Orangeberry Book of the Day – Killer Abs: A Body (Pump) Horror Comedy by DR O’Brien

Twenty-something accountant Matt Warner enrols at an exclusive weight loss resort with his career on the line should he fail to shed the pounds from his paunchy frame.

Before long the accountant realises that his girth is the least of his problems as there is something deeply wrong with the Phoenix Resort where it’s no gain and all pain.

It’s a serving of full fat fear for the guests who must fight for their lives to survive the week.

Matt Warner is going to lose weight, or die trying.

Killer Abs is an 11,403 word short body (pump) horror comedy, with content for mature audiences.

Previous praise for the Author’s work:

“I think that you will enjoy the way Mr. O’Brien ties everything together and pits some of, if not the most famous characters in literature against each other. The story is fast paced with lots of action and adventure: a very enjoyable read and I wholeheartedly recommend it”
FAMOUS MONSTERS OF FILMLAND

“Luckily for is it seems that D R O’Brien is tainted with just enough craziness to pull this task off. O’Brien has breathed new life into these well known and well loved characters. Thrilling, horrific, and funny at the same time which is no mean feat… O’Brien is a talented writer.”
GINGERNUTS OF HORROR BLOG

“Shakespeare’s characters duking it out with Lovecraft’s creatures? Sign us up immediately!
DREAD CENTRAL

“All very inventive, clever and ghoulishly entertaining… Bizarre, baroque and amusing…”
CONTAINS MODERATE PERIL

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Genre – Horror

Rating – 18+

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Orangeberry Book of the Day - For the Future Generations (For a Generation) by Anastasia Faith (Excerpt)

For the Future Generations

[Book 1 of the "For a Generation" series]
3.4.2113

Alamogordo, New Mexico

The sun set over Alamogordo, New Mexico and night fell in the desert. Thick black clouds shifted over the horizon, contrasting the orange sky above, and casting shadows on the barren landscape.

In one mound of sand and rock sat an underground house with a tan roof protruding from the top of the hill. The residents had built a door in the side of the roof. This remained locked during daylight hours. Inside this house, the Channing family had just finished their evening meal. The women in the family cleaned the last of the dishes, the father worked in his office, and a ten-year-old boy grew restless. The boy had a head of strawberry curls, a round face, and deep blue eyes.

He scampered down the hall and pounded on his father’s office chamber door. His father, Kelvin Channing, a college professor, would be grading the day’s homework or preparing assignments for the next school day.

“It’s Declan,” he called.

“Yes, Declan?” Kelvin answered through the door. “What do you want?”

“Laken, Chaslyn, and I want to go outside.” Declan said. “Is it safe?”

“It’s 8:00,” Kelvin said. “I don’t see why not. Remember to wear your coat.”

Declan glanced at the clock on his touch screen music device. He and his two sisters had to stay indoors until after dark because his sisters, being conjoined twins, were frowned upon in the eyes of the culture.

In Declan’s day, “handicapped” individuals were those who could not contribute financially. They required government assistance and were considered a burden to society. These handicaps could be something as simple as inseparable conjoined twins, or as severe as major cerebral palsy or quadriplegia. Benevolent medical professionals would simply deny them healthcare, while the majority would euthanize them, with or without a caretaker’s permission. At their doctor’s warning seven years before, Kelvin and Ayla Channing had relocated with their three-year-old triplets—Declan, Laken, and Chaslyn—from Kansas City, Missouri to a desert in New Mexico, hoping it would be safer. Several families who were close friends with the Channings had also come to ease the adjustment. They had scheduled their days so the triplets would be able to spend time with their friends at night.

Removing his coat from a hook near the front door, Declan slipped into it. His sisters came into the living room after they had finished cleaning the kitchen. They too were becoming restless, and the Alamogordo evening beckoned them.

“Did Dad give us permission?” Chaslyn asked.

Declan nodded and assisted Laken and Chaslyn into a special joining coat tailored for them, since they joined at one of their forearms. They piled into an elevator that led to the roof. The elevator opened, and Declan unlocked the door. They stepped out onto the sand and raced down the side of the hill to their “fort”, a crude structure constructed of logs stacked so they overlapped each other. As the evening progressed, the children’s friends arrived and joined in the imagination games.

Over their playing and laughter, Declan could hear a transporter door slam shut and then footsteps approaching. As they grew louder and came closer, Declan became increasingly concerned. All of their friends were with them, and others rarely visited the deserted area.

“Wait here,” he cautioned his sisters. “I’m going to see where that noise is coming from. Guys, keep your guard over them for just a minute.”

Fearing the worst, he left them in the fort and stole away to track the source of the footsteps. He scampered a few feet down the path behind their house. He saw a silhouette several feet in front of him, standing in the glow of a transporter’s headlights. As it came closer, he perceived a middle-aged man holding a flat nylon case.

“Who are you?” Declan demanded. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Declan, I can’t tell you much,” the man replied hurriedly, as if in a rush. “You need to trust me. My name is Mr. Wilcox; I’m a time traveler.”

Mr. Wilcox handed Declan the case. He unzipped it and found an electronic notepad. Opening a side compartment, he pulled out an automatically recharging payment card or ARPC for short. Declan searched his face for an explanation, both of the contents and of the fact this stranger knew his name.

“Keep this book a secret.” Wilcox instructed. “When the time comes, you’ll know who it’s for.”

“What about the ARPC?” He questioned. “Dad opened an account for my sisters and me, but only because he has a job; they’re linked to his. This card’s number isn’t the one on mine.”

“It will be in about thirteen years.” Mr. Wilcox said, “Remember, I’m a time traveler.”

Declan powered up the book so he could read the content, only to find it blank. He flipped it over in his hands and toyed with it, trying to discern why it would not grant him access. He pressed the bottom of the device. It squawked and a negating red light flashed.

“What happened?” He asked the man.

“I set the privacy so only the future recipient can open it. Underneath the electronic device is a fingerprint reader. It’s programmed for only my fingerprints and the person who will receive it.” Mr. Wilcox explained. “There’s an unlocked note at the beginning that I addressed to you.”

With these words, Mr. Wilcox vanished into the night and Declan focused his attention on the unlocked message.

“Declan Channing,” it instructed, “return to the place where you met me at 7 in the morning on May 1st, 2130, when you are twenty-seven. Bring this book with you. On June 30th of 2130, leave the ARPC I gave you—and your FBI badge—at the Indianapolis, Indiana branch of the bank where your account is.”

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Genre - Christian YA Fiction

Rating – PG

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Violent Season – Maj. Ray Gleason Ph.D. (Excerpt)

Chapter Two: “Soldiers of Christ”

On a chilly Sunday morning in early spring, the students of Our Lady of Lourdes elementary school in Astoria, a working-class neighborhood on the East River opposite northern Manhattan, were filing into the parish church for the nine o’clock mass. Each student wore the uniform of the parochial school. The boys, white shirts, blue ties, navy blue pants, black shoes; the girls, white blouses, blue cravats, navy blue jumpers with the school escutcheon emblazoned on the left breast over the heart, navy-blue knee-socks, sensible black shoes, no open toes.

The good sisters of the Sisters of Charity of St. Joseph, in their flowing black robes, starched white collars and headpieces, carefully policed their charges, rosary beads clicking as they made their rounds. Most importantly, the boys and the girls, especially the older ones, had to be kept strictly segregated as they assembled for mass—there could be no tolerance for allowing occasions of sin, especially among the older children. And, when they were assembled so closely together, as they had to be enclosed within the narrow alleyway beside the parish church, there was no telling where their hands were. So, boys to the front, girls to the rear, no mixing allowed.

Attendance was taken—the nine o’clock mass was mandatory for all students of Our Lady of Lourdes elementary school. Each student was examined for proper uniform, shined shoes, clean hands, fingernails, face, ears, haircut and missal. At ten to nine, the children were filed two by two into the church through the side door to occupy the front pews on the gospel side of the altar which were reserved for the school.

Mickey Dwyer was among the eighth graders with his best friends Johnny Toussaint and Joey Simon or, as Joey was sometimes known around the school yard, “Joey the Jew.” Not that Joey was Jewish. In fact, Joey’s grandfather, Giuseppe Benedetto Simonetti, a fervent—at least by Italian standards—Roman Catholic, had immigrated to America from the southern Italian region of Calabria at seventeen years of age, just after America’s war with Spain. The elder Simonetti had established himself on Henry Street on the lower east side of Manhattan, literally in the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. He immediately got himself what he considered good, steady work helping dig the new Interborough Rapid Transit underground railroad, or “subway” as it was called in America.

Between his twelve-hour shifts digging up the streets of lower Manhattan, Giuseppe took some time to contemplate his situation in his new homeland. Although he understood that America’s streets were not paved with gold, he decided that America was in fact a land of endless opportunities for someone who was smart, ambitious and willing to work hard, as long as one condition was recognized, assimilation. You had to be white and not too Catholic.

So, Giuseppe Benedetto Simonetti Senior resolved that he would never again speak his native dialect, nor Italian. He would learn to speak English without an accent. And, all of his children (should God be so kind to him) would finish at least eight years of school in the wonderful, free, public schools that America provided for all of its citizens.

As a sign of his resolve to be completely American, Giuseppe Benedetto Simonetti renamed himself Joseph Benedict Simon. The one thing the newly minted Joseph Benedict Simon would not compromise on was his faith in the Roman Catholic Church, which in his opinion offered the only path to eternal salvation, although sometimes it got in the way of his being hired for the better jobs.

The only flaw in Joseph Benedict Simon’s plan for complete and seamless assimilation into the American dream, except for the Catholic issue, was that the name “Simon” sounded Jewish to many New Yorkers. In fact, when Joseph Benedict Simon the Third started the first grade in the parochial school of Our Lady of Lourdes parish in Astoria, and the teaching sister, Sister Maria Paulina, who had, like Joseph the Third’s grandfather and father, grown up cheek and jowl with Jewish immigrants from Russia and Poland along Hester Street on New York’s lower eastside, read his name, “Joseph Simon,” while taking attendance, she immediately blurted out, “Is that a Jewish name?”

To give the good sister her credit, she imagined that Joey’s presence in her classroom was the result of the miracle of conversion and baptism which would save poor Joey’s Jewish soul from the fires of eternal damnation. However, her announcing this assumption in front of the entire first grade class of Our Lady of Lourdes School became the crucible for Joey’s survival in the school yard and in the neighborhood for many years to come, since, in the Darwinian soup that was the school yard, any flaw, any seam, any difference, no matter how slight or how tenuous, was exploited in the ruthless competition for survival.

At first, Joseph the Third had to put up with the mocking cry, “Is that a Jewish name?” from his classmates. And, this was quickly picked up by the older, bigger boys. Eventually, due to the efficient ecology of natural selection operating in the school yard, which abhors the use of wasted syllables and is forever in search of a good alliteration, the cry quickly evolved into the moniker, “Joey the Jew.”

At first, Joey, being a first-grader and one of the smallest kids in the school yard, had to take it. He couldn’t go to the nuns with it. That was “ratting,” the worst crime imaginable to any kid growing up in the parish. And, he couldn’t make the kids stop. Most of them were a lot bigger and certainly crueler than Joey had yet had a chance to become.

Once, when a seventh grader, a renowned and infamous school yard bully known as “Nugy” O’Reilly due to his practice of smashing smaller kids on the top of their skulls with his knuckles, called him “Joey the Jew,” he ran home in tears and, in his terror and despair, made the egregious mistake of telling his mother.

Mrs. Angie Simon, whose formal, Catholic-school name had been Angelina Madelena Giudice, came from a family that had, within living memory, immigrated from a small village near Palermo. She herself had been born in the small back bedroom of a fourth floor walk-up apartment off Delancey Street where she had lived with her parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters and an uncle or two, depending on who was working at any moment or who didn’t want to be found for any reason.

Angelina Madelena Giudice was no stranger to the laws of the school yard, having cut her teeth in Transfiguration parish on Mott Street back in the days of the Great Depression when, as she told her children, “things were hard.” Angelina Madelena knew there were a couple of immutable decrees for surviving in the neighborhood. First, never rat out anyone, especially to the cops, but certainly not to the nuns or priests. Second, never be a punk, a coward, or you’d never have respect and you’d be everybody’s punk. Finally, for girls, never be a puttana, or you’ll shame your family, never have honor and never find a husband.

Angelina Madelena remembered how she had learned that last lesson. When she was in the seventh grade, one of the nuns doing her daily neighborhood patrol for sinners and delinquents caught her and her girlfriend smoking in one of the playgrounds under the Manhattan bridge. Of course, the nun frog-marched her home and told her mother. When the nun left to take her girlfriend to meet her doom, Angelina Madalena’s mother slapped her across the face. “Solo una puttana fuma fuori dalla casa dove tutti possono vederla!” she shouted in little Angelina’s face, “Vuoi tutti nel quartiere di pensare si è una puttana? Vuoi vergogna di tuo padre, vergogna della tua famiglia?”[1]

From this, Angelina Madelena understood that it was alright to smoke, just not outside where anybody could see it. To this day, Angelina Madelena only smoked in her own kitchen. Never outside on the street, never in front of her father-in-law, Papa Joe, who lived with them, and never in front of her children. So, when a weeping little Joey the Third burst into her kitchen, she had to quickly hide the Lucky Strike she had only half finished while getting her husband’s dinner ready for his imminent return from work.

“What’s the matter with you,” she asked her son, blowing a stream of white smoke up toward the ceiling, “You hurt?”

“No, Mama,” wept little Joey the Third, “A big kid at school called me a Jew.”

“A Jew?” exclaimed Mrs. Simon.

Now she was confused. Why would anyone call her son a Jew. Certainly, Mrs. Simon knew what Jews were. When she was growing up, they lived mostly around Hester Street. Her people never had any problems with Jews, unlike those damned Irish who were always drunk and always starting fights. The Jews kept to their neighborhood, the Sicilians kept to theirs. She knew the priests said that all the Jews were going to hell for killing Jesus. But, that was priest business, not street business. Besides, her neighbor on the first floor, Mrs. Goldstein, was Jewish and such a nice lady, always kind to little Joey. Mrs. Simon could not understand why God would want to send such a nice lady to hell. But, that was priest business. On the street, there were Jewish neighborhoods and Sicilians neighborhoods. There was Jewish business and there was Sicilian business. They never mixed. Typical of America. One country, many neighborhoods. Everybody kept to themselves, or there was trouble.

“Why’d this boy call you a Jew?” Mrs. Simon asked her oldest son.

“I don’t know, Mama, I don’t know! They do it all the time,” Joey sniffled.

Now Mrs. Simon knew she had a problem on her hands. She just wasn’t sure what. “Who is this kid?” she demanded.

“Just a kid, Mama, just a kid,” little Joey answered.

Good, Angelina Madelena Giudice of Delancey Street thought, he’s not an informatore. “So, why’re you coming home with this?” she demanded.

“He’s big, Mama! He could beat me up,” Joey sobbed!

Madonn’, thought Angelina Madelena, he’s a punk, un vigliacco!

She remembered, once in the Transfiguration school yard, when she was in the fourth grade, one of the eighth-grade girls, who was at least twice her size, had called her Angelina la Bambina, Angelina the Baby, for no better reason than to impress her girlfriends. The bigger girl got to say this only once before Angelina Madelena had her on the ground and was pummeling some sense into her. When the nun broke it up, she asked both girls who started it. Neither girl would break the school yard code; neither would speak. So, since Angelina Madelena seemed to be the aggressor, she was frog-marched into the school and given a few strokes with a leather belt. But, Angelina Madelena took her beating without making a sound. She knew even the nun respected her for not snitching, for standing up for herself and for taking her beating without so much as a whimper.

This was the respect, il rispetto, that every kid in the school yard had to earn and had to have. Without respect, you were nothing! So, Angelina kept her mouth shut, took her beating and got respect for it. That’s the way things worked in the school yard and in the neighborhood.

“Did anyone else hear him say this thing to you?” she quizzed her son.

“All the kids were there! They laughed when he said it!” Joey sobbed.

“So, you let this… this… punk say this thing to you in front of the whole neighborhood! And then you ran away crying?” exclaimed Mrs. Simon.

Without thinking, she grabbed her cigarette from the ash tray hidden behind the bread box on top of the ice box and took a deep drag. Joey was amazed. His Mama was smoking right in front of him. He knew she smoked, but never right out in the open like this!

She bent down into his face and lowered her voice so Papa Joe, her father-in-law, wouldn’t hear her, “Se non fate qualcosa, avete perso il vostro onore. Nessuno potrà mai rispettare.”[2]

Joey now knew he was doomed! He should have thought this through before getting his Sicilian mother involved in a school yard fight. Not only was she standing right in front of him smoking a cigarette, but she was talking to him in Italian, using the magic words onore and rispettare. Using Italian in his family was like the priests using Latin in the mass. It was a sacred, magical and binding language. The language of the old country. The voice of their ancestors. The sound of obligato. But onore! Joey wasn’t absolutely sure what that entailed, but he knew that when his Sicilian grandfather and uncles used the word, it was in a hushed voice, accompanied by solemn nods, like praying in the church before God.

Joey was now bound by onore, the Italian language, and his mother’s cigarette to go back to that school and kick Nugy O’Reilly’s ass or die in the attempt.

Even at that young age Joey was sensible and had no inclinations to suicide. He left the apartment, apparently on a mission to regain his onore, but instead hid out for a couple of hours down the block at Mickey Dwyer’s, his best friend’s, apartment. Later, on his way back home, he scraped his knuckles on the side of a building and told his Mama that he had done the deed.

Her terse response, “Good! Serves the punk right! Now wash your hands for dinner! You got blood.”

Initially, Joey’s only viable strategy for dealing with the “Joey the Jew” problem, was to ignore it. Never respond. Never let them know they’re getting to you. Hopefully they’ll get bored with it and go find a new victim. Unfortunately for Joey, having a “Jew” in the parish was too much a novelty to be ignored or forgotten. Soon, the problem leaked from the school yard and permeated the neighborhood. Joey was safe on his own block on Crescent Street where he and Mickey lived. But, anytime he had to leave that area of sanctuary, going to the deli to buy bread and milk for his Mama, or going to the candy store to get his Papa’s newspapers and cigarettes, or walking to school, he was “Joey the Jew” to any kid who could make it stick.

This continued for some time with varying degrees of intensity and viciousness. Some kids actually believed Joey was Jewish. What a Jewish kid was doing attending a Catholic school in Astoria never seemed to cross their minds. But, Our Lady of Lourdes school was not known for the scholarship of its charges.

In the fifth grade, two things happened to Joey the Third. The first, he had a growing spurt and, almost overnight, the skinny little runt that Mickey Dwyer had known since the first grade, was over five feet tall and a good twenty pounds heavier. Second, Joey the Third decided that he wasn’t going to put up with this shit anymore. His new policy about the “Joey the Jew” issue was, if any kid said it to him—no matter how big, how tough, how well connected around the neighborhood—he would punch him in the face.

The implementation of this new policy was neither smooth nor flawless.

At first, Joey had to put up with a fair share of ass-kickings from the bigger kids. And, Mickey Dwyer, as Joey’s best friend, had to back his play. So he suffered his fair share of damage too. But, Joey declared he would rather take a beating than have to put up with this shit any more.

Joey soon noticed that despite losing a lot of his “Joey the Jew” fights, the harassment actually lessoned and finally stopped, as the word went around the parish that, if you opened your mouth to this guy, he was going to come at you. You might beat him, but you were going to know you were in a fight! So, as is the eternal code of bullies, they went to find easier victims.

So ended the era of “Joey the Jew.”

At least for the most part. Joey would tolerate some teasing from the kids he trusted, and Mick Dwyer always had his back in the bad old days.

So, when Joey showed up for assembly that Sunday morning, Mick greeted him saying, “Joey! What are you doing here? I didn’t know Jews had to go to mass!”

Joey just smiled and said, “Keep it down, Mick! I’m undercover. I heard at the synagogue that Catholic girls are easy.”

THE VIOLENT SEASON is an epic, expansive collection of heroic short stories centered on the gripping experiences of three young men and their families during the Vietnam War. The book presents a ‘coming-of-age’ narrative that begins in the lush river valleys of upstate New York and on the streets of New York City and provides an insightful perspective of youth and innocence plunged into the crucible of war.

As well, it transcends the “good guys, bad guys” portrayal of human conflict by presenting its readers with a depiction of good people, Americans and Vietnamese, caught up in unthinkably grim and difficult circumstances. THE VIOLENT SEASON celebrates the resilience of the human spirit and its ability to triumph over the horror and tragedy of war.

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Genre – Literary / Historical Fiction

Rating – PG13

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Orangeberry Book of the Day – Betty’s Child by Donald Dempsey

“Heartrending and humorous.” Kirkus Reviews

“Highly recommended.” Dr. Alan Gettis, Ph.D., author of The Happiness Solution

“An unforgettable memoir.” San Francisco Book Review

In the tradition of Frank McCourt and Angela’s Ashes, Don Dempsey uses Betty’s Child to tell the story of life with his cruel and neglectful mother, his mother’s abusive boyfriends, and hypocritical church leaders who want to save twelve-year-old Donny’s soul but ignore threats to his physical well-being. Meanwhile, Donny’s best friend is trying to recruit Donny to do petty theft and deal drugs for a dangerous local thug.

Young Donny is a real-life cross between Huckleberry Finn and Holden Caulfield as he tells his story, with only his street smarts and sense of humor to guide him. Donny does everything he can to take care of himself and his younger brothers, but with each new development, the present becomes more fraught with peril–and the future more uncertain.

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Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG13

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Orangeberry Free Alert - Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) by Nageeba Davis

Artful Dodger - Nageeba Davis

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Romantic Suspense

Rating - PG13

5 (4 reviews)

Free until 26 May 2013

Take one funny, wise-cracking artist, one gorgeous, sexy detective, throw in a grizzly murder, a little amateur sleuthing, and you have the makings of a wild, romantic, mis-adventure.
Art teacher and sculptor Maggie Kean thought she was having a rotten day, burning her toast, stubbing her toe, and all before eight in the morning. Things just couldn't get any worse. At least, until the dead body clogs up her toilet. To make matters worse, Maggie becomes the prime suspect. Now all she has to do is evade the police, clear her name, trap a killer...and deal with one mouth-watering, hunky detective who drives her crazy while making her hormones do the happy dance.

Orangeberry Free Alert - American Ghoul by Walt Morton

American Ghoul - Walt Morton

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Horror

Rating - PG13

5 (12 reviews)

Free until 24 May 2013

AMERICAN GHOUL tells the story of seventeen-year-old Howard Pickman, a boy with odd problems. He just got dumped into the worst high school in the state of New Jersey, but that's nothing compared to his secret family history of digging up corpses for dinner. This is a novel filled with the creepy funkiness of the 1970s, a bygone age of punk rock, bad disco and muscle cars roaring through hot summer nights. AMERICAN GHOUL explores the good times of teenage friendships and the darkness at the heart of American youth. It's a fun, scary, and zany look at a time when being a teenager was so dangerous you just might have to be a monster in order to survive.

AMERICAN GHOUL is recommended for readers from age 13+ on up. If you lived through the 1970s, a few flashbacks are guaranteed, both pleasant and shocking.

Orangeberry Book of the Day - The Hunter’s Son by BE Jewell

Chapter 2

“You know who I am and you know what he is, so you better start talking. I saw him come in here earlier.” The stocky man slams his hand down on the table. He keeps his eyes locked forward and squeezes his hand, making the veins in his forearm pop.

This elicits the desired response, and James has to fight back a smile. The owner of the grungy little shop nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the hand slamming on the dirty laminate counter top. It’s the typical type of place a sympathizer might own. Funneling black market goods might pay the bills, but this guy certainly isn’t getting rich off this line of work.

“Look man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. So you better buy something or…” James’s hand shoots out and grabs the shop owner’s neck. A slight squeeze cuts off his voice with a gargle.

“Don’t you lie to me. The smell in here is enough to make me puke. One warlock doesn’t smell up a joint like this,” James says through gritted teeth. “I saw him leave here earlier and have been chasing him since. I lost him when he jumped off the fifth floor of the parking garage over on Beaubien Street and took off toward the river. Tell me where he stays and maybe I’ll let you live.”

He squeezes just a bit tighter and the shop owner’s eyes bulge just slightly from his now-purple face. A noise squeaks from his collapsing throat that sounds enough like agreement to allow James to release his grip. The shop owner rubs the red area where the incredibly strong hand was affixed and clears his throat loudly.

“He’s gonna kill me. Ya know it’s true, hunter,” the shop owner says in his new, gravelly voice.

“Either him or me.” James opens his jacket and taps the gun sticking out of his waist band. Surprisingly, this doesn’t get a rise out of the man behind the counter.

“That supposed to scare me? You know what that warlock can do. He’s not normal. The things he will do to me will hurt far worse than getting shot. Maybe I should just let you shoot me and get it over with.”

James looks at the mousey man and puts his hand on the butt of his gun. The man might be afraid of the warlock but he is clearly more afraid of dying. He can barely stop the words from spewing from his mouth.

“Alright, alright. Ya better get him though, or we’ll both be dead. He hangs out in Milliken Park down on the river. It’s off Atwater Street. Not that I care if you live, but you better be careful, hunter. Like I said, this warlock is different. Got some powers I haven’t seen in a long time.”

“Oh, dontcha worry about me. Believe it or not I know what I’m doing.” James walks to the door. “And if he isn’t there, I’ll be back. No need to worry.”

The air outside the shop is cool, even for September in Michigan. James regrets not dressing warmer. His body shivers, partly from the cold but mostly from frustration. He does not usually have this much trouble and rarely has to run like he has today. The air burns his lungs like he is breathing boiling coffee. The money he was paid isn’t worth all the trouble this warlock has given him and the thing doesn’t look much older than JC. Should have asked for hazard pay, he thinks to himself.

James heads down the street toward the area he believes is the park. His mind is preoccupied with thoughts of JC and his first day at yet another high school. He bumps into an older couple walking with bags of groceries. Cans and boxes scatter all over the sidewalk. He scrambles to help the folks clean up their food and moves on quickly. He can’t let anyone get a good look at him. If things get ugly with the warlock, he can’t have the local news putting his description on TV.

He generally prides himself on staying anonymous. No one will mistake him for a body builder, but James is sure that most people would not want to run into him hiding in an alley unless they have some sort of power. Despite his stocky frame, there is nothing particularly striking about James. Most would say he looks fairly ordinary. Not strikingly handsome but not ugly either. He could be an accountant when he isn’t wearing army cargos and a black hooded sweatshirt. Hopefully the old couple was so startled they forget everything about him.

It’s nearly dark when James reaches the park. The acidic stench of the warlock hangs on the air and almost ruins the beautiful park set inside the city. The park is completely out of place. Trails lead in every direction and trees line numerous lush green clearings. It would be easy to forget about being in the city altogether.

James heads toward a raised walkway at the edge of the river, letting his nose show him the way. This would be the perfect place for a warlock to hide out. Plenty of space to watch potential victims. It would be easy to snatch someone, drag them into the woods and perform a spell without anyone seeing. Wouldn’t matter how elaborate the ritual, the trees would provide ample cover. One day having a nice picnic in the park, the next kidnapped and waking up to a nightmare–a warlock having stolen their identity or, worse, having made them do terrible things all while they were completely unaware.

This sentiment makes James shudder. He shakes his head and moves further up the river walk. The cold has driven most people out of the park. Only a few people stroll down the walkway, fighting the strengthening breeze. About fifty yards ahead, James sees someone that sparks his interest.

Sitting alone on a bench is a young-looking man wearing an oversized coat. James stops and breathes deeply, but the wind at his back makes it hard to tell if the warlock is close. He takes a step forward and the man bolts off the bench. James rips the gun from his waist and levels it at the young man.

He begins to squeeze the trigger but feels a rumble under his feet. Before he knows it, his shoes are no longer touching the ground. The river walk crumbles into the water below. He hits the water with arms and legs still trying to find steady ground. He surfaces as quickly as possible, gasping for air.

Thankfully, the water is still warm from the summer. James looks up and sees a huge hole in the walkway twenty feet above him. He looks around, sees a ladder 100 yards down the river and lets the slight current drag him toward it.

The wind bites at him as he reaches the top rung and pulls himself onto the walkway. He strips off his soaked hooded sweatshirt and scans the area. He sees movement in the distance between some trees and reaches instinctually toward his waist for his gun but comes up empty. He stares into the river knowing his favorite piece is long gone.

He turns and walks away from the tree line, back toward the city. He doesn’t know what to do without his gun. Hunting has evolved in the last 200 years or so to the point that he has become reliant on shooting as an answer to his problems. It’s no longer necessary to burn a witch, and using a pail of water always had its problems, anyway. Fire does a fine job just like it would with any animal, but a bullet does the trick a lot easier. It takes a hunter a long time to realize they do not need to stock up on garlic and wolfsbane to ward off evil spirits. Silver bullets do work a bit better than the junk from the sporting goods store and nothing beats a wooden stake up close, but who really wants to get that close? Plus, there isn’t always time to drive a stake in the ground or spread a salt ring to protect yourself.

The problem is everyone thinks witches and warlocks are busy running around a castle in England fighting bad wizards with wands, but that just isn’t true. If people knew how heartless these creatures are, they wouldn’t let their kids dress up like them on Halloween or stand in line to see movies glorifying them.

James moves quickly away from the park, putting as much distance between himself and the warlock as possible. After ten blocks, he sees an alley and ducks in to rest and get his bearings. This wasn’t supposed to be so difficult. It’s just a young warlock, he thinks to himself as he crouches next to a dumpster.

A few smaller trashcans help hide his position but are too small to hide his broad shoulders. He sits down on the dirty ground and takes in his surroundings. He could not have picked a worse place. This is the kind of alley even a bum wouldn’t sleep in. Whoever is dumping trash here doesn’t care if it ends up in a dumpster or not. At least the smell of rotten fish is a welcome change from the warlock.

Something crashes off to his left and James shakes his head to clear the cobwebs. He glances down the alley but nothing appears out of the ordinary. Just a bunch of kids horsing around out on the street. A boy picks his grimy body up off the ground and starts after his friend. James’s heart beats way too fast and he takes a deep breath. It rolls out of his mouth like smoke and he pats the area where his gun should be again.

“Getting way too old for this. I guess this will have to do,” he whispers as he slowly pulls the six inch blade from his boot.

Suddenly, his nostrils fill with a depressingly familiar smell. Even the rotting fish in the dumpster can’t cover it up. He looks around but sees no one in the alley. His body tenses at the eerie lack of movement out on the street. People should be moving about at this time night, especially in a busy town like this. Maybe they are all down the street a bit. Daylight is gone now and he cannot see much beyond the edge of the buildings. That smell is strong. It seems to come from all around him. He inches slowly around the trashcan and into the alley. He turns toward the main street at the end of the buildings and takes one step forward, quickly glancing over his shoulder.

A blinding pain shoots through James’s throat as a thin, but incredibly strong, forearm slides around it. He lets out a terrified yelp for the first time in years as he loses the grip on his knife. It clanks on the concrete like a church bell ringing. James struggles to get out of the warlock’s grasp. He can feel its hot breath on the back of his head and the smell begins to burn his nostrils. If he could breathe, he would puke. James’s head whips back and he can see an old, broken fire escape above him. He did not notice it before. Such an obvious hiding spot, he can’t help but think.

“What do you want with me, hunter?” The warlock hisses in his ear.

Rancid breath fills his nose, and he can feel heat radiating off of the warlock’s body. He does not understand why the warlock would have a conversation at this point. He has been shooting at it all day. He did not hesitate to try to kill, why would this creature give him this type of courtesy? If he could get to his knife he would stab straight through the thing’s heart. Instead of killing him, the warlock is more concerned with James’s job description. Compassion is not their strong suit. No negotiating with a hunter or with a monster. The rules of war are being broken. The forearm begins to release a little pressure in anticipation of his answer and he gasps for air. His lungs are really on fire now.

“It’s nothing personal. Just a job,” he chokes before the blinding pressure returns to his throat.

James sees the witch’s mark on the creature’s forearm move as the muscles strain to block air from his lungs. Curious things, those marks. Often they look like any ordinary tattoo, with criss-crossing in varying patterns depending on the clan. This particular one is in the shape of the letter “Y” with two lines running through the curved stem. It is the only way to be certain that you have a witch or warlock on your hands and not just an extraordinarily smelly person. Every one of these creatures is born with the little symbol. It really would be fitting if this mark is the last thing he ever sees.

“JUST A JOB,” the warlock snarls. “IT’S NOT A JOB, THIS IS MY LIFE! You hunters seem to think you are the only things on the planet with a life. I did nothing to no one. Understand that? You need to learn that things bigger than you are going on all the time. Maybe in the future you won’t be so quick to shoot at someone who isn’t bothering you or your family. Next time the consequences might be far worse than today. Next time I will rip your heart from your chest. Believe me, I better not see you ever again.”

Everything goes black as something thuds against James’s head.

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Genre – YA Supernatural Thriller

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.jewellbe.com/

Blog http://jewellbe.blogspot.com/

Orangeberry Blast Off – Silver-White (The Great North Woods Pack #1) by Shawn Underhill

“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
~ Robert Frost

*Evie’s family has been holding out on her … Big time.

On an unexpected visit to her grandparents’ house in New Hampshire’s secluded North Woods, the sixteen-year-old literally runs into the truth of the long-hidden family secrets, and finds herself thrust without warning into the clandestine world of the Great North Pack—a wild and exhilarating world of rugged beauty, heart-pounding adventures, and long nights running under a sea of stars … but as she’s set to discover, a world also fraught with potential dangers lurking in the shadows.

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Genre - YA / Fantasy / Paranormal

Rating – PG to PG13

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Orangeberry Free Alert - Unintended Consequences by Marti Green

Unintended Consequences by Marti Green

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Legal Thriller

Rating - PG

4.4 (180 reviews)

Free until 23 May 2013

How much would a father sacrifice for his child?
Nineteen years ago, Indiana police found the body of a young girl, burned beyond recognition and buried in the woods. They arrested George Calhoun for murdering his daughter, and his wife testified against him at the trial. The jury convicted him. Now his appeals have been exhausted, and his execution is just a few weeks away.
George said he didn’t do it. That the body isn’t his little Angelina. But that’s all he’s ever said – no other defense, no other explanation.
Dani Trumball, an attorney for the Help Innocent Prisoners Project, wants to believe him. After all, there was no forensic evidence that the body in the woods was George’s daughter. But if the girl isn’t Angelina, then who is it? And what happened to the Calhouns’ missing daughter?
For nineteen years, George Calhoun has stayed silent. But that’s about to change, and the story he tells Dani—if it’s true—changes everything.

Orangeberry Free Alert - S'wanee: A Paranoid Thriller - Don Winston

S'wanee: A Paranoid Thriller - Don Winston

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Suspense, Thriller

Rating - PG13

4.4 (37 reviews)

Free until 23 May 2013

A spellbinding campus. A new family of friends. A semester of death.

High school senior Cody's prayers are answered when he's recruited on scholarship to the college of his dreams: a stunning and prestigious school tucked high in the Tennessee hills.

But the dream turns living nightmare when his classmates start to die off mysteriously. Is it Cody's imagination, or are his friends' tragic deaths a sinister legacy handed down through the generations? And is he next on the roll call?

A coming-of-age, paranoid thriller in the vein of Ira Levin, "S'wanee" weaves psychological suspense with dark humor in its brutal descent to a shocking climax.

Orangeberry Book of the Day - Diary of a Beverly Hills Matchmaker by Marla Martenson (Excerpt 1)

Matchmaker, Matchmaker!
Make Me a Match

Achichi decorator came up with the color of one of the walls in my Beverly Hills office by matching paint swatches to the silky dark chocolate Godiva heart-shaped ganaches that sit in a crystal dish alongside Teuscher Irish Cream truffles, and chocolate cordials of cherries soaked in black port and wrapped in gold foil. We do pamper our clients. I mention this so you’ll know that there are many aspects of my job that I absolutely adore. Such niceties distract me from fantasies of . . . dismemberment.

Hi Marla, Scott, here. I’m so glad I joined your dating agency; I can see this is going to be verrrrry interesting. . . . Hey, the gal you lined me up with last evening was gorgeous, but I would really like my matches to be a 10 or, ideally, a 10+. And the gal needs to back up her beauty with an income of her own and her own living quarters. No roommate situations. I don’t waste my time with someone who doesn’t live up to my expectations—you know, long legs, firm small butt, double-D’s, thin arms, blonde hair.

SCL

Ahem.

Dear Scott,

To paraphrase the deathless sentiments of Roseanne Barr, I’ll get my wand. Oh, wait, it’s in the repair shop, utterly depleted. I’m having to make do with our back-up magic lamp, but the genie keeps laughing and muttering about peace in the Middle East being an easier request as he disappears in a puff of smoke. He’s such a joker. But since you have so much to offer, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find the woman of your fantasies since all the 10+s in our database say that a man willing to plough up his bald scalp with those cute little tufts of implanted hair is a real turn-on. And most “gals” don’t mind giving up their stilettos to avoid towering over a man of your stature.

Of course, I don’t write this. This is my first email of the day at Double D Dating Service here in Beverly Hills where I’m the head matchmaker. Double D is not the company’s real name, as you may have guessed, just my own special pet name for it. I dash off a breezy professional response to Scott as if diplomacy were my mother tongue.

Dear Scott,

I’m so glad you enjoyed your evening with a gorgeous woman. A new and interesting experience, huh? Well, we do have an ever-growing list of many stunning women, eager to meet you. I’ll get back to you later in the day with another name.

Marla

Something is nagging at me. Oh, my conscience. It’s not bothering me at all about the direct lie: eager to meet you. I’ve left in a little dig. I change that one snarky line about dating gorgeous women being a new experience to simply “An interesting experience indeed,” and hit send. Next email.

Dear Marla,

I really found Sandy to be attractive, fun, intelligent, and cultured. We had a great time. The only thing is, I am wondering if she has a big butt. She was wearing one of those puffy dresses. She says that she does all kinds of activities like dance classes, working out at the gym, and hiking, but I just can’t be sure how big her butt is. Is there any way you can let me know if it’s big or if the dress she was wearing just gave that illusion?

Joseph

Joe, don’t you know that when we bring a woman into our service, it means that we have carefully inspected her butt from every angle and therefore certify it is also a 10 along with the rest of her? I’m so glad you asked though, because you must never ever consider dating a woman with flesh on her butt. Oversized curves belong above the waist only. Makes perfect sense. How could nature have created such a serious design flaw?

Sigh. I find it so comforting to type out what I truly want to say to some of these clods before writing the response I must write. God forbid Gary should ever see this stuff. I am, after all, good at what I do. Pictures of my successes hang on the chocolate-colored wall above fresh pale pink hydrangeas: two of happy couples at their respective posh wedding receptions and several more couples on honeymoons at places like Bellagio on Lake Como in Italy, or snorkeling with humpback whales off Vava’u, Tonga, in the South Pacific, or skiing in Aspen. I do still believe in love—the soul-mate kind of love. I think deep down, the Scotts and Josephs do too. They just rarely know it.

Dear Joseph,

Sandy’s dress probably created the wrong illusion. Call her for another date; I think you will be pleased to find that in addition to being beautiful, intelligent, and a most remarkable woman, she’s also fit and trim.

Marla

I polish off my vanilla soy latte, ready for the next email, when I hear Gary, my boss, barking at Charlotte, the other matchmaker in the office. She hangs her head as she follows him into his office. He doesn’t usually come in on Thursdays, so this isn’t looking good for Charlotte.

I step outside the artistically etched glass double doors of my office to check with Alana at the front desk. “What’s going on?” I ask in a stage whisper.

Alana, a petite blonde in her twenties with big brown eyes and a gorgeous smile, is just about to say something when Gary strides over. “Back to work!” he tells me. Then to Alana he says, “Find the Harrison file. . . . And never wear those shoes here again. If you want to look like Peter Pan, work somewhere else.”

I can’t help but turn to check out Alana’s shoes. Ohh, they’re darling: green flats with little cut-outs of stars.

“Marla, I hope you have some makeup in your bag,” Gary says. “You’re looking washed out again. Do you go to the gym before work or something? Don’t you two get it that we’re all about glamour and sex appeal here? Our clients don’t want Peter Pan and Miss Grundy lining up their matches.”

“Right,” I say, feeling my face redden to the roots of my already red hair. “I’ll touch up.” Gary can be a nice guy, but he does go on rampages.

Back in my office, I pile all my black matchmaking catalogues on my desk to hide from Gary’s view. I eat a chocolate. Then another. One more. Call it an early lunch. Mmmmm. Better. Deep breaths, a few affirmations. I am young and hot-looking. I am a terrific matchmaker. I am lucky to have this job.

Back to work. Next email.

Dear Marla,

Denise looks like she’s pushing forty. Not to say there’s anything wrong with that. I live in Newport, so I can’t help but date forty-year-olds occasionally, but when it comes to being set up with someone through an exclusive agency such as yours, I don’t want to waste “matches.” And we need to talk about Natasha, the last gal you lined me up with—a bit low-brow, don’t you think? I will send you a few photos of females that I find attractive so hopefully that will help you see the caliber of beauty I’m seeking. I want to date ONLY beautiful women, and I just won’t settle for anything less.

Let me know if anyone in your stable meets my criteria.

Thanks, Dave.

I had matched him with Natasha because of the astonishing bounty of her bosom. But as to Denise—she’s nowhere near the accursed four-oh. But if she were, how could any man in his fifties possibly be expected to tolerate a crone of such advanced years?

His comment reminds me that I haven’t “touched up” yet. I pull out my compact and scrutinize time’s deepening etch in the tiny lines around my eyes. I pat them over with mineral powder, add a dusting of blush to my cheeks, a brighter lipstick, and heavy gloss.

I sit back and ponder the photo of Denise, a gorgeous twenty-eight-year-old woman, and all I can do is shake my head. This beautiful young woman is Dave’s fourth reject. Before I worked in the matchmaking field, I honestly had no idea how shallow, picky, selfish, and entitled some clients could be. After six years of feedback, demands, and expectations, I’m still thrown for a loop now and then. I don’t want to pass judgment on people; I want to keep an open heart, but geez.

It’s times like this when I need an anchor, a sane voice, someone who lives far away from the zany nuttiness of Beverly Hills. I call my friend Shelly in Federal Way, Washington, where we both grew up—it’s a little suburb of Seattle, a land far away from this town’s obsession with age, looks, and perfection.

“Listen to this,” I tell her and then read her Dave’s email— anonymously, of course.

I hear a gasp on the other end of the line.

“My reaction exactly,” I tell her.

“What is he? Some rich stud?”

“Well, rich anyway. I’m supposed to find matches for these guys. They all want perfect 10s—even if they’re dweebs who’d be lucky to rate a 5!”

“What about the women?”

“Yeah, some days the gold-diggers and airheads get to me too.”

“Guess I don’t have to envy you anymore, thinking that you have the perfect life in Los Angeles,” Shelly teases. “At least you’re not still a waitress in Chicago.”

Shelly is referring to my life seven years ago. Memories of my fourteen years spent waiting on tables jolt my sense of perspective, spurring me to work ever harder and continue with the exasperating emails,.

I see Charlotte walk past my door, head held high, but I can tell she’s gotten the ax. She starts cleaning out her office. We weren’t close, so I won’t be going over and chatting. I’ll get the scoop later from Alana. After Charlotte leaves, Gary sticks his nose in my door.

“You look better,” he says. “You’ll have to meet Charlotte’s noon appointment. I’m not replacing her, so you’ll be taking her people.” He closes the door and leaves before I can say anything.

In other words, double the work, same pay. Oh boy!

Dutifully, I meet Andy and take him into the “selling office” with its stunning wall fountain sheeting water over pink-veined slabs of granite and pooling in a pink copper basin beneath two spotlights angled to form a soft heart-shape. The arty painting on the opposite wall captures dancers, hungry with passion, a slash of pink light falling on the woman’s tan face and cleavage. Its subtle eroticism is designed to inspire rich guys to pay top dollar for what they imagine will be the world’s classiest women. I offer the new client something to drink, and we settle in to chat about what he is looking for in a lady and what his lifestyle is like.

Andy has just flown in for the day to buy a sex life, I mean meet someone, and then he’ll jet back to Dallas. He has the most charming Southern accent.

He’s forty-six years old with three kids: aged eight, ten, and twelve. He explains that he would like to meet women under thirty because he’d like the option of having another child.

Uh-huh. Right. He’s eager to go through diapers and babysitters and soccer games for the fourth time. I’ve found that men usually claim to want one more kid as an excuse to date younger women.

I learn that Andy likes riding horses, racing cars, playing golf, working out at the gym, and traveling. He says that although he isn’t a redneck, he’s a redneck at heart—whatever that means. “Do you prefer a fresh-faced girl-next-door look, or more of a Pamela Anderson type of look?” I ask him.

He mentions blonde hair and nice legs, then pulls on his goatee and says, “Well, now I’ll tell you, my ex-wife wears a C-cup, but she has nice nipples.”

I stop taking notes. And so . . . ?

Then I get it. This guy expects me to know what a woman’s nipples are like! I focus on my clipboard and remind myself that he will be paying $40,000 to find the right woman. Maybe more. I manage not to hiss at him.

After the meeting, I walk Andy down to the taxi stand. He turns to me and says, “I want you to be honest. Do you think that I have a chance to meet the right girl? Am I going to be too difficult to match up?”

“Not at all, Andy! You’re a great catch with a wonderful lifestyle.” Lots of gorgeous L.A. women are closet rednecks. “I’ll start looking for matches for you this week. Have a safe trip.” I want to add: and I’ll be investigating nipple potential for you, sir!

I’m also remembering a recent client who broke up with a thirty-two-year-old woman he really liked because he said that she had big areolas. Yes, big areolas! She was perfect in every way: sweet, charming, financially secure, intelligent, cute as a posy with a rockin’ body, but he said that he dreaded when she took off her blouse. After dating him, she felt so insecure that she called a plastic surgeon to see if he’d take a look at her areolas. Yikes!

I guess I should change our questionnaire to include nipple preferences. I could put in something subtle like, “How do you feel about headlights on a Duesenberg?” I’ve seen older guys fall over themselves laughing at this line. I had to look it up. Fabulously snazzy old car with, you know, big headlights, wink, wink.

Something has gone too far though.

I don’t mind telling you that when I first took this job, I considered myself young and hot-looking, but after working with some of these guys and hearing their smug criticism over every aspect of a woman’s body, I’m a bit crestfallen. Getting bombarded with male mating preferences is very disconcerting. Now that I’m fortyish, I look in the mirror, and I see someone who looks pretty darn good looking back at me. So why are so many men obsessing over the extra ounce of flesh, the telltale frown line, and nipple perfection? Gimme a flippin’ break!

I push past the clueless effrontery of these men every day, but once in a while, I catch myself judging my most intimate anatomy by their standards. I get so many of these emails every week, they slither around in my head nagging at me about how I’m officially “undesirable”—according to what most of my male clients think they want and must have. How could these idiots close themselves off to the wonders of love for something so damn insignificant?

I take a deep breath or two. I’m already a little wired with caffeine, but I cannot get through the rest of this day without another soy latte. ’Bucks is just down the street, and I still have a few minutes left of my lunch break.

I need this job, I remind myself while in line for my midday fix. And, I mean, who doesn’t want an ideal mate? A dream lover is the stuff of fantasies. Yet, who among us is ideal? The pain of being dumped or disappointed is what keeps people going to shrinks, buying self-help books, bravely enduring elective surgery—and hiring us.

Bolstered by another caffeine infusion, I slog through the rest of the day, interviewing men who are willing to spend up to $100,000 to get the woman of their fantasies. (The women do not pay. This figures: If you’re a gorgeous woman, it is unlikely you are going to need to pay anyone to find you a date.) I keep current on the feedback. Both the man and woman are to report on how they found their date: strong mate potential? Problems? Did everyone “behave” themselves? I think you know what I mean.

Gary has left for the day, and Alana comes into my office with the scoop. “Charlotte was fired because two clients complained she didn’t pay attention to what they were looking for. You know what that means!”

“Yeah. They’ll now be my problem,” I say.

At six o’clock, I still have an hour to go before quitting time. I grab my cell phone and call my friend Bobbie in Del Mar. I’m not going to whine, I just want to hear her upbeat stuff. Her life is exciting. She usually picks up on the first call. I love that. Hate phone tag.

“Hi, it’s Marla.”

We chat a bit and Bobbie invites me to an upcoming social event—something to do with farm animals?

I’m so tired, I just say, “Sounds wonderful.”

“Are you at home yet?” she asks.

“No. Everyone else in our building gets off at five, but I still have another hour of work.”

“You work till seven? Marla, honestly, you deserve combat pay! Especially with the bizarro demands from some of your clients! Do something fun tonight!”

“I should finish chapter 4 of my new book, but I just don’t have the juice. Maybe I’ll do some window-shopping down on Rodeo. That’s always good for a lift.”

“Is Adolfo working?”

“Of course. My nights are pathetic, I know.”

“Marla, you should just open your own matchmaking service. You’d be fabulous and then you could make your own hours!”

“Thanks. People have suggested I do that, but honestly, I like being able to hand over the big problems to Gary.”

There is a pause. “Sweetie, something’s wrong. I can tell. I’m a little worried about you,” Bobbie says. “I mean, excuse me, your soul is limping.”

I chuckle. She’s doing a little riff off the title of my first book, Excuse Me, Your Soul Mate Is Waiting.

The office line is ringing, and Alana is long gone.

“I gotta go,” I say. “I love you. Talk to you soon.”

I pick up the office phone, schedule an appointment, and get back to the emails, back to the guys who are looking for gorgeous, starving waifs with double D cups—“tits on a stick,” as Bobbie calls them.

Affirmations

I am a terrific Beverly Hills matchmaker happily playing Cupid all day long.

I have many wonderful friends like Shelly and Bobbie whose friendship keeps me from screaming at highly inappropriate times.

Heaven has blessed me with perfectly lovely areolas, thank you very much!

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Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG13

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Website http://marlamartenson.com/

Author Interview – Kim Cano

Why did you choose to write this particular book? Because the story came to me out of nowhere and I felt compelled to write it.

What was the hardest part about writing this book? Finishing the first draft and thinking I’d accomplished something, only to re-write it and re-write it again, then hire an editor who was honest enough to tell me it needed a lot of work and how to make it better, so it was re-written again. As if that wasn’t enough, he and I went through it one more time and I had a few proofreaders check it too. At that point it was the best I could put out with my current writing skills.

Did you learn anything from writing this book and what was it? I learned in order to finish I had to work a lot harder than I’ve worked on other things. Seems there is always more to learn, which I like. I’m kind of a nerd that way.

How do you promote this book? Every way possible: Facebook fan page, author website, twitter, paid ads, tweet teams, press releases, blog interviews, basically anything I can think up.

Will you write others in this same genre? Definitely. I’ve got a few ideas brewing already. Just lack time as I still have a regular job too. It’s a juggling act.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp? That you never know what is around the corner and you can’t always plan for it.

How much of the book is realistic? I think all of it could happen to a person. There aren’t any vampires or werewolves in the story, not that that’s a bad thing. I’m a huge Twilight fan.

Have you included a lot of your life experiences, even friends, in the plot? I’ve included life experiences I’ve observed others have, and used many friends/family names as characters in the plot. My nephew, Tyler, is almost spot on the child in the story.

How important do you think villains are in a story? I think villains are very important. But they shouldn’t be all bad. The best ones are the type that either you can relate to on some level or compel you to like them in some way, like Hannibal Lecter.

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Genre – Women’s Fiction

Rating – PG

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Website http://www.kimcano.com/

For the Future Generations (For a Generation) by Anastasia Faith (Excerpt)

Introduction: The Middle Country - 5.1.3014

In a sleeping chamber with walls made of a bluish-white metal, a young teenage girl sat on a suspension bed covered with white linens. Outside her window, the sun had just risen over the horizon and the moon had disappeared, taking the home of the lunar district from sight. It cast its first rays over her hometown, the region of Goltem in the district of Gresle. Goltem was the capital region—better known as “city to most—of Gresle. (The federal government of the girl’s country had changed many commonly-known terms to keep its subjects separate).

The girl lived in a nation known as “The Middle Country”, which had taken over what had once been the United States. The girl gazed the brightening sunlight through her sleeping chamber window, then looked down at her lap, in which she held her mobile device, a combination of a phone, music player, calculator, messenger, and global positioning system. She tapped the touch-screen twice, the equivalent of right-clicking on a computer mouse. When a control menu appeared, the girl browsed the options until she found the one she needed. She tapped the “new journal document” option and tapped it. A new document appeared, and the temporary title—”new journal entry”—highlighted, allowing her to rename the document. The girl paused as she thought of a name, then typed over the highlighted field and erased the default title.

“Matthia’s Blog”, she typed on the on-screen touch-keyboard.

Matthia tapped the screen to open the journal document and began to write her first entry:

“Matthia’s Blog - 5.1.3014 - <mghbe1>

There is a world where we are trapped under government control, learning only what they tell us of the countries outside, which is not much.

This is a world where it is normal to enlist child soldiers to fight. Here, child labor is a major contribution to the economy. Some sources say most nations forbid this practice. Euthanasia, controlled birth, and abortion after the first time a couple gives birth are also acceptable and enforced, even if it goes against the moral convictions of the victim or those performing the act.

There is no fostering care for orphans. If a relative or friend won’t assume their care, or can’t because they already have a child, they are forsaken to die or are sent to an orphan farm. Technically, from information I’ve scrapped together, this is supposed to be the church’s job. But with religion outlawed, that’s not an option.

This world, the residents are taught, is far superior to any other countries or powers. This is The Middle Country, where the United States used to be. This is the world where I, Matthia Hefner, was born.

Now that you have been introduced to the basics of my world, here’s a little bit about my life, and my world in detail:

My world’s population control policy has always caused a lot of confusion in me, because I cannot justify ordering people with opposing beliefs to conform to law. With that said, let me explain my nation’s most foundational laws:

The Middle Country government restricts the number of times a couple can give birth, not the amount of children they can have. Since the most children a couple can give birth to at one time without fertility drugs is five, that being extremely rare, and because the statistical number of multiples born decreases when fewer people are born, there is no need for selective reduction laws.

This “number of births” law also applies to adopted children. You can only adopt one child, or one set of multiples provided you don’t already have one. Middle Country teens are released to the work force at fourteen, but are not emancipated from their parents until the age of sixteen when they can legally operate a transport. They are no longer counted as a one of the times their parents gave birth.

As you can probably imagine, it required enormous amounts of clearance from the local ruling offices for my father, a Scandinavian-descended man to marry my mother, a half Georgian, half French woman. We are all legally united into one country, but the fifty district-level governments are particular. My parents married during our country’s transition from a republic to a totalitarian government with strict regulations on marriage and family life (The Middle Country had fully shifted to a dictatorship a few months after I was born).

However, my dad worked as an intelligence agent at the time. He managed to maneuver around the law so he could marry his girlfriend, who is now my mother. It all worked out in the end and my parents—Weston and Kiana—were married about a year and a half before I came along.

Obviously, being of Eastern European and Middle Eastern descent, Mom has the dominant genes. I look mostly like her with lighter skin and blue eyes. As you can imagine, my mom and I stick out like sore thumbs in our city. I’m outgoing and sarcastic, mainly because my best friend from seventh grade on is extremely sarcastic. I have a photographic memory. I can be brutally honest but I love to have fun, though I sometimes come off as hyperactive and obnoxious. I know four languages: Swedish, English, French, and Georgian. I tend to think–and speak, to friends’ irritation–in a combination of all four.

I attend Regional Learning Institute Third-Level .001, or as it is known among students: the Government Indoctrination Center, abbreviated “GIC” (it doesn’t require geniuses to know that they are withholding information from us and don’t allow us to form our own opinions).

A third-level school is a preparatory school where students are trained for factory, farm, educating, clinic, law enforcement, and government service jobs (If you’re wondering what “.001″ means, government-run business centers are numbered according to region).

The students are evaluated prior to third-level school for job placements based on their personalities and interests and trained accordingly. They usually receive placements at the end of the first year.

Government service usually means working as an intelligence or investigation agent, or as a judicial. Intelligence agents will usually fill additional positions such as store clerks, library download monitors, realtors, transport dealers, record-keepers, data entry clerks, construction workers, computer programmers, accountants, and salespeople as cover jobs. Robots that the factory workers build do any other work that needs to be done for the city, such as security, postal carrier jobs, or kitchen personnel. Those who are gifted in other areas viewed as unessential to society such as authors, musicians, athletics, singers, and dancers are not allowed to pursue their talents for a living. The only sport allowed is fencing, which doubles as a self-defense course and trains competitors for defending the nation. Musicians, singers, and dancers may work for the dictator for his own entertainment purposes and for officials’ banquets. Nobody practicing these occupations is paid, and everyone—regardless of job status—receives the same pay. Those who cannot work receive the same amount in government assistance. The work ethic here is very poor at best.

Students placed in the government field or the law enforcement field receive two to three years of schooling. They are educated for the first year in their local regional learning institute, and finish their education in advanced classes.

Students placed in the clinic receive two to four years of schooling, depending on the position. Nurses must complete a year and a half of third-level classes, while med techs must complete two years of third-level classes  along with two years of advanced education.

Those who receive placements in factories, farms or as groundskeepers are educated a maximum of two years in third-level classes. The dictator of The Middle Country put this in force about a school year ago, during my eighth grade year.

I am about fourteen years old. The government confiscated all calendars shortly after my birth, so. I’m not exactly sure of my birthday. I know the season spring of 3000. I know that sometimes the snow has melted by the time my birth celebration comes, and sometimes it hasn’t, so I’m guessing around the third month. I only know the year because my father secretly keeps track of significant dates using a homemade calendar based on the Roman lunar calendars Americans used to use, another trick he learned in his years in government service. (He has given me as much information as he can get by with and has told me to keep a journal blog for future purposes.)

I know the calendar month numbers because they are the main point of reference for the GIC schedule. As you can guess, calendars are ANOTHER thing the government keeps out of our reach. They are afraid that if we attain enough information, we may be able to revolt.”

In a thirty-first century dictatorship where population control is enforced and knowledge of truth is prohibited, a teenager discovers secrets about America’s past and her own nation’s future.

In the first book of the “For a Generation” series, fourteen-year-old Matthia Hefner has discovered the grim truth about abortion and its effects on society. She embarks on a time travel mission to the past with a plan to save a nation destroyed by abortion, as well as to glean knowledge to save her own country. Can she save the nation and its people in time, or will it be forced to suffer the consequences for its actions?

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Genre - Christian YA Fiction

Rating – PG

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Orangeberry Free Alert - Flying Soup by Bobby Adair

Flying Soup - Bobby Adair

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Genre - Satire, Political

Rating - R

4.9 (37 reviews)

Free until 23 May 2013

Flying Soup is the whacked-out story of how a simple video recording turned into an accidental empire, all courtesy of a flying can of tomato soup. When bicyclist and computer nerd Christian Trist and his fellow techno-geek roomies decide they've had enough of the rudeness that cyclists and others encounter on the road, Christian’s near-miss with a can of soup flung from a car window starts the colorful and creative trio of friends off on a mission of revenge – and profit. As their dot.com venture, Flying Soup, takes off to record popularity, they find themselves embattled by religious zealots, extremist politicians, gun-toting good 'ole boys and more, with surprising and often hilarious results.

Orangeberry Free Alert - Cold Open by Greg Clarkin

Cold Open - Greg Clarkin

Amazon Kindle US

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Genre - Mystery

Rating - PG13

4.0 (92 reviews)

Free until 22 May 2013

When the nation’s number one cable news anchor, turns up floating in the East River, the cops label it a suicide. But his gorgeous widow is convinced he was killed and carries a secret that proves it.
Now she has Sam North believing it. The story-hungry TV reporter starts nosing around and discovers what Jack Steele found out the hard way...asking questions can get you disturbing answers, maybe even killed.

Orangeberry Book of the Day - Violent Season by Maj. Ray Gleason Ph.D.

Chapter One: “The Bay, Part 1”

The boy sat on a sandy bluff overlooking a broad bay on the Hudson River. To his right, greenish-brown translucent waves broke on a rocky breakwater below the open, stark plain where the New York Central railroad yards hissed and steamed. Across the bay to the north, buildings poked out of rocky, wooded headlands like broken teeth marking the village of Groton-on-Hudson. Over his left shoulder, the north side of a wooded peninsula reached out into the river like an embracing arm curving back into the bay which it created. To the west, the blue-grey hills of the river’s western shore shimmered as the cool river currents mingled with the sweltering airs of a New York August.

The boy sat well back, out of sight, in the shade of one of the many red maples that grew along the bluffs looking down on the river. He nestled on top of a carpet of the dead, brown leaves, remnants of departed summers. The shrill tones of summer cicadas were almost deafening as he inhaled the fragrances of decaying leaves, damp earth and moss. Behind him, a patch of dense forest separated the river from a collection of bungalows on a hill known as Groton Point Park, where the boy spent his summers with his grandmother.

The woods were a place of magic. When the boy entered them, he was transported back to the forests of the Northern Adirondacks in the lands of the mighty Iroquois confederation. His T-shirt became a buckskin blouse, his dungarees fringed leather trousers, his Hi-Top sneakers moccasins. A long stick became a rifled musket, short sticks, a hunting knife and a tomahawk. Chingachgook, the boy’s Mohegan brother, had shown him all the secret paths of the forest, paths invisible to the eyes of white men, in order to reach unseen the “place of watching” overlooking Lake Champlain near the English fort at Crown Point, where the he now rested.

The boy had left the settlement along a well-traveled path through the forest from the bungalows to the village meeting house where the settlers had their Saturday night parties and showed movies every Tuesday. But, instead of continuing along this path, he turned had off it as it dipped into a valley onto an invisible deer path that followed the valley floor to the west. This was the most dangerous part of the journey, Chingachgook had warned him, because the boy’s movements could be seen from the meeting-house path. There were some in the settlement who would reveal these secret paths to the French for gold or furs. Or worse, the Iroquois, who only pretended to be friendly to the settlers, would discover his movements and ambush him in the lower valley.

After a quarter mile, the valley turned to the north and the boy was deep among the trees safe from detection. From there, the valley descended toward the lake. Here, the walls of the valley pressed closely around the path and the trees blocked the sun. At the bottom of the valley, where the path brushed along the edge of the foul-smelling swamp of oil from the railroad yards, it branched in three directions.

Straight ahead, the path led to a sandy beach along the lake. There, a mad, white-bearded hermit lived in a wooden shack. Chingachgook had told the boy to avoid this man. The Manitou spoke to him. This was dangerous. But, should the French and their Algonquin allies come down the lake to attack the settlement, this is the path they would use. The thick trees and the steep hills surrounding the path would give the boy and Chingachgook a place to hold off the French until the women and children of the settlement could reach the stockade and the militia could be mustered to counter attack and push the French back into the lake.

Another path led east into a hidden, wooded valley. Chingachgook had told the boy that this valley was sacred to the Iroquois and he should avoid it. Here the Iroquois took their captives and offered their blood to their savage gods. Once he and Chingachgook had to raid the valley to rescue Alice and Cora, the daughters of the English Colonel at the fort. While they were in the secret valley, Chingachgook had shown the him the flat stone where the Iroquois beheaded their captives. The stone was stained black and brown with the blood of hundreds of unfortunate victims. After a desperate fight, they were able to bring the girls out before the Iroquois could sacrifice them.

To the west, a path climbed up and over a sandy, wooded bluff to the place of watching, where the boy now sat, his musket across his legs, peering intently across the waters to the north for any sign of war canoes. If the French appeared, the boy would have time to reach the place of ambush where he would rendezvous with his Mohegan brother, Chingachgook. There they would wait, concealed in the forest, until the French moved up the path from the beach into their trap.

As the boy sat under the maples, he remembered that it was Friday, the day his uncle and aunt came up from the city. He looked forward to this day all week. Without thinking, he checked the cuffs of his dungarees for sand. His aunt was a bit fussy at times. She worried too much about dirt in ears, dirt under fingernails, washed hands and face. But, to the boy, she was a glamorous presence—tall, red haired, stylish and smart. She only drank cocktails and smoked only while seated like the pictures of stylish, society ladies in Life magazine. She was Claudette Colbert to his uncle’s Clark Gable, Nora to his Nick. If she were to fall into the hands of the Iroquois (red-haired women were powerful magic) he would gladly risk the hidden valley single-handed to bring her out.

But that would never happen. Even the savage Iroquois feared his uncle. He was a New York City plain-clothes policemen, a detective who hunted the most clever criminals in the city’s most dangerous areas. Even arch-criminals like Flat Top and the Joker feared the boy’s uncle. He was as tall and square-jawed as Dick Tracy, with piercing blue eyes that saw through every trick a criminal could think of. Most of the time, he wore a dark overcoat and a snap-brimmed fedora on the job. But, sometimes he wore his police uniform, a navy blue overcoat with two rows of bright gold buttons, a shiny, square, silver badge, highly-polished black shoes with rubber soles and his night-stick and service revolver strapped to his hip. To the boy, his uncle had the class of Nick Charles, was as relentless as Phillip Marlowe, and was as clever as Boston Blackie. When he walked a beat in the city, the good people welcomed him and the criminals fled.

The boy especially looked forward to those Saturday mornings when his uncle drove him into the village the settlers called Harlin for his haircut. He got to sit in the front seat of his uncle’s big, green DeSoto. His uncle called his car the “Green Hornet.” It had a police radio in the dashboard and a big searchlight next to the driver’s window, which the boy knew his uncle used to search out evil throughout the night on the tough city streets.

They would drive together across the rickety, black trestle over the New York Central yards connecting the settlement to the village. His uncle drove with the windows down, his pipe in his mouth, singing “Red Sails in the Sunset,” stopping only to point out the tower where the railroad stored its coal for the steam engines that ran upstate, and the roundhouse where the steam engines were repaired. Sometimes, a steam engine passed under the trestle as they drove, engulfing the Green Hornet in smoke and noise. That used to frighten the boy, but Chingachgook, his Mohegan brother, had told him never to show fear in front of another warrior. And, he knew that he could show no fear in front of his uncle so he would be thought worthy of joining him some day on the police force to fight evil in the city.

The boy knew he had to be careful around his uncle. Last summer, before he had proven his courage fighting the French and the Iroquois with Chingachgook, he had gone to the Tuesday night movies at the meeting house in the settlement. That night they showed a monster movie about a reptile-man with big claws, who lived in the murk of a swampy lake, and crept out at night to kill people who strayed too close to his lair.

One day, the monster kidnapped the movie’s beautiful heroine. The boy wasn’t sure why, but he had seen enough monster movies to understand that this was what evil monsters sometimes did. Of course, the hero had to rescue her. He had a terrible fight with the monster under water and finally killed him with a spear gun. The heroine, who had spent most of her captivity fainting and screaming, seemed strangely sad when the monster died. The boy didn’t understand this, but he knew that this was the way heroines in monster movies sometimes behaved.

That night, after the movie, he had to walk through the dark woods to his Grandmother’s bungalow. Although he saw the monster get killed in the movie, he wasn’t sure that was the end of it. And, with the woods, the river and the swamps all around, the settlement was the perfect place for a swamp monster to hide. Didn’t his grandmother always warn him and his older cousin, Janey, not to go out at night because, when criminals escaped from the prison down in Ossining, they would hide in these woods?

When he managed to get home without running into any monsters, he quickly assessed the weaknesses of his grandmother’s bungalow against swamp monsters. The boy decided that a swamp monster wouldn’t just try to walk through the door. They were much too cunning for that. He’d somehow get into the house with the water. He examined the kitchen and decided the monster couldn’t get in through there. The faucets and drains were much too narrow. Then the boy remembered the shower that his uncle and father had installed in the bathroom. It drained directly under the house! Worse yet, in order to pee, the boy had to turn his back to the shower whose insides were hidden by a vinyl curtain. So, all the swamp monster had to do was, wait until dark, creep into the house through the shower drain, and wait for the boy. He’d be a sitting duck!

So, he developed a plan to foil the swamp monster. At night, when he had to use the bathroom, he’d first turn on the porch light, then he’d inspect the bathroom from a safe distance. If it seemed clear, he’d approach. But, before entering, he’d snake his hand in through the door and flip on the bathroom light. He’d then check to make sure there were no monsters visible in the bathroom. Only then would he go in. Then, very carefully, he’d pull back the shower curtain a bit to make sure the shower stall contained no lurking monsters. Only then would he turn his back to the shower stall, march up to the toilet and pee.

This ritual served the him well for most of the summer, until one night his uncle, who had been watching this little routine for a couple of weeks, said to him, “So, I guess you’re not going to be a cop when you grow up?”

“Whatta you mean, Unc,” the boy responded, “I still want to be a cop!”

“Well,” his uncle replied, “You can’t be a cop if you’re scared of the dark. Cops have to search dark buildings for dangerous criminals with nothing more than a flashlight and a nightstick. But, you can’t get to the bathroom without turning on every light in the house. Then, you won’t even go in until you’ve checked in the shower. What’re you afraid of in the shower? A monster? Can’t be a cop if you’re afraid of the dark or monsters.”

Now the boy knew his uncle was watching him when he went to the bathroom, watching and testing his courage to be a New York City cop. So now he had to march boldly across the porch in the dark. He had to enter the bathroom before he turned on the light. And, he must never be caught checking out the shower before he went about his business. Which, worked out well for a couple of days until his uncle hid in the shower and, as soon as the boy turned his back, flung open the curtain and snarled exactly like a hungry swamp monster.

Even his aunt would have thought it funny, had the boy not peed all over the bathroom.

But now the boy was a warrior in his own right. With his Mohegan brother, Chingachgook, he had fought the wily French from Canada. He had defeated the fierce Iroquois. He wasn’t even afraid to go into the woods by himself when Chingachgook was off on the hunt. In fact, in a strange way, the boy felt comforted surrounded by the wooded hills. It was his secret place. A magical place. His place.

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Genre – Literary / Historical Fiction

Rating – PG13

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