Targeted Age Group:: 12+

Adnan leads a weary existence as a bookshop owner in modern-day, war-torn Baghdad, where bombings, corruption and assault are everyday occurrences and the struggle to survive has suffocated the joy out of life for most. But when he begins to clean out his bookshop of forty years to leave his city in search of somewhere safer, he comes across the story of Ali, the Gardener of Baghdad, Adnan rediscovers through a memoir handwritten by the gardener decades ago that beauty, love and hope can still exist, even in the darkest corners of the world.

Link To The Gardener of Baghdad On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The Daily pain of my Hometown, Baghdad, and role of love to inspire people to go on.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
From all the people, I have met all these years from different paths of Life.

Book Excerpt/Sample
Chapter 1

Adnan brushed away the last shards of shattered window glass that was scattered all over the floor. It had taken six hours of effort, hard labor, to restore his bookstore to order, but finally, a new window was in place, and there was no dangerous glass shrapnel anywhere for any of his customers to step on.
Luckily for Adnan, he was in the back with a customer when the roadside bomb exploded, the third in two years. The thing exploded about 500 feet away from his store, aimed at a small gathering of workers, and it had taken its bitter toll: five casualties and dozens of injured workers in all.
Maybe everyone is right, Adnan considered. Maybe it’s time I close up my bookshop and leave the country like most everyone else has. Baghdad wasn’t safe anymore; it hadn’t been since day the regime had changed. Not a day went by without casualties anymore, and bombs, kidnappings, and shootings were rampant. It wasn’t the Iraq Adnan used to live in, the place where people could at least feel safe living with their families. The worst part about it was that the bombings and continuous conflict seemed to be for no reason, and things were just getting worse.
The questions tumbled in the disgruntled shop owner’s mind: How did this all happen? Who’s behind it all? What do they stand to gain from it? Like most Iraqis, Adnan didn’t care who the ruler was or who was in charge. He’d never been into politics. He’d only wished for a nice, safe place where he and his family and their future generations could live, a place of peaceful harmony, better education, work opportunities, and free of wars.
Adnan’s wife called again, understandably still worried about the bombing. She wanted to make sure everything was all right now, and before getting off the phone, she again urged him—as she’d done often in recent weeks—to consider leaving Iraq for good. As if he wasn’t already aware of it, she frantically reminded him that she couldn’t take it anymore, that she wanted to raise their family in a better place. “I just want to enjoy a peaceful night for once, Adnan. Baghdad isn’t safe,” she said, her final words before she hung up.
Adnan was torn apart by it all. If it wasn’t for his shop, he would have left a long time ago, as it was becoming painfully obvious that the tumultuous situation in Baghdad was going to require years, maybe even a decade, before it would calm down.
He walked around his shop, looking at it from left to right. While he recalled happy memories, they were far from the current reality. He had been working there for the past forty-one years. His father had started the business in 1944, and when Adnan turned six, his father began bringing him along to help him carry books and rearrange them. As the years passed, Adnan realized that he had as much passion for the work and the store as his father did. He eventually took over the shop, and it had been his second home ever since. Come to think of it, he spent more time there than at home, but he had a family of his own now, a beautiful wife and two young boys, and their safety was not negotiable. That’s it. This bomb was the last straw, he decided. He’d been thinking it over for several hours, in fact, and finally his mind was made up. “I’ll organize the bookshop and sell it so we can start a new life elsewhere, in a new and better place,” he said out loud, as if making a vow to no one in particular.
Adnan knew selling wouldn’t be difficult, as his store was in the path of much traffic and a bevy of loyal customers, and anyone willing to take the daily risks of life would make some good money with the place.
Around six p.m., Adnan asked his assistant to leave. He needed to be alone. He turned off the front lights, put the CLOSED sign on the door, locked the shop up, and began rearranging books and putting them in the right sections. The Arabic ones were arranged according to subjects, and the English and other foreign language books were on the other side. Adnan’s father was one of the first people to bring non-Arabic books to Baghdad. In addition to selling the books, Adnan’s store also loaned them out. In one small sitting corner, patrons could read the books right there in the shop; his mother used to call it “the elderly corner,” since the neighborhood elders dropped by daily to read and to have their morning tea with Adnan’s father while making small talk.
Adnan finished putting every book back in its place. Then, with his hands in his pockets and sadness and grief in his eyes, he stared around at the place. “Is this it? Am I really going to abandon you?” he mumbled to himself, looking at the books.
Then, as if an answer to his question, reality struck him again. He recalled the ominous BOOM! of the last bomb, the image of people running and glass flying everywhere while he stood there in the chaos, surrounded by books.
“Right. There’s no other way,” he said in a louder voice, forming the words with his brain while his heart was crying out in agony.
Adnan thought about what life might have in store for him and his family if they left. Will I be able to open a new shop somewhere, or will I have to start from scratch? Will the children be able to adjust? Will my wife love our new home? There were questions, questions, and more questions flooding his mind, but Adnan had few answers.
What made things worse was that there were laws in place that forbade the shipping of large quantities of books from one country to another. Many approvals and permits had to be filed, and that meant Adnan would have to buy a new supply of books if he wanted to continue doing what he loved to do—the only job he knew. Buying new books and arranging them wouldn’t be much of a hassle, since he’d have plenty of money from selling his store. It would only take some effort for that problem to be solved. What really pained Adnan, the toughest part, was having to let go of the books in the far right corner of his shop, the masterpieces. Those tomes were all rare, unique books, most more than fifty years old. They weren’t even for sale because they were his treasures, and he considered them priceless. That private collection was very close to his heart, just as they had been to his father’s. Anyone who wanted to read them had to ask days ahead of time and could only read them in the store; none of those books ever left the four walls of his bookstore, not even in the hands of his closest, most trusted friends or relatives. Unfortunately, the modern generation didn’t seem to appreciate Adnan’s treasures, so the corner hadn’t seen much action for a long time, and the 300-plus books or so were all dusty.
Adnan had read more than half of them, but even he had neglected them for the last three or four years. Of course, this was not out of his own will, but because daily problems had impacted his life and eaten up all his spare time. Adnan moved to the corner where they sat, stood in front of them, and took a whiff, enjoying the ancient, almost musty aroma of those old pages. He moved closer and picked each book up and carefully cleaned their covers and bindings. He knew he could make a good fortune off of those books by selling them to some curator or collector, but those who would truly value the books had either left the country or were dealing with other priorities that left them little spending money for anything as frivolous as rare and beautiful books. Nevertheless, they deserved to be dusted, for they were hidden gems.
After nearly two hours of dusting and thumbing through some of his inventory, Adnan was in the third row when a book fell. He quickly picked it up, and he could tell from the title that it was French. Funny. I don’t remember seeing this one before. Out of curiosity, he opened the book. As is usually the case for books, the first page contained the name of the publisher and the copyright information. It was clearly mentioned that the work had been published in 1931. Intrigued, Adnan turned a few pages. Suddenly, something fell out of the book. When he carefully placed the book back on the shelf and bent down to see what it was, Adnan realized it was a small, leaf-shaped, locket. The pendant was dark golden in color, and two green stones, emeralds in the shape of eyes, were embedded in it.
With the most delicate of touches, Adnan opened the locket. On one side were the letters M&A, clearly engraved, but what caught Adnan’s attention at once was what was on the other side: a black and white photograph of a woman behind a small glass. He quickly dusted it off. Although the photo wasn’t that clear, the woman in the picture looked like a foreigner; she had light hair and features far different from most Arabic women. Still, her eyes were very beautiful and big, and her smile was innocent. In fact, Adnan had never seen such beautiful, wide eyes. She was indeed a very nice-looking woman, but something told Adnan she harbored some sadness beneath that pretty grin. “Who was this woman?” Adnan asked himself.

He continued staring at the photo, studying it for a few minutes. He brought it very close to his eyes, then held it a bit further away, as if to see if there was more to it, something he’d missed. At the same time, he kept on asking himself the same question: “Who are you? Do I know you?
When the locket returned no answers, he put it in his pocket and picked up the French book from the shelf. In spite of his efforts to handle it with care and turn the pages gently, the entire inside of the book fell out of its cover, as if it wasn’t attached to the binding at all. Adnan stopped, surprised to see that the original inside pages of the book had been replaced with paper of a very different color. Everything was handwritten in English, not printed from a press, in spite of the publisher’s name in the front. Adnan’s heart began to beat faster as he flipped through the pages. The words were scribed in black ink, all English, with the exception of a few Arabic words scattered throughout here and there.
A sudden rush of adrenaline ran through Adnan. His face began to sweat, and, full of excitement, he took the pendant out of his pocket. He held it in his right hand and kept the book in his left. Then, with fast feet, he made his way to his desk. He removed everything from his desk and carefully placing his new discoveries in front of him. He looked at his watch and impatiently dialed his wife; fortunately, she answered after a couple of rings. “I won’t be home tonight,” he said. “Don’t worry. I just have some extra work to do in the shop and a few things to fix if I’m going to have to sell the place.”
While his wife didn’t like to hear that he wouldn’t be home, she was very glad to hear that he’d finally made his mind up. She knew better than to bicker with him about not coming home, as she didn’t want him to change his mind again, after all the time it had taken her to convince him to leave. She took it as good news, more than enough, and quickly told him goodnight and got off the phone.
Adnan opened the locket again and placed it on its side so the lady’s face was toward him. He then opened the first page of the book.
The date was written on the top in Arabic, July 12, 1958. Adnan took a deep breath and started reading the book: “I have a feeling things won’t go well when we return to Baghdad tomorrow…”
҉҉
I am writing this so my beautiful daughter knows the sacrifices her mother and I have made in the name of our love. If I’m not there to tell my daughter who her father is, this will help her a lot—or at least I hope so.
I was born in 1934 in Diyala, an only child to my parents and the light and joy in their lives. My father, along with my two uncles, had inherited a large plot from their late father. It was beautiful agricultural land, with soil so rich that everything they planted turned into gold. My father and uncles were fond of their work and took care of the land very well, and our farms supplied fruits and vegetables to many areas across the country.
I had a happy childhood. I enjoyed watching my father and uncles do their daily work at the farm, and my mother and my uncles’ wives laughed as they went about their daily chores, whether it was cooking or helping the men with some farm work. I loved running around those green farms, collecting dates, oranges, and grapes and playing with my younger cousins. I was particularly close to Sinan, who was only four months younger.
I will never forget the good times we had. Every day, just before sunrise, Sinan and I used to run to the end of the farm, to a little hut my late grandfather had built years earlier. We’d climb up on top of it and watch the sunflowers open up while the sun was rising. How beautiful a sight it was! We just watched and watched, and everything in life seemed so simple, so perfect. I remember racing him all the way back. We played games like hide-and-seek and football, but the thing Sinan loves most was climbing that high palm tree next to the house. He loved playing up there, and he never lost to me once when we raced to climb it. He was quick as a bullet, and I’d bet my life that nobody in Iraq could climb it faster than him. With several moves, he was up the tree, picking the sweetest date, while I was still struggling halfway through. It was a lovely, peaceful life till, out of nowhere, a tragedy hit.
On a rainy day in February of 1943, we received shocking news. My father and one of my uncles were on their way to Baghdad via public transportation, a small, twelve-passenger local bus, the only one in the province that went to Baghdad daily at that time, always at seven a.m. sharp. That day, the roads were muddy and dangerous. It had rained all night before, and the rain continued even after they’d left home. They were urged by my mother and my aunt to delay their visit, but they insisted that they go, stating that they had urgent meetings to attend. In the end, that decision would prove to be a fatal one, but I learned early in life that you can’t fight fate. That day was to be their calling day, that bus ride their last.
Witnesses recalled that a commuting van slid from one on of the bridges just outside Baghdad and dropped, headfirst, into the Tigris River. The incident resulted in seven casualties, and my father and uncle were among them. They passed away instantly.
The shock hit us hard. My mother was hurt the most, as she was an orphan herself and had no brothers or sisters. My father was her everything, so she was devastated. She’d finally found someone to love in life, but he was taken away from her in a heartbeat. Before that, she’d always worn the most beautiful smile, but I never saw it again after that day.
After the tragedy, my youngest uncle was in charge of all of us. It wasn’t easy for such a young man to take care of three families and manage all the farms by himself, so my cousin Sinan and I tried to help. After all, we were the oldest of the children, both a ripe, old age of ten. I always told Sinan we had a short-lived childhood, and we were men before our time.
I loved working on the farm and helping out, but Sinan only did it because he felt obliged to. Nevertheless, once school was out, we both helped with everything from seeding and irrigation to driving the tractors, the best part of all. At that age, I had four things in my life: my mother, Sinan, the rest of the family, and the farm.
Ten months later, life struck me with another harsh blow, when my mother passed away from pneumonia. The doctors tried to help, but they were of little use. She hadn’t been the same since my father’s untimely death, and she didn’t seem to have the will to live anymore.
So, I was an orphan before I even turned eleven. From that day on, I dedicated everything to my work. I put my heart and soul into it and was my uncle’s right arm. He taught me everything, and as years passed, I began to take on many responsibilities of the farm, lightening his load a great deal.
As difficult as it was to study, since there were only a few schools within a thirty-miles radius, my father had always insisted that learning was a priority. I finished primary school, but I dropped out after that. With my parents gone, I had no desire to continue my education. Besides, I poured all my attention and energy into our farm, taking care of the land that belonged to my uncle and used to belong to my father.
One day, when I was fourteen, I was in Baghdad, waiting for my uncle near a busy market. I saw a well-dressed Iraqi gentleman in a black suit and shiny black shoes. He looked to be in his early forties, with fairly dark skin; big, dark brown eyes; an impeccably trimmed mustache; and a medium build and height. He was speaking English, talking to a British gentleman, and both of them laughed heartily every once in a while. I watched them for several moments, as I was mesmerized by the man’s personality, looks, and manner of speaking. He was so elegant, so confident. I was impressed, and I felt something I still can’t explain. At that moment, I wished I was like him, elegant and able to talk articulately and confidently, just enjoying myself.
I gave in to my strong urge to approach him. I greeted the men and shook their hands. I made sure to tell the Iraqi that I admired him because he looked so elegant, and I asked him where he’d learned to speak English so well.
With a warm smile I won’t forget, he tapped me on the back and asked for my name. “And what brings you to this market today, my boy?” he said.
“I am Ali. We have several farms in Diyala, and my relatives and I take care of them. My uncle and I come here from time to time for our business,” I replied.
“That’s nice, Ali. I’m Radhi, an engineer. I know English because I studied in the United Kingdom,” he said, with warmth oozing from his voice. He’d answered me, a random kid on the street, even though he didn’t have to, and I was amazed how kind he was to me, right from the start.
After his answer, I was still curious, and he seemed to sense that. Radhi took me aside, bent down to my eye level, and asked me if I would like to learn English. I nodded excitedly. I’d never thought about it before, but I desired to be able to speak like him with people from other lands.
He smiled and pulled me closer and said, “To learn English, you must first know how to read and write Arabic, young Ali”
I told him I’d finished primary school and that I knew how to read and write Arabic and that my uncle and his wife wrote and read it very well. He told me that was a good start, and then he let go of my hand, straightened himself up, and asked me to meet him the very next day, same time and place. He assured me I wouldn’t be disappointed.
When my uncle came back, I told him about my encounter with Mr. Radhi and begged him to let me stay for another day in Baghdad to meet him again. Much to my delight, he allowed me to stay.
At precisely the same time the following day, in the exact same spot, Mr. Radhi showed up, as promised. He was carrying a small box of books, which he handed to me. “Ali, four of these books will help you learn English. Read them little by little. The last book, the bigger one with the green leather cover, is an encyclopedia about plants, gardening, and farming. You will need to study them well, but before you take this step, before you embark on the new language, you have to promise me that you will master Arabic, that your uncle and aunt will teach you well.”
I was extremely happy. I thanked him so many times, with tears in my eyes.
He took out his handkerchief wiped my tears and told me that if I needed more books, I could look for them in the Al Aadhamiya area, there was a good shop there. He also told me that if I ever needed any help, I could ask anyone in the Safina area about him.
My life suddenly had more meaning. I continued helping on the farms, and at the same time, I read as much as I could. As the years passed, my younger cousins grew and got more involved.
Sinan, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more distanced. His passion wasn’t farming, and the only thing he liked about nature and the outdoors was climbing that palm tree. He wanted to travel, to go as far away as possible. He was always telling me that he wanted to go to Basra, to the port to be more specific, where he could get involved in trading and learn from the best there. His desire was to travel away with the vessels and discover new places, and a few years later, he finally left. He was only sixteen, so his father wasn’t so keen on the idea, but as painful as it was for him to let his son go, he didn’t want to get in the way of his desire.
My uncle had a friend in Basra who would serve as an excellent guide for Sinan in the beginning. He also gave him some money that would help him settle in. For the first few weeks after my cousin and friend left for Basra, I felt lonely. He was, after all, my best friend. Suddenly, the person I shared almost everything with wasn’t there anymore. To comfort myself, I took solace in my books, and I dug deeper and deeper into reading.
Whenever I went to Baghdad, I returned with a book or two. I became fluent in English by reading the books over and over again. For hours at night, I read in the warm glow of the candle next to my bed, and waking up every morning with a book in my hand became normal.
After I gained a decent command of the language, I decided to study the encyclopedia about plants, the big green book Mr. Radhi had given me. Within a short period of time, I decided to put the advice in that book into practice. I made a small garden for myself, just outside my home, and began experimenting with whatever seeds I could get from my Baghdad acquaintances.
The more trials I did in my little garden, the better it became, and I gained so much experience along the way. I learned what to plant and when, and my continuous visits to Baghdad broadened my horizons even more. It was the perfect learning process, one that mingled with my imagination.
I loved Baghdad and found it to be a beautiful place full of kind people. There were newer, wider streets than any I’d seen anywhere else in Iraq, but there were also beautiful, narrow, old streets that seemed to transport me back through decades of time, revealing the city’s heritage. There were palm trees everywhere, and I loved the bridges that linked the two sides of Baghdad together, over the beautiful Tigris River. Just walking beside the Tigris anytime of the day was rewarding for my mind and soul, each breath of air along it a lovely, invigorating treat for my nostrils.
The city was full of busy markets, and several vendors sold goods out of their wooden carriages. I learned quickly that whatever my heart desired could be found in Baghdad—everything from fresh fruit and vegetables to cattle, poultry, fish, spices, garments, clothes, antique furniture, and musical instruments. There was even a vast animal market where people could purchase pets or even weird, exotic animals like snakes and monkeys. The city was constantly buzzing with life, and I felt more alive each time I visited it.
It was quite the social scene. The city was bursting with cafés and restaurants, where elegantly dressed musicians, poets, journalists, and pedestrians gathered. Baghdad was Iraq’s city that never slept. As late-night parties were wrapping up, some were preparing for their morning prayers in the hundreds or more beautiful mosques. The streets were never quiet.

I’d seen a lot of beautiful places over the years, but one was unforgettable—a particular spot along the Tigris River on the north side of the city. I’d first noticed it while walking along the river on a cold night in February. It was a large, empty area surrounded by an eight-foot-high fence of green-painted wood. There were no buildings on it, and the place seemed abandoned, as if it was unknown or forgotten by the rest of the vibrant city. After I saw it, I visited it every time I went to Baghdad, and not once did I see another soul there.
I wanted to learn more about the strange, alluring place. One day, I decided to climb the fence and check it out for myself. I knew it was wrong to trespass on land that wasn’t mine and didn’t necessarily belong to the public, but it was as if a strange voice was beckoning me, as if the land itself was crying out, complaining about the neglect it had suffered. Deep inside, I knew that the land deserved more attention than it was getting. I walked around the whole place, admiring its beautiful, untouched soil that felt moist when I picked it up and carried a rich, earthy aroma. I just sat there for an hour, lost deep in my thoughts. I planned what I would do with that land if it was mine, if I had the chance to use it for anything, and somehow, I knew I’d have an opportunity to put those plans into action someday.
On my following visits to Baghdad, I made some inquiries about the place. As it turned out, the land belonged to a Jewish Iraqi family that had left Iraq. Their only living relative in Baghdad wasn’t at all interested in it and was ready to sell it. I knew it wouldn’t be difficult to purchase the land from them, but I wanted to be sure I was making the right decision. I had to be certain, as well, that if I did decide to take on that new experience, to make that my true future and passion, my uncle would be all right with that. After all he’d done for me, I did not want to leave him shorthanded on my family’s farms.
I was eighteen at that time, and for the past thirteen months, I’d worked very hard to teach my younger cousins everything I knew about farm work. We’d gone over every detail, no matter how small, and only after I felt sure and confident that they had learned all there was to know, I approached my uncle about my desire to leave and told him what I had in mind. I told him I wanted to sell my share of the land to the family and that I would gladly accept any price he came up with. After all, we were all from the same bloodline.
Naturally, my uncle was sad to hear that I was ready to leave, but he had watched me grow over the years, and he’d seen a change in me. All along, he’d been waiting for that day to come, the day when I’d be ready to venture out on my own. He’d seen the excitement in my eyes whenever I went with him to Baghdad, and he knew I was destined for something other than working on our family farms. Thus, when I broke the news to him, it didn’t come as much as a surprise. He told me he knew it was only a matter of time and said he was sure I’d succeed in whatever I planned to do. He generously offered to pay more than my share of the family land was worth, stating that without me and all my hard work, the farms wouldn’t have been so prosperous. He hugged me tightly and said, “You are always welcome here anytime you need to come back. This will always be your home, Ali.”

With the money I got, I bought the amazing little patch of secluded land in a matter of weeks. I already had everything carefully organized in my head. I’d imagined it all the first time I’d seen the place, and I now just had to put all my thoughts and dreams in action.
I was going to make the best plant nursery in Baghdad, something Baghdad had never had before. I wanted to create something people would talk about, a place people would like to visit as well as buy from, and I knew just the person to help me achieve those lofty goals. I would contact the same person who’d helped me find my passion and opened that new path in my life in the first place, Mr. Radhi.
Finding Mr. Radhi was very easy, as everyone in the areas he mentioned knew him. He was a well-respected figure in society, one of the few Iraqi civil engineers who’d graduated in the UK at that time, and he was also close to one of the members of the royal family, in spite of his loathing of politics.
While walking to his place, I wondered if he’d even remember me. It had been four years since he’d given me those books, the volumes that changed my life forever and opened a new world to me. I reached his home just after noon. It was near the water, surrounded by beautiful villas. Mr. Radhi’s villa was right on the riverfront, just 100 feet away from the Tigris, separated from the roaring river only by a small street used by commuters and cars as well. There was a short, off-white gate and a black door. The whole house could be seen clearly from outside.
I knocked twice and waited, and just when I was about to knock a third time, an old man greeted me. He was well dressed, sporting a black suit and a crisp, perfectly ironed white shirt. He spoke in a low voice, and I assumed he was in charge of household security. I introduced myself and asked for Mr. Radhi, and the old man informed me that the man I sought wouldn’t be back for an hour. He told me I should return then, but I explained to him that I had traveled a very long way and would prefer to wait there for him. The kind, understanding man opened the gates and invited me to sit in the garden.
Mr. Radhi’s garden was huge and stretched all across the front of the villa. It was home to many colorful flowers, a few palm trees, and a fairly green lawn, though there were some yellowed patches. Overall it was a decent garden, though not as spectacular as I would have expected. With a minute of observation, I’d already envisioned how I could turn the space into an absolute paradise.
The house was lovely on the outside, a large, three-level home constructed out of white and off-white stones. The floor of the entrance was fashioned from beautiful fading orange marble. The façade that looked out over the river was equipped with eight windows, four of them reaching from the floor to the ceiling. It was obvious that Mr. Radhi was a lover of light—sunlight in particular.
Around one p.m., I heard a car approaching. When the horn honked twice, the old man moved quickly and opened the gate, and a black car entered. Mr. Radhi was sitting in the back, still wearing that dapper-looking hat and sunglasses.
As soon as he got out of the car, he looked over and noticed me sitting in the garden. The old man whispered a few words in his ear, and Mr. Radhi handed his bag to the driver and started walking toward me. “Can I do something for you, young man?” Mr. Radhi asked in Arabic as he neared.
I replied in near-perfect English, “I’m sure you can, Mr. Radhi.”
He was a few feet away and looked at me for a second. Then, a big smile crept over his face, and he said, “Ali, is that you?”
I gave him a slight nod.
“You have grown into a handsome man! I always believed I’d see you again someday, and this is a pleasant surprise indeed. You must be starving. Come inside, and we’ll have lunch,” he said, patting me on the back.
The interior of the house was extremely beautiful, with class written all over it. Rustic, antique silk carpets were stretched all over the floors, and the walls were adorned with long, silver-framed mirrors and beautiful paintings. The furnishings included two beautiful green fabric sofas, and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. I’d seen quite a few houses in my life, but never had I seen any so elegant. The rosewood tables were exquisite, covered with hand-knitted, soft cloths; I had never felt anything so smooth before.
Amidst all that rich, artistic beauty, what I admired the most was the meter-and-a-half-tall grandfather clock in the corner. It was fashioned from dark cherry wood, hand-carved with golden angels dancing in the sky, overlooking a festive feast. Amazed, I instantly asked Mr. Radhi about it, and he told me he’d bought the clock from England a few years back. The delicate hand carvings were made by a student of David Roentgen, a well-known German Rococo cabinet- and clockmaker. “The wood’s the best you’ll find anywhere, and the mechanics are absolutely fascinating. It weighs more than a hundred pounds,” he said. “You’d need a real sharp axe to break it!”
“Oh, but I’d never want to break anything so beautiful,” I said with a smile.
After I took some time to admire that room and all of its masterpieces, Mr. Radhi showed me around some other rooms, each with its own identity. When we finally entered the dining room, lunch was already being served.

We were soon joined by a woman, and Mr. Radhi introduced her as his wife, Laila. She was a very elegant lady, rather tall, with long, beautiful, black hair that cascaded down over her shoulders like an ebony waterfall. She had light blue eyes that seemed to glisten, but her most striking features were her prominent cheekbones and her small, straight nose. Her skin was much fairer in complexion than Mr. Radhi’s, but they were a perfect match, both in their forties, no more a year or so apart. I could sense their deep connection immediately, and it was clear that they belonged to each other.
We enjoyed the food and conversation for more than two hours. I learned that the couple had only had one child, but he’d died at the age of five, due to fever .I could still see the sadness in Madam Laila’s eyes whenever she talked about their son; coincidently, his name was the same as mine, Ali.
After our delicious and friendly lunch, Mr. Radhi took me to his study, a small, square, cozy room decorated with brown leather armchairs and a small, round table. There were shelves on all four walls, full of books, and on top of the shelves in the center wall was a glass-encased saying by the Prophet Muhammad: “Go in quest of knowledge, even unto China.”
When Mr. Radhi saw me staring at those words, he said, “Ali, there is nothing better than learning. I have learned all my life and I will continue to do so.” He then talked a bit about his book collection and explained where the books had come from. After that, he asked me to join him in the garden so he could have a smoke of his pipe; his lovely wife didn’t like him smoking inside their lovely home.
In the garden, we talked for hours. Mr. Radhi showed genuine interest in hearing everything about my life. I started from the beginning and told him all that had happened to me up to that point, everything I could recall about my life leading up to that moment. I explained how I’d lost my parents and told him about the hard but rewarding work on our farms for all those years. I talked about my passion for agriculture, nurturing plants, and farming. I also made sure to mention the influence he’d had on me the day I’d met him in the old market. “You opened my eyes that day,” I said. “You showed me that my life could hold adventures I never expected.” I then told him I’d bought a nice plot of land near the river in the northern part of the city. “It’s not a huge piece of land,” I said, “but it’s big enough for what I’ve got in mind. I can set up my nursery there, and I want it to be unlike any other place in Baghdad.” I was very excited about my new mission in life, and he allowed me to go on and on without interruptions, until I finally stopped.
All his words seemed wise, but this time, he uttered some I’d never forget: “Ali, I am confident it will be special, and I’m ready to help you however I can. I will design a house for you there and supervise its construction. Also, my house is always open to you, and you may consider all my books yours, if you need to learn more about anything”

For the next few months, I worked together with Mr. Radhi and the laborers he’d hired. In exactly four months, everything was ready. My small house, complete with a climbing vine, was built in the far end corner that led to the river. It had a living room, a bedroom, a small kitchen, and two bathrooms. The small garden ended at the river, and I had a small wooden boat yard there so I could take a ride in my small boat whenever I felt compelled to. In the front was a nursery, cultivated for growing roses, tulips, jasmine, and other flowers. The flowerbed stretched from the main entrance to the corners, where palms and citrus trees grew in neat arrangements. There was a small sitting area positioned in front of a beautiful fountain, with two angels playing music in the center of it all. All of this was surrounded by a quaint fence, and the place was a heaven all its own.
Mr. Radhi refused to accept any payment for the work, so in exchange; I offered to redesign his garden for him. When he agreed, I asked him to give me a week to finish the layout I had in mind and several months to follow through with the plans. I already had great plans in mind for his garden, and I knew exactly how I thought it should be. It was a wonderful space, and I could picture lovely outdoor sitting areas there, where Mr. Radhi, his wife, and their guests could enjoy the surrounding natural beauty I had planned for it.
It was simple enough to go on instinct for what colors and types of flowers and trees would work best. It was my first chance to put my years of farm experience to the test, and I was confident I would succeed.

Mr. Radhi’s house was designed without gardens outside the gates, so I had to make the best of what rested behind them. I wanted each garden I designed to have its own special identity, I didn’t like the idea of open gardens. After all, it wasn’t a public park that just anyone could walk into. I wanted Mr. Radhi’s garden and any others I worked on to lure visitors in with its beauty. To me, the garden wasn’t an object; rather, it was as much a living thing as any human, and it had the right to express itself however it chose. Just like a house, I believed the garden should have its own privacy and an entrance.
I decided I would give the garden two entrances, one at the front, close to the main entrance, and the second at the far end, for those coming from inside the house. I selected four ficus trees, two to be placed at each garden entrance. They were a meter high and trimmed into round shapes, though they could be shaped differently in the future. The outer path around the garden was a foot wide, a mixture of small, shiny, white and black stones. Next to it were pink and white roses, neatly planted in two straight, parallel lines. The middle of the garden was an extravaganza of colors—yellow, red, and blue. Tulips, a large mixture of white and red roses, white orchids, and some lilies were all selected carefully to portray a message of appreciation for life, something I felt Mr. Radhi and Madam Laila had within them but had neglected a bit in their garden. I also planted six small cycads in various places, and each was surrounded by a bed of purple tulips. I’d always thought a garden should tickle more than the eyes; it had to alter all the human senses, and I knew the gardenia could do just that. Thus, I planted four beds at each end, and the flowers were so fragrant that their scent could be enjoyed from across the street.

Madam Laila was extremely fascinated and joyfully grateful for the work I’d done outside their home. She was impressed with the flower selections and the colors, and she said, “This is a piece of art, worthy of a portrait!”

Author Bio:
Ahmad Ardalan was born in Baghdad in 1979. At the age of two, he moved with his parents to Vienna, Austria, where he spent most of his childhood and underwent his primary studies. After his father’s diplomatic mission finished at the end of 1989, he returned to Iraq, where he continued his studies and graduated from the University of Dentistry. As a result of the unstable political, military, social, and economic conditions in his home country, Ahmad decided to leave Iraq and move to the UAE. After facing difficulties to pursue his career in dentistry, he opted to pursue employment in the business world. Since then, Ardalan has held several senior roles within the pharmaceutical and FMCG industries, throughout much of the Middle East. His early childhood in a mixed cultural environment, as well as his world travels, increased his passion for learning about cultures of the world and inspired him to pen The Clout of Gen, his first novel. After eleven years of being away, Ahmad returned to Baghdad in January 2013 on a visit that was full of mixed emotions. Inspired by his trip to Iraq, he wrote his second novel, The Gardener of Baghdad.

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Targeted Age Group:: 13 and Up

A woman accidentally makes a deal with a demon, and she must steal the souls of 3 innocent people in order to break the contract. A Choose Your Own Adventure for grown-ups.

Link To How to Be Bad: A Decision Select Novel On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I wrote this novel because I loved Choose Your Own Adventure Novels as a kid, but couldn’t find anything like this for grown-ups. I wanted to write an interactive fiction book for grown-ups, with grown-up storytelling and grown-up situations, while using the technology of ereaders, tablets, and mobile devices. I hope that you find it to be an enjoyable reading experience.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Bebe was inspired by people I’ve known over the years who weren’t assertive and couldn’t stand up for themselves. Ladouche is my modern reimagining of Mephistopheles from Faust, but with a funnier sense of humor.

Book Excerpt/Sample
It was the morning of the biggest presentation of my legal career, and I spent ten
minutes practicing my speech in front of a potted ficus. The bronze faces of the
partners stared down at me from the wall, and I tried to imagine my face among
them. If my presentation went well, I’d become a mid-level associate at the
Hanover Law Firm—the most prestigious law firm in the city—and I’d finally get
my own office instead of having to share a cubicle.
I hurried through the hall, swung into the conference room, and discovered
that the meeting had begun without me. The partners sat around a long cedar
table, watching a plasma TV mounted on the wall. They swiveled their heads
toward me.
“You’re late, Bebe,” said Annette Farwell, my arch-nemesis with stilettos and
perky breasts. Her designer suit made my blouse and skirt look like consignment
items. She wasn’t supposed to be in this meeting. She smirked at me from the
head of the table, lacing her fingers together so that everyone could see her
glittering maroon nails. “I’ve been working on this case for six months, and I
don’t appreciate you interrupting my presentation.”
My PowerPoint slides hovered on the TV screen. Only at the Hanover Law
Firm were the partners so busy that they couldn’t tell when attorneys were
stealing cases from each other.
I nearly turned green when I saw Tucker Salinas sitting at the table. He
looked sexy in his black suit and red tie, and I could smell his lavender cologne
across the room. His wavy hair and brown skin made him stick out in the room
full of pasty white people like me.
“Wasn’t this your case, Bebe?” he said.
“Well—”
Annette raised her voice to cover mine. “Of course Bebe helped me. When she wasn’t on Facebook, she was wonderful. But time management is her
weakness. It’s just like her to be late.”
I wanted to say, I’m late because you rescheduled the meeting without telling
me, but what came out was something between a pout and a nervous laugh.
The managing partner shot up. “That’s all I need. It’s a tough decision—both
of you do a great job. But on the basis of this case, Annette, we’re going to go
ahead and promote you to mid-level associate. Bebe, we’ll discuss your
performance at a later date.”
Annette draped her palms over her mouth and sucked in air. “I can’t thank
you enough for recognizing my hard work.” She schmoozed around the room,
shaking everyone’s hands. The partners ignored me as they filed out, and when I
tried to meet Tucker’s eyes, he looked through me, too.
“It’s nothing personal,” Annette said after the last attorney left. She primped
her bun with one hand and packed her portfolio with the other. “You’ll get your
promotion in due time.”
I blocked the door. “You stole my case.”
“It’s so nice to finally hear you speak. I couldn’t tell if you were shocked, or if
you were participating in one of your silent vegan protests again.”
“This is wrong, Annette. You never worked on this case.”
“You shouldn’t have left your computer unlocked.”
“You’re committing fraud.”
“You’re the fraud.” Annette stepped toward me. “And if you think I’m a bitch
now,” she said, “I dare you to tell the partners. Then I can tell them how you
broke company protocol and kissed Tucker Salinas.”
“How do you know that?”
Sure, I had kissed him. I’d had too many cocktails at happy hour—super
embarrassing—but he hadn’t kissed me back.
Annette saw me thinking and laughed. “You know the rules. Any kind of
personal contact is grounds for termination. I’ll make you wish that you’d
dropped out of law school like you should have, and wonder why you didn’t
major in English, spend the rest of your life writing erotica, and contribute to society in some meaningful way other than being a tool for my personal
advancement. Go on,” she said, pointing to the door, “tell the partners.”
I didn’t know what to say. Annette pushed me aside and slammed the door
behind her, leaving me alone with the lingering smell of cologne, legal pads,
and betrayal.

Author Bio:
Michael La Ronn writes fearless fantasy. His novels feature unlikely heroes such as teddy bears and vegetables, and his writings are filled with quirky and imaginative humor.

In 2012, a serious illness put him in the hospital, an experience that made him realize his true purpose in life as a writer. He has been writing and publishing a diverse portfolio of work ever since.

He writes novels, short stories, and poetry. His signature works are Decision Select Novels, which are a new twist on Choose Your Own Adventures, but for grown-ups and formatted specifically for ereaders.

He lives with his wife in Des Moines, Iowa. He reads an inordinate amount of books every year and also co-hosts the To Be Read Podcast, where he talks about the books he reads. He also blogs about his life as a part-time writer.

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Targeted Age Group:: 18+

He’s watching. She’s oblivious. Will she flee or follow?

Kate is riding the bus home after a miserable day at work but her evening is about to get a lot more complicated when she’s caught in a compromising and scandalous position.

The devilishly handsome stranger threatens to turn Kate’s world upside down, expose her, and use her unexplored fantasies to his advantage.

What does he want from her and should she let her curiosity and desires take over?

Will she follow him and go willingly into the shadows?

Link To Quiver: Enticed by Shadows On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I’m not entirely sure when the first seeds of the story were planted but I can tell you it had been running around my head for quite some time; plaguing me constantly to write it and so I eventually caved, and just decided to go with it. I’m very glad that I did and hope others enjoy the book too!

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
That’s really hard to answer, mostly because I believe they evolved over time with me. I had a sense of who they were when I first started the story but was able to uncover a little bit more about them the more time I spent with them.

Author Bio:
Livia Rook is a full-time writer, originally hailing from England, living in the South of Ireland with her husband and a house full of cats. Surrounded by peaceful emerald fields she always has a pen and notebook to hand ready for when the next saucy idea strikes. Livia is also an avid comic-book reader and wildlife advocate.

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Targeted Age Group:: 13+

While on a routine archaeology project in the Canary Islands, two members of The International Consortium for Artifact Preservation make an amazing discovery in an ancient burial tomb; a discovery that could lead to the location of an ancient Christian artifact. In an effort to preserve the discovery from looters, Dr. Eli Turner and Maria Santiago begin the excavation. Little do they know that malevolent eyes are watching them from above their location.

Sinister forces led by Japanese mob leader, Yagato Osama and a self-exiled industrialist, Robert Pencor are driven by greed and revenge and will stop at nothing in their effort to control the world’s newest energy source; an energy device that will make oil obsolete. Their Zero point energy devices will ultimately change the geopolitical structure of the world as we know it, but it comes with a price. The death of millions. A new and powerful weapon of mass destruction is on its final countdown to unleash nature’s ultimate fury; the likes never before witnessed by mankind.

Eli Turner’s son, and archaeologist, Josh Turner along with his longtime friend Samuel Caberra, are unwittingly thrust into a life and death struggle as the ICAP team is marked for death by Osama and Pencor in their effort to protect their plans. Adding to the danger is Alton Burr, the fanatical leader of a secular movement who will stop at nothing to ensure the ancient discoveries are never brought to light, even if it means – murder.

It’s a race against time as archaeologist, Josh Turner, and his friends, set out to stop the threat and save the lives of millions while seeking to discover the ancient artifacts before they are lost forever.

Link To Zero Point On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
In my story, Zero Point, I wanted to apply an adventurous tie with my characters between history, nature, and our quest for new energy. It was a good medium to express my awe of nature’s sometimes harsh fury and that we as humans have this false sense of security that our planet, with its ever changing ecological and geological attributes, can never be altered, or in the case of my story, Zero Point, used as a weapon to harm us.

Nature has done some amazing things over millions of years. For example; Incredibly, human-kind was almost eradicated 70,000 years ago by an act of nature, leaving only an estimated 15,000 humans left on the planet, which is the subject of the next in my Josh Turner series, “Blood Rain.” Surprisingly, our planet was warmer in the 1500’s than it is now. A Tsunami five-hundred feet in height was recorded as recently as 1958 in Lituya Bay Alaska, and that wasn’t the first, or the last time it will happen.

Our planet Earth is an amazing, living, breathing thing; constantly changing and sometimes it can be a bumpy ride. It is human arrogance to believe that our world never changes, or if it is, that we alone are the cause. With that being said, we can surely expedite it with our greed, waste, and short-sighted thinking. We have a choice to be good stewards of our home, or not. If we choose the latter, our host, the planet Earth, will surely remove us as easily as a dog ridding itself of a flea.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
In the sometimes wild and bumpy ride of the Action/Adventure Genre, the protagonists must overcome numerous, life threatening obstacles, malevolent evil doers, and the ever present “seat of your pants narrow escapes.” Oft-times the characters can become a bit too larger than life, thus giving them no depth.
In Zero Point, my hero, is an ordinary guy forced into extra-ordinary circumstances. He has issues with his renown father; an insecurity in establishing a relationship with the woman he is attracted to, and self-doubts, as we all have from time to time.
I wanted him to be sensitive, fearful, and at times, hesitant, but in the end being able to rise above it all and do what needs to be done.

I found that using people I have met in my life and current friendships helped in creating personalities that readers could hopefully relate to and make them unique.

Book Excerpt/Sample

2008, Bismarck Sea, New Guinea

Josh Turner stood on the foredeck gazing upon the calm evening sea as the vintage cargo freighter Southern Star made her way along the rugged New Guinea coastline. The evening air was still thick with humidity from the day’s torturous heat. Longing for the cool of the coming evening, he watched the sun descending behind the deep green canopy of the receding mainland.
One of the few World War II Victory ships still in service, the four hundred fifty-five foot Southern Star had picked up Turner after off-loading supplies at the Port of Aitape earlier that afternoon. She was outward bound now, and after her next port of call, Turner would then return to Port Adelaide in Australia. There he would catch a puddle jumper flight to Sidney and then, at long last, home.
A mere mile away, Turner regarded the flickering lights from the small island of Tumleo, giving him the only hint of inhabitants along the sparsely populated northern coast of Papua.
He was exhausted from the arduous three-month archeology excursion with his young interns deep in the mountainous interior of Papua. His two ‘cub’ interns, as he dubbed them, Susan Hendrich and James Pond, were graduate students from the University of Melbourne.
The two students dove into the project with all the vigor of what Turner had termed a couple of bears merrily rummaging through a trash dumpster. Turner, on the other hand, had shown little interest from day one in excavating and cataloging the remains of a two hundred year old native village. Teetering on the verge of heat stroke during the day, then being devoured alive by insects at night was not on his bucket list. He had only done so at the insistence of his father, Eli Turner. It was just another favor to one of his father’s many fellow archaeologists worldwide.
Turner longed to be back on Tenerife in the Canary Islands with its dry, temperate days, cool nights, and many colorful festivals, all of which he enjoyed. He had just begun working on an ancient site once occupied by the island’s original inhabitants, the Guanche, before giving in to his father‘s wishes and coming to Papua.
I’m so glad this trip is over, he thought, tasting the thick salt air and feeling the warm, gentle sea breeze blowing through his coarse, slightly graying hair. He closed his deep, piercing blue eyes for a moment, relishing the completion of this mission as he felt the ship’s engines vibrating the gray, steel decking beneath his feet. He missed his longtime friend Samuel, and had discovered during this trip how much he really missed Maria.
Turner looked up at the bridge wheelhouse located amidships. In the fading light, he could make out the silhouette of the ship’s captain, Alfred Cleary, guiding his vessel through the narrow straights toward deeper waters.
Alfred Cleary had spent twenty-five years sailing these waters, and Turner felt a bit saddened at the prospect of the gruff captain’s ship being sent to the scrap yards at the completion of this voyage, and that Cleary would probably be forced into retirement.
He recalled listening to Cleary boast to the harbor master while unloading cargo at the pier in Aitape, saying, “The Southern Star is a fine ship and has never failed me through the long years. She’s sturdy and agile with her sixty-two foot beam and twenty-eight foot draft, making her ideal for these waters where many larger and newer vessels wouldn’t dare navigate.”
Turner made his way up the ladder to the bridge and entered the darkened wheelhouse, thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat. He stood by the doorway receiving no sign acknowledgment from the captain focused on his task of piloting his vessel through the dangerous Tumleo Straight.
“What is our current depth, Mr. Harkness?” Cleary asked his first officer.
“Seven point six fathoms, Captain, and falling away,” the younger officer replied. “We’re clear to navigate.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harkness; you have the bridge,” Cleary said, jotting down a few notes in his log. “Set a course for Wuvulu Island. That’ll be our final stop. We’ll take on a few passengers, then set course for home.”
“Aye, Captain,” the younger man replied, taking the wheel of the ship. Cleary simply grunted, causing Turner to smile. He turned, gave Turner a toothless grin, and then gestured with his hand toward the hatchway leading out to the deck.
Stepping out of the wheelhouse, the pair climbed down a flight of steps and began walking toward the bow of the ship. The gruff, unshaven captain lit a cigarette as they strolled. Reaching the bow, they looked landward to see the dim lights of Tumleo Island flickering in the darkness as the last vestiges of day faded into night. They felt the gentle, rumbling vibration of the six thousand horse power Allis Chalmers marine steam turbines turning the vessel’s eighteen-foot diameter propeller.
“Josh,” he asked after a long silence, “at my age, how the hell will I ever find another ship to master? I’m almost fifty-seven years old.”
“Maybe it’s time you start that charter fishing business in Adelaide. You once mentioned it to my father,” Turner responded, still eyeing the island lights in the distance. “I think you’d make a fortune from the tourists who vacation there. Some of the best sport fishing in the world, I’ve been told.”
“To tell you the truth, the more I think about it, the more I realize I couldn’t deal with those assholes, Josh. I know for damned sure I’d wind up in prison for tossing one of the sons-of-bitches overboard for telling me how to do my job,” he said, causing Turner to laugh. “But considering I still have to earn a living in order to keep beer in the fridge, I’ll keep your suggestion in mind, young Mr. Turner.” He then tossed his cigarette butt over the side, turned, and headed back toward the wheelhouse.
His eyes now adjusted to the evening, Turner noticed the form of Susan Hendrich, his intern, approaching him bathed in the soft glow of the ship’s port running lights.
“Good evening, Dr. Turner,” she said, coming up to the rail beside him.
“Please don’t call me that, Susan. That’s my father’s title, not mine.”
“But you do have your doctorate in archeology, Josh. You should be proud of that.”
“I not impressed by titles. That’s my father’s gig. His view on archeology is cocktails with diplomats, or dinner with prospective sources of funding. Ever since he got the United Nations involved with his International Consortium for Artifact Preservation project, I‘ve been stuck doing most of the field work while he attends dinner functions with diplomats.”
“Josh, you should be proud of your father’s concept of ICAP. Involving so many nations with preservation, has helped to curtail the black marketing of many artifacts that would have otherwise been lost to some rich collector and—”
“Whoa! What the hell is that?” Turner interrupted his young intern, pointing toward the eastern sky.
The two viewed a glowing object on the horizon that shimmered with an orange-yellow tint as it arced across the night sky trailed by flames. It rushed toward the west, and, as it approached, they could clearly make out a distinct roar; like that of a locomotive.
They watched the object in stunned fascination until suddenly, it slowed, then spiraled downward plummeting into the sea some twenty miles distant. After a moment came a flash of light as bright as the sun followed by a thunderous boom. The two stared in silence as the night once again regained its normality.
Captain Cleary rushed out of the wheelhouse and onto the catwalk.
“Did you see that, Josh? It looked like a meteor, and a damned big one, too!” He yelled.
“I never saw a meteor slow down and turn on its own, skipper,” Turner replied.
Suddenly, they heard and felt a rumbling followed by the sight of a fiery blast in the distance where the object had fallen just minutes before. The intense shock wave that followed the blast hit the ship before the two could react, knocking both Turner and Susan off their feet and onto the hard steel decking.
“Go to the staterooms, Susan, and get Pond up here with your life jackets,” Turner said as he got up. “If I’m right, we may have a big problem coming our way.”
As Susan ran off, Turner raced back up the gangway to the bridge to find Cleary staring out at the darkened sea. His first officer, Harkness, was issuing an order to the engine room to slow to quarter speed.
“Was there any damage to the ship, Captain?
“I sent a man below to check, Josh.” Turner could sense the nervousness in the elder man’s voice.
“I have a bad feeling about this, Captain,” Turner said, staring out the window into the darkness.
“I’m way ahead of you, Josh. I’ve already directed her bow toward whatever it was.”
Cleary picked up the bridge intercom microphone and shouted to the engine room. “Mr. Mallory, I want all you can give me—full ahead.”
“Full ahead—aye, skipper,” the ship’s chief engineer responded from below.
“Did you get a fix on the flash point?” Cleary asked his first officer.
“Aye, sir, twenty degrees off our starboard bow.”
“Make for that heading, Mr. Harkness,” Cleary ordered, his eyes straining in the darkness.
“Aye, sir.”
As Turner stood in the wheelhouse, he felt the steel plating begin to rumble under his feet as the forty-four hundred ton vessel shot forward like a thoroughbred bolting from its starting gate.
“What’s our present depth?” Turner asked, hoping that his fears were wrong as he watched the crescent moon rising on the horizon ahead of them.
“Six point zero fathoms and the bottom is rising, Josh,” the Captain replied, sweat now forming on his brow as he gazed at the depth finder.
“Damn it!” Cleary yelled. “We should be in deeper water by now.”
“Four point nine fathoms now, sir!” First Officer Harkness yelled with rising panic in his voice.
“We should be over twenty-five fathoms at this point. Get to your people, Josh. You know what’s coming…hurry!”
Turner raced out of the wheelhouse and descended the gangway. Not sure what to do, he ran down the walkway toward one of the many small, inflatable Zodiacs located on the Southern Star and began frantically looking fore and aft for his two missing interns.
“Damn it!” He yelled, knowing time was short. “Where the hell are they?” His frustration cut short by the sickening sound of the ship’s hull scraping sea bottom. His fear rising, he heard the tormented shriek of tons of steel as the Southern Star began to spin on its axis. It finally came to a jarring halt, throwing Turner hard against the bulkhead.
Getting up, he began to untie the ropes to the davits that held the small Zodiac against the ship’s side rail. When Susan Hendrich came bounding out the door from the staterooms below deck, Turner could see the sheer terror in her eyes.
“Where’s Pond?” Turner asked angrily as he untied the last of the davits then lowered the inflatable to the deck.
“He went down to the hold to get the artifacts we brought with us, Josh. He thought it would be—”
“Damned fool,” He said, slamming his fist against the bulkhead in frustration.
The Southern Star then began to roll precariously to starboard, coming to rest at a fifteen-degree angle. Turner, managing to keep his footing, moved to grab the outboard motor end of the Zodiac. He looked over the side, and, in the ship’s lights, he saw to his horror the sea below churning with foam as a raging torrent of water rushed passed the stranded ship headed away from land. For what seemed an eternity to Turner, the tortured metal of the aging ship groaned in protest as tons of pressure assailed the ship’s superstructure firmly wedged in the muddy sea bottom.
“What‘s happening, Josh?” Susan cried out in wide-eyed fear.
“There’s a tsunami coming, Susan,” he yelled back at her above the roar of the water below them. “The sea’s running outward, so it won’t be long before it hits. We’re sitting high and dry and the bow of this ship is no longer facing into the wave. If it hits us broadside, we’re done for!”
The torrent of rushing water beneath the Southern Star diminished. Turner could see from the glow of ship’s emergency lights they were now sitting on muddy sea bottom that was once a deep channel.
“Quickly, Susan, grab onto the front of the inflatable. We need to get it to the bow.”
“What about Pond?” The young intern asked tearfully.
“There’s no time left to go down and look for him, Susan.
I hope he’ll find us in time.”
The two managed to get the small craft to the bow of the ship where they met First Officer Harkness coming down the companionway from the bridge.
“The captain’s ordered all hands to lifeboats. Sweet Jesus, how the hell can we abandon ship with no water beneath us?” He said in near hysteria. “Cleary’s also refusing to abandon the wheelhouse. I can’t get him to leave.”
Turner looked up to the darkened wheelhouse and could see the soft reddish glow of a cigarette through the port window.
Knowing there wasn’t much time left, Turner then focused on removing the 9.9 horse Yamaha outboard from the transom of the Zodiac.
“What are you doing?” Harkness asked.
“This motor will be torn off its mount the instant the tsunami hits. We need buoyancy, not power,” Turner replied, tossing the motor over the side. “I’m going to leave the water proof cover on and leave just enough opening for us to get in. I know it’s a long shot, but I don’t see any other option. There’s room for four. Are you coming?”
“No, Mr. Turner. I’m going below to make sure all the crew is topside.” He then ran off into the darkness toward the aft end of the ship.
“Get in the Zodiac, Susan, and tie one of the raft cleat lines around you. I’ll keep an eye out for Pond.”
Turner helped the intern into the dinghy then looked toward the stern of the ship, now eerily back dropped by the crescent moon. While focusing on the doorway that Pond should emerge from, he glanced to the lower edge of the crescent moon on the horizon. The moon’s bottom edge began disappearing into the darkness.
As if being devoured by a mythical beast, the rising blackness soon engulfed the entire moon then began swallowing the evening stars along the horizon. Turner realized to his horror that this was the crest of a huge wave bearing down on them.
“Cleary!” Turner yelled to his friend in the wheelhouse. “Don’t be a fool. You don’t stand a chance up there.”
“Someone’s got to issue the Mayday, Josh,” Cleary yelled back from the doorway to the wheelhouse. “I’ll keep at it as long as I can. Give my best to your father, Josh.”
“Good luck, my friend,” Josh said, sadly aware the old captain had sealed his fate. He then climbed into the Zodiac where Susan lay trembling in fear.
“Is Pond coming?”
“I’m sorry, Susan. Something must have happened to him below. Otherwise he’d be here by now”
Turner refastened the last of the snaps to the canvas top of the inflatable, and then wrapped the stern cleat line around his waist.
“Josh, I don’t want to die,” Susan cried, now bordering on hysteria.
“We’re going to get through this, so listen to me carefully. I want you to grab hold of the side cleats, and, no matter what happens, don’t let go, okay?”
In the darkness of their makeshift pod, the pair heard an ominous roar similar to the winds of a typhoon. Turner raised his head and peered out the small slit in the canvas. To his horror, he saw a huge blackness rising out of the darkness blotting out the night sky as it unfurled over them.
“God help us,” Turner whispered as he closed his eyes in a futile effort to escape the nightmarish scene.
The massive ninety-foot wave slammed into the ship broadside, sending the old relic rolling on the seafloor like a toy. The ship’s first roll sheared off the bridge superstructure killing Captain Alfred Cleary instantly and trapping intern James Pond, Harkness, and many of the hapless crew below. They drowned in total darkness as the maelstrom flooded the ship in seconds.
***
One week later in the Ginza district of Tokyo, Japan, the phone rang in a dimly lit, plush office and was answered by its lone occupant.
“Yes, what is it?” The voice said in a soft, but icy tone.
“It is Fuyuki. I have the full results that you requested,” the man on the other end stated.
“I trust you have good news for me, Fuyuki.”
“Yes, Oyabun. The results were successful. Using the region’s tectonic plates as the principal target worked better than expected.”
“Excellent. Have there been any suspicions raised by the authorities?”
“None that I am aware of, sir. The tsunami has been attributed to an undersea earth slide caused by seismic activity common to the region, and has received little attention in the media. The loss of life was minimal and no report of a fireball has been made to the authorities. There were a few witnesses, but they have been all but ignored.”
“Then it seems that our little demonstration was successful. Our benefactor wants assurance the plan will be feasible since he is investing heavily into the project.”
“Yes, sir. I’m confident that with his financial backing, we will be more than able to meet his needs, and ours.”
“Then I will tell our new friend that Operation Bishamon can begin whenever he is ready to proceed. You have done well, Fuyuki. Goodbye.”
Hanging up the phone, he glanced at a map on his desk of the Canary Islands.
“La Palma is such an insignificant little island,” he mused as he gently rolled up the map. “But when we’re finished, the world will know the name very well; very well indeed.”

Author Bio:
Tim Fairchild was born and raised in Southern New Jersey where he grew up in a small town named Pleasantville.

Upon graduation from High School, he attended St. Petersburg College in Florida, where he studied English composition. He went to work for New Jersey Bell Telephone and made a thirty-two year career with them; retiring as a Central Office Switchman from Verizon Communications in 2003. Fairchild is married to his wonderful wife, Beverley for thirty-five years now and have two daughters, Melissa and Kristen.

During the years between 2000 and 2003, Fairchild discovered a taste for travel, experiencing new cultures with four missions trips. Two were to Honduras and one to Belize to help with hurricane relief. The final one in 2003 was to Chosica, Peru.

In 2005, Fairchild and his wife moved to the Pocono Mountains in PA where he began his writing. After six years, they again moved to their current home in the beautiful town of Oakland, Maine where he now writes full time.

Strongly influenced by such authors as Clive Cussler and Tom Clancy, plus having a strong interest in adventure in exotic locales, history, and science, it was only natural that Fairchild chose the genre of adventure. Being relatively new to the world of writing novels, Fairchild completed two courses in writing fiction, and with his new-found knowledge, applied it to his writing style.

Fairchild’s first action adventure novel, ZERO POINT, was finally completed and released in May of 2011. It was honored as a Grand Master Finalist in the 2012 Clive Cussler Collectors Society’s Adventure Writers Competition. The next in the Josh Turner adventure series, “Blood Rain” is slated for release some time in 2015.

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Targeted Age Group:: 18

The Psychic Mind is a practical psychic development book that will teach you how to reawaken and develop your psychic abilities available to you, including clairvoyance, aura reading, psychometry and much more, once you have awaken your psychic intuition, you will gain access to inner guidance that can help guide you to the right path in life to create the life you want to live and take control of your life to achieve ongoing success, fulfilment and happiness.

***In The Book You Will Learn***

• How the three minds work

• How to reprogram the subconscious mind

• Practical exercises to open and awaken the third eye chakra

• Practical exercises for seeing, sensing, balancing and cleansing the Aura

• Practical exercises for cleansing and balancing the chakras

• How to balance mind, body and spirit

• Deep breathing and meditation practices

• How to do psychic readings for yourself & others

• Practical psychic development exercises to develop the psychic senses

And much, much more!

Link To The Psychic Mind: A Practical Guide to Psychic Development & Spiritual Growth On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I wrote the book because, I could not find a practical psychic book, that I could applied to further development my psychic and spiritual growth. I created this book so the reader could implement and improve their psychic abilities using the exercises and practices contained in book, the information is base on my psychic training and personal experiences.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The book is non fiction and is base on my psychic training and personal experiences.

Author Bio:
Avis Williams is the founder of the Psychic Mind Foundation, a community website dedicated to psychic and spiritual development to help individuals expand their consciousness and improved their well-being.

Avis is a natural intuitive and spiritual practitioner; she is also an author and graphic designer and currently living in London, England.

Avis has studied many spiritual teaches and has trained in psychic development, mediumship, metaphysics, energy healing and Yoga meditation.

Avis shares her knowledge, experiences and spiritual teaches and practices on the Psychic Mind Foundation website.

Author Home Page Link

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Targeted Age Group:: 13+

– Finalist in the global Hugh Howey Booktrack competition -
They started with five hundred, but their numbers are decreasing every day. Exponentially.

Science Officer Brent and Medical Officer Kelley are tasked with discovering who – or what – is picking off colonists from their expeditionary settlement on the seeming Eden of this alien planet.

But science and logic are no match for their rapacious nemesis, as they race to find a solution before their colony becomes unviable and the unthinkable becomes reality.

Please note:
* British English spelling and grammar
* PG / PG-13 content
* This is a short story of approximately 5,000 words / 20 pages

“The Final Solution” was a finalist in the Hugh Howey / Booktrack fanfic short story competition, and is set in a new colony in the “Half Way Home” universe, with Hugh’s kind permission.

Link To The Final Solution On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
“The Final Solution” was a finalist in a short story competition run by Booktrack and Hugh Howey to write a story in his “Half Way Home” universe.

My other entry (“Nobody’s Hero”) was about two minor characters in Hugh’s story, so with this one I decided to write about a brand new colony on a different planet.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
When I write I always have an idea of the overall plot arc and the ending. With a short story in particular, it’s important not to waste any words, so I chose the main character that I thought could have most influence over the story that I wanted to write.

Around him, I needed supporting characters that would add to the story, within the guidelines set up by Hugh in his “Half Way Home” novel. Because my main character, Brent, is one of the senior staff, then, naturally, the people he dealt with would also be senior staff – and those would be the ones with the facts, insights and know-how to deal with what was going on on their planet…

Book Excerpt/Sample
“Is it true what they’re saying around camp?” the dark-haired guard asked as we strode along the path in the fading light.
“What’s that, Hickson?” I replied.
“That someone in the colony is— um— a vampire?”
“You should know better than to listen to rumours,” I told him. But secretly, I’d been wondering the same thing.

Author Bio:
A finalist in the global Hugh Howey Booktrack competition, Roz lives in Scotland with her husband and the obligatory dog and cat. Her writing experience includes screenwriting, songwriting, web pages and even sentiments for greeting cards!

Newsletter sign up for new release discounts and a FREE short story: http://eepurl.com/HMC0D

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Targeted Age Group:: 18+

“Even though our children are beyond our reach now, we have faith that the future will be a better place than what we know. A faith that people had previously placed in the trust of religion and God, we now place in ourselves, in humanity.”

A Great War has ravaged the Earth and left humankind a shadow of its former self. Faced with the mortality of their race, those who remain press on with a new found humility and strive for equality in their drive to advance the species. Hope lies on the frontier for humanity as new technologies and a profound discovery push them out into space. The chance to begin again is at hand, but will the old fears and the old ways return and hamper mankind’s progress once again? Two girls, the seed of humanity’s greatest aspirations, must find the courage to choose.

“Yen Ooi’s sci-fi debut has the charm and simplicity of a fairy tale, but its scope and its emotional depth will surprise you. Big ideas in a small bottle.” Mike Carey

Link To Sun: Queens of Earth On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I’ve always been a big fan of science fiction, especially the classics, and I found that the fictional worlds and ideas are a great platform to discuss serious issues that affect our world and lives. I wanted to talk about the issues of humanity’s core characteristics and problems, but I wanted it in a book that is simple to read. I hope that I’ve managed that with Sun: Queens of Earth.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The entire book started from the idea of one of the main protagonists, Maaike. She was inspired by a good friend of mine, who is always kind, and is, to me, the perfect mother. I think she’s beautiful too, and the first scene I wrote for Maaike was the scene that Sun recalls in the book. I hope that Maaike brings across the possibility that love is more than just attraction. Love is limitless.

Book Excerpt/Sample
Prologue

When I was born, humanity was rich with two planets and a satellite that we called home, an abundance of resources and a rich history that we thought would provide us with enough intelligence and experience to deal with whatever life threw at us. What we did not realise was that it was just the beginning of another epoch in our Solar System. We dreamt of better technology, of starfaring capabilities, of first contact, but we never believed ourselves to be anything but superior. We never understood anything other than the selfish urges of being human—not even understanding humanity as a whole.

My parents, Horace and Magdalena, worked on Moon, on Near Side, where they had also conceived me. Wanting to provide me with the best they could, they placed me in the best care affordable. I was moved to the nearby planet, Kagami, and they went to Earth where they spent the rest of their lives working with Coughin machines. I never really knew them save for the letters they sent as I was growing up, which I am very grateful for. I realise now that it was more than many of my friends had in a world that was starting to crumble under its own weight.

I live on Earth now with my best friend, the love of my life, my partner, Maaike. Humanity has shrunken to occupy only this planet again, with Moon abandoned and Kagami out of our reach; a regression of sorts. There is much chaos around here, but Maaike and I are surprisingly calm. Even though our children are beyond our reach now, we have faith that the future will be a better place than what we know. A faith that people had previously placed in the trust of religion and God, we now place in ourselves, in humanity.

My name is Sun.

Author Bio:
Creator . Thinker . Do-er

Yen Ooi started writing as an outlet for her wild imagination, which was instigated by her appetite for books ever since she was young. Having had a vibrant career in music touring, education and project management, Yen put her skills to writing stories since 2008, producing speculative, fantasy and science fiction in various guises. She shares her short stories, poetry and blog on her website yenooi.com and is featured in various anthologies. Yen is a BSFA member, and a member and panelist of Worldcon. She shares her home and writing lair in London with her patient husband and two mischievous cats. Yen’s debut novel, ‘Sun: Queens Of Earth’ is now available from all good online bookstores.

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Targeted Age Group:: 18+

Two years after their marriage, Jim Culback wasn’t the man Clare thought he was. How many more broken promises could she accept? After packing and moving everything they owned from Ohio to Naples, Florida, she actually thought their marriage would improve. But as time went by, she couldn’t take the beatings, lies or cheating any longer. But could her husband be capable of homicide? Is Jim responsible for the murders of two women? A detective from Chicago is put on the case to help solve the murders and has an encounter with Clare. What develops between them? Can Clare trust another man? Or does Jim have other plans for Clare?

Link To Broken Promises On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The story is based on my life with an alcoholic. The mental and physical abuse I endeared while being married to him and what I went through when I left him.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The characters are based on real life people, though the names are changed for privacy reasons..

Book Excerpt/Sample
Prologue

Present time…

I stare into the darkness. I can just make out the white walls surrounding me. I can’t remember how long I have been here in this room. Some things I don’t recall because of the drugs they give me, but I have memories, which haunt me most nights, and I start to lose my mind. I guess that’s why I’m in this place with white walls.
I’m not allowed to have pencils or pens or anything that is sharp and could hurt someone, but they do give me crayons to draw with. I would like to think I could adjust to the life I lead now, but when I awake from my dreams, I go crazy. Crazy, a word I don’t like to hear or use when I’m locked up in this place. This place would make anyone insane. At least that’s what they tell me anyway—that I’m insane.
I hear the sound of footsteps outside my door. A door with a tiny window just above my head, so I can’t see out, but they can see in. A light clicks on, the door opens, and a man in a red smock walks in carrying a tray of food for me. It’s the same man I see every day, which tells me it must be morning. The people here wear different colored smocks, which I guess is, so we can determine what time it is.
“Breakfast,” the man in the red smock, says each morning. I am not able to approach him or any of the people who come into my room, or they will strap my hands and feet down onto the metal railing of the bed. I don’t like them doing that, so I try to be a good girl and do as they ask.
He sets the tray on a small table in the corner of my room. It’s where I eat and draw my pictures of my dreams; some are good, but most are bad. They hang them on the wall for me to look at, but they don’t know what they mean to me. The people who work here tell me that the bad pictures are about the girl in my dreams — I know I was only trying to protect her, the girl in my dreams. We were once friends, so long ago in the world outside these walls.
I don’t answer back when the man in the red smock talks to me. I sit and wait for him to leave, then I eat my breakfast. I have to eat the food quickly because they come back in and take away the tray if I don’t. I’ve learned to count in my head the amount of time I have. They give me fifteen minutes to eat. I write crayon marks on the backside of my pictures for each minute. They ask me about the marks, but I don’t tell them. I don’t even know what day it is, much less the month or year. I guess it doesn’t really matter; I’m not going anywhere.
The light clicks on and off twice to let me know that they are coming in for the tray. I quickly make my way to the bed and sit down while they take it away. A woman enters, glides over to the bed, and sits down beside me. Her blonde hair rests softly on her shoulders. I can feel her blue eyes stare through me.
“It’s time for you to come with me. If you don’t fight, then I won’t have them stick the nasty needle in your arm that you don’t like.”
I nod my head at her.
She takes me to a room that is no bigger than the one I live in. In the center of the room is a large metal table with a chair on each side. A pitcher of water with two glasses sits at the far end of the table, along with a notepad and a tape recorder.
She motions me to sit down and I obey. She sits in front of me, then adjusts the tape recorder between us and presses the recorder button. I don’t look at her; I just stare at the recorder on the table in front of me.
The woman takes out a pen from her pocket and scribbles something on the notepad. I can’t read what she has written, but I honestly don’t care.
“Okay, I want to go over the last matter we discussed. You said there was a story to tell me that went along with the pictures you have been drawing. Could you please start from the beginning and tell me all about it?” the woman asks.
I glance down at my hands that are strapped to the chair and swallow hard to keep down the food. Taking in a deep breath through my nose, I begin my story.
—“This girl that I have mentioned, the one that used to be my friend, it is her story. A story of a love so deep it would cut you like a knife.” I snicker before going on. “My friend’s love turned into betrayal and fear.
She doesn’t understand what I did for her, but I did what I had to do for my friend to be happy again and to live a life free from fear and heartache.

Author Bio:
Donna M. Zadunajsky was born and raised in Bristolville, Ohio, and resides in Homer Glen, Illinois. She has written seven children’s books that are about her daughter and all the adventures she has done in her young life. They are currently on the Barnes and Noble website, at Amazon.com, and at www.littletscorner.com. available in eBook and paperback.
She spends her time writing short stories as well as novels. She published her first novel ‘Broken Promises,’ in June 2012 and has currently finished her second novel ‘Not Forgotten.’
Besides writing, she enjoys spending time with her daughter and husband, their dog and two cats. She enjoys reading and working on crafts and scrapbooking. She graduated from The Institute of Children’s Literature in spring 2011.

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Targeted Age Group:: 16-60

Analise Baxter, an aspiring journalist trapped in a mundane life, returns to the hometown her cold, disciplinarian father took her from 24 years ago. Teerwood, a small coastal town located in Maine. Though beautiful and homey, it is fully equipped with an unseen force looming over them. With rumors of an underground society running the three islands located off the mainland, Ana sets her heart on uncovering the whispered secrets, or debunking the town gossip. Not even a day into her sporadic return, a strange break-in at a respected small shop , reels Ana into a bizarre cover up, laced with a bit of blackmail. She, alongside some reluctant individuals at the Teerwood Police Department and some other “interesting” town constituents, rally together to investigate the break-in. Only to find out, the break- in is not as simple as it seems. When it quickly spirals into a missing persons case.

Link To Seas of A Dark Storm (The Lighthouse) On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Initially, I just wanted a surrounding that mirrored my home state. It turned into something more almost immediately; I knew right off the bat I wanted a strong female heroine and a colonial backstory.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The main heroine essentially wrote herself and while every good character needs an interesting backstory, I also wanted to make her (and the other characters) relatable to readers.

Author Bio:
Amber Silvia was born and raised in a small, suburban town in Maine. She started writing at the age of 15 and had the chance to independently publish later on in her young adult life. She is currently working on a trilogy, as well as smaller projects.

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Targeted Age Group:: 18-75

When Addie inherits her parents’ small antique shop, she wonders how she can pursue her New York career and keep the shop her parents loved. She’s also puzzled by an old angel doll with a strange inscription on its belly that she finds in her mom’s cedar chest. Although the shop barely breaks even, it’s a meeting place for friends to gossip and share tea—or sympathy when needed. Then there’s Gabe, an old childhood friend who’s become an important part of her life. When she finally gets her big break, he selflessly wishes her well. Not until he’s hurt in his job as a firefighter does she realize the only true love shown in their relationship was on his part, by not asking her to give up her dream and stay.

Link To Angel Wishes On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I wanted to show that sometimes doggedly pursuing a dream prevents a person from enjoying all the blessings they have now.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Characters are composites of people we all come in contact with every day. There are characters in my books who are always cheerful, some who are eternal optimists, and others who can’t seem to catch a break.

Book Excerpt/Sample
When Addie awoke in the emergency room, she stared blearily as hospital personnel buzzed around her. “What happened?”
“You had a nasty fall, dear,” a white-coated figure said as she waved a small flashlight in Addie’s face.
Still in a fog, Addie forced herself to think. As the events of the evening surfaced, she groaned. “Oh, no, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did,” Gabe said beside her.
She fingered her drab hospital gown. “Where’s my pretty nightie?”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled red satin. “You mean this?”
“I wanted to surprise you.” She moaned.
“Oh, you did that, all right. You also scared me half to death. By the way, you need a new front door.”
“You broke my door?”
“I’ll get a new one put in for you.”
“That’s not the point. You could’ve broken the sidelight and reached in to unlock it. That’s what a burglar would’ve done.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think of that fast enough.”
She sat up. “I want to go home now.”
“Uh-uh. You’re staying the night. You didn’t break anything, only a few bumps and bruises, but they want to keep you for observation because you were unconscious and might have suffered a concussion.”
She groaned. “This isn’t what I had in mind for tonight.”
“I know, but we’ll have other nights. I have to call Becky now to come pick me up. I already told her you were here and that you were all right. She’s going to drive me back to your place to pick up my car.”
“If your car’s still at my place, how did I get here?”
“I called 9-1-1, and they sent out a few of my buddies from the station.”
Her jaw dropped. “Your friends saw me half-naked!”
“They’re all professionals, Addie. They see more than that on their job. Besides, I pulled your nightie down as far as it would go, so not much of you showed.”
Before she could react, Becky rushed in. “Addie, what the hell did you do?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I’m your best friend. Tell me!”
“I slipped on rose petals that I spread all over the staircase, almost set fire to my house, and fell down the stairs in my sexy nightie. Oh, and I also gave half the fire department a good show. And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”
Becky pressed her lips together in a desperate attempt to keep a straight face. When that failed, her unrestrained laughter echoed through the ER.

Author Bio:
After reading women’s fiction for many years, I finally decided to take the plunge and write my own stories. One of my books, Serendipity House, was named best indie romance for 2011 by Lynn of Red Adept Reviews. As the mother of four grown daughters, I’m familiar with the problems women face finding love, raising children, and stepping back when necessary. That’s why family dynamics play a large part in all my books. Sibling rivalry, drug abuse among teens, and problems with spouses figure prominently in all my stories. Of course, there’s always a touching love story threaded through the pages. Who doesn’t love a good love story? I can be found most days secluded in my office creating new worlds and people to populate them. When I’m not taxing my brain with plot, structure, and grammar, I like to sew, particularly quilts. When I really want to rest my brain cells, I sprawl out in front of the TV and usually fall asleep. Please visit my website, http://www.joycedebacco.com for more information about my books.

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Targeted Age Group:: 15+

Some don’t hold these truths to be self-evident.

In the 22nd century, pilgrims of space exploration leave Earth for nearby planets crafted for them by terraformers. Ranyk is a smart-mouthed alien, the best of the world-builders employed by the US government—and he always completes his assignments solo, pushing to the deep recesses of space for the good of colonists and to avoid his growing fame.

Until he’s handed an on-planet assignment in Ireland, of all places, as an undercover student of genetic engineering. His real plan? To pull scientists and their families out of a country careening toward civil war—and off Earth, to a colony world of their own—before a martial law lockdown ends their groundbreaking discoveries.

Sckiik is strong, female, and the head of security for a US embassy. While protecting the Ambassador from an assassination attempt, she finds clues to xenocide and rushes to warn her brother Ranyk.

Risking his life is no novelty for Ranyk. He’s been battered by asteroids, nearly incinerated in volcanoes, and has out-piloted pirates. But political espionage on Earth is more dangerous than anything he’s encountered before, and he’s completely ill-equipped for such delicate matters. Now he must figure out who to trust and who to eliminate, or it will mean his freedom, the safety of forty thousand colonists, and the lives of his friends.

In the vein of Orson Scott Card, Kathy Reichs, Hugh Howey, and Douglas Adams, Houses of Common draws fans from within and without the realm of science fiction.

***

“In the proud tradition of Douglas Adams, the novel gives us a totally alien sense of humor with one particularly colorful alien named Ranyk.”
-D. Roberts, Vine Voice reviewer

“Droll, at times laugh out loud funny, alien but with enough universal characteristics that I could still identify with them, I liked the book because I liked these characters. I could really tell the varied expertise of author Dalton (research, science, medicine) by the areas he focused on in his story. I’m glad it wasn’t just hard science.”
-Cheryl Stout, Top 1000 and Vine Voice reviewer.

“If you want a layered interwoven plot with compelling characters and solid hard science, then you’ve found your next read. It’s clear that the author has done his homework and created a very cool future of interplanetary espionage coupled with the struggles and challenges of the every man (and chimp).”
-C. Miller

“One sign to me of a good book is when the story is in my head during my non-reading time, and this is one such story.”
-R.P. Crockett

“With the technical accumen of Card and the storytelling ability of Brooks, Houses of Common comes at you with a fast-paced, high adventure tale that is full of political intrigue and ripe with “hard” information regarding space flight, physics, and the lives of alien and human races.”
-Nielsen

“I’m desperately waiting for the sequel(s) to be published!”
-Regina Dowling

“The novel’s characters, especially the brother and sister pair from the planet Rildj, are priceless.”
-not a natural

“Anyone who loves sci-fi, but feels the genre has been chewed up and spit out too many times by writers repeating each other’s lines is right. Derick William Dalton is changing all of it.”
-Kjirsten Youngberg

“Mr. Dalton’s background in medicine, his love of science, coupled with his imagination and gift of sarcasm, enabled him to weave an intriguing sci-fi. Waiting for more.”
-Melissa Hunt

Link To Houses of Common (Nothing Important Happened volume 1) On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I’m looking at my own bookshelf, and could you all see it, no one would guess I write science fiction. It’s almost entirely fantasy novels, my very favorite being The Lord of the Rings. I’m such a fan that I postponed my first job interview after college so I could catch Return of the King on opening day.

Heck yeah, I still got the job.

In fantasy, I love the nobility and heroism and the archery. The ties characters and civilizations have to powers bigger than their world. I can’t say I mind an evil monster beheading, either. The power of sorcery is always fun, but magic brings me to the edge of the map. Here, the monsters be unanswered questions. When reading, I don’t care how Gandalf makes his staff glow or how the light of Eärendil functions. I’m happily distracted by the wonder swirling around me. But when I write, I don’t like leaving mechanisms in the realm of the unknown. Details are so much more fun, especially when they’re accurate.

As a kid, I thought the superhero version of Thor was lame, and was disappointed later to learn he was going to be integrated into the Marvel movies. But the screenwriters consulted real physicists, and instead of gagging on a genre mash-up as expected, I was geeking out at all the science they got right. I want that to happen to others when they read Dalton.

Again as a kid, I noted an apparent schism forming between Sunday school and science class. Genesis painted this amazing story that was even better than Tolkien because I was living in it, but I was told the every-bit-as-awesome mechanical details from the science books I loved were contradictory. I use the apparent word very purposefully. A page and a half of something Moses wrote piqued, but did not satisfy, my curiosity. The more I sought an explanation to the mechanics of life, the universe, and everything, the fainter became the barrier between science and religion. I geek out over gospel and have spiritual reactions to science as easily as vice versa. Those who try to convince me otherwise sometimes remind me of Morgoth, lusting to possess the Silmarils rather than in awe of how they were formed.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Possibly my favorite part of writing science fiction is extrapolating current knowledge to a new setting. In writing Houses of Common, I tried follow the trail of discoveries in genomics, economics, space exploration, and the push for environmental stability and see where they would lead in a century. And where would those trails leave characters from various backgrounds and species, and how do they deal with it? I never had a research project in school that was nearly this fun.

Author Bio:
Mr. Dalton is a professional student who has taken an occasional hiatus for such frivolities as teaching high school science, residential construction, and treating patients as a physician assistant. In a moment of rebellion from graduate school stress, his brain refused to pay attention until certain stories were written down. He lives with his wife and children, and is planning a mountain bike trip on the moon.

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Targeted Age Group:: 18+

Twenty-six years later, Deanna Iris and her son Brent move back to the town she grew up in—back where her secret began and when her life changed forever.
As she is unpacking boxes, she receives a call from Officer Bates stating her sister and son have been taken to Mendota Community Hospital after being critically injured in a car accident.
Sitting with her son who is unconscious and her sister Sheila who is in a coma, Deanna meets their doctor who reminds her of someone she once knew. Could it be possible that Dr. Sheldon is her daughter, who Deanna was told died minutes after being born?
After meeting her old friend who knew about her secret, and is later found murdered, Deanna receives a note in her mailbox telling her to leave town or she will suffer the same fate. What transpired all those years ago and who is the mysterious woman she spots as she drives by her sister’s house?
Will Deanna ever allow herself to be loved and to let go of the past? Or will searching for the answers lead to her death?

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What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I started writing this book seven years ago, and had put it aside. I guess waiting for something to happen. I ended up writing BROKEN PROMISES, and then finally finished NOT FORGOTTEN.
The story crept into my head and I just had to wrote it.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Deanna, the main character, portrays herself as I do. Brice, her close friend, I made him a french man because I wanted him to be sexy, the voice and the body. The man who played on SWITCHED AT BIRTH, Gilles Marini, was in my head when I wrote the chartacter.

Book Excerpt/Sample
The next few days were hectic. Packing our belongings and getting rid of trash from the house I had lived in for eleven years. As I sorted through the many miscellaneous objects I had collected, I began to recognize I had the genes of a hoarder. It was hard to let many items go as I remembered everything about the once precious possessions. I needed to remind myself this was a welcome change — for the better and not for the worse.
I stood in the kitchen when the movers arrived early Friday morning and put the last of the food in a cooler ready for the journey. I glanced around one last time and knew I had to let go of this place I had called home.
A few hours later, I stood in our new kitchen and watched the men unload the truck. My sister said she would pick Brent up from school and stop for ice cream before coming over to help me unpack.
I kept busy by putting things away and didn’t even realize it was getting dark outside. I dug in my purse for my cell phone. No messages. They should have been here by now. I dialed my sister’s number, but it went straight to voice mail.
“She never has her phone off,” I mumbled just before I left a quick message. I paced the room and then went into the kitchen to finish unpacking.
All of a sudden, I felt as though someone was watching me. I looked around the room and then through the window. The darkness had to be playing tricks on me, so I rubbed my eyes and looked again — the figure I thought was standing by the old oak tree was gone.
I began to pace from room to room willing for my sister to call me back, but the hours just ticked by.
I sat on the sofa waiting and sprang to my feet when my phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Yes, is this Miss Iris?” A man asked.
“Yes’, this is she.” Disappointed it wasn’t Sheila.
“This is Officer Bates. I’m sorry to be calling you this late, but I’ve just received your contact information.”
Panic flowed through my body like a heat wave. “What’s this about?”
“I’m sorry, but I have some bad news. Sheila Larisa was in a car accident. She is at Mendota Community Hospital.” Tears flooded my eyes. Then I remembered she went to pick up Brent.
“Oh God, no! What about Brent? Was Brent with her?”
“Yes, there was a boy with her. They are both at the hospital. Ma’am, do you have someone to take you there?”
“No! I’m sorry, I mean I can drive.” Grabbing my purse I ran to my car.
“How long will it take you?”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Officer Bates said he would meet me in the lobby.
I flashed back to a day many years ago, a time way before Brent was born and a day I will never let myself forget.
Stop it Deanna. You can’t think like that. He will be fine. He’s not going to die — you have to believe that.
I parked the car and sprinted up the walkway to the main entrance. As the sliders zipped open, my eyes searched the waiting room then I saw the officer approaching me.
“Are you Miss Iris?”
I nodded.
“I’ll take you to your son and sister. They’re in the intensive care unit and their conditions are not good I’m afraid.”
Tears poured down my face. I was scared and sad all at the same time.
“Do you need to sit down, Miss Iris?” He put his hand on my shoulder and I flinched.
I shook all over. “I can’t lose him.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Iris, but if there is anything, anything at all I can do to help, just let me know.”
“Deanna.”
“Sorry?”
“You can call me Deanna.” I gazed up at his deep hazel eyes that glistened with sympathy, yet there seemed to be something different about him when I mentioned my name. I noticed a scar on his forehead, long and thin; his short blonde hair not quite covering it. He reminded me of someone I knew long ago. I imagined from his touch that he was gentle and kind, but he seemed quiet and distant. I started to feel unsteady and reached for something to hold onto. He grabbed my arm, but I pulled away from him and leaned against the wall.
“I’m fine. Really, I’ll be fine.” I hoped he would believe me and leave. Instead he led me to my son’s room.
“Can you tell me what happened? What caused the accident?”
“From what the State Trooper told me, a deer ran out in front of her car and he thinks she jerked the steering wheel too hard, causing them to flip over when they hit a ditch. It took a couple of hours to cut them out of the vehicle. They are lucky to be alive, thanks to some of the other drivers who saw the crash happen and called it in, but…”
“But what?”
“There’s something you should know before you go in.”
“What more could you possibly have to tell me?”
“I overheard before I called you…your son is unconscious and your sister is in a coma.”
“Coma. You mean she won’t ever wake up?”
His eyes widened. “I didn’t say she won’t wake up. I wanted you to know before you went in to see your son because he may not respond to you.”
I absorbed what he said and had to see for myself. I took a deep breath and swung the door open. Officer Bates waited outside the room.
Wires hung all around my son. A machine beeped beside his bed. An IV pumped fluids into his body through his left arm. I could only see his fingers on his right arm because a light blue cast hid the rest and reached his shoulder. I stood beside him stroking his cheek. Tears slithered down my face as he didn’t even look like my son. His swollen face covered with cuts and bruises — he was unrecognizable.
This morning he left for school wearing his favorite Cubs shirt and a pair of jeans. Excited about living in our new place and he couldn’t wait to sleep in his room. He begged me to let him stay home from school, but I said no and that I would see him later. He tried to change my mind and said he didn’t need to go because it was the last day of school. That he didn’t need to go. Now I wished I had let him stay with me, and then he wouldn’t have been lying in this bed, hurt, helpless, and alone — perhaps even dying.
I smoothed his dark brown hair, though a lot of it was shaved and replaced with stitches. He no longer had that skateboarder look with his hair worn long which covered his eyes. I kissed his forehead and felt the warmth of his face on my lips. I whispered, “Please God, let him be okay. Don’t take him from me. He’s all I have — I can’t live without him.”
When I came out of the room, Officer Bates had his eyes closed as he sat in the chair. I nudged his arm and his eyes popped open.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“It’s okay. It’s been a long night. Can you take me to my sister now? I would like to see her.”
He nodded and stood up as he stretched. We went down a couple of doors then he pointed to her room.
“You don’t have to stay you know. I’ll be fine. Go home and get some sleep.” His eyes looked bloodshot.
“Are you sure? Do you have family nearby that can stay with you? Do you need me to contact your sister’s husband and let him know what’s happened?”
“No.” I shook my head, in part to clear the haze of despair that had begun to set in. “They are all I have, and as for her husband, he died four years ago.” Not giving him time to respond, I turned and pushed the door open, leaving him outside.
I stood at Sheila’s bedside. Her face was puffy, black and blue. A neck brace pushed up the skin around her cheeks. Her left arm lay on a pillow and the right arm raised in a sling, both were in casts. When a nurse came in to check her vitals, I asked how severe my sister’s injuries were. She began telling me about the Glasgow Coma Scale: a scoring system to assess the level of consciousness after a head injury, whether the person can move their eyes and limbs, and if there is any coherent speech. I stopped the nurse a moment and asked if she was awake when she was brought in, but she replied, Sheila was already in a coma.
I had so many questions. How could my sister be helped in any way by a test she couldn’t pass when she was out cold? How could they assess her coherence when she was unable to answer their questions?
The nurse seemed frustrated with me as I was with her. “The abilities are scored numerically. Higher scores mean milder injuries. A CT scan is run to visualize fractures and uncover evidence of bleeding in the brain or swelling.”
Before she could finish, I asked when she would come round and whether an MRI had been carried out.
She shook her head as if I didn’t understand hospital emergency procedures. She replied, “Doctors don’t often use MRIs during emergency assessments of traumatic brain injuries because the procedure takes too long. That test can be used after the person’s condition has stabilized.” She also added “We can’t give an exact time when she will wake up…”
My attention lost focus as she started to tell me about the tissue swelling and how the doctor had inserted a probe through my sister’s skull to monitor the pressure. After all that information the nurse ended the conversation with, “Your sister was lucky to have survived at all.”


I sat in a chair next to her bed and touched her fingers, as they lay motionless on the sheet.
I don’t know how long I sat there staring at her. I prayed she would wake up; as I wanted so much to tell her I would forgive her. To tell her everything I felt inside — like sisters should.

Author Bio:
Donna M. Zadunajsky was born and raised in Bristolville, Ohio, and resides in Homer Glen, Illinois. She has written seven children’s books that are about her daughter and all the adventures she has done in her young life. They are currently on the Barnes and Noble website, at Amazon.com, and at www.littletscorner.com. available in eBook and paperback.
She spends her time writing short stories as well as novels. She published her first novel ‘Broken Promises,’ in June 2012 and has currently finished her second novel ‘Not Forgotten.’
Besides writing, she enjoys spending time with her daughter and husband, their dog and two cats. She enjoys reading and working on crafts and scrapbooking. She graduated from The Institute of Children’s Literature in spring 2011.

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Targeted Age Group:: 12+

When an accidental wish sends a college bound radio intern back to 1957 to save a teen idol from death, she finds her well-intentioned meddling just may leave him better off dead.

Callie Reinard thought rock pioneer Joey Tempo deserved a chance to show the world he was more than a footnote, but her attempt to give him a new future causes one catastrophe after another. The worst disaster of all — she’s falling for this charismatic musician, who’s fifty years out of her league, and at risk of losing her own carefully-planned future in the process.

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What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
A love of oldies music, the idea of second chances and the question “What would have happened if he hadn’t died so young?”

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Joey Tempo was initially inspired by the late, great Eddie Cochran, but he’s really a combination of a lot of 50’s/60’s performers who left us far too soon.

Callie Reinard evolved over the course of writing the book. The fascination with old music was probably inspired by my own interests at the time, but her ambition and determination grew from scenes unfolding in the book.

I can’t remember exactly how Sable Courtney came to be except that I needed a foil for Callie, someone who was her complete opposite, and someone who would force Callie to see how different it was to grow up in the 1950s.

Book Excerpt/Sample
Callie approached the departure area and slowed. Her lack of a plan and a growing sense of what-the-hell-am-I-doing interrupted her frantic actions. What could she accomplish by finding Joey Tempo, anyway? She’d only seen the teen idol in pictures. Would she even recognize him in person? Another few steps and she had her answer. She inhaled sharply.

He’d been standing with his back to her, but now he turned to speak to a man behind him. He held a dark blue suit jacket by the collar and casually flung it over his left shoulder. Her knees threatened to buckle when she saw his face. She rested her shoulder against the wall to keep from crumpling to the floor.

“This has got to be a dream,” she whispered. “Leah’s right. I’ve gone crazy. I’m having a breakdown or something. Hallucinating.” Their argument about dead musicians returned with complete clarity.

But Joey looked so alive. So real. And so completely and utterly adorable. Crisp white shirt, a blue patterned tie loose on his neck, tan pants. Her heart beat so fast her entire body trembled. Trying to steady herself, she glanced around the airport again.

Wake up, Callie. Wake up. Wake up before you make a fool out of yourself. She even pinched her arm. But images of 1957 continued to pass before her eyes.

This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible.

But watching Joey move and talk to the people near him, she began to believe the impossible. He looked like every other person in the airport—ordinary. Except he wasn‘t ordinary, as far as Callie had deduced from reading about him, and she could not have dreamed him up in such detail. He paced, stealing frequent glances at his wristwatch. She could actually see the worry lines across his forehead.

He’s anxious to go home. A lump caught in Callie’s throat. But he won’t make it.
Every time he smiled, her heart broke a little more. Why did she have to see this? It had been bad enough to read about it when he was just a picture in a magazine. But now…

Callie’s breath trembled. Standing before her was a living, breathing person. A guy who had no idea he was going to die in a few hours. A boy her age with such phenomenal talent he could make music history.

He was so young, so vibrant… He deserved…

More than he got.

She forced back tears as a sense of purpose rose within her. She could stop this. She could save him. Give him another chance to show the world what he could do. If this was a dream, she’d make sure it had a happy ending.

Callie took a step forward, then hesitated. A group of five girls approached Joey’s party only to be pushed back by two men in dark suits. Her heart sank. Bodyguards. She’d never get near him.

Callie twisted the newspaper in her hands and struggled with indecision. The intercom system sounded overhead.

“…Global Airlines flight 632 is now boarding at gate three…”

Joey and his group reached for their carry-on luggage and something in Callie’s mind snapped with terrifying force. Hundreds of thoughts and emotions battled inside her, but she focused on only one. Save Joey.

Callie rushed past the two guards, who were still distracted by the giggling mass of girls, and stopped within a few feet of Joey. The moment their eyes met, speech deserted her. Only minutes earlier those gorgeous blue eyes had graced an album cover lying on her bed back in Dover Heights. How had she gotten to this point?

Joey smiled and Callie’s heart hammered. He had such a trusting face. Such a beautiful, trusting face. He probably thought she wanted his autograph. He had no idea his life was in danger. How did you tell someone that?

Callie swallowed hard. “Joey, you can’t get on that plane.”

Author Bio:
Catherine Chant is an award-winning author from New England. She is a PRO member of Romance Writers of America and a Golden Heart finalist. She writes rock ‘n’ roll romantic fiction and stories with paranormal twists for young adults.

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Targeted Age Group:: 14+

Newspaper reporter John Teddy’s miserable life is turned upside down when he uncovers a voice from the past—a voice that suspiciously knows far too much about the would-be future. John’s natural curiosity to understand the hidden message takes him to places he never imagined seeing, and ongoing conspiracies he never thought existed. The more John gets involved, the more he is led towards mysteries that are beyond his understanding. The circle of people involved grows bigger stretching from west to east; each step forward is like a step backward

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What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I have been fascinated with Time Travel ever since I was six. I remember watching a TV show in the eighties called “The Time Tunnel”. I believe it was a program from the 60’s, From that day I fell in love with the idea.
The day I decided to write, what better subject!

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
From different paths of Life

Book Excerpt/Sample
Chapter 1

Waking up to that awful sound of his two-dollar alarm clock, John felt frail and depressed again. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for months, and that continuous nagging from Susan had really taken its toll. Her voice kept playing over and over in his head—all her talk about needing more money for the house, her ongoing criticism about her husband getting nowhere at work, and her wasted dreams. That was all the woman could talk about, it seemed, and John had to wonder, Is any of this worth it?

Things had really changed since they’d first met. They’d been introduced eight years prior, at a fundraiser John was covering for his paper. Susan was a nice-looking lady, the type any man would want to settle down with. She had an innocent smile, reddish cheeks, and curly brown hair, all of which gave her a cute appearance. She was a few years younger than John, the daughter of a war veteran and a pharmacist, and she had been brought up in a lovely home.
Unfortunately, for all of her good attributes, Susan had an attitude problem. One moment, John wished he could spend every moment holding her hand, but the next, he regretted ever meeting her in the first place.

After the fundraising event, John and Susan started dating. Things took off from there, and two years later, they married. The following year, their son Adam was born, and since then, it had been a downhill slalom. As time passed, her animosity began to reveal itself. She was continuously discontent, and her interests had changed significantly. Socially, the couple just didn’t click anymore, and the hard life of being married with limited resources had spoiled the relationship of the once-close family.

John tried his best to make his wife happy, but all his efforts were in vain. His marriage was utterly dreadful because of her, and if it wasn’t for Adam, he would have left her without giving it a second thought.

After a quick shower, John left the house without even bothering to say goodbye, as he figured there was no point. After a quick stop at the newspaper office, he was off to cover a new story. He had worked for the same paper for over ten years, since he was 23, and he’d covered over three hundred and fifty stories during that decade of journalism.

At first, he seemed to have a bright future ahead of him. Within his first year at the paper, one of his stories made a real impact, and that gave his career a quick boost right off the bat. A few other successes followed, but then things began to fade and dwindle, and it seemed as though John had somehow lost his spark. He never reached the level of success he had hoped for, and most of the stories he wrote after that first stellar one struggled to leave a mark. As the years went by, he became just another man doing his job at an adequate and tolerable level—an unremarkable cog in the wheel.

The story he had to cover now was another one of those “reality fairytales,” as he used to call them: An ordinary person barely scraping by under the poverty level had managed to go from rags to riches. Another person had made a risky business move that served well in the end, jolting that person to instant millionaire status in the hardest of economic times, arguably during one of the worst financial crises of our modern history. Despite the fact that John had to cover such stories, they seldom impacted the reporter at all. In fact, he never understood why anyone would want to read them, why they had any sort of following, or why people always seemed interested in such “news.” Why do care about an average stranger doing something special? he wondered. In some way, it revealed how desperate most people were, living vicariously through the successes and joyous moments that belonged to others.

This particular story turned out to be about Vesselin Lechkov’s mother. Mrs. Lechkov had a broader vision than others when it came to medical insurance companies. An American of Bulgarian origin, the struggling mother decided to invest a meager $600 back in 1972. Shortly thereafter, around ten years ago, she suffered a car accident and as a result,lost her memory. During that time, no one was aware of the stocks she had bought, and only after the old lady’s passing did Vesselin come across the holdings while clearing out his mother’s meager belongings. That $600 had grown over time and was now worth well over $560,000. Word got around, and now John was tasked with covering Vesselin’s story. Sadly, Vesselin wasn’t the hero of the story at all; he merely profited from the wise decision made by his mother, a woman who would never receive the recognition she deserved for the risk she took.

A nice two-hour chat with the fellow at his home—a trailer, to be more accurate, the place where Vesselin, his wife, and their two kids had lived as long as he could remember—and several photos later, John was done. The awful, rainy weather didn’t inspire him to spend any more time there than necessary. His mood was still down in the dumps, and while a little sun would likely not have had him dancing around in the streets, anything was better than being soaked.

Back at his office, John added the final touches and edits to his article and sent it along. For the first time ever, the story actually touched him somehow, he realized, and he grabbed his mug of stale coffee and began to browse the Web to find out more about it. With the world going downhill like this, maybe I need to do something like that old lady did, he reasoned. Maybe I should try to leave something for my son.

Everything in life only seemed to be getting worse. The whole world seemed to be turning mad, and every person John encountered seemed to be hung up on talking about their struggles. Really, it was all about business: crisis this, crisis that; Euro down, gold down, oil up; governments being toppled; people faulting on house payments; unemployment running rampant. The crisis was becoming too much for everyone to bear, and John couldn’t help but feel sorry for everyone, himself included. It was all hitting home. John’s very own brother had already lost his home, and a good friend of his had been forced to cancel his health insurance. John, himself, wasn’t exactly living the “American dream,” but he took some comfort in knowing that at least his payments were on time—for now.

The reality was that life was getting harder, and Susan’s negative attitude was just adding fuel to the fire. She seemed to blame him, as if he singlehandedly brought Wall Street to its knees and split the European Union; she just could not take the good things in life for granted or appreciate them without complaining about the bad things or the rough parts. Everyone is suffering, for God’s sake. Can’t she even grasp that she’s not the only one going through rough times? Does she really think the world is out to get her and that no one else is hurting? John often thought to himself.

After spending an hour reading all kinds of reports about the economic downfall of mankind, John grabbed his coat and headed toward the Metro. He picked his son up from the nursery and returned home. One of the few things the dysfunctional couple did agree upon was that Susan would drop Adam off in the morning, and John would pick him up in the afternoon. John loved his child, but he had never thought he would become a father so quickly. It was a lot of pressure, but he seemed to manage it well. It was Susan who struggled to deal with it.

Several hours passed before Susan returned home. She rambled on and on about her day and mentioned how nice Andrew, her boss, was for praising her work. Again, she bragged about what a fine motivator he was, repeating the same stuff over and over again.

John had gotten used to it and was able to let her rattle on about it, but when she decided to turn the tables on him, accusing him of not working hard enough and his lack of progress in life, it just ticked him off. He had always loved her and been good to her, and he was doing his job, but nothing was ever enough. “The hell with this. I need to go to the bar before I’m gonna listen to this nonsense.”

That was his answer to the constant bickering, and he had been going to the bar around the corner very often lately. In the past year, he had spent more time there than he had at home. It wasn’t so much the alcohol he needed, but the company and the peace of mind. He needed someplace to cool off and ease his mind. The whole thing with Susan was annoying; he wasn’t happy at home, so the bar was his escape. He had begun drinking heavily, and though he didn’t think of himself as an alcoholic, he had to admit that he was drinking far more than he ever had in college.

Once he ordered his beer, talked with the guys a bit, and played a round of pool, he decided to watch TV. Unfortunately, the only TV broadcasts were reports about how financially lost the world was. This time, it was some South American billionaire talking about how it was a great time to make money, claiming that hard times are the perfect opportunities to find fortune and that with the right bold moves, one might hit the jackpot, even in the face of so many huge obstacles.

The encounter he’d had with the Bulgarian trailer park family earlier, coupled with his fight with Susan and the beer and the South American money guru talking about taking financial chances got John thinking that maybe it was time for him to make a bold move of his own. He reasoned that it might be exactly what he needed to do. “To hell with writing,” he mumbled into his frothy mug. “That paper’s getting me nowhere. Besides, maybe it’ll get Susan off my back.” He decided it was now or never. If that old woman did it, it can’t be that hard, right?

John knew his only source of cash would be their savings account, around $24,000. Sitting there on that barstool, he decided he would simply withdraw the money, learn more about the market, and see if he could make it grow. It was as simple as that. Susan doesn’t even need to know about this, John told himself. She doesn’t even need to know how much I invest and where. I’ll just tell her it’s coming from the paper, and she’ll be none the wiser.

John figured he could learn a lot from Al, an old friend who had made a decent living off the stock market. John and Al were old college buddies, and right from the start, it was easy to sense that Al’s dreams and goals had nothing to do with journalism. He was only in those classes to follow his parents’ desires, but his real passion was for the business world. He basically wasted his college years, but he eventually received his degree and moved on. Al started his career writing for the business section in one of the local magazines. From his direct contact with many businessmen, he quickly gained experience and learned how to maneuver his way through the business world. After two years, he finally left the magazine and started working on Wall Street. John felt rather safe and confident taking advice from an old buddy that he knew personally, one who had enjoyed some success.

The next day John called Al, and the two met for lunch. From what Al said, the wealthy South American’s ideas were on the money, so to speak, because Al told John, “Yeah, even in this economy, you can hit it real big…or you might go down in flames. There is money to be made, but it’s risky.” Al asked John about his sudden interest in the markets, and John explained to his old friend that his job wasn’t helping much and that a recent story he’d covered had opened his eyes to the potential of risk-taking. “Stop by my office when you get off work,” Al said. “We’ll sit down, and I’ll explain how things work in the investment game, as much as I can, anyway.”

Al got right down to business and offered to help John invest his money, but that was something John wanted to do on his own. He wanted to be involved directly, so Al taught him the easy way: He taught him about online trading and how to buy stocks on margins, something Al referred to as “the high-speed route to heaven or hell.” It didn’t require much money, and if John played his cards right, he would make a fortune, but he could also easily lose it all. “It’s a big like gambling,” Al admitted, “so you just have to take it slow at first. You should practice with demo trading for at least a week and then go live when you have the confidence to dive in with real money.”

As the days past, John finished his work at the paper as quickly as possible and hurried home to get on the Web to trace the stock market. Even Susan’s bad mood and yapping stopped bothering him, because he was immersed in his own little world. For the first time in a long time, he felt isolated from the stress his home brought. He decided not to tell Susan about his plans, as he was sure she would be as negative and critical as usual, one minute screaming at him for not doing anything and in the next, insulting everything he was trying to do. The best thing to do was to leave her out of it.

Strangely, Susan didn’t seem to be talking as much as usual. She’d also been upgrading her looks, taking better care of herself, and wearing nicer clothes and more makeup and jewelry and fooling with her hair. John was happy to see it. Hey, it gets her off my back if she’s focusing on her looks—something she hasn’t bothered with for the past two or more years. Maybe she is getting back to be her own good self, he hoped.

After four days on the demo money, John felt he had the tools and had learned enough. In his first five days, he’d made $3,200—more than what he could earn in two weeks of working at the paper. This is amazing! A month or two of this, and I’ll really prove my worth. Maybe then Susan might see that I am taking action. Maybe my whole marriage might be saved and we can at least start to work things out.

With one eye on the political news and another on several companies’ financial reports, John carefully made his choices. His dreams were growing, and he was taking more chances. Ultimately, it proved to be fatal.

Several reports seemed to indicate that Germany was the safest and strongest economy, so John felt his shares placed in German companies had reached their limit, and it was time to fish them out and make it, big time. As it turned out, German shares were not immune to the financial disasters taking shape in Europe. After just one week of big losses, poor John was on the ropes. The world was closing on him. He had withdrawn all of the savings he and Susan had acquired over the years. He had taken a chance and gambled away the family’s money, and he had little to show for it. By noon that day, his account had a mere $2,700 in it. He withdrew it and decided to leave the office early.

He walked for an hour, trying to think of what he should do or say to Susan. He was in real trouble now, and nothing good had come from keeping it quiet. He’d hoped money would fall in his lap from his efforts and all would be good again, but now he realized that kind of thinking was much closer to a dream than a reality. I’m just…doomed, he worried.

Finally, he decided to take a cab back home. When he got there, he noticed that one of the lights was on, and he assumed Susan had forgotten to turn it off in the morning. He opened the door and went to the kitchen to grab a beer to help him cope with the dreadful reality of his situation.

He heard some noise upstairs. When he went upstairs to check on it, to his agony, he recognized sounds coming from his wife, growing louder by the second. He opened his bedroom door to the sight of Susan and the perfect Andrew in bed together—in his bed.

Andrew immediately grew pale. He covered himself up and ran away, stuttering “Sorry! I’m so…sorry!”.

John didn’t say a word. He simply took out a bag and started stuffing his wife’s things in it. Susan was crying and begging his forgiveness and understanding, but John remained mute. He didn’t utter a word, and honestly he didn’t even hear her; he was caught in a dreadful silence for several moments.

Finally, after he had finished packing up her things, without making eye contact, John said, “You have five minutes to take whatever else you want and leave. Pick up your son from the nursery and never come back here again. And don’t even think about taking the car!”

After fifteen minutes, it was all over. Susan was gone, so John sat down to have a drink. Beer wasn’t going to do the trick, so he took out his scotch whiskey and began drinking it straight from the bottle. All he could think about was how his world had changed over the years. He loved giving to charity. He helped people a lot and was a good husband, but when money started to get tight, everything seemed to collapse around him.

Maybe I am a loser, he thought. Maybe Susan is right, and my life is not even worth living. Seeing his wife in bed with another man was a traumatic event that insisted on playing over and over again in his head. In an instant, he jolted up from his seat and went to look for his gun that he had hidden in an old shoebox in the top drawer. Once he had the weapon in hand, he put three bullets in it. He stumbled to the bathroom, looked at himself in the mirror, and whispered two words: “Bye, Johnny.”

And then, John pulled the trigger…but nothing happened.

The gun was jammed, so he tried to fix it and then pulled the trigger again.

Nothing.

Finally, John threw the useless gun and began to cry, rivers of tears running down his cheeks as if he was just a little lost boy with a broken heart.

After half an hour, he still couldn’t grasp the truth of all that had transpired in his miserable life. The noises of their lovemaking echoed in his ears, and he realized he could stay in the house no longer. He jumped in the car and drove off. He had no idea where he was going, but he knew he was heading toward insanity.

Finally, after driving around to nowhere in a depressed and defeated haze, John saw it: a small parking area near a cliff, with a panoramic view of the sea, about forty-five kilometers north. It was perfect for tourists wanting to take photos, but that was not how John intended to use it. “If a gun can’t do the job, I’ll just throw myself over the edge,” he said aloud.

John parked and got out of the car. He walked slowly to the edge, sweating and shivering. As he neared the edge, he looked below at the big, dark, salty waves crashing against the jagged rocks. Among them, he noticed something that looked like a box of a strange shape and color. His manic state began to calm, and he decided to get a closer look, to see what the thing was. “What’s a dead man got to lose?” he repeated to himself.

There were some steep stairs about twenty yards away that led to the rocks below, likely created and used by locals who wanted to fish when the tide was in their favor. John watched each step carefully, so as not to lose his footing, as he made his way slowly down. He decided it was a good thing he’d taken only a few sips of whiskey; otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to make the descent.

At last, he reached the parcel. He picked up the dark green leather octagon-shaped box with maroon stripes. It had two locks, and curiosity filled his mind about what could be hiding behind them. He took the strange case and headed back to the car, so he could go home and have a look at it.

As soon as he walked inside, he noticed the flashing light on the answering machine. He was sure it had to be Susan, trying to weasel her way back into his good graces after her indiscretion. John didn’t care, though, as there was nothing else on his mind other than the strange box and discovering its contents.

He placed the case on the dining room table. He had no clue what it could mean or what it might contain. Why did I find it now, of all times? It weighed around twenty pounds and was constructed of high-quality leather. The locks seem to be old, as they were rusted, but hey still held securely. John knew he’d never be able to safely open them with the tools he had at home, so he decided he’d have to head to Chinatown for the following day, if the curiosity didn’t kill him overnight. There isn’t a thing those guys can’t open.

In spite of his worries and curiosities and woes, the hectic day finally took its toll on John, and within seconds, he was fast asleep on the sofa bed with the green box right next to him on the floor.

It was a good thing that all of that mess happened on a Friday, as John couldn’t have imagined going to work the next day; honestly, he could barely imagine living after all he went through that day. At nine thirty a.m., John woke up with many thoughts swarming around in his head, but his real focus was on finding out what the box contained, if anything, or if it was simply a strange washed-up box of no significance.

A quick ride, and he was off to Chinatown. He passed several small shops and finally came across a locksmith. After twenty minutes of light banging and hammering with his special tools, it was wide open!

Inside the box was another container, a plastic one, something like a box within a box. John thought it was probably meant to prevent any water leakage, though the leather already did a great job of that. It seemed that whoever had put it all together went to great lengths to protect whatever was inside. The interior of the box was the same color as the outside. It was cushioned to protect it from any hits or bumps, and the smaller plastic container was totally sealed and air- and watertight, except for a small circular window that could be opened from a little slip.

John thanked the locksmith, gave him a twenty-dollar bill, and went back to his car.

The inside contents included a plastic-wrapped cassette of some sort and a business card written in something that looked like Asian; the card didn’t seem to contain a name—only an address. There was also a silver ring with an odd symbol on it, as well as some letters engraved on the inside of the band. The writing on the ring also looked to be in Asian. Interesting, but what does it mean? John wondered.

The tape looked like one of those old small cassettes he hadn’t seen in a long time. He was glad he hadn’t left Chinatown yet and had decided to check it out right there in the parking area, as the cassette would require a visit to a shop that sold secondhand, outdated electronics. He thought he might take the business card along as well, hoping that the salesman might be able to tell him what it said.

As it turned out, the tape was a small videocassette used in the eighties. The first two shops he went to didn’t have any device that could play it, but John didn’t have to worry, because Chinatown was packed with shops that sold used electronics. After a bit of searching, he found what he was searching for, and for a mere forty bucks, John bought a compatible player. He wasn’t as lucky with the business card, as no one in Chinatown seemed to be able to read it; clearly, it wasn’t written in Chinese, but one of them suggested to him that it did look like Japanese.

Eager to see what was on the tape, John hurriedly headed home. He was starving, so he stopped on the way to pick up a pizza.

Once he was home and settled down with his piping-hot dinner in front of him and the video player properly connected and the tape inserted, his heart began to throb. He couldn’t remember being so anxious to watch anything since the opening of Terminator 2 back in 1991, when he stood in line for two hours at the cinema. He pressed the play button, and in that moment, from that very instant, John began to see the world in a whole different way.

The tape began with an Asian man introducing himself as Yaturo. He seemed to be in his late forties, and kept talking about his guilty feelings, claiming, “This is the least I can do.” Great, John thought. A suicide tape. Could the timing be any worse? Or more awfully perfect?

Then, the picture went blank for a few moments and then the same guy appeared again, only he looked younger and was standing in a large parking lot, seemingly at a concert, event, or game, though John couldn’t tell for sure. The Asian began to speak: “I am now outside Estadio Azteca in Mexico city. It is June 22, 1986, and Argentina will play England in the quarter-finals.”

John increased the volume of his TV and slid his sofa closer, getting more interesting. As outdated as the game was, he remembered it was quite a match.

Yaturo continued with the stadium in the background, “I want to ask some fans about what they think the results might be.”

Some of the passersby answered, projecting, “England two to nothing,” or, “Argentina, one to zero,” but then Yaturo managed to stop three fans wearing the British flag on their shirts. They looked to be in their twenties.

Yaturo asked, “Can you guys give me your names, where you’re from, and what you think the results will be in today’s match? I am doing a program for a sports channel.”

No one bothered to ask him which channel he was from. The first one answered, “Jim Owen Steadman, Dorking, two-nothing, England,” and started dancing.

The second spectator, a young woman, answered, “Lisa Farry, same, and England, two to one.”

The last guy answered with a smile, “John Humphrey, and I say England will win on penalties.”

Then all three began to chant: “England, England, ENGLAND!”

Before they left, the first guy, Jim Owen Steadman, asked Yaturo “What about you? What do you think?”

Without a moment of hesitation, Yaturo answered, “Two to one, Argentina,” and put one of his hands in a fist shape above his head.

The British fans began chanting again and went on their way.

John suddenly paused the tape, in total shock. An avid soccer fan himself, as well as a soccer player in both high school and college, John knew that match by heart, especially since it was one of the most talked-about matches in history. In the end, Yaturo was absolutely correct. Argentina won that game two to one, and in the course of that victory, Maradona scored two of the most talked about goals in all of soccer’s history, dribbling half the English team to score one and the other with his fist, just as Yaturo mentioned and gestured before the game began. It was far too exact, too accurate to be mere coincidence. “What in the world is this? Some kind of bloody joke?” John began to shout to his pizza, demanding answers.

He pressed play again, and he saw Yaturo with the stadium still in the background. This time, Yaturo said, “September 11, 2001—what a sad, sad day for the United States of America. December 26, 2004—what a disastrous day for the people living along the Indian Ocean…” And then, the tape went black.

In complete and utter shock, John stood and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. His head felt as if it might explode any minute, and he was trembling violently. He ran outside to smoke a cigarette, trying to get a grasp of everything that he’d seen on that strange tape from that strange box.

Over the next two hours, John watched the tape at least ten more times in deep concentration and focus, studying it, trying to find any error in it. Is this…real? Or is it just some silly prank those four were playing? You know, video technology lets people do amazing things nowadays. But he was…he was talking about two world disasters way before their time. Everyone knows 9/11 changed the world and spawned wars, and that tsunami took the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. What…how? And who is he? But John’s many questions only seemed to lead to more questions

Being a journalist and organized by nature, he took the time to write down all the information, including the names and dates and everything mentioned on the tape. He immediately turned to the Internet for help. The Web was teeming with people named “Yaturo,” as it seemed to be a common Japanese name. The address on the business card didn’t get him anywhere, as it was really just the name of a place, offering no exact location. When he Googled “Lisa Farry” and “John Humphrey,” he had no luck piecing anything together. Fortunately, though, his search for “Jim Owen Steadman” did afford him some answers.

The results of that search included information and snippets about fifteen or so people. John was specifically looking for a guy in his late forties or early fifties, since the tape was allegedly recorded in 1986, while he was still in his twenties, and nearly three decades had passed since then. John assumed Mr. Steadman was likely still living in England, and after narrowing his search based on those criteria, he finally restricted his hits to four people in the UK, one of them in Dorking, aligning with the information from the tape. The guy was fifty and listed soccer as an interest of his, so it seemed John had the right guy—as long as the Jim Owen Steadman on the tape and on the Internet listing was actually telling the truth. The photo on his profile on the social network where John found him didn’t seem to mesh, but John knew as well as anybody that twenty-six years can take a toll on a person’s appearance, among other things.

John was completely intrigued, and the natural inquisitive nature of the reporter in him demanded that he take action. He knew there was no better way than to hop on a plane and go visit the guy. Things needed to be clarified, one way or another. The truth was, it was the best diversion from his shattered reality that John could have hoped for. It was a chance to get away from Susan and those painful memories, a chance to solve a mystery. He thought if it was true, something great might come of it. John was still a dreamer, and even if it turned out to be nothing at all and the tape was merely a fake, a prank, at least the trip would be a welcome escape for him from the reality of home.

Before visiting the guy, he wanted to stop in Estadio Azteca in Mexico City to check out the authenticity of the video by investigating the camera angles around the stadium. He requested a week off from the paper, and there was no objection, as he hadn’t taken a vacation in over a year. All it took was a short call to his boss.

In spite of his anger and angst with his wife, he hadn’t forgotten his son, of course, and he visited Susan’s parents’ home to bid the kid goodbye. While he was there, he wouldn’t say a word to Susan. He realized there was nothing left of their relationship, and he should have made the decision to leave her two years earlier, when she started her nonsense with that awful attitude and constant bitterness. Come to think of it, though, he rationed, if it wasn’t for me catching her in bed with another man like that two days ago, I wouldn’t have found that box floating in the sea. In some odd way, he had Susan to thank for the adventure he was about to undertake.

The flight was booked for Monday, and all was ready for the trip to Mexico City. If everything went well, John would be off to Dorking via London. It was a good thing he still had his credit card to add to his measly $2,700 that was left over from his stock market fiasco, and he hoped that would be enough for now.

John made a DVD copy of the movie, scanned the business card, and had a replica of the ring made. He was thoroughly prepared. He took several names from Jim Steadman’s profile; he would contact them if he was unable to locate Mr. Steadman himself. He even took the box along. When it came to details, John was an expert, which probably stemmed from all his years of working as a journalist. His continuous hunt for stories had brought him to this.

He decided to visit the cliff where he had found the box just before sunset, hoping it would bring him some kind of luck and prepare him for the unknown. “What a view,” John said. Exactly two days prior, he planned to jump from that same cliff to end his life in the abyss. “How a moment can change a person’s life,” he said to the crashing waves. No matter what lay ahead, it was the start of a new life for him.

Author Bio:
Ahmad Ardalan was born in Baghdad in 1979. At the age of two, he moved with his parents to Vienna, Austria, where he spent most of his childhood and underwent his primary studies. After his father’s diplomatic mission finished at the end of 1989, he returned to Iraq, where he continued his studies and graduated from the University of Dentistry. As a result of the unstable political, military, social, and economic conditions in his home country, Ahmad decided to leave Iraq and move to the UAE. After facing difficulties to pursue his career in dentistry, he opted to pursue employment in the business world. Since then, Ardalan has held several senior roles within the pharmaceutical and FMCG industries, throughout much of the Middle East. His early childhood in a mixed cultural environment, as well as his world travels, increased his passion for learning about cultures of the world and inspired him to pen The Clout of Gen, his first novel. After eleven years of being away, Ahmad returned to Baghdad in January 2013 on a visit that was full of mixed emotions. Inspired by his trip to Iraq, he wrote his second novel, The Gardener of Baghdad.

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Targeted Age Group:: 18+

*Book 3 in the Moments In Time series. Can also be read as a standalone.*

Can the embers of an old life ignite the flames of a new love?

Six years ago, Melisa Bergfeld’s husband died. As the grief of losing him tore into her, she lost his last gift to her—their unborn child—and her hopes and dreams turned to ashes.

Left with a life she no longer wants, she seeks salvation in a homeless shelter. For a while, that’s more than enough.

But when a fire breaks out, in walks the man who will try to save her life—if she’ll let him.

Florian “Heat” Dane has left behind a trail of broken hearts in his wake, including pieces of his own. For all the girls he’s used to fill the hole in his heart, there has been just one he could never erase from his memories. But when Melisa married his best friend Scott Bergfeld, he knew she would never be his the way she’d been the one unforgettable night they spent together. Now that she’s back in his life, he will do anything to recapture her heart, even if it means giving away his own.

Heat still has the power to ignite passion in Melisa, something she both desires and rejects. He’s a known heartbreaker, and if there is one thing Melisa doesn’t need, it’s another crack in her heart. But when he confesses his love for her, she fears her secrets from the past will surface. And she might be the one to break his heart this time.

*Due to sexual content, this book is not suitable for readers under 18.*

MOMENTS IN TIME READING ORDER:
Entangled Moments (Moments In Time 1)-Nick and Carlene (FREE)
Rekindled Moments (Moments In Time 2)-Nick and Carlene
Bittersweet Moments (Moments In Time 3)-Melisa and Florian “Heat”
Defining Moments (Moments In Time 4)-Melisa and Florian “Heat”

Link To Bittersweet Moments (Moments In Time 3) On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Garth Brooks’ song, Learning to live again.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Melisa, the main character made an appearance in Entangled Moments and Rekindled Moments, the first two books in the Moments In Time series. I don’t remember planning for her, she just stepped on set and wanted me to tell her story:-).

Author Bio:
Dori Lavelle, is a mother, wife, and a sucker for happy ever afters and mint chocolate. Give her a great romance novel and a mug of hot chocolate and she’d be one happy woman.

Growing up, Dori read a lot, and when she wasn’t happy with a particular ending, she wrote a different one, just for herself. Before long, she was writing stories when she should have been doing homework. The time has come for her to share the stories she cooks up in her head.

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Link To Bittersweet Moments (Moments In Time 3) On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

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