Rachel Thompson

Jack Canon's American Destiny

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Unintended Consequences by Marti Green

Unintended Consequences by Marti Green

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Legal Thriller

Rating - PG

4.4 (300 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.

Christina Smith – The Good & Bad of Self-Publishing

The Good and Bad of Self-Publishing

By: Christina Smith

I have a dream! No, don’t worry, I am not going to plagiarize Martin Luther King, his dream was ground breaking, and important for all mankind. Mine isn’t quite that big, and a lot more selfish. Mine is to become a published author, maybe even see my books on the big screen. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have my head in the clouds, mostly I’m a realist, but I actually thought it would happen. Why wouldn’t it, my book was good, all of my friends and family loved it.

I got a hard dose of reality after trying to find an agent. A long with many of my fellow authors, I have not had the best of luck finding one. With my first few books, I sent query letters to tons of them, and at the time, I was sure I’d get published. But after the fiftieth “We’re sorry, but your book is not what we are looking for”, I started to take the rejections a little personally. And with each negative response, my ego took a beating. By the third book, I only sent out one query, my battered ego couldn’t take anymore rejections.

So then, the question was what to do with all of these books that I had thought were so good? I considered giving up many times; I couldn’t get an agent, so that meant it was the end of the road. I had no choice, right?

Wrong! There was a choice—Self-publishing.

I had written five books, locked away in my room, and didn’t know anything that was going on with ebooks. And then one day I bought a book and read about the author. She used to be selfpublished on amazon and had sold millions of books. Alleluia! That was my answer! Finally a way to get my books out to the reader, it was what I had been looking for.

Little did I know that thousands of other authors also had the same idea. With this new plan in mind, I set out on the internet to self-publish. Only, I still didn’t know what that was. It took me a few days of internet searching to figure it out, and then a few months to get covers, and editing, before all of the books I had written were ready to be sold.

Once they were all out, I sat back and waited for the books to sell. I was sure it would happen, my books were great, or so I’d been told.

Unfortunately, it didn’t go that smoothly, and I soon figured out why. As many of you already know, there are thousands of us self-published authors waiting for our chance. Therefore there are millions of books for readers to sort through, to find the good ones, and that isn’t always easy. So, along with writing the books, paying for the editing, and covers, we also have to market the book to get them noticed. And if your shy like me, that isn’t always easy.

Despite that, Self-publishing has allowed me to do something I had wanted when I started writing my books. And that was to have people read my stories. I just wanted others to feel as I do when I put down a great book. It makes me happy and I wanted to do that for them. When I finished my first book, I didn’t care if I ever made money. I did it for people to read, no other reason. Of course, since I had to use money of my own to get the books out there, I won’t turn any away, but it isn’t why I do it. And the fact that I have had readers contact me, telling me how much they loved my book, makes all the hard stuff worthwhile. Maybe my book isn’t getting noticed the way I had hoped when I started, but when I get a great review or I get asked if I’ll be writing more in the series, it makes my day.

I remember a time back when I had entered Fated Dreams into a contest, and a reader emailed me, asking if I would write a sequel, my heart had soared. It was my dream come to. She had said that she loved the book, and she pictured herself living in the setting that I had created. Nothing could have made me happier than I was that day. But now, a year or so later, I feel that joy each time a reader contacts me, expressing how much they love my work. And that never would have happened if I had left my manuscripts unopened in my computer waiting for an agent or publisher to contact me.

Riley's Secret

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Genre - Young Adult/Fantasy/Romance

Rating – PG13

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Connect with Christina Smith on Facebook & Twitter & Google+

Blog http://www.christinasmithbooks.com/

Contact by AFN Clarke

Brian's cursing over some admin hiccup in the otherwise perfect running of the company. Hookey, like me, is collapsed in a chair, snoring. My eyes now closing. Tiredness creeping over me. Drifting into half sleep...

Tired and wet! I've been here before! Strange thoughts. Half unconscious flashback images stealing around the murky corridors of my mind. Half back in Belfast, the other here in cold wet Brecon.

“Come on! Get up! Move your ass.” I'm yelling at a mud-and-rain-soaked recruit, trying to haul himself off the ground.

“Get that fucking rifle barrel out of the mud, you stupid shit.” All this above the crack of S.L.R.s and the shouts of my N.C.O.s at the rest of the section. The ground is uneven clods of thick grass, hidden holes and pools of water. Ahead a fifteen-foot-wide stream. There's a gasp as the crow in front of me hits the ice-cold water and wallows around up to his chest, weighted down by thirty pounds of equipment.

“Come on you fairy this isn't a swimming pool! Get across!" It's the second time I've been across the stream, so I'm already soaked through and freezing cold. There's a certain delight in watching somebody else do it. To the right an ashen faced crow lying on the ground, his rifle moving in a lazy arc.

“Smith, you bastard, you're supposed to be covering. Get that rifle firing.” He looks at me and for a brief second thinks of unloading the entire magazine of live rounds into my chest. The N.C.O. behind hits him with a large lump of wood and amid screams of abuse, Smith hauls himself off the ground and wades through the water.

Despite all the abuse the lads are working well, moving carefully but quickly and, apart from the occasional desire to give up, getting on with the job in hand. The “job” is to capture a sniper position up on the hill in front of us, the position being “held” by wooden targets. The back brace on one target is shot through and starts to topple. Before it hits the ground a burst from the machine gun, over on the right flank, smashes it to tiny pieces. Jones, the crow in front of me, zigzags forwards while Smith covers him. Smith is approaching exhaustion and starting to give up. He fires, and the round smacks into the ground inches away from Jones' left boot, whines away over the hill.

“Smith you little shit, what the fuck are you trying to do?” He looks a little shaken. “Bill, sort that cunt out,” I shout to Cpl. Conway. Just one more incident to talk about once the exercise is over.

The rain is coming down harder now, the icy drops lancing into my face, stinging; sodden beret clamped to head, smock twice its weight with water. This is the most dangerous part of the exercise. Tired crows nearing the end, bunching together, firing at the targets now only twenty-five metres ahead.

“Apply safety catches and skirmish through the objective.” I try and counter the noise. The N.C.O.s catch the call and the firing ceases. Euphoria that they have reached the objective takes over and the crows skirmish through, screaming and cursing. I hand over to Cpl. Conway, who carries on with the reorganisation and consolidation of the position, and walk over to a small outcrop of rock at the top of the hill. Looking back across the valley to a small wood about two hundred metres away, three figures emerge and start running with the awkward gait of men laden down with heavy equipment. Every so often one of them trips and stumbles over the rough ground, but they keep on coming. As they get closer I can hear the rasping pants as they struggle for air, their kit clunking and squelching, bruising their hips.

L.Cpl. Hedges brings the gun crew in on my signal and positions them. I feel good.

The sound of singing and splashing carries up through the valley and figures appear at the door of the hut to watch the procession. Standing out in the pouring rain, cold and wet with huge smiles on their faces, shouting obscenities together with derisive gestures. Four months ago, they were just a bunch of out-of-work unfit youths who fancied themselves as paratroopers. Out of the seventy that originally formed the platoon, there are thirty here on the range. And they are all fit, healthy and happy. Sometimes.

Time to stop the daydream and get the last section through. So it's trot down the hill, wade through the stream and nonchalantly stroll up to where the section is waiting. Fully kitted out. Laden down with ammunition and other equipment. Now slightly nervous as the moment of truth has finally arrived.

“O.K. lads. Listen in. Safety procedures...” I run through the briefing, give them the scenario and off we go again. My platoon Sgt. just grins and disappears back inside the hut, muttering something about having to get on with the admin. His words echo strangely in the doorway.

“The Ardoyne was...”

“Ardoyne...” Someone in the background talking. Waking me.

The word is emotive enough in Army circles. That such a small area could cause so much suffering and hardship is barely credible. Before we arrived in the place, no police had been into the area, no taxes had been paid, rates, electricity bills, nothing. How big? It was split into two. The old Ardoyne and the new. The old is about three hundred yards long by the same width, crowded with terraced housing. The new is slightly bigger with a more modern standard of terraced housing. Surrounded by OPs, five in all, with nearly two hundred and fifty men patrolling it by day and night. Still the shootings occurred. Ambushes, bombs thrown. Delightful little spot to spend four or five months of your life.

Awake again. Mouth like the inside of a fisherman's boot. Numb joints, numb mind. Toms standing in the dull glow of the light bulb. Rifles in hand, slings attached to wrists. Blackened badges on battered berets. Listless shuffling, mindless banter. I file the planned route in the Ops Room and then we go out into the clammy cold midnight air. It's stopped raining. Score one against Sod's Law. Cover across the Crumlin Road. Slippery street and few cars. Up by Fort Knox and slip quietly and unobtrusively into the Ardoyne.

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Genre – Autobiography / Biography & Memoir

Rating – 18+

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Website http://www.afnclarke.com/

I, Walter by Mike Hartner

I Walter

Walter Crofter was born into Elizabethan England.
In a country and a time where favor and politics were both deadly, can an honest boy stay true to himself?
Especially given his family background?

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Genre - Historical Fiction/Romance

Rating – G

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Website http://accidentalauthor.ca/

Portals to the Vision Serpent by Carla Woody

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Preston Johns Cadell is tormented. He attempts to outrun discontent and the void in his heart. His mother is hardly around. His father’s origins and disappearance are shrouded by family secrets. His sole remembrance of his father is flying through the stars nestled in his arms.

Any comfort Preston derives is from an unseen advisor who teaches him of the invisible world. Now he is coming of age. Memories arrive from long ago when a brown-skinned woman cared for him. But she, too, vanished. Finding the buried remains of his father’s altar, Preston must answer the draw to his destiny, to discover his lineage–even though he has no idea how or where it will lead him.

Portals to the Vision Serpent is a Hero’s Journey into the realms of shamanism and the Maya world. Interwoven are the struggles of indigenous peoples to preserve their way of life and tragedies that often come from misunderstandings. Through a family saga of dark wounds and mystery, spiritual healing unfolds.

The author donates 10% of profits from book sales to Kenosis Spirit Keepers, a 501(c)3 nonprofit she founded whose mission is to help preserve Native traditions in danger of decimation.

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Genre –  Fiction / Coming of Age / Historical

Rating – PG

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Connect with Carla Woody on Facebook  & Twitter

Website http://www.kenosis.net/