier for most people to talk about what they know: themselves.  So I listen and occasionally learn a thing or two.  The Old Man is like that.  He’s old, he’s a bit of a rascal and he’s not finished.  Along the way he thinks about the past and what it all means.  He has some regrets, but, like the rest of us he’s hoping things will turn out alright.  He’s not crabby or cranky and he likes to help others which lends to his likeability.  The main thing I go back to about him is this: he’s not finished with life yet, and I find that interesting.
5.  What are you currently working on?  All three Wasteland novels are done and now I’ve got a zombie triptych in the works, of which one novel is done and I’ve been told good things about.  There are two more books to complete and I’m planning those out right now.  For the past month I’ve also been editing a military SF novel I wrote a year ago and I’m alternating between that and a Wind in the Willows-esque fantasy-cozy about murder and cheese.  I also just informed my wife that I would like to master Chinese cooking.  Oh, and I prestiged on Black Ops 2.
6.  Any upcoming events?  Harper Collins’ version of The Old Man and the Wasteland came out in January and the sequel The Savage Boy comes out on Feb 26th.  After that, the final Wasteland novel will be available this fall.
7.  If you could be anyone you like, who would you be?  I would like to be like Jesus.  Most people have a misconception or confused second hand information about Jesus.  Jesus was a really loving person who spent time with regular people and tried to make their lives better.  He had a real heart for people.  He would come into your house and eat and talk with you.  He listened to what people were really saying.  I think he made people feel that they had his complete attention, that what they were going through really mattered to Him.  I think I need to be more like that.
8.  Do you have any advice for new writers and something that a seasoned vet can learn?   The best advice I can give during what I feel is a revolution-in-progress right now in the world of writing is this:  Take the time to do your best work.  It’s very easy with Amazon and the other outlets to get your stuff up there as fast as possible and make a bad first impression.  It’s one thing to write a novel.  Great job.  Now it’s time to edit.  Edit for four months straight, five days a week.  One thing I suggest is editing out loud.  Read the manuscript to yourself as though you were an audio book actor (I like to pretend I’m either Garrison Keillor or Michael Beck).  Then find and pay a good editor.  Then edit it again and again until you can’t edit anymore.  Then, maybe, you can release it.  It’s too easy to listen to Amazon stories of “Gold in them thar hills!”  There is.  But if you release a poorly written and badly edited manuscript, you might never have another chance to do it again.  There’s a great quote by Vince Lombardi, “The will to win is important, but the will to prepare is vital.”  This is so true in what has become a golden age for writers to get their work out there.  It’s never been easier to get your manuscript in front of a paying public.  But don’t expect them to sift through all your chaff for a nugget of gold.  They will be merciless if you haven’t done your absolute best.  And sometimes, even if you have.
9.   Where can your followers find you?  Swing by and say hi @nickcolebooks on Twitter or leave a message on my website at nickcolebooks.com
10.              Any last words? If writing isn’t fun, do yourself a favor and go find something else to do.  You will be much happier.  It probably means that what you were made to do is still waiting for you to discover what it is.  So get rid of needing to write for any other reason than that it’s fun.  It’s not going to make you rich or make someone love you more.  It’s not going to give you dignity or status.  But if it’s fun then who cares what happens... you’re having fun doing what you love.