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Saturday, November 12, 2011

Keith McArdle: The IAN Interview

My name’s Keith, I love writing, always have, and probably always will I suspect. I’m Australian born, but both my parents are British immigrants, so whilst I’m an avid patriot of Australia, I also have a healthy respect for the UK. I have spent 3 years in the Royal Australian Air Force where I worked with the C-130 Hercules aircraft and in 2004 saw service in the Middle Eastern Area of Operations. Transferring to the Army in 2006 I saw Active Service in East Timor with the 5th Aviation Regiment’s Black Hawk squadron. In 2008 I saw active service in Afghanistan with the 5th Aviation Regiment’s Chinook squadron. I really enjoyed that deployment, it was certainly a once in a lifetime experience that brought my life back in Australia into perspective. Afghanistan showed me just how tough some people in the world really have it, and that I live in a very lucky country indeed. I’m currently a Paramedic with Queensland Ambulance Service and live with my wife in Queensland, Australia. Keith McArdle


IAN. Please tell us about The Forgotten Land.

KM. The Forgotten Land is an action/adventure fiction novel that casts a patrol of Australian SAS soldiers into the desert of Iraq. During their mission they stumble upon a time portal and unwittingly activate it. They find themselves in cold, wet, windswept 10th century Viking Denmark. The story throws the reader in amongst the Australians as they struggle not only for survival but to find their way home.

IAN. How long did it take to write the book?

KM. The book took 4 years to write. 3 years to complete a first draft I was happy with and a further year where I ended up writing a total of 5 drafts (as a result of some very helpful, but tough, critical readers, and I am indebted to them for their help). The 5th draft was then submitted to my editor (Anna Kassulke of Word Story).

IAN. What inspired you to write The Forgotten Land?

KM. I have always had two great passions, the Australian Special Air Service Regiment (SASR), and the Vikings.

The Vikings are a severely misunderstood race of people. Yes, some were violent, yes, some of them did undertake lightning raids on all and sundry. But that time of history was a violent time, a time where tribes, clans and countries were often at war with one another. The Vikings’ mark on our history is tainted mainly by the biased, literate Christian scholars that remember them in their writings. Today, modern historians and archaeologists are working very hard to shed light upon who the Vikings actually were. We know, for instance, that a Viking woman had the right to divorce her husband if she had grounds. We also know that the advice of a warrior’s wife was usually heeded and often sought. Women in some areas of the world in 2011 do not enjoy that level of respect! The Vikings were also very cunning and intelligent traders, so much so, that present day York, which in Viking times was called Jorvik (pronounced Yorvik (from which the present day name is derived)) was, during the Viking reign, the trade centre of the world. The Vikings were a very colourful, sophisticated and rich culture.

The Australian SASR (Special Air Service Regiment) are an elite group of Australian soldiers. When the war in Afghanistan started, people might remember an offensive called Operation Anaconda. When that operation commenced, the American hierarchy had specifically requested the assistance of the Australian SASR. The Aussie SAS moved well forward of the advancing allied troops and set up hides or observation posts (OPs) underneath the noses of the Taliban. They fed back all sorts of information to the American head sheds, including enemy number, weapons, level of morale, locations and so on. When the fighting began, the Australian SASR were in a position to guide in airstrikes and give grid references for artillery and mortar fire missions. In another instance in Afghanistan an Australian SAS soldier was shot by Taliban fire. Rather then bother his mates who were still in heavy contact with the enemy, he managed to make his way to the closest vehicle and knowing that he was losing enough blood that he may lose consciousness, wedged himself between the bulbar and the vehicle’s radiator. He tied himself to the bulbar and then continued to fire at the enemy.

There is something about these incredible soldiers that has always intrigued me. Every country in the world has a small elite group like the Australian SAS. They are for the most part, quiet, easy going, never consider themselves any better than the next bloke, but have the courage of a rabid lion. To date two Australian SAS soldiers have been awarded the Victoria Cross (the VC, which is the Commonwealth’s highest military award) for actions in combat. Both lived to tell the tale.

So in The Forgotten Land, I bring together the Australian SASR and the Vikings, my two greatest interests.

IAN. Talk about the writing process. Do you write at night or in the morning?

MK. I often listen to music while I write (a huge range, anything from Enya to Metallica or Tool). Music helps me delve into my own world. There is no specific time I like to write.

IAN. Did you use an outline or do you just wing the first draft?

MK. I definitely have an outline overall of where I want to go with the story as a whole. This outline is wedged firm and remains unchanged. The characters, however, are fluid and flexible as they negotiate their way through that outline. As long as the characters don’t stray too far from the path and into elements where their actions or dialogue detract from the progression of the story, I tend to just follow them on their merry way.

IAN. How is The Forgotten Land different from others in your genre?

MK. My book is different in some ways from the others in the genre. My soldiers are Australian, which is usually not the norm. I have tried to respect both the SASR and the Vikings, so in saying that, I have attempted to portray them in the most realistic way possible. They carry the actual weapons that today’s SASR carry (although that is in the process of change at the moment as a new weapon system is being brought in to replace the M4). I have tried to remain as parallel as possible to what we know today about the Vikings. I am not, however, a professional historian, so there will be elements where I may have deviated, but not by far I think.

IAN. Is your The Forgotten Land published in print, e-book or both?

MK. The Forgotten Land is currently in e-book format, but will be in paperback format before Christmas 2011.

IAN. What do you hope your readers come away with after reading your book?

MK. I won’t give too much away, but an important element of the book is that family is everything.

IAN. Where can we go to buy your The Forgotten Land?

MK. Amazon (.com, .co.uk, .fr, .de), Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Diesel E-books, Apple iBooks. It will also be available on Kobo shortly.

IAN. Tell us about your next book or a work in progress. Is it a sequel or a stand alone?

MK. The Reckoning is a stand-alone novel unrelated to The Forgotten Land. Indonesia’s airlines (Garuda) is a government owned company, and having said that, it would be very easy for them to fly in Kapassus (Indonesia’s special forces) soldiers into every Australian capital city at the same time. This allows Indonesia to gain a foothold on Australian soil, where they can very quickly fly in more troops and equipment to begin the invasion proper. The Reckoning is about the struggle for survival of every day Australians and it may well see a fight to the death for the Australian Defence Force.

IAN. Any other links or info you'd like to share?

MK. If you’d like to keep up to date with The Forgotten Land or how The Reckoning is coming along, please feel free to visit either my website, or The Forgotten Land’s Facebook page, listed below respectively:


http://www.forgottenland.com.au/

https://www.facebook.com/theforgottenland

An Australian SAS patrol find themselves in 10th century Viking Denmark

The Forgotten Land by Keith McArdle

352 pages

Fiction (action & adventure)

A Sample of The Forgotten Land Amazon.com



Prologue


It was a disaster! An utter shambles that served only to tear a country apart. Following the terrorist attacks on America on that fateful day in September 2001, the United States military was determined to capture the mastermind behind it all. A man whose name the world would never forget. Osama Bin Laden.

Somalia, Afghanistan and Pakistan saw large numbers of U.S. troops deployed in search of the rogue. The President’s advisers had under their employ a veritable army of faceless, nameless men and women who fed them information and advice from around the world. Within ten days of the atrocity at the Twin Towers, the President’s advisers were convinced that it was possible Bin Laden may have fled to Iraq. Seven hours later Iraq was under increasing scrutiny and within twelve, the President had given the go ahead to begin operations.

Rather than send more troops into Iraq, the American Department of Defense began injecting enormous funds into the Kurdish community, asking them to hunt for Bin Laden. If they ceased their search, even for a day, the funds would be cut off. Kurdish Peshmerga Forces began purchasing high-tech weapons from America in large quantities. That was when the trouble started.

The Kurds had been persecuted by the Iraqi government ever since Iraq had become a country in its own right. Saddam Hussein was unrelenting in keeping with this historical “tradition”. During the Iran-Iraq war thousands of Kurds, including women and children, had been gassed under Hussein’s orders. The Kurdish people wanted revenge and it came in the form of US greenbacks.

Fierce urban warfare erupted in the streets of every major town and city. The Iraqi Army fought well, but was on the back foot from the beginning. In almost every fire fight they were forced to withdraw from the ceaseless Kurdish onslaught. Within four weeks the Iraqi Army was no longer a cohesive force. Pockets of Iraqi soldiers continued to fight doggedly, but they were quickly overwhelmed. Iraqi civilians were persistently slaughtered and that was when the fleeing began. Tens of thousands of people streamed from the cities, piled onto trucks, walking, travelling any way they could to escape the new threat. Some of these convoys were ambushed and people were slaughtered without mercy.

The country was beginning to fall apart. The UN announced it would restore peace and stability (or the little peace and stability Iraq had before the fighting), but they knew if they moved in they would not be a peace-keeping force. They would be a peace-making force and that went against everything for which the United Nations had been created.

However it was the only way to regain some semblance of order in Iraq.

Chapter 1

Geneva

“What can America offer this peace-keeping force?” the chairman of the UN spat, looking at the representative for the United States of America. The chairman’s voice was easily identified, with its heavy French accent.

“Unfortunately, we have our carrier groups tied up in support of our troops in Afghanistan and Somalia. 130,000 regular troops, 80,000 support personnel, 27 land based helicopter squadrons and 9,000 Special Forces soldiers are involved in the effort. We are way beyond our budget as it is, so unfortunately we cannot offer any assistance in this matter.”

The American representative leaned back in her chair. It was obvious America did not want to help, however they wanted Bin Laden and by stopping the Kurdish uprising, they would be working against themselves. After all, the Kurds had promised they would be on constant lookout for him.

Cameron Eves, a well-spoken Australian, almost smirked as he watched the chairman hold back a rebuttal. A tall, stocky man, Eves was clean shaven with dark curly hair, his eyes glinted with intelligence but his face gave away nothing. He wore a black business suit, a mobile phone resting near his left hand and a glass full of water stood by his right. In plain clothes, enjoying his weekend with his wife, he looked like a typical surfie. Very few people picked up on the fact that he frequently attended United Nations meetings, representing a well-established western country. Even fewer would think that someone who preferred to wear board shorts and old shirts on his days off could have that many letters after his name. Cameron knew as well as any of the representatives there, that America’s military budget was a bottomless pit. To them, 290,000 defense personnel, a carrier task group and 27 helicopter squadrons was a Sunday stroll in the park.

The Americans had managed to put half a million defense personnel and thousands of strike planes and attack helicopters into Iraq in the early 90s. The cost was probably somewhere in the vicinity of several hundred billion dollars.

“So far we have several very generous contributions, but we need more ground troops, specifically specialist soldiers,” the chairman turned towards a mahogany lectern. A well-built soldier was making his way up the dais as the chairman continued, “I shall leave that up to General Billiar to explain.”

“Good morning,” the General began, his accent one of a well-educated Englishman. What was also immediately recognizable, however, were the medals worn on his jacket, there was enough of them to sink a small battle ship.

“My name is General Billiar. Now, we have a situation here in Iraq and a very serious one I might add. A minority group, the Kurds, heavily persecuted for many generations have been given state-of-the-art weaponry… a lot of it.” The General’s eyes rested on the American representative for a moment before he looked away. “The Iraqi Army has been annihilated, and the Kurds, who are being trained and led by the Kurdish Peshmerga Forces, are now killing or shooting at any Iraqi person they come across. Not a good situation, the whole country has become destabilized and the civilian death toll has been estimated at 50,000 and rising by the day, in fact by the hour.”

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Dagon's Blood by Virginia Lee: Fling Friday

Dagon's Blood by Virginia Lee


Robert's Rage… and Despair !

Robert was unaware of the three following him as he forced his horse on towards the tall, broad-shouldered man. The noise of his approach startled the lone rider who then stopped his mount and turned to face the large dark stranger that was barreling towards him. Charles and Gordon spurred their horses on as Robert caught up with Stephen and, leaping from his horse, grabbed the surprised blond rider, knocking them both to the ground. Fists started flying as the now angry Stephen battled his attacker, rolling about on the ground, coming dangerously close to the stomping hoofs of their frightened horses. Lord Dagon and Gordon drew their mounts to a halt, vaulting off of them as Jesep came breathlessly to a stop behind them. It took all three of the men to pull Robert and Stephen apart, getting several cuts and bruises themselves in doing so. Gordon and Jesep finally had Robert’s arms pinned behind him while Lord Charles put a strangle hold on Stephen. Robert glared ominously at them all, enraged that they would stop him from seeking his vengeance on the man that had kidnapped his wife.

When both had seemed to have cooled down, Charles released his hold on Stephen, signaling his friends to do the same with Robert.

“What the hell is the meaning of this outrage?” Stephen demanded as soon as Charles had released him. “Who are you people?”

“You filthy bastard! Where the hell is my wife?” Robert screamed, advancing towards Stephen again only to be grabbed by the scruff of the neck by Gordon. “Let go of me you son of a . . . shit!” Robert turned his angry, swollen eyes on Gordon.

“Settle down now, gentlemen,” Charles spoke sternly, gaining their attention with the cold ice of his voice. “Let us try to resolve this situation without any further violence! Robert, I want your word that you will not attack Sir Stephen again until after I have finished speaking!”

“I don’t see that there is anything to be said,” Robert growled, releasing himself from Gordon’s grip. “Why are you defending this . . . this man!”

“I’m afraid that we have made a terrible mistake and must apologize for accosting you this way.” Charles turned and said to Stephen, ignoring Robert’s scowl and the looks of disbelief the others had. “You are Sir Stephen Montieth, are you not?” Stephen nodded his head in assent, skeptical of the rugged man standing beside him as he spoke, “And you have a twin brother named Simon, a captain in His Majesty’s service?”

“Yes, but he is dead now,” Stephen answered, becoming more intrigued by the mention of his hated brother’s name. “He was killed in some battle in Scotland. Something about someone named Lord Clairemont helping the Young Pretender. Simon was sent to stop the man and was killed.”

“And stop him he did!” Robert exclaimed. “He killed him and then tried to take Lord Clairemont’s daughter, our Leigha! She killed him and came to us!”

“So, it was a woman that did him in, hmmm. I assume that she is now your wife by what you have said.” Stephen kept his voice level, trying to contain the anger he felt for Robert. “But why have you come after me? I am not responsible for my brother’s actions in Scotland.”

“But you are responsible for your actions at Dagonmoor! How can you be so callous as to stand here innocently before us? Where is Leigha?!” Robert screamed and tried to lunge for him again but stopped as his father stepped in front of Stephen to block him, much to Stephen’s relief.

“He is not the one responsible for Leigha’s disappearance as I was about to tell you!” Lord Charles spoke sharply to his son. “You have been caught up in such a rage that you are blind to certain differences between this man and the one we knew as Stephen Montieth!”

“What differences are those?” Gordon asked, coming to stand beside Robert, angry and puzzled by Charles’ statement. “I see nothing different about this man. He is the one that was at Dagonmoor!”

“No, Gordon, he is not,” Charles said firmly. “In case you haven’t noticed, this man has a scar running the length of his jaw, the man we knew did not!”

“Weal, I’ll be damned, yer right!” Jesep exclaimed as he stepped over to the group and looked intently at Stephen’s face. “Tha’ means tha’ the captain is still alive! But I was at Clairemont’s Keep fer several weeks after Leigha had left, und everyone there believed that he was dead! Why, tha’ means tha’ he has taken Leigha fer revenge! There’s no telling wha’ he has done ta her, und we dinna ha’ any way o’ knooin’ where they might ha’ goon!”

“My brother is alive?” Stephen exclaimed, trying hard to hide his disappointment.

“Yes,” Charles said, mistaking Stephen’s quick shudder and giving him a smile, said, “It seems that he is.”

The meaning of their words were sinking into Robert’s numbed brain as he stood there listening to everyone. He barely heard his father introducing them all to Stephen and explaining to him how and why they were there. All Robert heard was a mad buzzing in his ears. All he saw was his Leigha. All he knew was that Simon had her and that she was probably lost to him forever. His heart fought the dreadful idea that weighed so heavily in his brain, this feeling that Simon might even have killed her by now after having done God knows what to his lovely wife. He was in shock, and all reality left him as he slowly wandered off. The others were so immersed in their conversation that they did not notice he was leaving until they heard his horse galloping across the open field. Gordon quickly jumped on his own horse and rode after Robert, leaving the others behind.

Amazon.com

Lee, Virginia (2011-01-20). Dagon's Blood (p. 311 - 315). Xlibris. Kindle Edition.

Author Thomas Rowe Drinkard Releases "V Trooper"

Thomas Drinkard was born and reared in the Deep South—Alabama. He graduated from the University of North Alabama with a degree in English. At graduation, he was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant in the United States Army and went on active duty eight days later. Within two years, he volunteered and was accepted into the Special Forces (Green Berets) after Airborne and Special Forces school, he’d found a home. With a few other assignments in between, he spent ten years with the fabled unit. He was unhappy with the Army’s plans for his future and left active duty and moved into the reserves. He is now a Major, retired reserves.

After the Army, he found his way into teaching and writing in the securities licensing preparation business. His textbooks, articles and CE courses are in use today. His poetry can be found in a number of literary magazines, including Negative Capability, Cotton Boll/Atlanta Review, Elk River Review, Sisyphus and others. One of his Vietnam poems was chosen for inclusion in Whatever Remembers Us: An Anthology of Alabama poetry.

Piety and Murder was his first novel, and the prequel; Where There Were No Innocents followed. The novella, V Trooper, is a departure for him in both form and genre. It is Tom’s first venture into the paranormal and the shorter format. The book is first in a series.


V Trooper

A vampire novel with a unique, modern twist. Wil Boyd is a vampire, but he is also a soldier. He is deployed to Afghanistan and his hunger leads to discovery of his secret. The man who Boyd tells about himself, Vic Russell, is a former Special Operations soldier who has lost half of one leg, but aches to become part of combat operations again. In Boyd, Russell sees a weapon to terrorize the terrorists. This is the first in series.


Amazon.com

V Trooper An Excerpt


Prologue

Mustafa Muhammad was cold. Night in the mountains near Bamiyan, Afghanistan, chilled the Taliban warrior. His robes were not enough to block mountain winds that slithered as he squatted, watching the trails that led to his master’s encampment at the top of the hill.

No enemy will come, not even the infidel’s Special Forces, but the Sheikh would have my head removed if I left this post. Eight of us guard the Sheikh’s tent. If I have to piss, I can only go three meters away to a tin bucket, and I have to smell it until my relief comes at four in the morning. Then I have to take away the bucket, empty it, and bring it back for the next man.

My sergeant is sleeping in a comfortable bag inside a big, warm tent while I freeze.

A sound, like great wings above him, made Mustafa look to the stars and lift the barrel of his AK-47.

Nothing.

Then he was there, coming up the hill. A slim man in a black uniform, an American. He approached Mustafa without speaking. In the bare light of the sickle moon, the man seemed to smile. Before the Taliban guard could bring his weapon around, the stranger had grabbed the gun barrel. He was smiling, though there was a strange look to his mouth.

The intruder wore curved sunglasses and pulled them aside as he came ever closer. The eyes were red and glowed as fiery as the burning coals they mimicked. Mustafa released his grip on the weapon and turned to run. He opened his mouth to yell an alarm, but a hand as cold and hard as a knife’s blade covered his mouth and spun him around, drawing him against a body hard as dragon’s scales. The mouth the Taliban soldier thought was eerie, opened. Fangs, like those of a viper, glittered in the moonlight.

The only sound at the guard post was a slight drumming as the dead guard’s feet trembled in the dirt.


1

It started with a routine complaint from an Afghan farmer, and then changed.

“Sir, there’s a local man who says that someone from my company has been stealing his sheep. One of my troops says he knows who did it.”

The baby-faced captain had come to Major Vic Russell, reporting a problem that could adversely affect the unit’s relations with the local community. Russell was the commander of the 3rd Battalion of the 54th Sustainment Brigade. His unit was a bullets and beans command, providing supplies for combat forces. The unit was headquartered near Kabul, distant from areas normally infested with active Taliban.

“Have you had the Civil Affairs Officer look into the problem?” Russell said.

“Yes, sir. He’s with the farmer now. We were hoping that you could spare a minute to let the farmer know we’re concerned from the top down. Good Hearts and Minds stuff.”

The major levered himself out of his big swivel chair, pausing a couple of heartbeats, establishing his balance.

“Okay, Captain, I’ll speak to the farmer. Go with me. Who said he knew who did this?

“My Food Service Sergeant said one of his cooks, a private, saw a man carrying a sheep to an abandoned house at the edge of the Village. The man was an American soldier.”

“Tell me the whole story when we get back from our Hearts and Minds visit with the farmer. We’ll call in your Sergeant and the cook, if necessary.”

Russell, two captains and an interpreter met with the Afghan just outside the compound gates and listened as he told his story. Anyone within fifty yards could have heard the bitching. The American officers listened to the man’s complaints through the interpreter.

“What would two decent sheep be worth?” Russell said

“About a thousand Afghanis, sir,” the interpreter said.

The Major turned to the Civil Affairs Officer.

“Give him a little more, give him about $25.00 worth and he’ll have nothing to gripe about. I’ll sign the voucher for it.”

When the interpreter explained the cash windfall, the farmer was ecstatic and covered it poorly. The sheep he’d lost must’ve been skanky.

In the meeting with Civil Affairs captain, the Food Services Sergeant and the cook, the private said the man he’d seen carrying a sheep into the broken house was a sergeant named Boyd.

“There could be legal proceedings, so don’t talk about this with anyone. It could bite you in the ass. I’ll call you in when I need more information,” Russell said.

When the troops were gone, Russell called in his battalion Sergeant Major, a veteran of several wars, Bobby Flynn. He was a thickset man with dark, wavy hair and wild eyebrows. He wore Master Parachutist’s Wings and a Combat Infantryman’s Badge, uniform; decorations Russell also wore. Flynn had a leg-lift brace from a wound he suffered while assigned to a Ranger unit in Iraq.

When Flynn came through the door, Russell nodded for him to close it behind him and motioned to one of the visitors’ chairs.

“Who is this Sergeant Boyd, Bobby? I don’t recall meeting him,” Russell said

“Hasn’t been here long. He’s an MP with the security detachment. He’s been attached to us less than two weeks. You haven’t met him, because he pulls night duty. The new men usually pull those shifts. It’s a special courtesy.”

“Bring him to meet me. Stay close. I may need to call you in to witness.”

An hour later, Flynn escorted Boyd into the Battalion Commander’s office, stepped back outside and closed the door. The sergeant reported to Russell formally, coming to attention and saluting. He was blonde and lithe as a whip. He touched his heels at the same second his fingers touched his forehead in a salute.

“Stand at ease, Sergeant. Someone has accused you of stealing two sheep from a local farmer. Tell me your version of the story,” Russell said.

Boyd relaxed his posture to a parade-ground position, which wasn’t at all relaxed. His response came, respectful and quiet.

“Sir, I did it. I stole the sheep. I killed them,” Boyd said.

The direct admission caused Russell to pause and fall back on military formalisms until he could assess the sergeant.

“Sergeant Boyd, as your commander, I have the duty to inform you that court martial or punishment under Article 15 may result if what you say is true,” Russell said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Boyd, you are admitting an offense that could get you into deep shit. Do you know that?” Russell said.

“Yes, sir. I wanted to clear the air. Major, can I ask for someone from the surgeon’s office to check me?”

“Why?”

“Sir, I’ve got a problem.”

“Tell me about your problem,” Russell said.

“Sir, this is going to take a few minutes. May I sit down and talk to you openly?” Boyd said.

“Sure, sit.”

Russell leaned forward, elbows on his desk.

“Major, I may be a vampire,” Boyd said.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

M. K. Theodoratus: The IAN Interview

I wrote my first novel in the sixth grade: the teacher asked for a short story for an English assignment. She got a Nancy Drew pastiche -- "The Clue of the Clay Cats" -- and gave it a "C" because, at 25 handwritten pages, I hadn't finished the story. [Most of the other kids only wrote two to four pages. *snarl*, *snarl*] The next summer, I finished the novel- length MG story.

After writing all these years, mostly short non-fiction, I now write fantasy set in various worlds. I most enjoy writing about the Half-Elven. The three pieces listed at IAN are available on Smashwords in a variety of formats. You can read them on your computer without any special readers.

I have the usual web presence. I blog at Lessons from My Reading. This takes the form of book reviews, useful links about promotion, comments on craft, and answers to comments. The Far Isles Half-Elven have a website with some fabulous artwork by Igor Gluskin and a short history of the Half-Elven. There’s also a Half-Elven Facebook page. Lastly, I twitter: @kaytheod.

IAN: Please tell us a bit about Taking Vengeance.

MK. Once Linden, the ruler of the Marches, was Mariah’s lover and comrade-in-arms during the Rebellion that saved the Half-Elven from genocide. Now, they fight constantly over how their country should be ruled.

When their daughter's family is murdered by Trestemontan raiders, Ashton returns to the Marches to support Mariah. The two go hunting for vengeance, only to discover the killers wield a strange new magic. Now, they must convince Linden that the Trestemontans endanger the Half-Elven.

IAN. How long did it take to write Taking Vengeance?

MK. I’ve been writing various “pieces of history” about the Half-Elven since 1995. Only recently have I started to revise pieces of it for publication.

IAN. What inspired you to write the book?

MK. After surgery, I was still weak but bored. One day, while petting my cat, I had this vision of a tall Elf woman, standing on a bluff in the face of a retreating gale, her long reddish hair blowing behind her.

IAN. Talk about the writing process. Do you write at night or in the morning?

MK. I write because my brain itches if I don’t write. I write most any time, though I try to write in the mornings and evenings. Afternoons is kept for errands and social networking.

IAN. Did you use an outline or do you just wing the first draft?

MK. I write by the seat of my pants, but I also set up 30 chapters when I start something. As I get new ideas as I write I jot them down in the chapters as is appropriate.

IAN. How is Taking Vengeance different from others in the Fantasy, Adventure genre?

MK. I’ve been told that my half-elves are more grounded and earthy than most. They’re a mixed race, human and elf, so individual vary a lot in their abilities.

IAN. Is Taking Vengeance published in print, e-book or both?

MK. WolfSinger Publishing only offers the story in e-book formats.

IAN. What do you hope your readers come away with after reading your book?

MK. I hope they enjoy the time they spend reading it enough to look at the other two stories.

IAN. Where can we go to buy your book?

MK. Smashwords, Amazon, Barnes and Noble

IAN. Tell us about your next book or a work in progress. Is it a sequel or a stand alone?

MK. I’m revising a novella set just after “Taking Vengeance” called “The Somant Troubles”, where Linden and Mariah are still fighting. I also have a complete novel, “Dark Solstice” about the reconciliation of Linden and Mariah, almost ready to submit to publishers.

IAN. Any other links or info you'd like to share?

Facebook Half-Elven page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Far-Isles-Half-Elven/100514986718681

Website: http://www.half-elven.com Blog: http://kaytheod.blogspot.com “Lessons from My Reading”

Taking Vengeance by M. K. Theodoratus

41 pages

Fantasy, Adventure

WolfSinger Publications

Smashwords.com

Mariah lifted her arms over her head, stretching to feel the full impact of the retreating gale. If only we could sail away from our troubles like our daughter!

Tired from a day of mediating petty disputes for her holding, Mariah stood on a promontory over-looking the churning eastern sea. The wind whipped her unbraided chest-nut hair around her head. The gusts tempted her to ride the buffeting air currents without keeping her pointed ears tacked to her head out of sight. The illusion of freedom teased the weight of time from her thoughts.

For a moment, she thought of removing her shirt to feel the wind against her unbound breasts but changed her mind. The thought held no allure without Ashton. When alone, they often sailed the air currents making love, their souls merging until their bodies glowed and sparked with their co-mingled power.

Her mind reached out to caress the tether between them. Ashton was angry. Her lips tightened, but she couldn’t help him. They had agreed to live apart.

:Mother, where are you?

Her daughter’s silent cry riveted Mariah’s attention away her own discontent. Norie and her family should have set sail by now. Unexpected pain invaded her mind as she sought out her daughter, only to catch a dim glimpse of her own hall far to the west.

:Ambush.

The thought was a bare whisper before the connection between them went dark. Mariah transferred home to find her daughter bleeding on the floor. A harpoon pierced the babe in her carrypack and opened a gaping wound across Norerah’s back until it embedded under her shoulder. Her reddish-brown brown warrior’s braid fell across the blood soaked rag rug the two had stitched together during the long winter nights.

Kneeling by the expanding stain, Mariah struggled to remain calm. She took a deep breath as her fingers traced the path of the harpoon barb. Using the magic that made her a skilled healer, she mentally probed the broken ribs and lace-rated flesh as she sought the source of pulsing blood. She needed to stop the flow; Norie had already lost too much.

Mariah took deep breaths to stay calm. The aftermath of battles always crippled her thinking. She forced from her mind the mocking memory of her elder son sprawled on a battlefield pierced by arrows. The healer had no time to soothe that wound to her heart. Only a thread tied her daughter’s life to this world.

Twisting her hair into a knot with bloody hands, Mariah bit her lip. The Summerlands can’t have her. I refuse to give her up to the Fates!

Closing her eyes, she knew death would still be gloating when she reopened them. Fear and anger beat in rhythm with her heart. Abandoning her pride, Mariah called for the help she needed to save Norie.

:Nurtana, to me with your kit! I need your help.

Her friend’s ring-mate, Wintel, answered. :My, my, aren’t you in a jolly mood, love. You haven’t felt so snarly since Linden refused to allow the rangers to live away from the camp. Do you need my help too?

Wintel, who was as prominent a healer as his partner and a strong ally in Mariah’s constant fights with Ashton’s half-brother, mentally embraced her and hugged her close as few others in the Marches would dare. Wintel’s calm touch soothed her anguish a little, but Ashton’s arms would have comforted her more. Mariah shook her head. She needed to concentrate on Norie.

:I sent some of my new cleansing potion with Nurtana. There’s more if you need it. May the Fates be kind.

“Blazes! Who had the balls to attack Norerah? Did the Suthrons violate the treaty or was it the Drummers again?” Nurtana named their enemies to the north and south as she appeared in Mariah’s hall, her healer’s kit slung over her shoulder. “Do we need Wintel’s skills too?”


Monday, November 7, 2011

Derek Graystone: Author of Two Graves and The Schliemann Legacy

Derek Graystone

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Derek Graystone was born in Rivers, Manitoba, Canada. After a brief stay there and in Trenton, Ontario, Canada, Derek has spent the majority of his life in London, Ontario, Canada. He graduated from the University of Western Ontario with a Bachelors Degree in English Literature in 1984.

Derek has had a varied career including jewellery store manager, warehouse manager for an ice cream distributor, manager of a gas station, and the finance and systems manager for a children's charity. In 2002, Derek quit his day job and started his own office automation and Internet presence company and a relaxation massage business with his wife. Derek is also a Reiki Master as well as having a successful online Wiccan business.

Derek's first book, The Schliemann Legacy, is a spy thriller involving Nazis, terrorists and the hunt for the treasures of Troy.

Derek followed up with Two Graves, a crime novel about a serial killer who is killing look-alikes of the people who bullied and terrorized him in his youth. Derek is planning to release the next in the Kesle PD series called Too Many Graves which will appear in the summer of 2012.

Currently, Derek is working on two non-fiction books OMG, I Think I'm a Witch and A Year of Wicca about the Wiccan religion due for release in September 2011 as well as the first novel in the Witches of Aquarius series; Windcrusher will be released in December 2011.

Derek lives with his wife Yvette in their home in London Ontario when they aren't visiting their island getaway in Exuma, Bahamas. Derek is also the father of four girls and one boy and has three granddaughters.

Two Graves

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Suspense, thriller

Forty year old Preston Peterson, pudgy, myopic and socially inept, knows the terror of being bullied. From his earliest childhood memory, he has faced ridicule, name calling, harassment and beatings. Fear ruled his life, possessed him, controlled his every encounter with others.

Now, he has killed.

Now, rage rules his life.

Digging out his despised High School year book, Preston uses computer aged photographs to find and kill look-alikes of his persecutors.

The time has come for those who bullied him to pay the ultimate price for their torture.

Preston is getting even and everyone is a target.

But with a panicked city and Lieutenant Gregg Mann's task force looking for him, Preston should have remembered the Chinese proverb, "Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig TWO GRAVES."

Print and Kindle at Amazon.com

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Lauren Clark: The IAN Interview and "Stay Tuned" Sample


Lauren Clark has been a voracious reader since the age of four and would rather be stranded at the library than on a desert island. In her former life, she worked as an anchor and producer for CBS affiliates in Upstate New York and Alabama. Lauren adores her family, yoga, her new Electra bike, and flavored coffee. She lives near the Florida Gulf Coast.

Visit her website at LaurenClarkBooks.com.

IAN. Let's begin bit about your latest book, Stay Tuned.

LC. What happens when a #1 news team becomes the top story instead of reporting it?

For TV producer Melissa Moore, crisis management comes with the job. From employee meltdowns to her high-maintenance boss, there’s not much she hasn’t seen or can’t handle. But no one—including Melissa—expects a fistfight during the ten o’clock news. When sexy-but-crazy Alyssa Andrews lands a punch on her co-anchor’s face, Melissa jumps on set to help. She’s determined that WSGA’s reputation won’t be destroyed on her watch.

Both anchors are fired and Melissa agrees to fill in—but not before polishing her look from haircut to heels. While the new Melissa wows WSGA viewers, her personal life begins fraying at the edges. Melissa’s husband is away more than he’s home, leaving cryptic Post-it notes in his wake. Her mother’s antics spiral out of control at the nursing home, a friend’s daughter disappears, and a stalker makes Melissa her next target.

What happens next? Stay Tuned

IAN. How long did it take to write Stay Tuned?

LC. Five years start to finish! Lots of breaks in between.

IAN. What inspired you to write the book?

LC. True Story: Before I began work at an Upstate NY TV station as a reporter, the two main anchors (who were in a romantic relationship) got into a fistfight in the parking lot of the television station. They were fired, it made the newspaper, and a lot of ugly editorials and threats were exchanged. I thought it would be fun to have something similar happen on air and watch what would happen behind the scenes.

IAN. Please talk about the writing process. Do you write at night or in the morning?

LC. I am a morning person! I need quiet and often hide out in the local university's library basement (where I have to shut off my cell phone and I don't have the password for the internet).

IAN. Did you use an outline or do you just wing the first draft?

LC. Outline. I have to use an outline or I find myself meandering off into random places that have nothing to do with the plot!

IAN. How is your Stay Tuned different from others in your genre?

LC. I have another women's fiction/chick lit book in the works. I'm also writing psychological thrillers. The women's fiction/chick lit is a nice break from the heavy-duty research and intricate plotting.

IAN. Is your book published in print, e-book or both?

LC. Stay Tuned is available in an ebook and paperback

IAN. Where can we go to buy your book?

LC. Amazon, Smashwords, BN.com

IAN. Tell us about your next book or a work in progress. Is it a sequel or a stand alone?

LC. Dancing Naked in Dixie (stand alone). A talented but scattered travel magazine writer is on the verge of getting fired. To save her job, she reluctantly accepts an assignment to cover the city of Eufaula, Alabama's annual Pilgrimage. She arrives only to discover that a developer has big plans to turn the historic area into a tourist site.

IAN. Any other links or info you'd like to share?

LC. http://www.laurenclarkbooks.com http://www.laurenclarkbooks.org

Stay Tuned by Lauren Clark

272 pages

Upmarket Women's Fiction/Chick Lit

Monterey Press LLC

Amazon.com

STAY TUNED

Chapter 1

Alyssa Andrews was missing.

Gone, vanished, MIA with just minutes to airtime.

“Melissa, where is she?” Our news director, Joe, shot a harried look in my direction. After dealing with a broken studio camera, spotty satellite reception, and last-minute script changes, his nerves were fried to a crisp.

“She’ll be here,” I promised, knowing my confidence was a front. Alyssa, one of WSGA-TV’s main news anchors, was a constant source of angst in my already-stressful job.

She was young, talented, gorgeous…and chronically late.

This lack of punctuality was a problem, especially when WSGA ran a show at exactly six and ten o’clock every night. Not a moment later.

WSGA was Macon, Georgia’s number one news station and had been for two years running. If we wanted to keep it that way, timing was everything. Every second mattered.

I produced both evening shows, which meant—among a dozen other tasks—organizing the day’s stories, writing copy, and checking video. Each segment had to run seamlessly between three-minute commercial breaks.

Deep breath, Melissa. Send up a little prayer. She’ll show up.

The red numbers on the clock continued to march forward.

Another deep breath. Everything’s in place. Alyssa just needs to walk in and get on set…

“Tighten up on camera one.” Joe peppered the room with demands. “Mic check, now, not yesterday.”

Tim Donaldson, Alyssa’s co-anchor, obliged, counting backwards from the number five.

Joe’s thick fingers punched buttons on the massive keyboard in front of him. “Bring up the live shot.”

Still, no Alyssa.

Joe raked a huge hand through his long gray hair. “Five minutes!” he growled, with a glare into his empty coffee cup.

At this point, it was Joe’s show to run. He was in charge. I shuffled my scripts. “How about I call her?”

“She’s an adult,” he grumbled. “You shouldn’t have to.”

Joe expected nothing less than perfection. He was experienced, hard working, and a stickler for detail. Alyssa’s nonchalance made him crazy.

Which, at 9:55:36 on a Friday night, gave him the patience of a gnat. On crack.

This was particularly dangerous for an unsuspecting new employee, all of twenty years old and pimple-faced, who crept up behind us.

Joe ignored him at first, barking an order to me instead. “Fine, fine. Melissa, tell Princess A. she’s needed in the studio.”

On autopilot, I punched her extension, eyes focused on the row of monitors above my head in case she decided to appear.

While the phone rang, the new kid rocked on his heels nervously. I flashed a smile and shook my head gently in his direction, hoping he’d get the hint.

Not now.

Nope. The kid stood there, coughed lightly, and waited for one of us to turn around.

“What?” Joe finally snapped.

The force of the word made the kid’s body jerk back. Jaw open, unable to speak, his face turned crimson.

Joe waited about a second for the kid to talk, and then leaned back over the control panel. He pressed at switches, clearly annoyed. The kid looked sick. Joe rolled his eyes. My anxiety level cranked up ten notches.

9:58:09. Less than two minutes.

Wait…a flash of an ivory suit and blond hair.

“There she is,” I interrupted the tension with a cool nod toward the monitors.

Front and center, Alyssa sauntered into the studio, lips puckered, blowing her shell-pink nail polish dry. She slid into her seat next to Tim, and gave him a playful pat on the shoulder.

Joe muttered something I couldn’t repeat.

I stifled a loud sigh of relief and glanced around the room. The new guy was the only one in the building unimpressed with Alyssa’s arrival. With a shaking hand, he reached out and tapped Joe’s burly shoulder.

“Mr. Joe, there’s a problem with one of the machines—”

Joe’s back stiffened. He turned a millimeter in the kid’s direction and exploded. “Get your butt back there. Get one of the engineers. Fix it. Call someone.”

I caught the now-completely mortified kid’s eye, and motioned for him to come toward me. Grabbing the nearest piece of paper, I jotted down the engineer’s extension and held it at arm’s length with a kind smile. Poor guy. Lots to learn.

With a grateful look, the new kid plucked the scrap from my fingers and darted away.

Time to get started.

I settled in, gripped my pen hard, and looked up.

Okay. Alyssa’s collar was turned under. Minor detail, but sure to garner at least five viewer complaints. You wouldn’t believe what people called in about.

I leaned toward the microphone to let Alyssa know.

“Dare you not to tell her,” Joe muttered. It wasn’t a secret that the guys would willingly let Alyssa go on air with underwear on her head. She hadn’t made friends. Or tried to.

Tim, her co-anchor and current boyfriend, didn’t count.

“Just part of those darn producer duties, Joe. You know that.” I flashed him a smile and pressed the button to talk. “Alyssa, fix your collar.”

Her mouth parted into an O. Alyssa frowned, glanced down, and straightened the pale edge. Just in time.

Like a well-directed movie, the WSGA-TV opening video flashed across monitor one. Macon, Georgia’s skyline filled the screen.

My body tingled with a familiar rush of excitement. It happened every time we went on air. The cameras and lights, the beat of the music, the thrill of live television.

Here we go.

Seconds later, Alyssa and Tim appeared under the lights, their bright anchor smiles pasted on.

“Good evening, I’m Alyssa Andrews.

“And I’m Tim Donaldson.”

And on it went, without a blip, for the first ten minutes. I started breathing again after the third break.

Stanley and Sunshine, the weather cat, were ready for the five-day forecast, check.

Commercial break, check.

Sports, check. I didn’t worry about that three-minute slot. Plenty to talk about, visual stories; the anchors could get away with jokes and ad-libbing. Viewers loved it.

We rounded out the show with an inspirational kicker about a local scholarship winner, a kid first in his family to go to college. He’d won forty thousand dollars and was going to Georgia Tech to study astrophysics.

The show wrapped with a standard goodnight, credits, and a wide shot of the WSGA set.

The second the master control operator switched to break, Alyssa flounced off the set in silicone fashion. She barked into her jewel-encrusted cell phone about her min-pin puppy’s cancelled spa appointment and stomped out of the studio, teetering precariously in four-inch heels.

Yikes!

I climbed the flight of stairs back to the newsroom, relieved the night was almost over.

The phones started to ring five seconds later.